And it scared me to think of risking it all.

Jebe-Barkal. It was a place on a map, a parrot-merchant in the Campo Grande. I knew little more. Our critics claim Terre d'Ange is insular, and it is true. We ally ourselves with the Caerdicci city-states, with Aragonia, because they share our borders; now with Alba, because Ysandre de la Courcel wed the Cruarch and broke the Straits' curse. We guard our boundaries against the Skaldi, because they have sought to take what is ours; we make war and alliance with Khebbel-im-Akkad, because it is too great a power to ignore. So much, and no more.

It is changing, a little. Ysandre looks outward more than any other D'Angeline monarch in memory, forging ties, fostering exchange. It is in a small part due to me, I think, that we have formal relations now with Illyria, with Kriti in Hellas. And Ysandre does not fear to send delegates to Ephesium, to Menekhet, to Carthage, even to the Umaiyyat.

But still—Jebe-Barkal! It was, I reflected glumly as Joscelin and I crossed the border into Terre d'Ange, very, very far away.

Our return was met with ebullience on the part of not only Ti- Philippe, but my household staff as well. Eugenie, my Mistress of Household, has been with me for over ten years now, and I have grown to value her eternal concern as much as her efficiency. I remember the grace and loyalty with which my lord Delaunay's staff ran his affairs, and have done my best to achieve the same. If I have succeeded, much of it has to do with paying a good wage and treating everyone in my employ with fairness and respect, but much is also due to Eugenie's excellent supervision. One thing neither of us will tolerate is careless gossip. The only time I have ever fired anyone in my service was for indiscretion. It pained me to do it, though it was necessary.

After we had bathed and changed our travel-worn attire, Joscelin and I met with Ti-Philippe in the garden courtyard to tell him what had transpired. His eyes grew round to hear it.

"Surely you're jesting."

"No." I shook my head. "I am sworn to aid her."

"Well." He reached out and popped a candied almond into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "What will you do, my lady? And more importantly," he swallowed and grinned, "what can I do?"

"I will ask questions," I said. "Judiciously, of course. You ..." I smiled. "You can find me a Jebean scholar, Philippe. I've a document I need translated."

He pulled a face. "Poking about in academics' dusty corners? Sounds dull."

"Mayhap." I shrugged. "It will likely take you to Marsilikos, though. I doubt anyone in the City Academy reads Jeb'ez."

"Marsilikos." It cheered him to think on it. Marsilikos is a port city, beloved of sailors, a meeting-ground of the larger world. If there was any scholar who studied Jebe-Barkal, it would be at the Academy there. "Can I take Hugues, my lady? He wants to see the sea again."

"Why not? If it comes to it. And Philippe, I want you to call on Emile, in Night's Doorstep."

"The Tsingano?" Ti-Philippe looked perplexed, and Joscelin shot me a curious glance.

"He was Hyacinthe's closest companion. The Tsingani should know. Besides, they go everywhere and they hear things. Ask him if he will call upon me." I don't know what made me think of it. A hunch, a duty. It had been one of Hyacinthe's last requests, that I bequeath his mother's house and his own enterprise, a livery stable, to Emile.

"As you wish." Ti-Philippe reached out as Eugenie entered with a platter of tidbits of quail in puffed pastry. "Eugenie, my goddess! You read my mind, or at least my stomach."

"Leave be, Messire Chevalier!" She batted his hand away sternly. "These are first for my lady." The platter was lowered beneath my nose, and I knew I would have no peace if I didn't select a couple of morsels. If Eugenie was deigning to serve us with her own hands, she'd probably made them herself, too. She regarded me with disapproval. "You'll need to eat more than that if you're about to go gallivanting about the map again, running yourself into a ragged sliver, my lady."

I must admit, my lord Delaunay's staff never spoke to him thusly. Then again, my lord Delaunay was not an anguissette. I retrieved the silver tongs and took two more pastries. "I'm not going anywhere yet, Eugenie."

"No." She sniffed. "But you will. You've got that look again."

Joscelin laughed. "I didn't know you could tell, Eugenie."

"After ten years, and her like a daughter to me?" She cast an acerbic eye on him. "I don't forget, Messire Cassiline. And you ought not to laugh, stuck to her side like a shadow."

"Well." Joscelin was fond of Eugenie. "I've my vow to think of."

"Your vow!" She shook the serving-tongs at him. "I vow I'll warm your backside if you don't bring my lady home safe. And don't think I won't do it, Messire Cassiline. I've grown grandchildren as tall as you."

It made Ti-Philippe laugh uproariously as he leaned forward to pick her platter clean, and even Joscelin smiled, but I heard the genuine worry behind Eugenie's absurd threat. "I'll be careful, Eugenie," I said softly. "Whatever I do. I promise."

