Kushiel's Scion (12 page)
That winter, in the City of Elua, I grew.
It was as though I had crossed some invisible threshold in giving Lombelon to Maslin, crossing out of boyhood and toward manhood, and my body sought to keep pace. My bones seemed to lengthen daily, and betimes they ached. My voice, which had been breaking for the better part of a year, settled into a deeper register.
I felt strange to myself. Though I had longed for it, when it came, I felt uneasy in my own body. My limbs seemed too long, my hands and feet outsized. Never in my life had I been clumsy; now I found myself bumping into objects, careening off balance.
Joscelin laughed at me.
We kept up our practice in the Cassiline drills, training in the chilly inner courtyard. Although he still had the advantage of me in height and reach, it had lessened; yet now I found myself overreaching, flailing and floundering, my feet slipping on the frosty flagstones.
In contrast, Joscelin never made a misstep. Every move was controlled and precise. Time and again, I measured myself against his fluid grace, and found myself sorely lacking.
"This never happened to you," I complained.
"Oh, it did." He grinned, his summer-blue eyes crinkling. "Colts' Years, we called them in the Brotherhood. Everyone goes through it. Don't worry, you'll grow out of them."
It was a good term. It was how I felt; half-grown and gangly with it. It gave me a shock the first time I looked at Phèdre and realized I was taller than her. I saw the knowledge reflected in her face, along with a bittersweet sorrow.
"Ah, love," she whispered, touching my cheek. "Don't grow up too fast."
It is an awkward thing to be caught between one state and another. When I went to court, I felt newly self-conscious. I was no longer a child, and people looked differently at me, speculative and assessing.
In the self-absorbed way of the young, I had supposed the news that I had given Lombelon to Isidore d'Aiglemort's son would be on everyone's lips; but that had passed without remark. No one, it seemed, was particularly interested in the fate of a minor untitled holding, and a nobleman's bastard get was hardly news in Terre d'Ange. If d'Aiglemort had lived to acknowledge and adopt him, it might have been different, but he hadn't.
After all, it wasn't as though Maslin were a Prince of the Blood.
Not like me.
There was no news of my mother, which was a mercy. Wherever it was she had gone to earth, she showed no signs of resurfacing. There were no further letters from her, no correspondence. Phèdre exchanged a regular correspondence with her acquaintances in La Serenissima and elsewhere, and no news was forthcoming on any front.
Still, her memory lived, and where I went, whispers followed. At Court, I treated everyone I met with unfailing politeness; but I was wary, and I got a name for being aloof.
Midwinter came upon us, and with it an invitation to the Masque at the Palace. It was one of those rare things that showed up the divide between Phèdre and Joscelin. I hated to see them argue; but over this, they did.
"Will you not accompany me?" she asked. "Surely, Blessed Elua can spare you."
He shook his head. "It is the Longest Night, Phèdre. I ask for little. If nothing else, let me keep his vigil."
"Even now?" she said. "What of Imriel?"
It was the first year I had been invited to attend; a courtesy of Ysandre's, recognizing that I was no longer a child. There was a part of me that yearned to do so. Long ago, before Daršanga, the idea of a grand fete with fancy dress would have delighted me. Even afterward, I'd held a fondness for it. I still remembered plotting with Favrielle nó Eglantine to make Joscelin splendid, wearing the lion's mane that had been a Jebean queen's gift. But, too, there was a part of me that abhorred the idea, yearning for something simpler, clean and pure.
"What of Imriel?" Joscelin retorted. "Have you asked him?"
Both of them looked at me then. I squirmed under their scrutiny.
"What will you, love?" Phèdre asked gently.
I opened my mouth and blurted, "I want to go with Joscelin."
Phèdre raised her brows. "Are you certain?"
I wasn't, not at all. And yet Joscelin looked surprised and pleased; and proud, too. I imagined the two of us, kneeling side by side in the Temple of Elua, stern and disciplined. It was a picture I very much relished.
