Songs of Love and Death: All-Original Tales of Star-crossed Love

Jacqueline Carey is a New York Times bestselling fantasy/romance novelist best known for her Kushiel’s Legacy series. The first novel of this series, Kushiel’s Dart, won the Locus Award for best first novel in 2001 as well as the 2001 Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, and was listed by both Amazon and Barnes & Noble as one of the top-ten fantasy novels of the year. Since then, there have five more books in the series, including Kushiel’s Chosen, Kushiel’s Avatar, Kushiel’s Scion, Kushiel’s Justice, Kushiel’s Mercy, and the start of a related series with Naamah’s Kiss. Carey has also written the Sundering books, Banewreaker and Godslayer, a stand-alone novel, Santa Olivia, and a nonfiction book, Angels: Celestial Spirits in Legend & Art. Her most recent book is Naamah’s Curse, the second book in the Naamah sequence. She lives in Michigan.

Here’s a compelling and intricate tale that follows the consequences of a promise between star-crossed lovers down through the generations—one with quite a high price in blood.

You, and You Alone

Dying is an ugly business.

I am dying; Anafiel Delaunay, born Anafiel de Montrève. When I am dead, they will call me the Whoremaster of Spies.

This I know.

And I deserve it.

There is blood, too much blood. I cannot count my wounds. I only know it flows without ceasing, and the world grows dark before my eyes. Pain is everywhere. I failed, and we have been betrayed, attacked in my own home. Gods, there were so many of them! While I honored my oath, honored the request the Dauphine Ysandre made of me and turned my attention to intrigue beyond the shores of Terre d’Ange so that she might wed her beloved Alban prince, I missed a dire threat closer to home.

My beautiful boy Alcuin is dead or dying; I cannot tell. My vision is fading, and I cannot hear him. I told myself I was honoring my oath when I raised him and made him a member of my own household, but I lied to myself. I trained him and used him for my own ends, he and Phèdre both. Like a fool, I failed to see that the work didn’t suit him as it did her, that Alcuin took no pleasure in Naamah’s Service, in being an object of desire for the nobles of Terre d’Ange.

And yet he forgave me and loved me anyway—a love far greater than I deserved. I had forgotten that life could hold such sweetness.

Even so, I will fail him one last time here at the end. As the darkness grows thicker, there is only one man toward whom my thoughts turn—one man loved, lost, and eternally mourned.

My lips shape his name, and a faint whisper escapes me. “Rolande.”

I remember.

A DAY BEFORE I was to depart to begin my studies at the University of Tiberium, my foster-sister Edmée was nowhere to be found in the manor of Rocaille, but I knew her habits well enough to guess where she had gone, and I rode out in search of her.

Sure enough, a half hour’s ride from the manor, I spotted her mare tethered outside a lavender field, idly cropping grass. I tethered my own mount nearby and plunged into the field on foot.

The sun was high overhead, hot enough that sweat began to trickle down the back of my neck. I plaited my hair into a braid and persevered, trudging past fragrant rows of lavender humming with honeybees until I came upon Edmée lying on her back in the dusty soil, arms folded behind her head, eyes closed, her face turned to the sun.

“Good day, near-brother,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

I sat beside her. “How did you know it was me?”

She shaded her brow with one hand and peered at me. “No one else would have thought to look for me here. You pay attention to things no one else does.”

I studied her lovely face, trying to gauge her mood. “Are you angry with me?”

“For leaving me here?” she inquired. “Or for agreeing to serve as my panderer to Prince Rolande?”

A sharp comment from Edmée was a rarity, and I felt myself flush with anger. “If you don’t want—”

“No, no!” She sat up with alacrity, reaching out to take my hand. “I’m sorry, Anafiel. You’re doing a service to the family, and I’m grateful for it. It’s just… I don’t know how I feel about being used to advance my father’s ambition.” She squeezed my hand, searching my eyes. “I need you to be my advocate, too. I trust you. If you think Rolande de la Courcel is someone I could come to love, I will believe you. But if you don’t…” She shook her head. “I cannot wed a man I could never love, heir to the throne or no.”

“Never,” I assured her, all traces of resentment fled. I had known Edmée de Rocaille since we were children. Even as a girl, she had a sweetness of spirit I had quickly learned to cherish, and she was truly as dear as a sister to me; dearer, mayhap, since I had no blood siblings of my own. “I promise, if I don’t find the Dauphin to be kind, generous, wise, warm-hearted, and perfect in every way, not a word of pandering shall escape my lips.”

Edmée laughed. “Well. You might allow him a minor flaw or two. He is allowed to be human.”

“Oh, no,” I said seriously. “Perfect in every way. For you, I insist on it.”

She eyed me fondly. “I’ll miss you.”

I leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Edmée tugged my hand. “Lie with me here a moment and look at the sky. When we’re apart and missing one another, we can look at the sky and remember that the same sun shines on us both.”

I obeyed.

The sky was an intense, vivid blue. The scent of lavender hung all around us, so strong it was almost intoxicating, mingling with the scent of sun-warmed earth. The buzzing of the industrious honeybees was hypnotic, making me drowsy. Closing my eyes, I reveled in the feel of the sun on my skin, thinking how much I would miss Terre d’Ange. Between my childhood at Montrève and the seven years I’d been fostered at Rocaille, I’d lived all my life here in Siovale province. I couldn’t imagine calling anyplace else home.

The beginnings of a poem, a classic Siovalese ode to the landscape, teased at my thoughts.

“Do you think you’ll like him?” Edmée murmured. “Prince Rolande?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They say he’s high-spirited.” I cracked open one eye and peered at her. “And handsome.”

Edmée smiled. “I hope he likes poetry.”

“I hope so, too.”

WAS I TRULY that innocent and carefree in those days?

Yes, I suppose I was.

Remembering hurts.

PRINCE ROLANDE DE la Courcel, the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, did not like poetry.

I discovered this in a Tiberian bathhouse, approximately one hour before the recital that was meant to be my introduction to the Dauphin.

My journey to the city of Tiberium in the allied nation-states of Caerdicca Unitas had been long, but uneventful. I was accompanied by my tutor, Leon Degrasse, a gifted poet in his own right and a skilled diplomat who had long served the Comte de Rocaille. Once we arrived in Tiberium, he quickly secured appropriate lodgings, hired a small staff to see to our needs, enrolled me in the University’s curriculum, and arranged the aforementioned recital, down to choosing the verses I was to recite and the elegant poet’s robe I was to wear.

I’d developed an affinity for poetry early, and was reckoned something of a prodigy, even by D’Angeline standards. My youthful body of work spanned a dozen styles, many in the classic Siovalese mode, many others aping the work of poets before me, and a few seeking to find my own voice. Messire Degrasse gauged it best if I stuck to the classical forms, and so it was that an hour before the event, I luxuriated in the ministrations of the most skilled barber in Tiberium’s most prestigious bathhouse, a warm, damp linen towel draped over my face, running through verses in my mind while the barber combed and trimmed my hair, oiled my skin, and buffed my nails with a pumice-stone.

There I heard them enter, but I paid no heed until one spoke. Folk were always coming and going in the bathhouse.

