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Kushiel's Pupil	By : Seraphis Category: G through L > Kushiel's Trilogy Views: 5698 -:- 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
- 14
- 15
- 16
A/N: This chapter contains one of Ana's new schooling lessons in the palace, and it is fairly involved. I wrote it the way it is presented because of my own personal interest in the subject, and because I feel that it reflects the character of the tutor. The particulars of the lesson aren't terribly important to the plot, but the scene is, so bear with me for the slightly slow-moving quality of this passage.

FIFTEEN

If my mother was overjoyed, and Queen Ysandre pleased that the Master of the Straits had come to the City of Elua, it was a small thing beside the whispers of intrigue that shuddered through court at his arrival. He had very obviously come to Terre d'Ange in support of my fosterage, and if I had thought my favour was being sought before, I was now in receipt of some twenty letters a day from various peers whose salons had inexplicably opened to receive me. It was all too transparent, and I would have scorned them all if it had been my choice, but my mother was too canny for that. While she held me to no engagement to which I was not already committed, she nevertheless caused me to write a letter of thanks to every peer who had written to me. If I had been given my way, I would have simply written a form letter and sent it to an artificer to carve a master in boxwood that might be inked and stamped, but my mother was too good a courtier for such a thing. I wrote every letter, and signed it with the crest of Montrève.

Beyond that, however, my curriculum with the tutors of the palace did narrow somewhat, and though I still was engaged in classes which were distasteful to me (dancing with Xephane nó Eglantine among them), there were yet some lessons which I came very quickly to adore. Among them were a continuation of my lectures on engineering and hunting-craft, which, when I had grown, would likely be a chip in my favour, somewhat intriguing for which I would be known amongst my peers. Imriel brought me to the University of the Ars Magicka in the heart of the City, and I met a great deal of fascinating and mysterious tutors, and equally fascinating, eager young mystical students.

For all that, the lessons I learnt in the City of Elua were not all beautiful. There were grave and distasteful duties that came close upon the heels of the opulence and license to learn with which I had suddenly been presented. Upon the Cruarch's flagship came a man, a d'Angeline, sentenced, in Alba, to death, but returned to Terre d'Ange to be tried against his own queen's justice. He was a heretic, who had forsworn Blessed Elua and his Companions and adopted instead the myriad small sylvan gods of Alba. This, in itself, was not a great crime. The Precept of Elua, love as thou wilt, included such things as worship, and such choices as this, though ill-advised to my mind, for no man should forsake gods whose blood flows in his own veins, were not entirely unheard-of, eve within the City. In my mother's youth, there had been a woman who had claimed conversion to Yeshuite beliefs, and she had been considered merely eccentric.

The man Drustan had brought into Ysandre's power had been no priest, neither trader nor merchant. To Drustan he had given his name as Urghest, but he had been identified by some letters between himself and an Azzallese factor as one Huidemar Lesourd, formerly a crofter and sometime poacher. Very little was known about him, for he was one of the smallfolk, and neither family nor lord came forth to claim him. Much of what was known, we knew from his own lips.

He had been a man of some little learning. Often enough, peasants do not learn to read or write, but he had both, and some natural talent for calculation. He spoke Caerdicci fairly well, and his Cruithne was near perfect, with allowance for some small lag of the d'Angeline in his tongue. He was not a young man, being nearly four and fifty, but he was hale with hard living, tall and broad as an oak. He was handsome, of Azza's line and likely Naamah's, with the upright carriage that typifies the former, with thick dark hair silvering a little at the temples.

He stated that he had been married once, in Terre d'Ange, to the daughter of a wheat farmer, which was also the vocation to which he had been born. He admitted that their union had not been a happy one, as they had been wed young and grew very quickly apart. He said his farm had failed, and he had taken her west into Kusheth, where he would disappear into the forests, sometimes for weeks at a time. They survived mainly on what he could poach, eating the meat and trading or selling the hides. She gave birth twice, both times to stillborn children. While she was still recovering from the second birth, he had been accused of poaching by the local lord upon whose deer he had filled his belly, and a warrant was put out against him. He fled back to Azzalle, and on the road, his wife took septic and died following a violent fever.
He had not been sorry, he said, and had stowed away on the first merchant ship to Alba, for he knew he could no longer remain in Terre d'Ange; he had no desire to have his fingers removed for poaching.
Alba was open and wild, and he had carved out a life for himself.