"Yes," I said. " I'm certain."
That got me one of Phèdre's deep, searching looks; one of those that owed nothing to the arts of covertcy, and everything to the fact that she had held the Name of God in her mind, and there was little or nothing in the human soul that could be concealed from her.
"As you will, love," she said simply.
"What of you?" Joscelin asked her, and there was an edge to his voice. "You know there is… speculation."
Somehow, word had gotten out that Phèdre had made the pilgrimage to Naamah's shrine. Ysandre's court, which was not overly concerned with the disposition of my holdings, was keenly interested in whether or not the most famous courtesan in Terre d'Ange would return to Naamah's Service.
"I know." Phèdre smiled, touching the bare hollow of her throat. "Let them wonder. You keep your vigil in your way, and I in mine."
What it meant, I could not say; but Joscelin seemed satisfied with it.
And so it was that on the Longest Night, when all of Terre d'Ange celebrated the sun's return and the lengthening days to come with a riot of love and libation, that I found myself in the Temple of Elua, shivering and miserable.
We rode there alone, Joscelin and I, while the setting sun threw long streaks of red fire in the western skies. Elsewhere in the City, the revelry had already begun. Twilight settled over the streets, challenged by music, shouting, and torches. Above the river, the Palace was ablaze with light; farther inland, Mont Nuit echoed its brilliance. There would be a fate there, too, hosted by Cereus House, welcoming all the adepts of the Night Court.
The streets were crowded with early revelers; most on foot, making way for the carriages that forged a path through them. Overhead, the sky grew dark, stars emerging. I marveled at Joscelin's composure. He sat at ease in the saddle, starlight glinting on his steel vambraces, the hilt of his sword jutting over one shoulder. Everyone who passed gave us a wide berth.
I wanted to be like that.
It was cold. Our horses snorted, their breath frosting in the cold air. Near the Temple of Elua, the streets grew quiet. We dismounted, giving our mounts to the ostler, then passed through the gate into the vestibule. There we were met by blue-robed priests and priestesses. They welcomed us, smiling, giving us the kiss of greeting.
"Cassiel's child," said one, old and venerable, laying his hands on Joscelin's shoulders. "You have ever chosen truly. Be welcome on this Longest Night."
Joscelin smiled. "Thank you, my lord priest."
An acolyte knelt before me, drawing one foot into her blue-robed lap, unlacing my boot. I balanced awkardly on the other foot, meeting the old priest's gaze. It was amused and kind, deep with unspoken wisdom.
"Kushiel's scion," he said to me. "What seek you here on this Longest Night?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. My foot freed, I stood, half unshod. The marble floor felt like ice. "What will I find, my lord priest?"
The wrinkles around his eyes grew deeper as he smiled. "Love, child! What else? You will find it and lose it, again and again. And with each finding and each loss, you will become more than before. What you make of it is yours to choose." He laid a hand on my cheek, and a shadow of sorrow darkened his expression. "Ah, lad. I would that your path was easier. But rejoice that you have loving guides to set you on your way."
I nodded, not knowing what was expected of me. "I do."
"Yes." He patted my cheek. "I pray that you do."
It was not entirely reassuring; but with that, he left us. The kneeling acolyte removed my other boot and rose, pointing the way with a smile. Unshod, Joscelin and I ventured into the Temple proper.
There was no roof over the inner sanctum; Blessed Elua's temples were always open to the heavens. In the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, where I spent my childhood, his altar was in a field of poppies. Here it was contained within a vast walled garden with pillars marking the four corners and ancient oaks flanking the altar.
In other seasons, it was a lush and verdant place. Now the oak trees lifted crowns of stark bare branches against the night sky. Nothing remained of the weeds and flowers that had once flourished here save bent stalks, brown and brittle. Only cypress and holly lent a semblance of life.
