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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
- 2
- 3
- 4
THREE
I never expected that the news of my imminent fosterage would pass by the great houses of Terre d’Ange without comment, but I never expected them to take action so quickly.
The morning after the fête, I woke before the sun had lit the sky with its first grey tendrils, dressed in roughspun trousers and a shirt that was fraying at the elbows, and, fetching my wooden daggers and leather vambraces, slunk into the courtyard to meet father. He was already there. I had never in my life preceded him to our morning ritual. He was halfway through a series of forms that I had not yet learned to perform, but I found myself counting off the basic spheres upon which they were built—the doucet, the cygnus, and the piescat. I bowed to him as he slowed and turned toward me, and he did the same, only with a fluidity and grace that I could not yet hope to command.
‘Good morning, father.’
‘Good morning, Ana.’ His smile of greeting was enough to make me forget the chill in the air, and the lingering darkness. ‘Shall we begin by practicing the cat’s circle?’ it was a very simple form, but it was the first in a series of rapidly ascending turns and thrusts that led into the development of offensive forms. They were the first non-defensive forms that a Cassiline novice learns, and I was excited that I was growing out of simply marking my spheres and angles.
‘And then will you teach me the danse du mâle?’
‘Yes, if you do well.’ I smiled broadly, and bowed my head. ‘Blessed Cassiel,’ father prayed, our habitual precursor to the exercises, ‘thy sight upon us, thy oath within us, we thank thee for thy disciplines.’
‘Blessed Cassiel, we thank thee.’ I echoed, then, we bowed to one another and began to flow, side-by-side, through our forms.
As my body fell into the familiar rhythm, my mind wandered to the night previous. After Ysandre’s announcement, father swept mother off to dance, and Imriel offered his hand to the queen herself. I had sat for some little time with Sidonie, without speaking, hoping she would give me a reason to return to Laurient.
‘You met Bertran’s son?’ she inquired softly. I nodded. ‘Do you find him a little irrepressible?’ I glanced at her, and saw the deep mischief in her cool Cruithne eyes.
‘My lady, it is not for me to press judgement upon the scions of the great houses.’
‘Oh, come!’ she pressed my hands. ‘You are very like Imriel when he was young, you know? You are so distant and unapproachable, yet you expect everyone to like you.’ She laughed.
‘But I do like you, Anafielle. Did you know it?’
‘Her Majesty has the right to think of me what she will. And anyhow,’ I looked at our hands together, at her long, slender fingers beside my square-tipped, broad-knuckled ones, calloused from riding and shooting bows, and from handling daggers, ‘they are all saying how obvious it is why you wish to foster me.’
‘Do you not know?’ she sighed, and stroked my hand. Her touch was like silk, the unconscious acceptance of her beauty a thing which I would never know. ‘Well, it is hardly a story for a fête. Come, I see Mavros Shahrizai beckoning to me. Will you dance with him?’
I well recalled my dance with Lord Mavros, how Sidonie presented me like a new and delectable sweet, and how he took my hands in both of his, as an adult should with a child, but his grip was like iron, and I wondered whether he knew it. He held me as though he thought I might try to escape, leading me elegantly through a quadrille, covering my awkwardness with a firm command that was all to easy to submit to. I remembered well his charming conversation, on nothing in particular, like cream-froth, his dangerous smile, and the way my mother was waiting for me when the song ended.
‘Your forms are mathematical, Ana,’ my father said, as we completed the cat’s circle, ‘but when we begin sparring, you shall have to remember to keep your mind on your opponent.’
‘I know.’ I was pleased at his compliment, and at the hint that we should soon begin sparring training. I wiped beads of sweat from my upper lip, and turned toward the window. Mother was watching, sipping from a mug, her gaze soft and contemplative, but still canny. There was somewhat in her sharp mind, and I told father I thought so.
‘You mother,’ he sighed, ‘is always planning something, Ana. It would take a Shahrizai to equal her, though one has never beaten her.’ He paused. ‘In cunning, anyhow.’ A faint smile touched his eyes.