And then, he had been found by a young ollamh tearing up the soil of a sacred grove, cutting saplings of sacred apple trees. He had protested that he was only attempting to cultivate fruit for himself as a stopgap to starvation. He had been allowed to leave, by reason of his assumed foreign ignorance. It had been the next week that the ollamh had disappeared.

Four days passed before a druid, on his way to observe a star aligning with a sacred planetary body, found the ollamh slit from throat to groin lying naked and bloodless in the centre upon the dewy ground, with Urghest digging a pit five paces away. There were strange sigils carved into the ollamh's body, and into the earth around the pit. There had been evidence that the man Urghest had violated the woman before he murdered her, and he had been taken straight away to Bryn Gorrydum, where he had been sentenced by Drustan to die.

Despite having given up the worship of Elua and his Companions, the man Urghest had prevailed upon his d'Angeline status to be returned to his mother nation for trial, and Drustan had acceded, knowing it was only to defer a death sentence.

Ysandre was willing to try him as a d'Angeline, but only if he declared for the gods of Terre d'Ange. We would not, she said, overturn the judgement of a sovereign nation allied to us if he submitted to their gods.

All was therefore suspended upon this man's loyalty to his gods, and to whom he was loyal would mean either certain death or a chance at life. I did not, at the time, comprehend this, but I have since investigated the records of his trial, and I am certain, now, and understand such proceedings as I had been either absent from or simply uncomprehending. I think he must have been a little mad, fr such answers as he delivered to his questioners would have doomed a child, let along a man whose family had perished in mysterious circumstances, and who had fled to Alba, desecrating sacred locations with a calculated efficiency that even in my childhood astonished me.

In the end, he declared for our d'Angeline gods, and was therefore put to trial by the priesthood of our nation.

They were three days closeted with him, and another three deliberating over his replies to their questions. When the answer came, it was one which could not be overturned. The man whose name was now Urghest would be executed for the crime of heresy, for desecrating holy places, for forsaking the love of Blessed Elua, for lying to his sovereign, and for the crimes of rape and murder. He was a condemned man, to be hanged in the Square of Justice, what common slang called the Place de Grâve. It was where smallfolk criminals were put to death; only the realm's great traitors were given death in the manner of their choosing.

I attended the execution. It was a grand spectacle, and one which Imriel, for some reason, had promised to officiate. Sidonie was sick, I think, but Ysandre, after consulting with my mother and father, had given her opinion that I would benefit from observing the law at work.

I will admit, I scarcely gave it a thought until I was standing before the gibbet. I was not the only child at court who was present. Lord Mavros had brought Taurus, and Princess Alais had brought Ciárhan. I found myself towing toward Taurus, and he caught me by the waist and kissed me once in greeting, but he did not release me once he had. Instead, he tucked his arm through mine and threaded our fingers.

'You'll stay with me.' he said quietly. I turned to look at his face, and he winked. 'Have you ever observed a spectacle like this?' I shook my head. 'A man is going to die,' he said, pointing to the gibbet, which was not ten paces from our observation box, 'just there, and very soon. His head might be bagged, but they aren't always. It's the criminal's choice. But you must remember, throughout all of it, that this man has committed heresy, and deserves death.'

I nodded, and wondered what it would be like. I'd seen a man die before, one of our peasant smallfolk, gored by a bull while rescuing a child from the runaway animal, escaped from its travelling Eisandine tauriere.

Imriel and Lord Mavros were embracing, and Alais was greeting them, too. She was very fond of Imriel, that much was plain, but I was still a little wary of her. She was fierce, in a way that not even Lord Mavros really was, though I never really felt safe with him in the way I had so immediately felt with Taurus. Princess Alais' fierceness was something immediate, tense and coiled, as though at any moment she might leap for your throat, like a tiger; somewhat like the Duc L'Envers, her great-uncle. I did like her, however, and thought she would be easier to love than Sidonie, though I was beginning, truly, to take to the cool, haughty dauphine.

We waited for some time, and the square had filled with spectators, before a fanfare of trumpets was heard, and a carriage pulled up with a clatter, surrounded by armed guardsmen on horseback. I had not heard then that Urghest was a dangerous man, but I have, as I had said, since read the particular records of his crimes, both d'Angeline and Alban, and I know now that he was a violent man, mad and easily rendered into a thrashing, desperate creature, capable of despicable acts of the sort that had landed him in his presence circumstances.

