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Kushiel's Pupil	By : Seraphis Category: G through L > Kushiel's Trilogy Views: 5699 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Kushiel s Trilogy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Kushiel's Pupil
- 2-TWO
- 3-THREE
- 4-FOUR
- 5-FIVE
- 6-SIX
- 7-SEVEN
- 8-EIGHT
- 9-NINE
- 10-TEN
- 11-ELEVEN
- 12-TWELVE
- 13-THIRTEEN
- 14-FOURTEEN
- 15-FIFTEEN
- 16-SIXTEEN
- 13
- 14
- 15
FOURTEEN

I should like to report that the day the Cruarch arrived in the city, that I was overwhelmed with a spirit of filial love and loyalty toward Drustan mab Necthana and the Alban Courcels that followed him, but the truth is, I was rather more overwhelmed by the pageantry of it all. There were well over half a hundred peers to ride in the procession, and nothing would do but that each brought a small company of their house's men-at-arms to do honour to the Cruarch and crown.

It was very bright that day, and I held my arm up before my eyes to shade them. Perhaps it was the sun reflecting on all the splendidly polished cuirasses of the palace guard surrounding us as we made our way up into the square that held Elua's Oak. The captain of Sidonie's guard, Claude de Monluc, a dark-haired, serious man in his middle years, led the ranks with a skill at horsemanship that I, raised in the saddle, could easily see. He was not, for that, the sort of man to call 'look out' at peasants in the street, but if I thought him something of a bad man then, in my childish naïveté, I have since come to know many more soldiers, and to his way of thinking, any man in the streets on foot had best look out for himself. Ysandre and Drustan were well beloved, but there are always those who have some aught against monarchy in their hearts.

It was very hot in the sun, but the garment which had been designed for me by Favrielle's enfant terrible was light, a pale blue gown of cambric cloth, very lightly embroidered at the hems, neck, and sleeves with a curious design in thread-of-gold, which I was astonished had been completed in so little time. I had seen the knotwork of the Dalriada often enough, and I knew that the barbarians to the far north of Skaldia, and those of Jutland, had their own style of such design, but I did not know that the Fhalair Bàn had their own long tradition of various knots, each representing and corresponding to elements and tribes.

Though I did have to ride side-saddle that day, I was less discomfited than I might have been, for I desired very much to make a fine impression upon the queen, with whom I had spoken very infrequently. Indeed, my time with Sidonie and Imriel was not abundant, for they, too, were much busied with the responsibilities of the realm. I think Imri did make a fair effort of seeing to my wishes, and he occasionally came out to the little inner courtyard where I practised my forms to spar with me, or simply to watch and give advice.

I had been training very hard with my father, learning all the tiresome minutiæ of the forms which I had so often attempted to leave by. I understood, despite my childish impetuousity, that I would not long have the resource of his knowledge upon which to draw, and that I should improve myself as quickly as I could, with great alacrity. Surely, I did not internalise it quite so deftly and concisely at such a young age, and the idea was a great deal more vague and amniotic, but it was there, and I acted on it.

In the welcoming parade, I was placed as a true-born child of Imriel and Sidonie's would have been, at Imriel's left, and while Hephaestos was draped with the colours of House Courcel, I held a little pennant bearing the arms of House Montrève, to do us honour. My mother and father were not far behind in the train, but it was strange not to ride with them; I know that their placement was not merely according to the rank of peerage my mother held, but rather for the strength of her friendship with Queen Ysandre, for she and my father were placed well before peers of far more elevated birth and holdings.

I jostled elbows with Imriel as we waited in Elua's Square, waiting for the sound of the horns that would herald the entry of the Cruarch, and signal to us that we were to sit up, and look quite splendid for the crowds that would inevitably follow in the wake of the honour guard. That is not to say, of course, that there were not already people lining the square, cheering and waiting.

