Anafiel Delaunay de Montreve (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
youandyoualone) wrote2025-11-03 02:47 pm
youandyoualone) wrote2025-11-03 02:47 pm
Entry tags:
Tributary: Memory Bubbles
Inside this post: book or short story passages featured in Delaunay's memory bubble regains. (Text is Jacqueline Carey, not me.)
From You And You Alone
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.
Once 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?
From You & You Alone
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.”
From You & You Alone
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.
From You & You Alone
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
From You & You Alone
“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.
From You & You Alone
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.