Free Kushiel's Avatar by Jacqueline Carey Page B

ten years, it had only grown more marked. I do not doubt that they honored her claim of sanctuary out of genuine reverence. Nor do I doubt that the manner of it owed much to Melisande’s wealth fattening their coffers. Ysandre had claimed her estates for the crown, when Melisande was first adjudged a traitor, but the profit in them had already been routed to the banking houses of La Serenissima. Like the adepts of Bryony House, the Shahrizai have always understood that money is power-even in defeat, Melisande had managed to preserve hers.
    A double rap at vast doors with gilt hinges, opened from within by an acolyte with downcast eyes, and the soft voice of the priestess of the Elect announcing us in Caerdicci accents. “The Contessa Phèdre nó Delaunay of Montrève and Monsignor Joscelin Verreuil.”
    And with that, we were admitted into Melisande’s presence.
    Sunlight filtered into the salon, which adjoined some inner courtyard, lending the room a pleasant warmth. There were low couches and a table, set about with careless elegance as in any D’Angeline sitting-room, and flowering shrubs in pots, perfuming the air. Somewhere, a small fountain played.
    Melisande Shahrizai stood waiting.
    The impact of seeing her hit me like a tidal sea-swell, stopping the very breath in my lungs. Long-buried emotions surged in me, foremost among them a bitter, abiding hatred. No one has ever betrayed me more cruelly or wounded me deeper, and I could not see her without remembering my lord Delaunay, his austere features ivory in death, dark blood clotting his auburn braid as he lay in his own gore. And even so, even with all that lay between us and the memory of her hands moving on my flesh, her voice at my ear, compelling my body’s response while my heart cracked and bled … even so, there was desire.
    Too much to hope that the years had been unkind to Melisande Shahrizai. Her beauty, that had dazzled like a diamond’s edge ten years ago, had only deepened, attaining a richer, more mellow resonance. Melisande had set aside the Veil of Asherat for our meeting and her features retained the same remorseless symmetry, pale and fair, eyes the hue of sapphires at twilight, her hair unbound in a rippling fall of blue-black waves, her figure statuesque nigh to perfection.
    And yet…
    When she spoke, her melodious voice was restrained, her expression grave. “Phèdre,” she said. “I did not know if you would come.”
    I shifted on my feet, aware of Joscelin’s presence at my elbow, his love a fierce dagger by which to fix the compass of my heart. “I wouldn’t have,” I said with a lightness I did not feel, “if it were only your request, my lady. But you see, there is a prophecy at work.”
    “Ah.” One syllable; her expression gave nothing away. Melisande inclined her head to Joscelin. “Messire Verreuil,” she acknowledged.
    The last time they had met, he’d drawn his sword on her. There was no love lost between those two.
    “Lady Shahrizai.” Joscelin’s voice was neutral, his bow punctilious. He had left his arms behind, this time. What was appropriate to the Queen’s champion was not suitable for a private visit to the Temple of Asherat.
    “Please,” Melisande said, indicating the couches. “Be seated.” She waited until we had made ourselves comfortable on one of the couches before taking a seat opposite us, thanking the priestess of the Elect and her attendants before dismissing them. They went, too, discreet as well-bred servants. “You are wondering,” she said without hesitation, “why I have summoned you here.”
    The unseen fountain splashed quietly in the background.
    “Yes,” I said. “I am.”
    Melisande drew a deep breath. Her gaze shifted off my face, fixed onto some unknown distance behind us. “My son is missing.”
    I nearly laughed; I made some involuntary sound, I think. “My lady,” I said, “you deliver old news. Your son has been missing these ten years now.”
    She looked back at me