An entire culture had sprung up round the annual crossing of the Straits by Ysandre's husband, and there were those in the City who would bake Alban delicacies and sell them along the boulevards to those waiting to observe the ceremony. Inns and public houses served Alban ale and uisghe, and there was more Cruithne spoken in the streets than usual.

Over the years of our alliance with Alba, our cultures had remained distinct. Indeed, there were still those who marvelled that Ysandre had been allowed to wed with Drustan mab Necthana, despite that his force had been instrumental in delivering us from the invading Skaldi. There were, however, some, like Aedwar and Caradhoc, Favrielle's Fhalair Bàn protégé, who had elected to become a part of d'Angeline life, and likewise with many d'Angelines, particularly those in the priesthood, who had travelled to Alba. Terre d'Ange and Alba had fused further some fifteen years previous, when Alais de la Courcel, Sidonie's younger sister, had moved from the City of Elua to Clunderry, to study as an ollamh, or an Alban bard, and had been adopted by Drustan's sister, Lady Bredaia mab Necthana.

When the sound of the horns came, I was so deeply wrapped in internalised thought that it quite startled me, and I fear I jerked Hephaestos' reins so that he shifted and danced in a manner which very clearly stated his annoyance with me. Still, he was a gelding, and gentle-natured, or my father would not have permitted him to me, and I settled him quickly.

The Cruarch came through the northern gate, and down a wide avenue, with the men of his honour guard flanking him. They looked splendid and fierce in their scarlet cloaks over bare shoulders, handling their mounts with the greatest of ease, and the most expert horsemanship. Drustan himself suffered from a clubbed foot, though one would never have known from watching him ride.

He was a small, dark man, built with the kind of even, wiry balance that characterises those who have lived actively all their lives. His warrior's markings, limned with woad into his face, neck, and arms, were faded with age, though they were still an exotic feature. I had seen such markings before, and my own Aedwar bore the spear and shield of the warrior, and some few other specialised marques on his hands and arms, but I had never before seen a man so comprehensively tattooed as Drustan mab Necthana, each symbolising an accomplishment worthy of a warrior and a clan chieftain.

Here in Terre d'Ange he was styled king, though it is true, he had little enough to do with the rulership of our nation. He looked every inch a majestic ruler as he came through the presses of smallfolk, and pulled up before our party. The cheers were deafening, and the flower-petals were being thrown furiously as the whole City chanted welcome to the beloved of its queen.

Drustan and Ysandre dismounted as they drew near, and, as they did every year, met with a kiss. It made me smile; I daresay it made everyone smile. We are d'Angeline. Even those who betimes might denounce their union as a thinning of the divine ichor of Elua's line would have been hard pressed not to smile. Love is our sacred duty, and not the preservation of bloodlines, though there have been those who forget it.

At Drustan's side was a tall woman, black-haired and sharp-eyed, followed by a boy, lean and rangy, a little younger than myself by a year or two. He wore a golden torque at his throat, and a scarlet cloak, with a wooden harp strung on his back and a bow and quiver on his saddle. I guessed that these were Alais de la Courcel and her son, Ciárhan. She embraced her mother, and quietly presented the boy to him. He made a very pretty bow, one which I think he had practised often enough, but it was with little enough ceremony that the queen and Cruarch mounted back up, and our column turned back toward the palace.

Upon our entry into the palace courtyard, we were fairly assaulted by nosegays and cries from the peers who had not accompanied the column to the square, and the servants themselves were not lacking in a spirit of welcome for their sovereign. Our horses were taken, and we were swept into the great hall for such feasting and merriment as was rare, even in the palace itself, abundant with fêtes and entertainments.

I was a little lost, here, for all round me everyone was embracing and shedding delighted tears. Indeed, for all her customary composure, Sidonie was smiling fit to burst, and her mother, too, I think, shed some tears over her new grandson, Ciárhan, and I was forgotten in the merriment. I did not so much mind, for it gave me time to check that the hem of my gown was not muddied, and that the delicate silk slippers carefully embroidered by Caradhoc of the Fhalair Bàn were not soiled by the dust of riding. It was not long, however, before Imriel dragged me up by the shoulder.