“Oh, damn my luck!” a man’s voice said in Caerdicci, then switched to D’Angeline. “Can’t you pull rank for once, Rolande? I’d my heart set on a rubdown and a trim before this damned recital.”

Beneath the towel, I startled.

“Isn’t the point of this whole Tiberian experience to teach me to understand the common man’s concerns?” a good-natured voice replied in D’Angeline. “Behold, the suffering of an ordinary citizen, forced to wait his turn!”

Others laughed. The first man grumbled. “There’s no time to wait, your highness. Are you quite sure we must attend?”

“Sadly, yes.” The prince’s good-natured voice turned dry.

“Politics,” someone else said.

“Politics,” the prince agreed. “Tonight’s prodigy is a foster-son of House Rocaille, hand-picked by the Comte, father of the allegedly fair Edmée, possessor of strong ties to the royal line of Aragonia. And if I must suffer through this tedium, so must my loyal companions.”

“You know what it’s going to be!” the other complained. “Elua have mercy, how often have you suffered through the like at Court, Rolande? Some calf-eyed Siovalese lordling swanning around in fine silk robes, his hair strewn about his shoulders, droning on about spring-fed mountain lakes, dreaming of meadows and tall, nodding flowers, oh yes, fulsome heads bent tenderly on their slender stalks…”

Laughter rang in the bathhouse.

I gritted my teeth, fighting a rising tide of humiliation and anger.

“I know, I know.” The prince’s voice was sympathetic, and there was the sound of a hand clapping on a shoulder. “Courage, Gaspar! We shall endure.”

As soon as their footsteps receded, I sat upright, flinging the damp towel away from me and scrambling for my clothes. “For your trouble,” I said to the barber, fumbling for my purse and pressing coins into his hand. He stared after me as I fled the bathhouse, pelting through the streets of Tiberium and arriving at our rented villa, sweating and furious.

“Messire de Montrève!” Leon stared at me wide-eyed as I tore through my clothes press, ignoring the fine robe of green silk laid out on my bed. “What in the world is wrong?”

“A change of plans,” I said grimly, hauling out a plain cambric shirt and my hunting leathers. They would have to do. I donned them in haste, leaving the laces of the vest undone, yanking at the fine fabric of the shirt to rend it. I slung my sword belt with its gentleman’s blade around my hips, fastening the buckle.

“Anafiel, no!” My tutor sounded horrified. “The Senator—”

“May be appalled,” I finished, twining my long hair into a plait and knotting it at the nape of my neck in a rough soldier’s club. “But he is merely our host, Messire Degrasse. It is the Dauphin I seek to impress… or at the least, not to bore senseless.” I glanced in the mirror. “Trust me?”

After a reluctant moment, he nodded.

“Good.”

AH, GODS!

You were so ready to dismiss me out of hand, Rolande. And I was so unwilling to be dismissed. Mayhap it would have been better if I’d let it happen, if I hadn’t been so fierce and stubborn and insistent.

Better for you, better for me. Better for Edmée, to be sure. I loved her as a sister, and I will never cease to regret what befell her.

And yet…

I loved you. I loved you so very, very much. And does not Blessed Elua himself bid us, “Love as thou wilt?”

I did. Gods help me, I did.

IN THE STUDY next to the dining salon, I paced and ran through lines of the piece I’d chosen in lieu of Messire Degrasse’s selections, aware of the murmur of voices exchanging pleasantries in the background, of the sound of wine being poured as the prince and his guests fortified themselves against the tedium to come.

The thought fed my righteous indignation, and I channeled my ire into the performance. When Senator Vitulus introduced me, I stepped forth to a polite smattering of applause.

It died quickly as they took in my unlikely appearance.

I identified Prince Rolande by the choice couch accorded to him and the description I’d been given. His black hair hung loose save for two slender braids at either side caught back in a silver clasp. Strong brows were arched over dark blue eyes. He had a generous mouth made for smiling, but at the moment his well-shaped lips were parted in surprise.

I locked gazes with him.

“Shame, my lord!” I uttered the opening words of the poem in a low, agonized tone. The Dauphin’s high cheekbones flushed with unexpected anger, and a shocked whisper ran around the room. “Oh, shame, shame, a thousandfold shame that you should dishonor your father’s name thusly!”

One of the prince’s companions half rose from his couch; the prince stilled him with a gesture, his gaze not shifting from mine. His mouth had closed and the line of his jaw was taut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Messire Degrasse wince.

Ignoring everyone but the prince, I took a deep breath and continued. “Ah, my lord! Will you dishonor even my death? For I say to you, there is no honor in this vengeance you have taken this day, in the battered and torn flesh of one who was a Prince of Troy; bold and shining Hector slain and dragged behind your victorious chariot, rendered fodder for scavengers by your ignoble deed—”

The hard line of the prince’s jaw eased. On his couch, he leaned forward, his eyes lit with interest and curiosity.

I recited the piece in its entirety without ever breaking our locked gazes. The others took it for a conceit, a part of the performance; a story out of an ancient Hellene tale, the ghost of Patroclus rebuking his beloved Achilles, with me casting the Dauphin in the latter role. Indeed, I’d meant it to be nothing more.

And yet it was.

I’d had my work admired and praised, but I had never known the sheer exhilaration of captivating a reluctant listener. I’d chosen this piece for Prince Rolande, and Prince Rolande alone. I was reciting it to him, and him alone. It forged a bond between us. As his face broke into a delighted grin, my heart soared. I let my voice take on a fiercer edge, and I reveled in the sparkling approval I saw in his eyes.

When I finished, the prince was the first to applaud, taking to his feet. His companions followed, shouting praise. I bowed deeply, feeling as though I’d run a long race.

Prince Rolande came toward me. “Well done, Anafiel de Montrève. I’d no idea poetry could be so stirring.”

I bowed again. “My thanks, your highness.”

“Call me Rolande.” His mouth quirked. “I am meant to be but a humble student here.”

I gazed at his face, the proud, high-boned features. “Call me Anafiel. And at the risk of seeming importunate, I daresay humble is a word seldom applied to you, my lord Rolande.”

He laughed, extending one hand. “Ah, mayhap! Any mind, well done and well met.”

I clasped his hand, and felt his grip harden in the subtle way that men do when taking one another’s measure. His hand was firm and callused, clearly more familiar with a sword hilt than a scholar’s stylus. I narrowed my eyes at him ever so slightly, and tightened my own grip, shifting my feet unobtrusively to settle into a Siovalese wrestling stance.

Rolande felt it and gave me a bright, hard smile, happy to find me equal to his implicit challenge. “Will you share my couch for dinner this evening? I suspect we have much to discuss.”

I smiled back at him. “With pleasure.”

OH, EDMÉE! I’M Sorry, So Sorry.

Dying, I find there are so many people, living and dead, to whom I owe apologies. Edmée, Alcuin, mayhap even that bitch Isabel L’Envers. All the gentry whose trust I have betrayed these long years while I have played the role of the Whoremaster of Spies. Phèdre, my last pupil; my anguissette all unwitting of the stakes of the game we play, Kushiel’s Chosen, on whom my dying hope rests. I can only thank the gods that she was not here today, and pray that she survives.

And yet would I have done anything differently?

No.

Mayhap.