"You said that last time and it nearly killed you." My Mistress of the Household leveled a significant gaze at me, her figure broad and imposing in the dusk-lit garden. "Love means hearth and home too, my lady. Don't forget it."

"I won't." I watched her go, picking her way across the courtyard, vast figure swaying like a sea-born ship. It was a warm evening, and the scent of lavender and rosemary hung in the moist air. A new maidservant, one of Eugenie's nieces, slipped into the garden with a lit taper, kindling the lamps that hung about in glass globes, casting a fairy glow.

I had musicians play when I entertained here, harp and flute and tambour.

Jebe-Barkal. My heart ached at the thought of leaving this place, this gracious home. Eugenie was right; this, too, was love. And yet even as I thought it, I ached elsewhere, with the soul-deep need of an anguissette that no kindness, no compassion could assuage. I was bound by my nature as surely as any patron's shackles. Melisande might as well have set her diamond lead about my neck, I thought, a bitter laugh catching in my throat.

"Phèdre." It was Joscelin's voice, quiet and familiar. "Go to the temple."

"Elua's sanctuary?"

"No." He shook his head. "Kushiel's."

ELEVEN

FOR ALL that I am Kushiel's Chosen, I go seldom to his temple. I, who feel the prick of his dart throughout all my days, do not require the aid of his servants to seek atonement. My lord Kushiel has always provided ample opportunity to his anguissette. I do not often need to lay my penance at his feet. For me, his altar is everywhere.Only once before has Joscelin advised me thusly, after our escape from slavery in the wilds of Skaldia, and then, as now, I remembered what I so often forgot: that Joscelin was priest as well as warrior.

Now, as then, I listened. I went.

They asked no questions, Kushiel's priests, but only nodded to see me. Even if my face had not been known throughout the City of Elua, they would have known me by the scarlet mote. Kushiel's priests keep his lore sacred. Clad in stygian robes and wearing the full bronze masks of ceremony that hide even gender, they escorted me into the baths of purification and thence to the temple proper, the massive doors clanging shut behind us.

It is a simple space, high-vaulted, enclosed with thick stone walls blackened by generations of smoke rising from the candles that illuminate it. I made an offering of gold and poured incense on the altar-fire. A billow of smoke arose, stinging my eyes with musky fragrance. The face of Kushiel's great effigy swam above me, wreathed in smoke, stern and brazen, hands crossed on his breast bearing his rod and flail. When I had done, his priests helped me undress until I stood naked before him.

A sharp breath, indrawn behind a mask; I don't know whose. Even Kushiel's priests are not immune. I know what they saw, my bare skin glowing white by candlelight, the vivid black lines of my marque etch ing my spine, thorny and intricate, accented with crimson droplets. It was limned by Master Robert Tielhard himself, before he died; it is a crime now, to duplicate it for any but an anguissette. The Marquists' Guild voted it so.

And I am the only one.

I twined my hair behind my neck in a lover's-haste knot and knelt on scrubbed flagstones before the whipping post. Without further breech of protocol, a masked priest lashed my wrists to the post, tying them tight with rawhide thongs. My arms were stretched, pulling at their sockets, and my breath came quick and hard.

Then came the scourging.

They are masters of the art, Kushiel's priests—for an art it is, although ignorant people may believe otherwise. At the first stroke of iron-tipped lashes against my back, I cried out, jerking against my bonds. Pain, blessedly welcome, burst across my skin.

"My lord Kushiel!" I gasped. "Forgive me, for I do not know your will!"

The lashes of the flogger fell upon me again, too quickly for read iness; I discerned a man's touch in it. Streaks of fire laced my vision and my breath burned in my lungs, forced out in an involuntary cry. The rough wood of the whipping post pressed against my cheek. Again he struck, and again. Agony blossomed in me with an unbearable plea sure. I heard my own voice whimpering, and a priest's sibilant whisper above it, reminding me.

"Make now your confession."

"My lord Kushiel." Sunk on my knees, I craned back my head, seeing my own arms foreshortened and Kushiel's serene, pitiless face far beyond, floating in a haze of red. "Ah!" The iron-tipped lashes curled about my ribcage, biting deep. "The path is too dark, my lord, and I am afraid!"

No mercy. The flogger struck without pity, a whistling crack in the air, spattering wetness as it kissed my flesh. My head fell forward to hang upon my breast and I wept for shame.

"My lord Kushiel," I whispered, hearing my voice broken and small, clotted with tears. A shudder of release wracked my pain-stricken body as I uttered the fearful words. "I wish in my heart that I were no longer your Chosen."