'Alais, love, you've never met my little Montrève.' he said proudly, and I think he could have not held his head higher if I had just produced a brick of gold out of the air.

Alais mab Ysandre had her mother's eyes, and a face cut from the very heart of Alba. She was d'Angeline beautiful, a fineness in her features that shone like a jewel, but she was Alban through and through, with none of the coolness that seemed to come so naturally to Sidonie. She opened her hands toward me, and drew me toward her, fingers strong against my shoulders. She rendered the kiss of greeting upon my forehead with lips as cool as marble, and chafed from the wind. If she did not smell of perfumes, there was somewhat of a field of heather swaying in a tempest in her scent, juniper berries and forest springs. I wish I liked her as much as she deserves, but I was, to be honest, a little afraid of her. She was tall and brown, and fierce, in a very foreign way that I did not like at all.

'You are the image of your mountains, little Montrève,' she said. 'Anafielle, was it? I believe Sidonie wrote something of you. Soon, it seems, you must call me your aunt.' she took a step backward from me. I think she realised I was afraid. I have since learnt that Alais is a kind woman, even if she could strip the hide from a wolf in a temper, and she has always been awkward in the presence of great d'Angeline elegance, despite that she was raised surrounded by it. Only, then I was ten years of age, and I did not know her. Strange to think back on it, but I never batted an eyelid at her father, woad-stained warrior that he was. But she was a woman, and strong with it, not like my mother, whose strength was all steel-hot within, but as a man, all tough and fierce without, and it unnerved me.

Her son, I was easier with. He was not quite of a height with me, and had the same L'Envers eyes, and something distinctly like the old Duc Barquiel about him. If it were possible, he was less Alban than his half-d'Angeline mother, and seemed very at ease in the company of so many fine peers. Rather than give the kiss of greeting, he bent over my hand like a little lordling, and kissed my knuckles respectfully. I started a little, and looked round myself, to see whether anyone else found such a gesture odd, but I only caught Laurient de Trevalion's eye. He smirked, and I blushed, and Ciárhan mistook things, and I thought I was blushing for him, which caused him to give an easy, self satisfied laugh.

'I'm Ciárhan mab Alais,' he said, a little sharply, straightening. 'Or, perhaps, here it is Ciárhan de la Courcel.' his mother touched his shoulder.

'You know you may be whatever you like,' she murmured, and he shrugged her off, nodding.

'Will you sit with our family, yet?' Ciárhan asked me, turning his head with a movement like a bird.

I looked up at Imriel, and he nodded. 'We have a place for her beside your cousin Yseulte L'Envers de'l Khalifate. She is the daughter of your aunt Valère, who is the Queen of Khebbel-im-Akkad.' it was the closest word in Cruithne for the title Valère truly held, which was simply that of the wife of the Khalif, for where Khebbel-im-Akkad was a land terrified of the strength of women, Alba celebrated the strength of its female Cruarchs and warriors.

I glanced behind me to where my parents were taking their places at the board, and caught my mother's eye. It was the reassurance I needed, and I had been growing bolder than I realised over the past weeks, more confident in myself and my place in the palace. I took Imriel's hand and followed him to my place beside Yseulte. Not far down the board was Lord Sacriphant Shahrizai, his son, and grandson. Taurus was engaged in conversation with a girl of his own age, a tall and pretty creature whom I had encountered now and again in the hall of games, and who caused me to feel very deeply my childlike awkwardness. It was not exactly jealousy which ran sparkling and cruel fingers through my heart, for I did not for a moment resent the attention Taurus was paying the girl, but something for my own sake, the knowledge that I had not for a moment the hope of ever being so elegant and feminine, no matter how hard I worked at it. Well and so, I shook my head, and turned to the dainties before me, I had my daggers and vambraces, and my mind, and how many girls at court could predict the strength of a gyr-falcon by the heat of its egg?