I don’t know.

What did I know of love? I was eighteen, and I knew nothing. I was D’Angeline, I’d been instructed in the arts of pleasure. I’d had casual dalliances here and there like any young nobleman.

I knew nothing.

But then, neither did Rolande.

There are those who think Blessed Elua is a gentle god, but love is not a gentle thing. It is urgent and insistent, and it will not be denied. It will level cities to attain its goal.

Or destroy lives.

THAT NIGHT, THE first night at the Senator’s villa, Rolande and I shared a couch and spoke of desultory things: poetry, academics, gossip from home. We did not address my true purpose in coming to Tiberium.

I was glad.

I didn’t want to speak of Edmée to him, not yet. Selfishly, I wanted to keep this moment to myself. When Leon Degrasse glowered at me, I ignored him.

All the while, two unspoken things lay between us. The first, of course, was Edmée and the Comte de Rocaille’s ambitions. The second was the spark of undeniable attraction that had ignited between us, casting a vast shadow over the other matter.

Rolande did not flaunt his interest, but neither did he try to hide it even though Tiberian culture was more rigid than ours and did not look kindly on dalliances between men. The desire in his gaze was frank and open, firing my blood, making the torches brighter and the wine sweeter.

Never before had I thought to wonder why poets speak of falling in love. That night, I began to understand. I felt as though I’d stepped off a high precipice the moment that I locked gazes with Rolande de la Courcel, and I was sinking steady toward unknown depths. The very ground beneath me felt unsteady.

I wanted… gods! Wanted to kiss his generous mouth, the line of his jaw. Wanted to slide my hands up his strong arms, to feel the muscles working in his broad shoulders. I wanted to take him up on that subtle challenge, to pit my strength against his, our naked bodies straining and wrestling together until one of us surrendered, and the other claimed a sweet victory…

Instead, we made polite conversation until it was time to leave, bidding our host a gracious farewell. Outside the villa, the prince’s companions called to him, badgering him to honor a pledge he’d made.

“Will you renege on your word, your highness?” one of them asked smoothly; the fair-haired Barquiel L’Envers, heir to a powerful Namarrese duchy, brother to Isabel L’Envers, another contender for the prince’s hand in marriage. I did not care for the dismissive way his gaze skated over me. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

“No!” Rolande retorted, stung. “Of course not.” He gave me an apologetic glance. “I promised them a visit to Tiberium’s finest brothel, such as it is, in exchange for…” His voice trailed away.

I raised my brows. “Enduring an evening of tedium?”

He grinned. “Well, yes. You exceeded expectations. Nonetheless, I do keep my word. Come with us?”

I wanted to say no. I’d no desire to visit some Tiberian brothel where the art of pleasure was treated as mere commerce, not a sacred calling.

I opened my mouth and said, “Of course.”

WOULD I HAVE done anything differently?

No.

I couldn’t have.

THE BROTHEL COULD have been worse; but it could have been better, too. It catered to a D’Angeline clientele within the city. I endured an endless parade of dancing girls and tittering catamites with kohl-lined eyes.

Many found patrons among the prince’s companions, starved for a taste of the luxury and licentiousness of home.

Rolande nudged me with his hip, bumping against the scabbard of my gentleman’s sword. “You look disapproving, young Siovalese country lordling.”

I shook my head. “Not disapproving, no. It’s just…” I shrugged. “There is nothing sacred in their calling, nothing sacred here.”

“No?” His dark blue eyes met mine. “Nothing?”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly thick. “Ah, well, as to that, my lord…” I didn’t know what to say. If he had been anyone else, I would have laughed and clasped the back of his neck, yanking him down for a hard kiss, honoring Naamah’s gift of desire. Country-bred or no, I’d lived a life of privilege.

But he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and he outranked me by many, many degrees. I should not do this, should not even think it.

He laughed softly, deep in his chest, then leaned over, his lips close to my ear, his breath warm. “I’ve kept my word. Let’s go.”

Knowing I should say no, knowing I should refuse, I went with him nonetheless. Outside, the night air was crisp and fresh. I breathed deeply, feeling the effects of wine and desire. Six guards in the livery of House Courcel flanked us discreetly, escorting us to the prince’s rented villa. Later, I came to know the villa well. That night I paid scant heed to it, following Rolande as he led me to its innermost chamber, where the household staff had hastily lit many tapers.

There, his callused hands cupped my face. “Anafiel de Montrève.”

I grasped his taut, sinewy wrists, holding him at bay even though the time to refuse was long past. “Rolande de la Courcel.”

His teeth gleamed in the candlelight, shadows pooling in his eyes. “Are we making love or war, my warrior-poet?”

I tightened my grip on his wrists, brushing his lips with a kiss. “Both.”

With a swift, decisive move, Rolande hooked one foot behind my right leg, tugging me off balance and tumbling me toward the bed; but I had anticipated it, and I twisted my body sideways, landing atop him and pinning his arms.

“Point to me,” I informed him, taking advantage of the situation to kiss him again, harder this time. His full, firm lips parted beneath mine. I eased my grip on his wrists, exploring his mouth with my tongue; tentatively at first, then with increasing hunger. He tasted like wine, sweet and heady.

Strong and sure, Rolande flipped me over, reversing our positions, his legs trapping mine in a scissor-lock. “Point to me. Is this how Siovalese country boys make love, then?” he asked me, his black hair hanging around his face.

I could feel the weight of his body holding me in place, the hard length of his erect phallus pressing against mine beneath his breeches. It was unbearably arousing. “Sometimes.”

He grinned and kissed me. “I like it.”

We were well matched, Rolande and I. He was taller and stronger, but not by much; I was quicker and more agile, but not by much. We played at wrestling, stealing points and kisses, until it was no longer a game, until there were no victors or losers, only the urgent drive to remove clothing, to feel skin sliding against skin slick with sweat. I kissed his bare chest, bit and sucked his small, hard nipples, reveling in his groan of pleasure, in the feel of his hands hard on the back of my head, freeing my hair from its soldier’s club.

“I want you.” His voice was harsh and ragged, his phallus throbbing in my fist. There was no trace of humor in his words, only raw demand, and his eyes had gone deadly serious. “All of you.”

A flare of gilded brightness and surety filled me, so vivid I imagined I could see it reflected in Rolande’s pupils. “I am yours,” I heard myself say.

The unknown depths claimed me.

I WOULD THAT dying brought clarity.

Did Blessed Elua have some purpose in joining our hearts together in one swift lightning bolt of a night?

I want to believe it; I have always wanted to believe it. Even after Rolande’s death, even after I embarked on a path I half despised, I believed it.

It is hard to believe now.

Still, I try.

IN THE AFTERMATH of love, I was self-conscious. My body was ringing like a well-tuned bell, shivering with pleasure, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep, tangled in linens beside the prince in his warm bed; but he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and I did not know the protocol for this situation.

I’d been sent to woo him on Edmée’s behalf, not bed him on my own. A canker of guilt gnawed at me.

“Stay.” Gazing at me with half-lidded eyes, Rolande saw my uncertainty. He ran a few strands of my hair through his fingers. “Russet.” He yawned. “Like a fox’s pelt. You put me in mind of autumn. Stay.”

