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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
- 1
- 2
- 3
If Favrielle nó Eglantine was stern with my mother, it was only because she knows it is a comforting mark of old acquaintance. And, of course, because my mother often prevailed upon her to create masterpieces at the drop of a hat.
‘Four days? Four days! Comtesse, you try my patience sorely.’ She shook her sunburst curls and stamped her foot. ‘I have been fitting you, my lady, for wellnigh thirty years now, but you have never—’
‘I have.’ My mother replied haughtily. ‘And it is not for myself that I require your services. The queen is going to announce her fosterage of my daughter at this fête, and I wish to present an image that the City of Elua will remember. Besides,’ my mother rolled her eyes, ‘she is not…she was not raised in the Night Court.’
‘Ungainly, yes.’ I did not flinch at Favrielle’s harsh words. I knew that mine was not a graceful figure, with my thin limbs and oft disarrayed hair. The only times I felt capable of competent movement where when I went through the Cassiline spheres, every morning, with my father. ‘It is not a trouble to me.’ Favrielle tossed her head again, mouth tightening, the small scar on her upper lip whitening. ‘We will make her Tsingani.’ She declared finally, stepping backward and nodding. ‘The lines this season run toward solemn, figure-obscuring dressed. I shall attire your daughter in coloured trousers, bright jewels, and dress her hair in ribbons and flowers. She will be a celebration of life and joy in the midst of greys and whites, a peacock amongst doves.’ My mother nodded.
‘It is perfect. And Joscelin will like it.’
‘Her measurements are doubtless much altered since last season?’ Favrielle produced a measuring line and gazed at me, her wide grey eyes taking me in. ‘Clothes off, and on the dais.’ I followed her instruction, shivering a little in the coolness of the salon, standing as still as I could as she took my size. ‘You do not speak overmuch, child.’ She observed, wrapping the line round my chest.
‘You and my mother will make a wise decision for me.’ I said.
‘Ah, well. But what do you think of being a Tsingani girl?’
‘My mother once played at being a didikani, a half-breed. It is no shame. And the Master of the Straits, he is didikani.’ I looked seriously back at her, and she shrugged, moving on to my waist and flanks.
‘Perhaps you are not merry enough to be Tsingani.’ She prodded. ‘They play the timbales, and sing for coin. Can you sing?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I sing to my horse, Hephaestos.’
Favrielle glanced at mother. ‘A Hellene name.’
‘Yes, after the fire god, who made Baal-Jupiter’s lightning bolts. Because he has yellow hooves. Papa says I may gild them, when I come to the City of Elua to live.’
‘Is it so?’
‘It is. And before he was gelded—Hephaestos, that is, not papa—we made certain that he sired a foal. And his foal shall be mine when it is three years old.’
‘Shall it?’
‘Yes. It is a colt, and finer than Hephaestos, and I think I shall name him…oh, I don’t know. Imri is like to help me.’
‘Ah,’ Favrielle smiled now, and I could see how pretty she really was. ‘So, the little vicomtesse does speak.’ I blushed a little at this, and my mother laughed.
‘Our falconer and houndskeeper can scarcely keep her quiet. I hope Ysandre can wrestle a lady into her skin, as packed full as it is with Joscelin’s blood.’
‘She did not manage with Princess Alais,’ Favrielle murmured, and mother smiled afresh. ‘Well, since I have so easily settled her costume, I might as well design you one.’
‘Will you attire me, then, as a Tsingani fortune-teller, wearing my wealth in chains of gold round my neck?’
‘Mayhap,’ Favrielle’s eyes turned shrewd. ‘Or, indeed, mayhap you would make a better Demetra.’
‘The Hellene goddess of husbandry?’ my mother’s voice registered shock.
‘Indeed. With flowers and vines to tie into your daughter’s costume, and, bethink you on it. The City of Elua is accustomed to seeing you as the Queen of Courtesans, their sole anguisette. They have scarce though of you as a mother, a nurturer. Despite your adoption of Imriel de la Courcel, you are still a celebrated beauty.’
‘Waning beauty,’ my mother smiled sadly.
‘Yes, but now given the grace of maternity. So you shall be, a Tsingani’s child, fresh-birthed upon the lungo drom, and the mother of the earth, spreading her bounty before everyone.’
‘You are a sorceress, Favrielle,’ my mother said, hands passing over bolts of material that lay side by side upon a cutting table.