I have since been at many an Alban feasting, and I have no doubt that this celebration, in time, became something very like the hunting revels in which I have participated in the years since, but before the uisghe had been broached, all children were sent to our quarters for the evening. I felt the eyes of all the court upon me as I offered my forehead to Imriel and Sidonie to be kissed, and then approached the dais upon which Queen and Cruarch were seated.

Drustan rose, favouring his maimed foot, and extended his hands to me. I was so nervous that I began, despite all my resolutions, to perform a bow, but caught myself in time and made it a quite acceptable curtsey. 'Vicomtesse de Montrève,' he said, in the charming square accent with which the native Cruithne tongue provides d'Angeline, 'I am honoured to be received in Terre d'Ange by news of your fosterage. It is my wish to extend also to you the welcome of Alba, when you have completed your education here. My family is yours now.'

'Thank you, your majesty.' I said, and I felt as though I were accepting a boon from some strange and mythic elder god. He smiled, and one of his front teeth was chipped in just a way that caused the expression to be almost boyish. I felt a little more confident when I gave obeisance to Queen Ysandre. She smiled in a way that made me certain she had indulged a little already, and held out her hand for me to kiss it.

'Arrangements are being made, little Anafielle,' Ysandre said, her eyes warm and fine with drink, 'for now, good night.'

'Good night, your majesty,' I replied, and allowed myself to be led away by the femme de chambre.

~

In the days following, my mother met very often with Sidonie and the queen, concerning my further education. It was agreed that lessons should be resumed come midsummer, so as not to allow my mind to remain fallow for long. I would be sharing most of my tutors with Yseulte, as we were of an age. It seemed to me that overnight, I was rushed into a slough of classes, most of which I had little or no interest in. They seemed to me, in the main, to be a great deal of nothing, and I chafed a little at sitting through an hour of instruction on the art of poesy and flower-arrangement. I admit, I had become a little haughty in Montrève, amongst my hounds and my horses, and I believed that the art of nobility had naught to do with speaking prettily and choosing correct flowers' scents for one's salon, but Yseulte was a sweet companion, gentle and clever, and she made it far easier for me than it would have been on my own.

I kept, still, Cassiel's disciplines with my father, and I found myself clinging to the hours we spent in the mornings, our minds still and our bodies singing through the familiar quadrants and spheres.

I began to spend more time with Sidonie and Imriel, and, occasionally, with Alais and her son. They accompanied us on walks through the lush summer gardens of the palace, and, occasionally, on jaunts through the city. My favourite place to go was a market near Tertius' Crossing, an old white stone bridge from the days before Elua trod the earth, and when Terre d'Ange was nothing more than the barbarian holding of the Tiberian empire. There are such Caerdicci landmarks throughout the world, further abroad than even Terre d'Ange, and I have since been awed at the scope of the great Imperator's vision. In fact, there is a gorge in the old Helvetic holdings, in the Skaldic hinterland, which is bridged by a vast stone bridge of Tiberian making, so beautifully constructed it could have moved a more poetic woman to verse.

This market which I loved was pushed up against Mont Nuit, and was considered by many to be part of Night's Doorstep, though I think the new quarter system which was implemented during the ten days of Sidonie's rule, while Ysandre grieved in the wake of a broken curse, made it a part of the Commons, which was a district containing a few temples and their adjoining markets. My mother had taken me there during our first visit to the City, when I was very young, and I had immediately adored all the lovely smells coming from the bakeries, the fresh fruits and vegetables tumbling out of their crates and barrels, the wares of Tsingani traders passing through the City, and, tucked quietly away, a few skilled artisans—leather-workers and a smith who forged castle-grade steel into beautiful weapons, though he never worked with precious stones or metals, a carver who created cunning mechanisms in wood, and beautiful images of Elua and his Companions, and, betimes, Yeshuite saints and cruciform representations of their risen masiach, from whose blood our own saviour was quickened.