I drew a line down his sculpted torso, his fair skin the color of marble warmed by candlelight. Truly, I’d cast him well as Achilles. “Rolande… you felt it, too?”

He didn’t ask what I meant. “I felt it the moment you stormed into the salon and charmed me into enjoying poetry. Elua’s hand is in this.”

“You know why I’m here.” It wasn’t a question; I’d heard him say as much in the bathhouse.

“Sleep.” He rolled over and kissed me. “We’ll talk on the morrow.”

I slept.

In the morning, everything was different. The world was different, I was different. A spark of the brightness I’d felt the night before lingered within me, tinting everything with a golden glow.

Gods help me, I was in love.

Everything about Rolande delighted me: the way he smiled sleepily at me upon waking, his face creased with pillow marks. The breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, his long legs and the muscles of his flanks. The obvious affection he had for his household staff, and the equally obvious way in which it was reciprocated. He had an open, easygoing manner about him which nonetheless managed to retain an element of royal dignity.

“So,” he said at the table where we broke our fast with crusty bread drizzled with honey. “Tell me, Anafiel de Montrève. Why should I wed Edmée de Rocaille?”

Coached by my ambitious foster-father, I had a considerable array of compelling arguments at my disposal. I abandoned them all. “Frankly, I’m not sure I can answer.”

It surprised him. “Why?”

I shrugged. “You know the advantages as well as anyone, your highness.”

His mouth quirked. “Rolande.”

I flushed. “Rolande. Marriage to Edmée brings an alliance with the House of Aragon, and the promise of a strong ally on our southern border. But… I am here on her behalf, too. I promised her I would not press House Rocaille’s suit unless I thought you were a man she could love.”

He was silent a long moment. “You find me unworthy?”

“Too worthy,” I said softly. “How can I advocate for Edmée, feeling what I feel today? I have compromised myself.” I paused. “Or do I attach too much significance to the matter?”

“No.” Rolande’s reply was swift and firm. “No. But…” He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. “I don’t have the luxury of choosing, Anafiel. I am my father’s only child, his sole heir. No matter what I will, I must wed, and carry on my bloodline.”

“Blessed Elua says otherwise,” I murmured.

“Blessed Elua was a god, not a king’s son,” he said dryly. “He had no concern for mortal politics.”

“I would not have you break Edmée’s heart.” I swallowed. “I would not break her heart.”

Rolande studied me. “Are you in love with her?”

I shook my head. “I love her like a sister. I, too, am an only child; Edmée is the nearest thing to a sibling I have, she and her young brother David.”

“Is she worthy of me?”

Stung, I shot him a fierce glance. “Of you or any man, your highness! I would not be here if she were not.”

“Peace, my warrior-poet!” Rolande said in a mild tone, raising his hands. “I suggest you counsel her honestly.” His broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “It may not be the course diplomacy recommends, but I think it is the best one nonetheless.”

YOU WERE RIGHT, Rolande; but you were wrong, too.

If the world had been a different place, a kinder, gentler place in which all of us obeyed Elua’s precept, everything might have been different.

It wasn’t.

You were too good for this world, you and Edmée alike.

I WROTE HONESTLY to Edmée.

She wrote honestly in reply, her letters tinged with affectionate dismay. My father sent you to court a royal bridegroom for me, and you seduce him instead? Either you found him so lacking you seek to protect me, or so perfect you must keep him for yourself. Which is it, Anafiel?

Meet him and decide for yourself, I wrote to her.

So I shall, in time, she wrote in reply. How can I not be intrigued by a man bold enough to capture your heart? If there is room for both of us in his, I can imagine far worse fates, near-brother.

Those words freed me from the shackles of guilt that weighed at me, freed me to enjoy my time in Tiberium with Rolande. The weeks that followed the arrival of Edmée’s second letter were some of the happiest I had known. Days were consumed with study; nights were filled with revelry and love. With the exception of barb-tongued Barquiel L’Envers, Rolande’s companions regarded our relationship well enough, and I formed friendships with several of the others. Even the Tiberians and the university Masters were reasonably tolerant, won over by Rolande’s good nature. It was Maestro Gonzago de Escabares, an Aragonian historian, who began calling me Antinous after the name of a young man who was once the beloved of a Tiberian Imperator. The nickname spread, and was meant more affectionately than not.

And then things changed again.

In the late days of autumn, the great rhetorician Master Strozzi made me a most unusual offer.

“Young Antinous,” he said to me in his private study, stroking his beard. “You are in a position to provide a service of untold value for your Prince Rolande. There is but one price. You can never, ever speak of it to him.”

I stared at him in outright astonishment. “What in the world do you mean?”

Master Strozzi lifted one hand in a portentous gesture. “I can speak no more unless you swear on Rolande’s life that it will never leave these walls.”

I shook my head, rejecting the offer without a thought. “No. We keep no secrets from one another, he and I.”

He shrugged and lowered his hand. “As you wish. Be advised that you speak of this meeting at your peril; and his.”

That night, I told Rolande of the extraordinary conversation. He heard me out patiently, and when I had finished, he said, “I think you ought to take him up on it.”

I stared at him, too. “Are you mad?”

“Think on it,” Rolande said. “He takes a conspirator’s tone. If there are those who seek to use you to get at me, best to learn it now. Easier to avoid the serpent in the path before you than the asp at your heel.”

The following day, I begged another audience with Master Strozzi and told him I’d had a change of heart.

He listened impassively to me, his hands folded on his desk. “You are here at the prince’s bidding.” I opened my mouth to deny it, and he forestalled me with one lifted finger, his gaze flinty. “Did you imagine for one instant I did not know exactly what you would do when I made the offer? We’ve had our eye on you ever since Prince Rolande left the brothel with you.” At my startled reaction, a hint of a smile curled his lip. “Ah yes, it was noted. Whores make some of the best spies.”

My skin prickled. “Who is we, Master?”

Master Strozzi rose from his desk and paced, hands clasped behind his back. “Who indeed? We are everyone and no one; we are everywhere and unseen. Did you think my warning in jest? It is a simple matter to slip poison in someone’s food. How well do you know Prince Rolande’s household staff?”

I didn’t answer, my thoughts racing.

“Oh, of course you could dismiss them all,” he said, following my unspoken thoughts. “Even the cook who’s known him since he was a babe. But who would you hire to replace them? Who can you trust?”

“You are threatening the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange,” I whispered in shock. “It is a dire business. I will go to the ambassador.”

His smile widened. “I am a respected scholar. Who would believe such a thing? No one in a position to help you.” He waved one hand. “Any mind, I am not threatening the prince. Now that you understand what is at stake, I am restating my offer to you.” He leaned over me. “You’re a quick-thinking young man. Observant, too. We can teach you to hone those skills, the better to serve the prince. Would you like to be able to anticipate a man’s actions as surely as I anticipated yours?” He paused to let the words sink in, pricking my curiosity. “To read a man’s thoughts on his face? To catch a lie before it’s spoken?”

“At what price?” I asked.

Master Strozzi gave an eloquent shrug. “Only your silence. You will return to Prince Rolande and tell him that I offered to counsel you in the art of selling access to royalty, bending a sympathetic ear to select causes for coins. Then you will begin your true lessons in the arts of covertcy.”