‘And Joscelin? Will he attend the fête?’
‘Yes, but he is stubborn. He will wear his grey attire, with only the insignia of Montrève over his heart.’ My mother sounded almost exasperated, but I thought my father never lacked charm in his near-Cassiline robes. ‘Mayhap he would look well as a Mendacant?’
Favrielle smiled. ‘No, I think Joscelin would be quite lovely as Apollo.’
‘You jest,’ my mother raised her hands to her outh.
‘No, indeed, with his golden hair and those strong, clean lines of his face, he is godlike indeed.’
‘Papa is not a god!’ I laughed. ‘He is…he is my papa.’
‘There are those who would argue with you, love.’ My mother said softly, ‘And I am not certain I would not be among their number.’
I shrugged, but a thought had occurred to me. ‘Maman, I shall not have to tell people’s fortunes at the queen’s fête, shall I? I do not know the dromonde.’
Favrielle and my mother glanced at one another, then at me, and I must say, my proud little Siovalese heart was not warmed by their laughter.
‘Ah, no, love.’ My mother said, once recovered. ‘No, that is a thing which I do not believe Ysandre will ask of you.’
~
The morning of the queen’s fête, Favrielle sent our costumes to the house, along with several of her assistants to adorn our hair and select our jewellery. My costume, deceptively simple, but with every line imbued with Favrielle’s distinct genius, was a pair of doeskin trousers, dyed a fine, deep blue, and black boots of calf’s leather. A white cambric shirt was worn beneath a vest of varying hues of green patchwork, cunningly cut so that the patches were in shapes of trees and flames, horses and stars. Over this was a garnet jacket, embroidered with gold, the crests of Montrève and Courcel emblazoned across the back of my shoulders. My mother outlined my eyes in kohl, and gave me ruby drops for my ears, with a king’s ransom in gold and jewels hung round my neck and arms. She never allowed me rings, for I lost many of them, and I did not like them, anyhow, for they made my practice daggers slide in the most uncomfortable fashion.
I stared at myself in the glass as one of Favrielle’s assistants braided and coiled my hair with ribbons, and beads of coloured glass. My mother, by contrast, was a sedate beauty, in a layered dress of rust-coloured splendour, which rose to cover her chest and fastened round her neck, but plunged at the back, leaving her marque bare. She, too, wore jewels, but hers were cunningly carved and cut to resemble flowers and vines.
There are those who say that my mother is the flower of d’Angeline beauty—this, I acknowledge, and more. One of my only regrets is that I never saw her in the fullest bloom of youth, for even stumbling half-alive out of the Skaldic hinterlands, she charmed trust out of Ysandre de la Courcel. I have often wished that I resembled her more—indeed, she is in my face, but only in faint echoes. She is in the poignant turn of my nose, in my eye-lashes, in my singularly stubborn chin—the rest in my father’s gift, and the boyish charm I had in childhood was enough to combat the ungainliness of my frame.
When we entered the palace, I thought, perhaps, that Favrielle had erred in choosing for me this outlandish Tsingano garb. I watched others, in subtle tones of grey blue, sombre black, and a myriad of off whites and beiges. My father fit perfectly, his austere face surrounding by long cables of wheaten hair, in which a few strands of grey were only just intermingling, his Cassiline arms always at his sides. He smiled faintly, wry humour glinting in his eyes. ‘It seems as though the mode has finally caught up with me, hey, Phèdre?’ she laughed at this, and I, also, though I little understood it, and at the door, we waited to be announced.
I stood before my parents as we entered; I did not like it, but they said it was important that I do so. I lifted my chin, and, with their ever present strength at my back, crossed the room, the eyes of hundreds of nobles fastened upon me. Ysandre was sitting at the head of a board, with Sidonie. The Cruarch, along with Princess Alais, were not present. It was autumn, and they would return to Terre d’Ange with the spring.
When I approached the queen and dauphine, I bowed, feeling my father do the same, and ignored the gasps of astonishment from the crowd around me. Ysandre rose, and beckoned to me to sit beside Sidonie, as my parents took places at her side.
‘Good even, Vicomtesse de Montrève.’ Sidonie murmured, kissing my brow. ‘You shall set the mode for our young nobles for many seasons yet, I see.’