He was ordinary looking, the man Urghest, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and I think that he must have blended well in Alba, though he did have the edge of d'Angeline beauty riding his features. He did nto respond to anything as he descended the steps of the carriage, not the prodding of the guardsman's pike nor the jeering of the crowd. As he mounted the gibbet, a priest of Kushiel followed him. It could have been any priest, but he had chosen the former punisher of the One God.

There were some words spoken by a crier, but the noise of the smallfolk drowned them out. Like as not, they were a litany of his crimes and the result, his conviction. There was some small call and reply with Imriel, but for the execution of a man condemned to death in two kingdoms, it was carried about with a surprising lack of ceremony. The man Urghest was offered a black hood, which he refused sullenly. His movements were resigned, nothing wasted or chanced, but ever I could see that he was no penitent.

The executioner, an androgynous figure in a flowing robe and mask, flipped the noose round his neck and pulled the lever. The man Urghest dropped, legs kicking and eyes bulging. From where I watched, I could hear the snap of his neck, could see the sweat on his forehead and the expression on his face, astonished, angry, and wholly determined. I did not find myself wanting to turn away, but I felt, somewhere, a little ashamed for failing to be horrified. I glanced up at Taurus, and found him watching me. I recalled, then, the gift of Kushiel, which Imriel occasionally employed upon me, without realising it, and I knew Taurus was looking at me through the eyes of Kushiel's scion.

'There's no cruelty in you,' he said quietly, 'or very little, anyhow. But there's little pity, also.' he shook his head. 'Precious little pity. What the devil will you make of yourself when it comes to it, Montrève?' he sighed, and I remained silent. There was nothing I could have said to counter his words, no witticism or demurral. He was right, I was sure of it, but I did not know what to make of it, or how I felt, or rather, did not feel. The man Urghest was nothing to me; his death insignificant.

Our party returned to the palace, and I was given over to the charge of a manservant who would escort me to my first lesson of the day. Imri said that there were a few lessons I would be taking alone, apart form Yseulte or the Roualt lads, and that suited me well enough.

The man, however, escorted me to the secret military study. I looked up at him, bemused. 'Sir, I do not think this is quite right.'

'My lady vicomtesse, I assure you that it is according to my orders.' he opened the door, and bowed me in.

I nearly turned back when I saw the Duc L'Envers sitting at his ease behind the large desk, looking through a folio which I recognised as an account of the burning of Thebes by the King of Persis, Darius. He did not stand as I entered, only cast a glance my way and dismissed the servant with a wave. 'Well girl,' he said, after the door had been closed behind me, 'you look surprised.'

'I am, my lord duc—' he raised a hand abruptly.

'None of that, girl. You'll be fostered into my family, so you'll call me Lord Barquiel, or sir, or,' a hard smile flickered round the corners of his lips, 'uncle, if you'd like. But there's no use in you cowering and flinching, and certainly no use for you to pretend you respect me. From what I understand, you are a clever girl, and if you choose to come in here and read accounts of old battles, like as not Sidonie would indulge your eccentric interest and naught else. But if you were a lad, I'd have you taken in hand and made a commander of your own company by sixteen, and simply because you're a lass, there's no reason for you to make a fol of yourself getting wrong-headed ideas about glory and honour. You might as well know what you're speaking of, come to it. So if you like, I'll be teaching you.'

I stood very still, unsure of what to do or how to respond. The thought of being closeted in a room with Barquiel L'Envers for the duration of a lesson hardly pleased me, but I hungered for the knowledge he had, hungered for it in a way I could never have predicted. He stood and motioned to the small desk to the side.

'Sit, girl.' I sidled forward, suddenly conscious of the way my boots struck the sleek hardwood beneath my feet. I turned the seat outward and sat, facing Lord Barquiel with some trepidation. He snorted derisively. 'Don't look at me that way, girl. I'll not devour you.'

I shrugged. 'Well?' I began, 'What were you going to teach me?'

'Do you understand war, Verreuil?' he asked suddenly. 'What is war?'

It was so simple a question, but one which I was scarcely prepared to answer. My mind began to race. Was he looking for a particular answer, or was he simply taking measure of my knowledge? For all that I disliked him, I did not really know much about him, and I found myself wishing that I had not so much avoided him out of hand, as I had since returning to the City of Elua.

'A war is many things, my lord,' I said, feeling foolish, 'It is two forces in opposition, many men in concord, two rulers with opposite wills.'