Easier to avoid the serpent in the path before you than the asp at your heel…

I made my choice. “I will do it.”

WAS IT THE right choice or the wrong one?

I think it was the right choice.

The choice I made afterward… that, I will never know.

I LIED TO Rolande, who believed me without a second thought, having no cause to do otherwise. I kept my silence to protect him, and began my lessons, thinking to divine the nature of this omnipresent, invisible menace.

I studied the arts of covertcy.

To my surprise, my instructor was not Master Strozzi, but Maestro Gonzago, the Aragonian historian who had dubbed me Antinous. He had a keen mind, and I admired him. When he asked me to aid him in compiling research for a treatise on the history of relations between Aragonia and Terre d’Ange, I was flattered.

Less so, when I learned the truth.

“Why, Maestro?” I asked him. “Why this…” I gestured vaguely, having no idea what this meant. “This… vast scheme?”

“The currents of history may turn on a single branch,” he said in a pragmatic tone. “Many branches together may form a dam. The patterns of influence interest me. Do they not interest you?”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. “I think so, yes.”

Maestro Gonzago gave me a shrewd glance. “I am a mere scholar, but you are a well-positioned branch. I will teach you to leverage your placement wisely. What you do with this knowledge is your choice.”

All my life, I’d been reckoned clever and observant; but I never learned to see the world as I did until Gonzago de Escabares taught me to do so. He taught me to look and to listen, to distinguish a man’s trade by his clothing, his success at it by the set of his shoulders, his origin and history by layers of accent and dialect. To gauge a man’s state of mind by his gait; to gauge a woman’s happiness by the tone of her voice, the tilt of her head. He taught me to study faces, to watch for the myriad minute expressions that we make unawares, and the meanings thereof.

He taught me the nine telltales of a lie.

He quizzed me mercilessly about what I had seen throughout the day until observing and memorizing became a force of habit. He sent me on errands with my ears filled with wax plugs, forcing me to rely on my eyes; and when I had mastered that skill, he sent me out with drops of belladonna in my eyes, rendering the world over-bright and my vision blurred, painful and useless, forcing me to rely on my ears as I blundered my way across the city.

Later, both. I had to trust my nose.

And I learned; day by day, week by week, month by month. All the while lying to Rolande and feeling sick in my belly about it; but I learned.

Come spring, Maestro Gonzago revealed the scope of the puzzle and the final price to me.

The Unseen Guild.

HOW MUCH OF what I was told was truth, and how much lies? That is another thing I will never know.

All these long years, I saw no evidence of the Unseen Guild’s hand in Terre d’Ange, no sign that their reach extended as far as they claimed, was as dire as they claimed.

But someone is behind the plot that took my life.

I may have made a terrible mistake.

IF ROLANDE HAD not been recalled to Terre d’Ange, things might have fallen out differently. I was there when he received the official missive from a royal courier clad in the dark blue livery of House Courcel, a silver swan on the insignia on his breast. I watched Rolande read the letter, his face turning pale.

He raised his head and met my eyes. “Father orders me to return forthwith. The Skaldi are raiding along the border of Camlach, and the realm takes it amiss that the Dauphin gallivants in Tiberium while D’Angelines die. I’m to take command of the border patrol.”

“Then you must go,” I said promptly, knowing his sense of honor would permit nothing less. “And I with you.”

Rolande hesitated. “You would be safer—”

“Don’t even suggest it!” My voice was fierce. “Would you dishonor me? I’m a lord’s son, trained to the sword. My place is at your side.”

He looked relieved. “I’ll have word sent to the University.”

Guilt pricked me. “I’ll tell Maestro Gonzago myself. I owe him that much.”

“Ah, your research project.” Rolande gave me a curt nod. “Go, but be swift about it, Anafiel. We’re meant to leave in a day’s time.”

Maestro Gonzago winced at the news. “So soon!” he said in dismay. “I knew it was a possibility, but I prayed we’d have more time.” With unwonted urgency, he clutched my hands. “You’ve a choice facing you, young Antinous. All that I’ve taught you is in the service of an organization committed to gathering and sharing information that might alter the paths of history. Do you swear loyalty to the Unseen Guild, its resources will be at your disposal.”

“And if I don’t?” I asked softly.

“You can walk away from this. As ever, silence is the price.” His grip tightened. “If you break it, death.”

I’d come to love the lessons, to love the insight into human nature I’d gained; but I hated living a lie. Hated lying to Rolande.

With sorrow, I withdrew my hands from his grasp. “I’m sorry, Maestro. I did not mean to waste your time. But I think… I think if I swear this oath, I will come to regret it one day. One day, it will pit my oath against my love for Rolande, and there will be no winners in that battle. So… I choose silence.”

There are a multitude of fleeting expressions that cross our faces unaware, manifesting in the eye blink between reaction and thought; I knew, because Maestro Gonzago had taught me to see them. And in that instance, I saw the faintest hint of relief flit across his features.

“So be it,” he said with apparent regret. “I will report your decision. For my part, my door will never be closed to you, my dear Antinous. I hope you will remain in contact with me.”

I bent my head and kissed his cheek. “I shall.”

YOU KEPT YOUR word, Maestro; better than I did.

You were a good teacher, and a good friend, too. I have valued our enduring relationship. You tried to warn me.

The Skaldi have found a leader who thinks.

Mayhap that is why I am dying.

The memories come faster now. Faster and faster. I am awash in their current. I cannot stop them.

DURING THE YEAR I spent patrolling the Camaeline border with Rolande, the Skaldi had not yet found a leader who thought, but they were tenacious and doughty warriors, pouring through the high mountain passes to stage raids on vulnerable villages, looting them and taking female captives.

Rolande was a natural leader skilled at commanding men, always willing to hurl himself into the forefront of a battle. Where he went, we followed. Not a man who fought under him begrudged him his status.

As good-natured as he was, he kept strict discipline. When word reached him that one of his men had gotten a young widow with child and abandoned her, he dismissed the fellow in disgrace and took personal responsibility for the woman and her infant son, promising they would never again lack for aught. As ever, his sense of honor demanded nothing less.

It was a difficult time, but it was an exhilarating time, too. After my first battle, I felt sick and strange to myself. That never changed, although I grew accustomed to the feeling. In a sense, I was glad not to lose it, for it meant I had not become inured to the horrors of warfare.

But the fighting itself… there was a certain terrible glory in it. Anyone who has lived on the dagger’s edge between life and death will know what I mean; to those who have not, I cannot explain it.

It brought us closer together, all of us; and especially Rolande and I.

Until I confessed the truth to him.

It came after a hard-fought battle in the narrow, winding passes above the village of Liselet, where horses were no use. We’d routed the raiders, and I lost sight of Rolande as he raced after them on foot around a hairpin turn. Ahead, I heard a chorus of defiant roars and the sound of blades clashing.

Three of the Skaldi had made a stand, safeguarding their fellows’ retreat, and Rolande was nigh overwhelmed. My heart in my throat, I threw myself at the nearest man, raising my buckler, hacking at his wooden shield, driving him backward. Still, it wasn’t enough. For the space of a few heartbeats, our fates hung in the balance…

… and then more of our own men arrived, turning the tide. We killed two of the Skaldi, and the third fled.