The people of Tertius' Crossing seemed hardly to recognise that Sidonie and Imriel were the future monarchs of Terre d'Ange, or, at least, they treated us so because we were the children of Phèdre nó Delaunay. There were still some elderly in that quarter to recalled a girl dressed in finest silks running wild through the streets and eating tarts under the bridge with a handsome Tsingani half-breed who called himself the Prince of Travellers, and if they knew, in part of them, that Imriel was the son of a woman who'd nearly sold our nation into slavery to a mad Skaldi chieftain, they remembered better that young and beautiful pair, who had become so legendary in their own lifetimes.

Of Lord Hyacinthe, I had a few questions. I had heard rumours, during the weeks between our arrival in the City and the sighting of Drustan mab Necthana's flagship, that the Master of the Straits was considering attending my ceremony of fosterage. He had, after all, been named my god-father, and if I did not know him well at all, there was somewhat in the hindmost part of my mind that knew he loved me for my mother's sake. He had not, of course, arrived on the Cruarch's flagship, and there was some doubt as to his plans. I asked my mother what he meant to do, and she only shook her head.

'He has great responsibilities, love,' she said, an oft-repeated phrase, nearly the only one she used when she spoke of Lord Hyacinthe, 'and he has not sent word.'

As it turned out, perhaps the Master of the Straits had not forgotten so much what it had been to be a Tsingani boy with a flair for the dramatic.

I do not know when he arrived, only that it was in secret, and that my father and I had only just completed our forms one morning, when the early mist scattered, and there he was, a tall figure in a swirling cloak, hair tumbling, coal-coloured, around his shoulders, his eyes a mystical deep blue, and his smile a white slash in his face. I ran to him, I don't know why, only that I knew immediately who he was, and there could be no withholding love from this man. He caught me in an embrace that was at once wholly familiar and a distant memory, with a scent like fresh rain and juniper in his hair. He brushed hair and sweat from my forehead and kissed it, and held me at arms' length to take me in. 'Elua, she's gone and given the world another grave Cassiline,' he laughed, his voice low and amused.

'Tsingano,' my father called, and I could tell without looking that he was smiling. 'By the gods, it's good to see you. Phèdre thought you might not come.'

Lord Hyacinthe straightened, and stepped forward to embrace my father like a brother. 'Ah,Cassiline, you know how it is. When you're young you think it's naught but a few small commands to the wind and waves, and then there comes a letter from Pointe des Soeurs saying how lovely it would be if the shipment of coal between the Arghyll Gaideal and Azzalle if raiders between are not confounded by a gale.'

My father allowed himself a wry smile. 'Have you been demoted to a caravan mercenary, Tsingano? A poor fate for a man who might have been the king of travellers.'

'The Tsingano have written letters to me, asking for my son,' Lord Hyacinthe said.

'And what did you tell them?'

'That I have taught him the dromonde.' he replied, his eyes narrowing, all the laughter gone from his tone. 'I wonder what the Cassiline prefect thinks of you teaching your daughter secrets of their order.'

'I have had letters enough.' my father's grim smile went a little softer when he looked at me, 'But the brotherhood declared me anathema when I would have served them, and Cassiel both.' he paused. 'Does Phèdre know you're here?'

Lord Hyacinthe shook his head. 'No one does, yet. I fear I have come straight from the docks, and was looking for you.'

My father's laugh was a barking sound, his true laugh, with no artifice. 'I fear the queen will have my head for this, allowing the husband of her sister-in-law to remain out in the rain with no breakfast.' There was, indeed, a light and misty rain falling. Lord Hyacinthe clapped a hand to my father's back.

'Well then, feed me, Cassiline,' he said, and ruffled my hair. 'And we shall see about Ysandre fostering this girl of yours.'

~
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Kushiel's Pupil