Kushiel's Dart - Jacqueline Carey [358]
By the sweeping sound of her skirt, I could tell Melisande had risen. "No. I knew Ganelon was dying, that's true. And I knew that Thelesis de Mornay had an audience with Ysandre, and the next day, her guards were asking questions about the night Delaunay was killed." A silken rustle of a shrug. "I thought the King's Poet had persuaded Ysandre to open a new investigation into his death. It was enough to render my absence prudent."
Her plans were already in motion, then. It wouldn't have mattered, if Joscelin and I hadn't staggered out of the white depths of Skaldic winter with a wild tale on our lips.
I opened my eyes to see Melisande gazing out the narrow window of her chamber at the dark night. "Why?" I whispered, knowing the question was futile, needing to ask it anyway.
She turned around, serene and beautiful. "Because I could."
There would never be any other answer. As much as I might wish for a reason I could understand, in my heart, and not only in the dark, intuitive part of me that shuddered away from such comprehension, it would never come.
"It would never have been different," I said harshly, willing the words to hurt her, willing her to flinch under their impact. Never, before, had I known what it was to desire another's pain. I knew it then. "No matter what you did, no matter what claim you put on me, I would never have aided you in this."
"No?" Melisande smiled, amused. "Are you so sure of that, Phedre no Delaunay?" Her voice, low and honeyed, sent shivers across my skin, and I stood rooted as she crossed the room. Almost idle, one hand traced the line of my marque, hidden beneath my gown; it awakened the wound Selig had dealt me, and pain flared outward, suffusing my body. I could feel the heat of her presence, her scent. Nothing had changed. My will bent before hers as she cupped my cheek with one hand, face rising obediently to hers, my world tilted around her axis. "That which yields," she murmured, lowering her lips toward mine, "is not always weak."
A kiss; almost. Her lips brushed mine and withdrew, hands leaving my skin, and I staggered in the abyss of her sudden absence, in a shock of yearning.
"So your Tsingano said." Melisande looked at me, eyes gone cold. "I remembered as much. But I should have paid closer attention when he told me to choose my victories wisely." She sat down in the facing chair and nodded at the door. "You may go now, and leave me to consider my death."
I went.
I knocked blindly at the door of her chamber, stumbling through it when Ysandre's guards shot the bolt and opened it, finding the stone wall of the hallway with fumbling hands.
"Are you all right, my lady?" one of them asked, anxious. I heard the door close hard behind me and nodded.
"Yes," I whispered, knowing I was not, not at all, but that there was nothing they could do to help, nor anyone. We should both, I thought, have listened to Hyacinthe. The dreadful laughter threatened to rise, and I bowed my head, sliding my hands across my face.
Melisande.
NINETY-THREE
I spent the night alone atop the battlements.
The drowsing guards let me be, disturbing me only to offer a sip of cordial from their flasks, leaving me alone with my turmoil. I have always found there to be solace in the vastness of open spaces, beneath the vault of the heavens. It is a comfort, in anguish, to be reminded of the scale of one's own troubles against the mighty breadth of the world.
What would I have done, truly, if Melisande had bought my marque instead of paying it, if she had never loosed the lead she set upon me? I was sure, very nearly entirely sure, that I had spoken the truth.
Very nearly. But she had accomplished her intent; I would never be entirely sure of it, not entirely.
In the end, of course, it didn't matter. What had happened was done, and my choices made. At dawn, Melisande Shahrizai would be no more, condemned to death by accusation. And no one, ever, would be troubled by her again.
Except for me.
Such were the thoughts