I did not know whether her words were praise, or in jest, and I accepted the glass of cordial she offered me. ‘Majesty,’ I said, conscious, still, of the eyes upon us, ‘where is Imriel?’
‘Ah, he is with Lord Mavros,’ she replied, a strange light of fondness sparking in her dark Cruithne eyes, and I wondered, was it for Imriel, or Mavros? Or both? ‘You will see enough of him, next summer.’
‘He is my brother, your majesty.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘and my cousin. Do not forget, dear Ana, that I love him, too.’
I smiled at this, for she meant it in jest. ‘I shall not steal your husband, my Lady Dauphine.’ I smirked, and nearly regretted it. My jest was a precocious one, and something I should have known seemed tasteless for my years. To my astonishment, Sidonie threw back her head, baring the column of her white swan’s neck, and laughed heartily, as I had only ever seen her laugh with Imriel, and then, only when she believed no one could see. That I had been the one to provoke such a response in her both pleased and confused me. Confused, because I had not realised till then how much I wanted her to like me.
‘Oh, I think I fear other things for you, little Anafielle Verreuil.’ She said, and took my hand beneath the table. I yielded to her, liking her better because she had laughed at my jest.

As reluctant as I was to make myself noticed, when my father rose and led me to the dance-floor, I did not resist. I knew he was a fair dancer, even if I was a poor one yet, and I dare say that we made a handsome pair, the Cassiline and Tsingani, the golden-haired father and dark-haired daughter.
‘Ana,’ he murmured, leading me competently through a mincing gavotte, ‘I know that you are not well accustomed to court, and you know that I mislike it.’
‘I do, papa.’
‘It was a bargain, we made, your mother and I, that if she were to bear you, that she would have the right of raising you.’ I read, in his hesitance, in his even tones, what he wished truly to say.
‘Then it was not your will that I be fostered with the queen.’
‘I do not say,’ he replied, ‘that the idea is repugnant to me.’ His big fingers, an echo of mine, only longer, heavily calloused, tightened on mine, and he sighed, thinking of how to speak his mind without giving insult to either mother or the queen. ‘The world knows, Anafielle, that you are more my daughter than your mother’s. Indeed, the eye is a keen one which can discern her in your face and form. In deed, you may be much like me, as yet, but you have not seen the world from which your mother hails, and I am loathe in condemning you to the life of a country squire, when she was so much more. Mayhap, were you exposed to her history, you might find that your own path does not so greatly diverge from hers.’ He paused, then smiled, ‘Barring, of course, dedicating yourself to Naamah’s arts.’
‘You wish me to become a lady?’
‘It will do no harm, should you maintain your forms.’ He chuckled. ‘And should you wish to return to Montrève at any moment, you have only to speak the word. I would not be separated from you for the world, my love.’
‘I know, papa.’ I leant forward, and kissed his cheek. A murmur of approval sounded at my back at the charming picture we presented, and he smiled at me. ‘They like to see us together.’
‘It will endear you to them, Ana.’ He replied. ‘I do not know much of court, but I do know d’Angelines, and we are deeply enamoured of love, in all its forms.’ His smile to me was like the sunrise.
‘I hope the winter will pass slowly,’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘I hope it will seem like eternity before I must leave you.’ To this, he said nothing, but I think he was pleased with my simple loyalty, and, even, with my reluctance to become a member of court, though he would never say such a thing.
When the gavotte had ended, father escorted me back to the board, where Imriel had himself filled my plate. He and my mother were engaged in light conversation, but as father and I approached, they fell silent. Both Ysandre and Sidonie had gone, mingled with their guests. ‘Ana,’ Imri kissed me. ‘You look…bizarre, and completely lovely. I thought my eyes had deceived me, when I saw a fair Tsingani maid dancing with a Cassiline priest.’ The laughter in his eyes was my reward for enduring the jest, and I set to my food with a will, realising suddenly that I had not eaten since my morning’s brief repast of honeyed tea and a small egg posset. Imriel knew how my tastes ran, I daresay, for he had heaped my plate with soft, brown bread smothered in a richly-herbed butter, slices of cured ham wrapped in flaky butter pastry, a portion of roasted pheasant, salmon roe, orange and bursting in a salty profusion in my mouth, and roasted mushroom-caps, upon which were melted crumbles of sharp, blue-veined cheese and drizzled in a savoury saffron yellow sauce. This and more I ate, oysters and terrine of lobster, though these were not in season, sugared violets and glacées sweetened with milk and honey, and, finally, a dish of cream and apricots, and I found myself laughing and speaking with Sidonie as though I were already her fosterling.
