Kushiel’s Dart

"Because," she said with dignity, "I asked his aid in a certain matter, which d’Aiglemort may have believed dangerous to his plans."

"No." Barquiel L’Envers came upright on his couch. "Oh, no. You can’t mean to abide by it!"

"I can," she said, eyes blazing at him, "And I do!"

"No." He glared back at her. "If there’s a measure of truth to this tale…Ysandre, I can arrange a union with a Prince of the royal House of Aragon, who can bring two thousand spears to your aid!"

"The Lioness of Azzalle," Gaspar Trevalion remarked conversationally, "came a great deal closer to overthrowing the Crown than anyone realized. If she had succeeded in bringing the army of Maelcon the Usurper, the old Cruarch’s son, across the Strait, they would have swept across the country like a scythe."

Percy de Somerville shook his gold-grey head, speaking for the first time. "They’d have taken us unprepared, but they wouldn’t have made it across. Ghislain tried near the same tactic, at the King’s command. The Master of the Straits left no vessel unturned."

"No one can say why the Master of the Straits chooses as he does," Tibault de Toluard mused. "He let the old Cruarch cross, and no one knew why. If they had succeeded…" A thought came to him, and he paled. "But they did not, because of Isidore d’Aiglemort and Melisande Shahrizai. My lady Ysandre, what have you to do with that fateful island of Alba, and what has it to do with the death of Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève?"

I repeated the name silently, wondering: Montrève?

Ysandre de la Courcel folded her hands in her lap, lifting her chin again. "At the age of sixteen," she said quietly, "I was promised to the Cruarch’s heir, his sister-son Drustan mab Necthana, the Prince of the Cruithne."

There is a thing that happens when a truth suddenly comes clear, a white blaze in which the pattern of it all manifests. I saw it then, in the presence of the Queen’s council.

"Delaunay!" I gasped, the word an agony of grief. "Ah, Elua, the message, Quintilius Rousse, the Master of the Straits…you sought passage for him, for the Pictish Prince, to D’Angeline soil! But why…why turn to Delaunay?"

"Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève." Ysandre gave me the ghost of a smile. "You never even knew his proper name, did you? His father, who is the Comte de Montrève, abjured him, when he tied his fate to my father’s and forebore to get heirs. He took his mother’s name as his own, then, for she loved him nonetheless. My lord de Toluard would know, being of Siovale."

"Sarafiel Delaunay," Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, said unexpectedly, smiling. "She was Eisandine by birth. There is an old story in Eisande, of Elua and a fisher-lad named Delaunay. Sarafiel would have understood. She sent Anafiel to me to be fostered when he was a child."

"Blessed Elua!" It was almost too much information to bear, and I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. I felt Hyacinthe steady me, gripping my arms, and was grateful for it.

"My grandfather was already using Delaunay," Ysandre said, continuing ruthlessly. "He didn’t favor him, but he knew the strength of his oath, and the extent of his discretion. It was his will to learn if there was any merit left in an alliance with a deposed heir. I wanted somewhat else." Her composure slipped a little bit, and she whispered the last words. "Drustan mab Necthana."

Her words created a silence almost as great as Joscelin’s and mine had, broken by Barquiel L’Envers' abrupt laugh. "The blue boy?" he asked, disbelieving. "You really want to wed the blue boy?"

Ysandre’s eyes flared into life. "I want to wed the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Alba, to whom I am betrothed! Yes, uncle. And it is to that end that Anafiel Delaunay worked, and it is to prevent it that he was killed."

"But what…" It was Lord Rinforte who spoke, the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood, his jaw working as he attempted to make sense of what had been said, "What has this to do with the Skaldi and the Duc d’Aiglemort?"

"Nothing," Ysandre said gently, "or everything."

It was then that I knew we would be a long time meeting.

A very long time.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

I will confess, like the others, I could not fathom Ysandre’s will in honoring her betrothal to the Prince of the Picti. A year ago, the romance of it might well have swept me away, but I had since been a barbarian lord’s bed-slave, and my blood was soured on the romance of the exotic.

Still, when she spoke of it, I came to some sympathy, for she spoke with precision and passion, rising to pace restlessly.