‘Not even Imri?’ he stared at me for a moment, then chuckled softly.
‘Betimes, Imri has. Never for very long, but betimes.’
‘And not even a Cassiline, trained and proper, could best you, eh, papa?’
He suddenly looked uneasy. ‘Ana, I know what stories you have heard, from the poems, from our retainers at Montrève, and from your mother and I. But I wish you to know that I bested David de Rocaille because he did not know how to kill, and because he had naught to live for.’
‘And you had maman?’
‘And I had Phèdre.’ He repeated quietly. ‘Twas not Cassiel who took victory, that day, but Elua. Remember that.’
‘I will.’ I replied, then grinned, tapping his vambrace with my dagger. ‘Now, you will teach me the danse du mâle?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He nodded, and we fell into first form, shoulder to shoulder, ‘We will begin in the same manner as the cygnus.’ I raised my right arm at an acute angle above my head, my left extending behind me for leverage, and I followed my father’s lead carefully, conscious of the muscles turning and working in my body, the grips on my daggers, the balance of my feet.
We drilled for some time, and the sun rose, casting our shadows across the courtyard, glinting in our eyes. I learned the danse du mâle that morning till I could have done it in my sleep, and then reviewed the simpler, base forms. It was important, my father said, to remember the origins of every form, of every move.
By the time we had finished, breakfast had been served—a smattering of savoury and sweet pastries, fresh bread, preserves and butter, apple honey, and cold milk. My father and I towelled our sweat off, and sat at the table with my mother, Hugues, and Ti-Philippe.
‘You have received,’ my mother began, buttering a slice of bread, and sliding it toward me, ‘some letters from your peers in the City.’
‘My peers?’ I gazed at her, astonished. ‘I don’t know anyone.’
‘You know Laurient de Trevalion.’ She replied. ‘It seems that he has invited you to ride with him. And Colette Zornín de Aragon has sent, on behalf of her daughter, Eldora, an invitation to her natality. It seems, also, as though the Shahrizai have some interest in you.’
‘Is that so unusual?’ I murmured. ‘They seek power, you have said. Imriel is Crown Prince to Terre d’Ange, but he has no children yet. If it looks as though he would adopt his foster sister, it is in their interest to cultivate my favour. Besides, the bad blood between our family and theirs disappeared with Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel.’
My mother fixed a look upon me that caused the bottom of my stomach to drop away, and I fell silent. ‘Mavros Shahrizai petitions, on behalf of his son, Taurus, that you visit the Shahrizai hunting lodge with Imriel, when he goes to see his cousins.’
‘Lord Mavros has a son?’
‘Indeed, though the identity of the boy’s mother has been a mystery these twelve years, and he bears naught but the stamp of the Shahrizai upon him.’
‘Phèdre,’ father said, ‘she has no need to hear about intrigues.’
‘You seemed taken by Lord Mavros, Anafiel,’ mother smiled. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.
‘It is difficult not to feel something for someone who is so like Imri.’ I lied, my eyes averted from my mother’s. I knew she saw my falsehood, but I did not care.
‘Do you think they are so like, my love?’ amusement sparkled in her tone, and I knit my brow.
‘Like and unlike,’ I replied, for I sensed she wished a well-thought answer. ‘Imri has a sort of peace about him that I think Lord Mavros will never enjoy. At least,’ I tapped my chin, ‘not till he stops smiling at every woman as though she were Naamah herself.’
‘Name of Elua, Phèdre!’ Ti-Philippe exclaimed, ‘What have you been teaching this child of yours?’
‘Far less than her namesake taught me when I was scarce older.’ She fixed her eyes upon me again. ‘So, you will read the letters?’
‘Do you wish it?’
‘It must be your decision, Anafiel.’ She said, turning from me and feigning a causal bite from a jam tart.
‘Phèdre, you see that she is your daughter, as well.’ Father smiled behind his napkin.