When we had finished with eating, and my mother was growing warm with drink, and smiling just overmuch at father, Imriel took charge of me, steering me away from the table, and toward a clutch of his friends. I was nearly the only child at the fête, but there were a few, I think, who had been brought, if only to prevent my feeling out of place. One of these was a boy, perhaps a year older than I, with solemn grey eyes and black hair, standing at the side of a man of whom he was the very image. A faint scent of apples clung to them, and I leaned toward them without knowing it, the fresh smell reminding me of the orchards in Siovale.
‘Bertran,’ Imriel said, hailing the man, ‘Bertran, this is my foster-sister, Anafielle Verreuil, Vicomtesse de Montrève. I was of a mind to introduce her to your son.’
‘Of course, Imriel,’ the man said, in a restrained tone. ‘Good evening, my lady vicomtesse.’ I noted that if his cheeks were a little flushed, he was not entirely comfortable in Imriel’s presence. ‘I am Bertran de Trevalion, and this is my son, Laurient.’
‘Good evening, my Lord Bertran, Lord Laurient.’ I bowed to them both.
‘Blessed Elua!’ exclaimed the boy, Laurient, ‘Are you a Cassiline, then?’
‘No, but my father was.’
‘Ah!’ he tapped his chin consideringly. ‘Your father is Joscelin Verreuil, the Queen’s Champion.’ His polite smile became pleased, and I forgot all about his father’s incomprehensible conduct. ‘And it is he who taught you to bow like that, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, can you dance as well as you can execute a Cassiline bow, Anafielle Verreuil?’
‘No.’ I replied, haughtily, taking an obscene pride in the fact that I was not court-bred. ‘But I can try.’
‘Well and so,’ he offered his hand with a bow, ‘will you not dance with me, vicomtesse?’
‘I will, if you truly wish it, my Lord de Trevalion.’
‘I do.’ He smiled, and I glanced at Imriel. He was looking, bemused, at Laurient’s father, who had turned away. ‘Where will I find you, when I am through?’
‘I will be watching you dance, love.’ He caressed my cheek, and then Laurient was leading me away, taking my hands to dance with me as courtly children do, though I did not know it then. He was a deft hand at leading my Cassiline-trained steps, and though, mayhap I gave a misstep or two, he covered for it easily.
‘I have not seen you in the City of Elua, much, vicomtesse.’ Laurient observed, framing my waist with hands that were already large, and hinted at strength.
‘I have not been much at court.’
‘Is this Montrève so entertaining that you would rather spin your days out there than in the very City of Blessed Elua?’ there was a spark of curiosity in Laurient’s eyes, and I replied the only way I could, and that, frankly.
‘There is no place sweeter to me than Montrève, my Lord de Trevalion. Where were you raised?’
‘In the City,’ he replied easily, ‘and in Azzalle, at the Duchy Trevalion, where my grandfather lives, but—‘ he hesitated, ‘—he forswore his birthright, for his father was a traitor to the crown. My father should have been the Comte de Somerville, but his grandfather, Percy de Somerville, rebelled against Queen Ysandre before my father was born.’ I leaned into him as he drew me into a turn, inhaling the apple-scent that emanated from his pulse-points. He smiled. ‘It is the mark of the scions of Anael,’ he laughed. ‘My grandfather’s family is of l’Agnace, and we smell of our orchards.’
‘It is very pleasant, my Lord de Trevalion.’
‘Laurient, please.’ He replied, executing a courtly bow to end our dance. ‘If you would permit it, my lady vicomtesse.’
‘Yes,’ I accepted, as he kissed my hand, liking the interest and merriment in his grey eyes. ‘And call me Anafielle.’
‘Anafielle,’ he repeated my name, and I found the sound of it charming on his lips. As the music ended, Laurient did not let go of my hand. I could see that he was looking between his father and me, and I smiled at him.
‘Stay with me.’ I said, suddenly emboldened by the appearance of his hesitation. ‘Your father will seek you, when he remembers to.’
‘As my lady wishes,’ I was charmed, afresh, when he held out his arm to me. ‘Come, I will show you the music room. Do you like music?’ He tugged on my arm, eager to disappear, but while I did wish to follow him, I caught sight of Imriel, standing at the corner of the dance floor, his arms crossed over his chest, and remembered why I was, at all, present at the fête.