“Shall we go after them, my lord?” Gaspar Trevalion inquired.

“No.” Rolande grimaced, one hand pressed to his neck. “We’re too close to the border.” Blood welled between his fingers. “And I fear I’ve need of attention.”

It scared me.

The wound wasn’t serious, requiring only a few stitches to close, but it could have been. An inch or two higher, and it could have severed the big vein in his throat. The thought of coming so close to losing him made me dizzy, and the lingering guilt of my deception was leaden in my belly. I had to disgorge it.

That night, in our shared tent, I told Rolande the truth about Tiberium and the Unseen Guild, speaking in a low whisper.

He rose and walked out into the starlit night without a word. I followed him in anguish past the outskirts of our camp, past the startled sentries, along the verge of a dense pine forest.

Well out of earshot of the camp, he halted. I did, too. He spoke without turning around. “You.” His voice was strained. “I don’t even know what to say to you, Anafiel. I trusted you with everything I am, and you lied to me.” He gave a harsh, ragged laugh. “Is this how you honor what we are to one another?”

“No!” Beneath the stars, I dropped to my knees. “No!” I struggled to draw breath, feeling as though my chest might crack open. “I thought… it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, so very sorry. More than anything, I love you.”

He was silent.

“Can you doubt it?” I was desperate and crazed, the words from an ancient oath spilling from my lips, unstoppable. “I swear on the blood of Blessed Elua himself that I love you, and you alone. By the blood that Blessed Elua spilled, for so long as we both shall live, I bind myself to you, and you alone—”

“Anafiel!” Rolande was kneeling before me, his hands hard on my shoulders, eyes wide. “Don’t!”

I felt the golden glow of Elua’s blessing wash over us both, accepting my oath, banishing my guilt. I smiled wearily at Rolande. “Too late, your highness.”

He sighed, leaning his brow against mine. “I have a duty to Terre d’Ange. You know I cannot swear the same.”

“I know.”

YOU, AND YOU alone, Rolande.

It is why I took no wife, fathered no children. It is why my own father disavowed me, for throwing away my heritage on a romantic whim.

So he said.

My mother understood, and gave me her name. That is when I ceased to be Anafiel de Montrève, and became Anafiel Delaunay.

Edmée understood, too.

“I LIKE HIM, Anafiel.” Her fingers curled into mine as we strolled. “I do. I like him very much.”

I smiled at her. “I’m glad, near-sister.”

We were heroes in those days, in those long winter nights in the City of Elua. The Dauphin and his band of Protectors, guardians of the border. After a year of hard-fought skirmishes, we had pushed the Skaldi back.

Rolande courted Edmée; she accepted his suit. Together, the three of us accepted the arrangement.

A betrothal was announced, a spring marriage planned. Shunned, Barquiel’s sister Isabel L’Envers glowered impotently.

I didn’t care.

I was happy.

FASTER AND FASTER, memory comes.

Edmée.

SPRING IN TERRE d’Ange, a green haze of leaves on the trees. There was a royal fete; a hunt. A prelude to a wedding.

She rode beautifully, Edmée did. She always had.

I was behind her.

I saw the saddle lurch sideways as her mount leaped the hedgerow; I heard her startled sound of dismay.

I saw her fall.

I do not remember jumping the hedge, I do not remember dismounting. I remember hearing the sound, the crack of her slender neck breaking. I remember kneeling beside her, holding her hand and begging her not to die, watching the light fade from Edmée’s eyes as she did anyway, sweet and apologetic.

Just like that.

Others had gathered. I looked at their faces; fast, so fast. I saw a mingled expression of guilt and furtive triumph cross Isabel L’Envers’, swiftly giving way to solemn grief. Then and there, I knew.

But I could never prove it.

WOULD IT HAVE made a difference if I had been able to prove it, Rolande? Ah, gods! Why couldn’t you just believe me?

You were angry, I know. Furious with grief at Edmée’s death; and beneath it, still angry at me for concealing the truth from you. For lying to you. You didn’t want to hear my suspicions.

I was right, though.

THE GIRTH ON Edmée’s saddle was frayed to the point of snapping. It might have been tampered with, but it might merely have been worn, too. Several stable hands were dismissed for carelessness. When I hunted them down to query them, one had vanished—gone from the City of Elua, gone home to Namarre, according to rumor.

I tried to locate him, and failed.

“Leave it be, Anafiel!” Rolande said in disgust when I returned. “Like as not, the lad’s sick at heart over what his carelessness has wrought.”

I shook my head. “Someone put him up to it. You didn’t see Isabel’s face.”

“I’ve known Isabel L’Envers for most of her life, and she’s as heartsick as all of us at Edmée’s death,” he said in an even tone. “She’s been a considerable comfort to me while you’ve been haring around the countryside, chasing after shadows.”

I was unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “Of that, I haven’t the slightest doubt.”

Grief-racked and angry, we quarreled; quarreled and hurt one another in intimate ways that only two people who know each other’s every weakness and vulnerability can do.

I had a sharp tongue; I should have held it.

I didn’t.

Instead, I pushed Rolande away, pushed him into Isabel’s consoling arms. I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at him. Amidst our quarrels, we parted. She played him skillfully, while I and my aching heart, my lost heritage, my unproven suspicions, and my forlorn oath were relegated to the outskirts of D’Angeline society.

Come autumn, he wed her.

It was a somber ceremony, overshadowed by the memory of recent tragedy. I was not invited to attend, but I heard about it. By all accounts, it was lovely and appropriately solemn. If I had done nothing, mayhap their poignant tale of romance found in the wreckage of sorrow would have charmed the nation.

But I wrote a poem.

A satire; a tale of a noblewoman who seduced a stable lad and convinced him to do a dire deed with terrible consequences.

I HAD TO, Rolande. My voice was all that was left to me. Here at the end, I will admit that I don’t believe Isabel intended Edmée’s death; that she intended petty vengeance, nothing more.

But Edmée died, and Isabel was responsible for it.

So I had to.

FOLK IN THE City of Elua were delighted by my allegations, ever ready to be appalled and titillated by scandal.

Isabel de la Courcel was furious.

So was Rolande, so was his father the king, Ganelon de la Courcel. But they could no more disprove the rumor that the Dauphin’s new bride was a murderess than I could prove it.

I was summoned to Court.

I denied authorship of the poem, but I was not believed. I was declared anathema, and all existing copies of my known poetry were destroyed. With banked fury in her gaze, Isabel argued for banishment.

Not looking at me, Rolande spoke against it. His father concurred, content with the punishment.

I was not banished, only made miserable.

There are always those who relish beating against the currents, and so I was able to eke out an existence in the City of Elua as a former prodigy, once beloved of the Dauphin and sure to be named the King’s Poet, now living in disgrace, reduced to writing bawdy poems and satires on commission.

It was a bad year—a very, very bad year.

It changed when Ysandre was born.

Rolande’s daughter.

HOW IS IT that love always catches us unaware?

I see a lot of you in her, Rolande. The relentless nobility, the determination, the firm sense of obligation. Although Ysandre looks a great deal like Isabel, I do not see her mother in her.