He nodded. 'Yes, you are right. Not wholly so, to be sure, but you have touched upon the truth. A war is two forces in opposition, you say. I will say the same, and simplify your words even further. War is a duel, at the heart and essence of it. Forget the supply lines, the generals, even the soldiers and diplomats and land. War is a duel, first and foremost.' he paused, then retrieved some pages of foolscap, an inkwell, and 'pens. 'Here, you will need to take notes to recall, I think.'

I trimmed a pen and shook up the ink, casting a glance at the Duc L'Envers, who had paused in the centre of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, head bowed in thought. 'Lord Barquiel,' I said, trying very hard not to sound timid, 'this is black ink.'

He turned. 'What of it?'

'I am a student, sir. I should be using only violet ink.'

His brow knit, and he began to form a string of harsh words. I could see them forming in his mind, but something stopped him as his eyes struck across mine; what he thought, I don't know, but he rolled his eyes and only shrugged dismissively. 'I haven't any student's ink, Verreuil. Use the black today, and we'll find you violet before the morrow.' He resumed his pensive posture for some time, remaining silent until I was very nearly tempted to remind him of my presence. His scowl deepened, and he turned toward me. 'Do you know what you are doing here, Vicomtesse de Montrève?' he demanded.

'I am here for instruction.' he swore under his breath, and I knew he watched to see whether I would flinch. It was a mild oath, too mild to scorch the ears of a girl who had lived amongst sailors and shepherds.

'And did you know that you were come here to learn military strategy?'

'I shall learn what the dauphine believes is meet, and necessary to he betterment of my future.'

He raised his brows. 'I never thought a child of Phèdre nó Delaunay's and that mad Cassiline would be the sort of child to stand by and allow others to shape her destiny.'

'My lord, I had an interest in such things. Obviously, it was observed. If the dauphine believes it is fair for me to pursue such learning, will you say her nay?'

Barquiel L'Envers nodded briefly. 'We shall see. Have you read aught of the classical approach to warfare?'

'Somewhat, my lord. I have not yet the discipline to comprehend such things. Mostly, I read histories.'

'Yes,' he reflected. 'Those are what I have found left out, the times you have come in surreptitiously. You are not nearly the spy your mother was.' he replied briskly. 'Well, at least you are not arrogant in the small learning you have acquired. We shall begin with a few definitions.' he pulled a chair up, facing me. I half expected him to refresh his memory with an old Caerdicci volume, but he had only learnt back and arranged himself comfortably. Despite my dislike for him, despite the antipathy I knew he bore my family, he had been Terre d'Ange's Royal Commander for nearly twenty years, and I was conscious of his military brilliance, and I admit, I was interested in what he could teach me. 'You are here to learn war, Verreuil, and before you may do this, you must understand what, precisely, war is. There are many definitions to be had, which philosophers and philanthropists would like to affix to war, but the fact is that theere can only be one accurate definition for it. It is important, therefore, that you remain undeceived concerning the true nature of what one army does when it strives against another.

'I have said war is a duel, and you must not mistake it for anything else. Mayhap is is one which involves many men and forces, but ultimately it is one against another, each exerting all their efforts to overcome one another, to force one another into submitting to whatever terms are most favourable. I will return to objects and reasons for war later, but we shall state, for the present, that the goal of war is to cause your enemy to submit to your will, to disarm him completely, or cause him to understand that such a result is inevitable.

'You must understand, also, that there are those who would have us impose upon ourselves certain restrains; we are a civilised nation, Terre d'Ange, the scions of gods, the children of divine ichor. And yet, what these parties, in their blind idealism, fail to realise, is that to impose terms, to control or modfy one's force because we are not savages, is to give the victory to savages. Shall I cripple myself because I am about to be robbed by a man with no legs? To introduce to the concept of war any philosophies of moderation is a fool's game.' here, he looked hard at me. 'How old are you? Ten? Of course, you are a fosterling. I shall tell you some things, girl, that you will not understand. You must tell me if you do not understand, and I shall expound upon them. That is the only way to learn. Speak, girl.'

'I understand so far, my lord duc.'