‘I will read the letters.’ I said haughtily, conscious that I was being mocked. ‘And I will, at least, go riding with Laurient de Trevalion.’
When breakfast had ended, my mother led me into the parlour, and pointed to my letters. She had sorely misrepresented the amount of correspondence I had received. There were some twenty envelopes piled, one upon the other, with seals of the great houses impressed in the sealing wax. ‘Must I read them all?’ I inquired pleadingly.
‘You said you would read them,’ mother said, with a peculiar tilt of her head. ‘Come,’ she sat on a divan, and spread her arms out to me. ‘Come, my love, we shall read them together.’ I smiled, sinking into her embrace, as she reached for the first envelope, bearing an imprint of a mask, the sun and moon combined. ‘The seal of the Marquisate de Fhirze,’ she said, eyebrows raised. ‘I was not aware they had children.’ She took the letter, and cracked the seal, withdrawing the missive.
‘You know the Marquis de Fhirze?’ I guessed at the identity of the author. She nodded, smiling.
‘He was a patron of mine, with his sister.’ She scanned the letter. ‘Ah, they do not have a child your age. Diànne has a son, but he is wellnight twenty now. And Apollonaire’s daughter is fifteen. They wish to see me, with my family. Well, that is for me to reply to.’ I selected the next letter, which was open already, with the intertwined keys of House Shahrizai. ‘From Mavros.’ Mother gave it to me, and I read.
It was couched in the most formal terms, informing me that Imriel would visit Lord Sacriphant’s hunting lodge in two weeks’ time, and offering an invitation that I should accompany him, in order to meet my peers of House Shahrizai, particularly Taurus, who was twelve years of age, and was deeply interested in his uncle Imriel’s foster sister.
My mother read, also, Laurient’s note, penned in a hand, she said, that was not his father’s. she suspected that, owing to the warmth and familiarity of the voice, that not only had Laurient himself written it, but that he had inherited the gregarious charm of his grandfather, Ghislain nó Trevalion. He requested my presence during a hunting party which his father had arranged, and which he believed, based upon our conversation, that I might enjoy. He added, also, that he had no intentions of hunting himself, but would rather take a quiet ride with me.
‘You are already making friends, Anafiel.’
‘So it seems.’ I replied, a little discomfited by the pile of letters from people I had scarcely met, all climbing over one another to secure my favour, only because I would spend a year in fosterage with the queen.
‘You are a little thoughtful, and I understand why.’ Mother whispered, drawing my head against her breast. ‘I was, perhaps, mistaken not to tell you when Ysandre first wrote to me, but I thought you would rebel against the idea.’
‘If you wanted it so very much, you might have convinced me. You know I do not like the City, but I love you, and I love Imriel. It is enough, maman, that you both wish it.’
‘Well, and so,’ she breathed, ‘you will take only the rendezvous that you like, and I
shall accompany you.’
‘You make me seem so provincial,’ I protested.
‘You are provincial. It will be charming to them, trust me. And this young Lord de Trevalion already writes to you himself, rather than allowing his father to do so.’
‘But I am not like you, not graceful and not ladylike. Could I not take Ti-Philippe, or Hugues?’
‘Do you think a chevalier or a guardsman would be a fitting chaperon for a young lady of status? For the foster-daughter of the Queen of Terre d’Ange?’
‘No.’ I replied, pouting a little. ‘You do not wish me to keep company with the Shahrizai, do you?’
‘They are dangerous, love, even Mavros, though he fostered in Montrève, and has been a very good friend to Imriel. I do not like the Shahrizai, Anafiel, but mayhap there would be somewhat for you to learn from them.’
‘I will take Imriel’s council on it.’ I reasoned. ‘Surely, he will have the right of it.’
‘No doubt.’ Mother kissed me, and lifted another letter from the pile. ‘Here, this is from Colette Zornín de Aragon. Come, she is, at least, related to the queen by marriage. Her husband is Ysandre’s nephew. You have an invitation to her daughter’s natality.’ I sighed and settled in to listen to the next offers.
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Kushiel's Pupil