Only you.

STANDING ON MY doorstep, surrounded by guards, Rolande swallowed hard, the knot of his throat rising and falling. “You heard?”

I stared at him, wondering why in the world he was here. “Yes, of course. Congratulations.”

“Anafiel…” He caught my hand, and I let him. “I have no right to ask you anything, but I am asking nonetheless. My daughter, Ysandre…” The knot of his throat rose, fell. “I begin to fear that you may have been right about certain matters. I begin to fear that a good deal of intrigue may surround her.”

I was silent.

Rolande’s eyes were so blue, so earnest. “I have no right—”

“You have every right,” I said softly. “What’s changed?”

He smiled a little, sadly. “Mayhap you’ve heard, my uncle Benedicte is planning a visit. He has grown children he wishes to introduce to the court. Isabel grows fearful and speaks of intrigues against me, against our daughter. There is a dark, suspicious edge to her I’ve never known before. I need to know Ysandre has people who will protect her, who will have her interests at heart. Like you did with Edmée. Remember?”

My heart ached. “I remember.”

Rolande squeezed my hand. “Will you?”

I lifted his hand to my lips, pressed them against the signet ring he wore with the crest of House Courcel emblazoned on it. “Of course. On the blood of Blessed Elua, I swear it.”

He sighed.

My throat was tight, too. “Will you come in?” I asked, hoping against hope.

He didn’t look away, and there was hunger in his gaze. “Yes.”

It was good and glorious and terrible all at once, a tempest and a homecoming, an apology and a benediction. Afterward, Rolande wept. I stroked his hair, dry-eyed. Although my love for him was undiminished, I wasn’t the innocent young Siovalese country lordling he’d fallen in love with anymore.

Presently, he whispered a question. “Has there been… is there anyone else, Anafiel?”

I gazed at his beautiful face, his eyelashes spiky with tears, and pitied us both. “No, Rolande,” I murmured. “I swore an oath. For so long as we both live, I am bound to you, and you alone.”

He bowed his head. “I would release you from it if I could.” His voice was low and uncertain. “Would you want that?”

“No.” I lifted his chin with one hand, the memory of the golden warmth of Elua’s blessing spilling over me. “Only don’t shut me out again.”

Rolande smiled with relief. “Never.”

YOU KEPT THAT promise, Rolande. And yet you left me anyway.

It hurts.

I don’t want to relive it, but I am dying, and I cannot stop the memories from coming.

THE CITY OF Elua buzzed with the news of our reunion. Isabel gnashed her teeth in fury. What passed between them in private, I didn’t know, but in public, Rolande held his head high and acknowledged me with quiet dignity.

I was not wholly absolved, the ban on my poetry remaining, but I was once again welcome at Court—or at least tolerated.

Even so, I avoided it for the most part. I had few friends there. Rolande and I spoke of those we trusted the most, men we had ridden and fought with. Gaspar Trevalion. Quintilius Rousse, who had accepted a naval commission. Percy, Comte de Somerville, kinsman to Rolande’s mother the queen and a Prince of the Blood in his own right.

Based on what I’d learned in Tiberium of the Unseen Guild, a plan began to form in the back of my mind.

This time, I was wise enough to keep my mouth shut on my thoughts.

And all too soon, concrete concerns in the world displaced vague and nebulous ones. Once more, the Skaldi were raiding in strength, angling for control of one of the major mountain passes. Rolande’s uncle Benedicte de la Courcel was bringing a contingent of seasoned warriors from La Serenissima on his impending visit. King Ganelon was minded to use the occasion to mount a large-scale offensive and seize the pass for good.

Once again, I was to fight at Rolande’s side.

“Achilles and Patroclus side by side once more,” Rolande said lightly, dallying in my bed.

“Hush.” I covered his mouth with one hand. “Don’t make ill-luck jests. It didn’t end so well for them.” I took my hand away. “Any mind, I fear I cast you wrong. You would never sulk in your tent while your honor was at stake.”

“Oh?” He raised his strong brows. “Who, then?”

“Knowing you as I do now?” I smiled wryly. “Noble Hector, mayhap; but I don’t like to speak of him, either.”

Rolande folded his arms behind his head. “It ended badly for most of them, didn’t it?”

“It did,” I agreed.

He eyed me complacently. “You’d have gotten away, though. Wily Odysseus, that’s who you would have been.”

I shuddered. “Let’s not speak of it, truly.”

A date was chosen, plans were made. It was decided that the command should be shared among three men: Percy de Somerville, Benedicte de la Courcel, and Rolande. Princes of the Blood, all three.

Even before we set out, folk were calling it the Battle of Three Princes. But only two of them came home alive.

WHICH IS WORSE, remembering or dying?

I cannot say.

THE SKALDI MADE their stand in a vast meadow high in the Camaeline Mountains—a green meadow in which thousands upon thousands of starry white flowers blossomed, a meadow dotted with lakes and rocky outcroppings.

Overhead, the sky was a flawless blue, and the white tops of the mountains where the snow never melted glistened.

The Skaldi awaited us at the far end, clad in furs and leather, hair braided, steel weapons and wooden shields in their hands. A handful were mounted on shaggy mountain ponies, but most were on foot.

They outnumbered us by half, but we had steel armor, better weapons, and a sizable cavalry.

The air was thin and clear, very, very clear. It reminded me of my childhood in the mountains of Siovale. I breathed slowly and deeply, stroking my mount’s withers. She stood steady as a rock beneath me. She was a good mare, sure-footed and battle-seasoned.

Rolande eyed me sidelong, eyes bright beneath the brim of his helm. All along the line of the vanguard, leather creaked and metal jingled. “Ready?”

I frowned at the uneven terrain. In private, I’d argued in favor of sending the foot soldiers out first, but the Three Princes, none of whom were mountain-born, had overridden my concerns.

Rolande read my unspoken thoughts and lowered his voice. “Anafiel, I’m not willing to give up one of our greatest advantages. If they don’t break and flee by the third charge, we’ll fall back and let the infantry engage them while we regroup. Well enough?”

I knew my duty. “Well enough, my liege and my love,” I murmured. Saluting him with my sword, I added in a ringing tone, “Ready!”

He grinned.

His standard-bearer raised his staff, flying the silver swan pennant of House Courcel. Some fifty yards to the right, a second standard was hoisted, flying the pennant of House Courcel and the insignia of La Serenissima on his uncle Benedicte’s behalf. To the left, Percy de Somerville’s standard-bearer raised the apple tree of House Somerville.

Rolande lifted his sword and nodded at his trumpeter.

One trumpet blew; two, three, ringing clear and brazen beneath the clear blue skies. At the far end of the valley, the Skaldi roared and beat their blades against their wooden shields.

We charged; charged, hewed down men where they stood, wheeled and retreated, dodging ponds, boulders and crevasses.

Once…

Twice…

I was hot beneath my armor, sweating through my padded undertunic and breathing hard, my sword streaked with gore and my sword arm growing tired. The ranks of Skaldi were growing ragged, wavering. A young lad with tawny-brown hair, long-limbed and tall for his years, rallied them, urged them to hold fast. At his tenacious insistence, they did.

“Third time’s the charm!” Rolande cried.