'No formality, girl.' he reiterated. 'I told you already. I shall not admit of formality between us. It is useless. Indeed, had things fallen out even a little differently, you might be even nearer the throne.' I wondered whether he meant by Anafiel Delaunay's romance with Prince Rolande, or by Melisande Shahrizai's numerous attempts at the throne. 'I knew him, your namesake.' he said, pausing only slightly before continuing. 'He was a very clever man, girl, and if you are half so clever as him, we shall make a veritable general out of you.' he paused, and appeared to shake himself from whatever reverie held him. 'Now tell me what you have understood thus far.'

'A duel is composed of two men with differing ideas, and likely some very great enmity betwixt them, engaging in violence, with the end goal being the destruction or submission of one party.' the sound of Lord Barquiel's harsh, brief laugh made me start a little. It sounded rather like a bark. 'Is it not so, sir?'

'It is so, Verreuil.' he murmured, rising and pacing distractedly again. 'You are precisely correct and I no longer marvel that the dauphine found it necessary to put you here with me. Yes, Verreuil, you have defined precisely what a duel is. And why do men fight duels?'

'I suppose, if their honour has been injured. Mayhap a man has said somewhat to damage the reputation of another, mayhap he has stolen his mistress. I have never fought a duel; I do not know why men do.'

'There are two reasons, and you have hit upon one. The first reason is a feeling of hatred, or passion, an emotional aversion between parties which can only be satisfied through violence. The other is a difference of ideas. With this latter, we may treat as being the reason for war; a man may disagree with the enemy he hates, but he does not always hate a man with whom he disagrees. Tell me what you have learnt thus far.'

I glanced back over my notes, written hastily, and having a few dark blotches where the pen had caught in the fibres of the parchment. 'War is a duel upon an aggrandised scale, without restraint, whose goal it is to bring into submission, by violence, the opponent, with whom we may either disagree or hate.'

'Very good. I see you shall be a quick study. Now, the goal of war is to cause our enemy to submit to our will and our terms, and in order to do so, we much put him in a position in which he is more oppressed than the terms which we desire. That is, to cause our terms to be desirable to both parties. We must, however, be certain that this oppressed circumstance is not one which he may simply employ his will against and wait out. It must be ongoing, and we must cause him to become desperate. If there is change for him, it must be change for the worse.

'The worst position we may put our enemy into is that of being entirely helpless, or, failing that, he must understand that by probability, he will become so. If you cannot defeat, you will be defeated. That is the axiom by which you must operate. If you have not brought your enemy to his knees, he will do so to you. If you do not make yourself the master, you will end by becoming the slave. No man, at the head of a nation, or at its heel, desires to be a slave. And if your desire, say, is to win a war, well!—you must be certain your efforts to be victorious outweigh his efforts to resist. The powers available to you, that is, your numbers, your war engines, you mind, your position—all these things must be superior to his powers. Your will to overcome him must outweigh his will to overthrow you. This is simple, and essential. Once it is known how powerful our enemy is, we may begin to take inventory of ourselves, to see if we may make ourselves so, and therefore give ourselves the advantage, remembering that our adversary does the same.' he paused, and gazed for a moment at me. I could feel the intensity of his eyes, though my head was bowed and I was scribbling notes. 'Verreuil, what has your mother taught you?'

'To read and write, my lord,' I replied, taking a moment to blot my page, 'to calculate. To dance, a little, to play upon the lyre and to speak well to both my betters and inferiors. There are many things which my mother has taught me.'

'And covertcy? Has she spoken aught of that? Has she taught you to navigate the waters of human ambition? To see what men do not mean to reveal, and to understand the slightest indication of policy?'

'My lord, I fear I don't understand. I could not, even if taught, understand such things.'

'And yet you soak up the precepts of war like a university scholar. Do not trifle with me, child. I am no fool.'

'If you would have answers, sir, I believe you have my mother's address.' I said coldly. He frightened me, did Lord Barquiel, this hard-eyed leopard, and I wondered what he was like with Yseulte, that she adored him. I knew she did. I stared defiantly up into his flat, unfeeling eyes, and wondered and wondered. It was, mayhap, only for a moment or two that he scrutinised me, and then he shrugged.

'Well, I wished only to know where you have acquired such aptitude for concepts, that is all.'

'You have said that war is a duel. I understand duelling.' I dipped my pen again, and poised it over my page.

'So I have heard.' he murmured, then, after a moment, 'How well do you ride, Verreuil? Have you yet hunted?'

'Yes, my lord. And I have patrolled over Montrève, with our men-at-arms, when my mother grows weary of hearing me mangle Caerdicci poems.' I found myself smiling to recall a day, not long before our return to the City, when my mother had all but pushed me into Denis Friote's arms and ordered him to run me, as though I were a restive colt. Lord Barquiel's face had assumed an expression not at all unlike that of a cat eating cream.