‘I must stay here.’ I tugged back, steering him subtly toward the edge of the floor. ‘I have…’ I glanced toward Imriel, ‘responsibilities.’
‘And what might they be?’ the curiosity shone brighter, and he followed me easily, like one of our hound-whelps at Montrève.
‘You will see, before the fête is over.’ I replied, a wily smile resting on my lips. ‘But come, you must speak to me about the City, for I am naught but an awkward provincial.’
‘An awkward provincial, indeed, dressed by Favrielle nó Eglantine’s own hand. I know well the lines of your costume, Anafielle, and no Tsingani girl was ever so attired. My mother,’ he held up a finger, preventing my reply, ‘attempts, every fête and festival, to make an appointment with the celebrated couturiere, but she is booked from one end of the year to the other. That is how I know.’
‘I never have to worry about couturieres, in Siovale.’ I sighed.
‘And what must you worry about?’ Laurient prodded, considerably better versed in conversation than I was.
‘Oh, all manner of things,’ I lifted my head, finally having a subject which I could converse on freely. ‘There are the hounds, of which our Cruithne houndskeeper, Aedwar, has charged me with maintaining the breeding-lines. And our falconer, Valien, is teaching me to train the hawks. Papa—that is, my father—has taught me to hunt and ride, and I am learning, also, the Cassiline spheres and forms. I am, furthermore, a deft hand with a carving-knife. See,’ I lifted a whistle, in the shape of an owl, from my breast, where it hung on a leather cord. ‘I made this myself, and Ti-Philippe, our steward, painted it.’ Laurient seemed impressed at this, and I carried on, tucking the whistle away. ‘Mother has taught me her languages—Caerdicci, Skaldic, Cruithne, Jebean and Akkadian, Habiru, zenyan—‘
‘Zenyan?’ he cocked his head. ‘What language is that?’
‘It is an argot, from a land of which maman does not speak. And I speak Hellenic, as well, but only passing fair.’
‘You are a veritable polyglot demagogue.’ Laurient replied. ‘I speak Caerdicci, and a little Cruithne, for Azzalle is on the Straits.’
‘My mother spoke to me in all her languages, when I was a babe in arms. I believe she wished they should be as fluent as my d’Angeline. Betimes there are moments when I forget a word in d’Angeline, and substitute for it another.’
‘I think,’ Laurient said, ‘that you will not find it so difficult in the City of Elua as you think it to be. In Azzalle, it is different, also, for it is cold, and dark in the winter, and rather than country squires, we are surrounded by sailors and mercenaries. There are times when it is difficult to distinguish it from the hinterlands.’
‘And the sea?’ I stumbled a little, as someone passed, and brushed rather strongly against me. Laurient caught me. Had he not, I would have fallen automatically into a crouch.
‘You must pardon us, in the City,’ he gazed into the crowd, as though to identify my aggressor. ‘We are betimes ill disposed to detecting quality.’
‘But everyone is so beautiful,’ I breathed, my eyes following a woman, clad in a sheer black gown, her rich chestnut hair caught in a gauzy caul. She struck me as the very epitome of beauty and elegance—all the things I had never yet been, and I suddenly felt very gauche in my gaudy Tsingano garb.
‘Yes, beautiful, but they are all so like, as though they were made by the same pastry chef.’
‘You are not like them.’
‘I!’ he laughed. ‘I am young yet, but am conscious, still, of my fate. My father, and his father before him, and, yes, even his traitorous father, they all were military men. I do not doubt that I shall be like them, greeting the Cruarch and his heirs as their flagship sails the straits, maintaining the coast, cultivating favour, and seeking to erase the stain upon our name that Percy de Somerville and Baudoin de Trevalion set upon us.’ When he spoke of his family, it was not with the same solemnity that took Imriel when he discoursed the same subject, but rather, with a resigned coolness. ‘And you, Anafielle, you are the child of a spotless descent, daughter of servants to the gods, heir already to a prodigious fortune. What will you, when you attain your majority? Will you spin out your days in Montrève, with your retainers and your hounds? Or mayhap will you become so fascinating a character as your mother?’ at this, it was my turn to laugh.
