Songs of Love & Death

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 Montreve. 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, EDMEE! I’M Sorry, So Sorry.

Dying, I find there are so many people, living and dead, to whom I owe apologies. Edmee, 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. Phedre, 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 Edmee 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 Edmee 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