Before us was the effigy of Blessed Elua on his altar, carved from a massive piece of marble. It is one of the oldest ones in existence. The workmanship is crude by today's standards, and yet there is a raw power in it. Elua stands, smiling, gazing downward, both his hands open in offering. The left bears the mark of Cassiel's dagger, the wound with which Blessed Elua answered the summons of the One God.
My grandfather's Heaven is bloodless, and I am not.
We approached, soundless on bare feet. The ground was frozen hard beneath our soles, so cold it burned. There were already two others maintaining vigils, kneeling on the cold earth; Cassiline Brothers, both of them. They wore the ash-grey garb of their order, the vambraces and twin daggers, hair bound into a club at the nape of their necks. No swords, though. Cassiline Brothers are no longer allowed to carry swords in the City. Both of them lifted their heads at our approach and favored Joscelin with long, silent stares.
He ignored them. For a long moment, he stood before the altar, gazing on Blessed Elua's face. I stood behind him, shivering in the still, frosty air, and wondered what he thought. Although Cassiel's order declared him anathema, Joscelin has always honored the one vow that mattered, his loyalty as unswerving as Cassiel's devotion to Elua himself. Drawing a swift breath, he stooped to kiss the effigy's feet, then stepped away. Finding an open space to one side, he knelt and composed himself, arms crossed over his breast.
I followed suit. The marble was icy beneath my lips, worn smooth by thousands upon thousands of supplicants' kisses. I made my way toward Joscelin and knelt beside him. The frozen ground was rock-hard, uneven and lumpy. Already I could feel the cold seeping into my bones, and my bare feet were chilled through. I sat back on my heels to warm them, rubbing my palms on my thighs.
The Longest Night was going to be long indeed.
No one spoke. In the distance, we could hear the City rejoicing, but within the Temple walls, all was quiet and still. I glanced sidelong at Joscelin. He knelt, head slightly bowed, motionless as the effigy. His expression was calm and grave in the starlight.
I tried my best to emulate him.
I willed my mind to silence, seeking to find a small, still place within myself to contemplate Blessed Elua's gift to his children; love, in all its myriad glories. Once upon a time, I had it. But that was before the slave-traders, before Daršanga. It was harder to believe, now; harder to worship. And yet, by the same token, who had greater cause than I? If Elua allowed me to be cast into a living hell, he had not suffered me to be abandoned.
I gazed at Elua's enigmatic visage, wondering, for the thousandth time in my life, why. Wondering if what had befallen me had been necessary. Wondering if it were true, after all, that we had defeated a terrible darkness in Daršanga. Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds; such were the tenets of the Mahrkagir and the priests of Angra Mainyu, who sought to conquer the world. And there was power in them—I had seen it. I had witnessed the bone-priests there wield death and madness as weapons, killing with a thought. A mighty army of Akkadian warriors had been destroyed by the dark sorcery begotten there.
And against this legion of horror, where other gods sent forth armies, Blessed Elua had sent an unarmed courtesan and a single swordsman.
Love.
It had been the Mahrkagir's undoing. He had loved Phèdre in the end. So much that she would have been his perfect sacrifice, the offering that would have sealed his power. So much that he allowed her within the circle of his trust. And there, she had killed him.
My knees were beginning to ache. I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable patch of ground. I wondered how Joscelin could bear it. Surely his old wounds must ache in the cold. He has earned enough of them in his lifetime—the shattered bones of his arm, the long scar that curves around his ribcage, the myriad lesser gashes he has sustained. But if they did, he gave no sign of it. No sign that his joints were stiffening. No sign that the cold was leaching all the warmth from his body, leaving him shivering to the core.
The others did. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them move from time to time. I could hear them rustle, and the occasional cough. Only Joscelin had gone so deep inside himself that he scarce seemed to breathe.
Once, Phèdre told me, he sat cross-legged in the snow all night long. That was in Skaldia, where my mother betrayed them into slavery. And yet Joscelin says it is Phèdre whose will sustained them there; who goaded him into hope when he despaired.
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