‘You can judge for yourself how like my mother I am. There are few, indeed, who would guess at our shared blood from a passing glance. And as for my future, my Lord de Trevalion,’ I smiled secretly, ‘mayhap there is somewhat more to it than Siovalese hounds.’
He raised a brow. ‘Is it so, my Lady Vicomtesse?’ I was about answering, when a near imperceptible sign from Imriel arrested my attention. I turned toward the queen’s board. Ysandre was just turning away from my mother, and both her and Sidonie’s gazed landed and locked upon me. ‘I…I must go, Laurient.’ I said quickly, dropping my hand from his shoulder, where it had been companionably resting.
‘Then this responsibility…has it anything to do with the things my father has been murmuring about Queen Ysandre’s plans?’
‘It may.’
He grinned, a wry sort of expression that was at once thoughtful and careless. It reminded me, oddly, of Mavros Shahrizai. ‘Then allow me to escort you to the queen’s board, my lady vicomtesse.’ He gave a courtly bow, and I returned my own, resting my hand upon the arm he offered. I glanced, momentarily, at Imriel, in whose gaze a speculative gleam had appeared.
As Laurient and I approached the board, my father stood, coming round to us. ‘Ana, the queen will announce her plans now. Who is this?’
‘Papa,’ I said, ‘this is Laurient de Trevalion. Imriel introduced me to him.’
‘Bertran’s son?’ I decided that father did not like Laurient so quickly as I did, for his hands crossed over his body automatically, though he did not, it is true, allow them to hover over the hilts of his daggers.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Laurient bowed, and elegantly transferred me to my father’s arm. ‘I had the pleasure of entertaining the vicomtesse; we are the only ones very near in age here.’
‘And I wonder,’ father said, ‘why you are here at all.’
‘I requested Bertrain to bring him.’ Imriel said, laying his hands on Laurient’s shoulders. The tension in my father’s stance decreased visibly. ‘I thought to introduce him to our Ana.’ Then, applying a reassuring pressure to Laurient’s shoulders, ‘Go to your father. You have done well.’ With another bow, my new friend left, shooting me a comradely smile as he went.

My father made his way back to his chair, and a herald, who had been, till now, standing unobtrusively behind the queen, moved forward, and, in a ringing tone, addressed the guests of the fête.
‘Lords and ladies, friends of the Crown! You are all here to do honour to our queen, Ysandre de la Courcel! Hear, now, that which she shall say!’ the room had fallen silent the moment the herald had spoken, but now, everyone had gone terribly still. I wished I could shrink to the size of a teaspoon and lie on my back upon the board. Ysandre rose, taking my arm as she did so, that I must stand beside her.
‘My friends,’ she said, her chin high, still clean profile illuminated against the flickering torches and oil lamps lining the hall. ‘this is Anafielle Verreuil, Vicomtesse Montrève, daughter to Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève, and her consort, Joscelin Verreuil, my Royal Champion. It is impossible that you are ignorant of their identities, both for great services rendered to Terre d’Ange, and for fostering Prince Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel. I have brought you all here tonight to announce that I shall return the favour which the comtesse and her consort have done for Prince Imriel, by fostering the vicomtesse in my household, in the summer of her tenth year, that is, next summer. Rejoice with me, my friends, for in doing so, I gain a daughter, and so intertwine our houses for yet another generation.’
If the applause that followed Ysandre’s announcement did not lack for simple noise, it fell short of true sincerity, for I saw many nobles glancing amongst themselves with hardened eyes. Who is this, they seemed to say, that the queen honours her above our children? Are we not of ancient houses? Is she not the get of an aging whore, and a Cassiline declared anathema?
I looked to Imriel, standing by Sidonie, and saw through his beautiful smile to the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, betokening stress. Sidonie was, as ever, cool and aloof, despite the smile curving her lips. I turned my eyes toward my parents. They were beaming, but my father’s expression held the same tightness as Imri’s, and mother looked as though she were drinking the thoughts straight out of everyone’s minds. My eyes, then, very naturally, fell upon Laurient, who was applauding with the rest, his grey eyes on mine, simple goodwill contrasting with his father’s inebriated scowl.
All of this, I observed, as my mother had taught me to, and wondered afresh why Sidonie de la Courcel, dauphine to Terre d’Ange, had requested to foster me, a minor Siovalese heir, and what might be expected of me when the summer swept away my tenth year.
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Kushiel's Pupil