'Just as well. Mayhap you will make a cavalry officer. You've the look of one, lean and tall, the sort of creature who can take hours in the saddle, commanding men and cutting down others.' he spoke absently, almost as though he had forgotten I was present, full of his thoughts and reflections. He shook himself then, facing me. 'But I digress. I was speaking of probabilities.' he turned his attention to a chart of northern Terre d'Ange, of Azzalle and Camlach, the Straits and the Flatlands, with the peninsula of Jutland on the far corner. 'War is not sudden,' he said, his back toward me, 'and its result is never absolute. When a people is conquered, often they will think of their condition as a passing illness of their nation, which may be altered by time or politics, and often it is so. History has examples of many ancient empires that have fallen to ruin once their founders have died.

'War is never instant. It consists of many battles, many blows, and thus, we may not make a complete study it as one studies other arts, with abstract ideas, with minds attuned to the spirit of war. Our opponents are men, they are kings and generals. They have not wraiths, but soldiers at their disposal and command. But these armies, these kings and generals, they are mortal, and they can be overcome.' he returned to facing me, and I made certain to scribble that final line. 'Men call me killed.' he strolled back toward his desk. 'I despair of my teaching, Verreuil, and you are a good, quick study.' I found that I was pleased by his grudging praise, particularly as I sensed that it was not meant as a compliment. 'We have quite defined war, I think,' he looked at me. 'How is your Caerdicci?'

'Fluent, to read, so long as it's not poetry.' I replied glibly.

He turned to a bookcase, and, searching for but a moment, extracted a folio of foolscap size, and handed it to me. I flicked it open. Within lay a sheaf of twenty or thirty papers, all covered closely in small, square blue writing. 'That is an essay upon political objects, probability, and polarity. Have it read by tomorrow, and bring me two pages in notes and observations.' I nodded, and took the folio under my arm. 'You are not finished here, Verreuil,' he snapped. 'I am not your riding master, but I shall make some use of you. Tomorrow, you will come dressed for a jaunt in the City; I shall provide an escort, and have your horse ready. It is the grey gelding, of Euskerri stock, with feathered fetlocks and the faulty ears, yes?'

'That is my Hephaestos, yes.'

'Very well. You shall bring your essay, and return my papers, and we shall have a very entertaining time of things.' he nodded. 'Now you are through here.'

'So soon, my lord?' I rose, and gathered up my notes, and the folio.

'I have nothing to say to you till I see your notes on the morrow. Good day, Verreuil. And mind that you write your notes in Caerdicci—I don't care what colour the gods bedamned ink is, so long as you don't bring me some dreadful d'Angeline muck. Our language is pretty and doesn't suit war.' he smirked. 'Elua would disapprove.'

'Good day, Lord Barquiel.' I sketched a curtsey, as well as I could with my arms full, and retreated from the study.

I had not, for a moment, expected to find myself the thrall of the Duc L'Envers, and it was deep in bemusement that I wandered back to my quarters, and opened the folio which he had given me.

Despite my love for activity, I was also, in my childhood, an avid appreciator of books, and if I was not, in my leisure time, climbing trees or riding in the mountains, I might otherwise have been found consuming histories, books of fables, epic poems. I had already read the masterpiece which was Thelessis de Mornay's Ysandrine Cycle, and if my mother had not yet permitted me the poems of Anafiel Delaunay, I had heard them elsewhere.

Ironically, the first of his work I had come across had been the bawdy song he had written implicating Isabel L'Envers, Queen Ysandre's mother, in the death of Edmée de Rocaille, who had been Prince Rolande's first betrothed, and with whom Delaunay had been childhood friends. The poetry detailing his relationship with the late dauphin had become wildly popular in the civilised world, and had travelled as far as Tiberium and Menekhet. It had not been difficult to find a copy in the City of Elua, even if my mother's edition was kept locked in a coffer on top of a bookcase.

In any matter, I had quickly settled myself into my quarters, which, being in the centre of the palace, were warm during the winter and cool during the summer, and, after a brief search, located paper for my notes, as well as a dense, violet ink, which I hoped secretly would be a small incendiary to Lord Barquiel's ire. Settling into my desk, I opened the folio and began to study.
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Kushiel's Pupil