"Why did Ysandre send you?" he asked softly, testing. I pushed my chair back from the table, struggling to my feet, fighting the dark blood-tide. Somewhere, I thought, listening, somewhere Joscelin is telling tales to de Morhban's House Guard. I clung to the memory of him like a talisman, his deadly dance with Selig's thanes in a driving snowstorm, remembrance cooling my blood, shaking my head. "No questions," de Morhban said quickly. "No questions. Phedre, forgive me, sit." "You have sworn it in Kushiel's name," I murmured, but I sat. He reached across the table, tracing the line of my brow above my left eye, the dart-stricken one. Calluses; a warrior Duc's fingertips. "In Kushiel's name," he agreed."