Cries of agreement echoed across the meadow.

One again, the trumpeters gave their brazen call; once again, we clapped heels to our mounts’ sides and sprang forward.

I KNOW WHICH is worse.

Remembering; oh, gods, by far. Dying is easier.

I WAS A Siovalese country lordling, and I knew mountains. I rode a sure-footed horse for a reason.

I’d made sure Rolande did, too.

Not his standard-bearer. When the lad’s mount caught a hoof in a crevice and went down with a terrible scream, left foreleg broken, there was nothing I could do but check my mare.

Uncertainty rippled down the line.

While Rolande raced to engage the Skaldi, men and horses in the center of the vanguard hesitated.

Those on the flanks, men under command of Percy de Somerville and Benedicte de la Courcel, had farther to travel.

Rolande plunged alone into the ranks of unmounted Skaldi, his sword rising and falling.

His standard-bearer’s mount rolled and squealed in agony, crushing her rider, sowing chaos. Cursing and sweating, I yanked my mare’s head with uncustomary viciousness and rode around them, putting my heels to her.

Too late.

I saw Rolande surrounded, dragged from the saddle. I saw the crude blades rise and fall, streaked with blood. His blood.

I fought.

Others came and fought, too. Too few; too late. Oh, it was enough to seize the pass, enough to guarantee a victory in the Battle of Three Princes. Still, it came too late.

As soon as the line had pressed past us, a handful of soldiers and I wrestled Rolande’s ruined body across my pommel, retreating with him. My good mare bore the burden without complaint.

Behind the lines of skirmish, I wept with fury, unbuckling his armor, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding of a dozen wounds. “Damn you, Rolande! You promised! Don’t leave me!”

Beneath the blue sky, his blood soaked the green grass, drenched the starry white blossoms. A faint sigh escaped him, bringing a froth of crimson to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. One gauntleted hand rose a few inches, then fell back to the ground, limp. “Anafiel. I’m sorry.”

And then the light went out of his blue, blue eyes, just as it had faded from Edmée’s.

He was gone.

WHY COULDN’T YOU have waited, Rolande? You always had to be first into the fray.

Why?

IT WAS A bitter, bitter victory won at the Battle of Three Princes.

For a long time afterward, I wished I had died with Rolande. Once the initial crushing weight of grief had faded, I flung myself into excesses of debauchery, making a circuit of the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, sampling the highs and lows of all that carnal pleasure had to offer as though to mock the vow I’d never wished to be free of, now broken with Rolande’s death.

It was the other vow I’d sworn that kept me alive; the vow to protect his daughter, Ysandre, now the infant Dauphine of Terre d’Ange.

For Rolande was right, intrigue surrounded her; from the moment of his death, a dozen challengers set their sights on the throne. Slowly, slowly, I gathered my grief-addled wits and began to assemble a net of spies, informants, and a few trusted allies. I remembered words spoken to me long ago by Master Strozzi in Tiberium.

Whores make some of the best spies.

I set out to cultivate them, aided by goodwill generated during my period of debauchery.

I kept my finger on the pulse of the world, learning that a well-placed word at the right time could thwart the most ambitious plot. The only one I failed to foil, I did not regret. In a fitting twist of irony, Isabel died by poison at the hand of one of Prince Benedicte’s scheming offspring; but her daughter lived, which was all that mattered to me.

Here and there, I had dalliances—always with women, for no man could compare in my eyes to Rolande.

None were serious, except mayhap for Melisande Shahrizai. Beautiful, calculating Melisande, with a hunger for life’s sharper pleasures, the only person clever enough to guess what I was about with my intrigues. In a moment of weakness, when the black grief was upon me, I told her of the Unseen Guild and how I regretted betraying Rolande’s trust to this day.

She understood. We were ill suited in many ways, but Melisande understood me.

TOO WELL, MAYHAP.

Even now, I cannot believe Melisande would have wished me dead… but I have been wrong before.

The Skaldi have found a leader who thinks.

And Melisande knew his name.

THE WHOREMASTER OF Spies.

Even as I wove my net among the pleasure-houses of the Night Court, I never set out to become such a thing; and yet it happened. It began with the best of intentions.

There were six years of peace along the Skaldic border after the Battle of Three Princes. When reports of renewed raiding came, I did not volunteer. Instead, mindful of a promise Rolande had made, I journeyed to the Camaeline village of Trefail, where I found the widow’s son Rolande had promised to care for. His mother was dead, and his half-Skaldi nurse was preparing to desert him.

I took him home, the Skaldi sacking his village in our wake. In the City of Elua, I adopted him into my household and gave him my name—or at least my mother’s name, if not the one I was born with.

Alcuin; Alcuin nó Delaunay.

When I began training him in the arts of covertcy, I’d not thought to employ him to serve my ends. It was merely a set of skills to teach him. But ah, gods! He was so bright, so eager to learn, so grateful to have been rescued. From the beginning, Alcuin simply assumed he would aid me in my work in whatever manner possible when he was grown.

Somewhere along the path, I began to assume it, too. I hardened my heart against any remorse.

Phèdre was another matter. From the beginning, I knew what she was and why I chose her.

WHERE ARE YOU, my anguissette? Kushiel’s Chosen, marked by the scarlet mote in your eye, bound by fate to experience pain as pleasure. No wonder Melisande delighted in you so.

I am grateful you were not here today.

Anafiel Delaunay’s last pupil.

I pray I taught you well; and that I was meant to do so.

MAYHAP I SEALED my fate when I paid the price of Phèdre’s marque and took her into my household. It can be unwise for mortals to meddle in the affairs of the gods; but I was the only one who recognized her for what she was.

What else was I to have done?

Alcuin and Phèdre, my beautiful boy and my god-touched girl. I did not mean to use them; and yet I did.

I should not have used them so, especially Alcuin. I should have seen that the work did not suit him, that he merely wished to please me. When all is said and done, Naamah’s Service is a sacred calling. But the goddess absolved him of any transgression, and still, and still, Alcuin found it in his heart to love me in a manner I never expected nor deserved; one desperate mouthful of sweetness at the bottom of a bitter cup. I owed him a better life than I gave him.

So many strands, so many threads unraveling!

It is all falling apart. A sharp sword can cut through the most intricately woven of webs. I will die without knowing who plotted my death, without knowing what it means that the Skaldi have found a leader who thinks, without knowing if Ysandre found a way to cross the deadly Straits and wed the Alban prince to whom she was betrothed.

But I kept her safe, Rolande. Your daughter, Ysandre. She is a grown woman now. I kept my oath. When she came to me for aid, I gave it to her; and yet there is something I missed. But I can do no more. Now it is in the hands of the gods, and their chosen.

Did I cross the will of the gods? Here at the end, I pray I have not offended mighty Kushiel, punisher of the damned, in taking his chosen as my pupil; I pray he will use Phèdre to administer his cruel mercy and bring justice to those who have murdered me; to continue the task of keeping Ysandre safe.

I obeyed Blessed Elua’s precept, of that I am sure. I loved you, Rolande. While you lived, I loved you with all my heart; you, and you alone.

Even dying, it is true.

All I can do is pray into the falling darkness, hoping to find you on the other side…

And die.