Kushiel's Chosen by Jacqueline Carey Page A

Rebbe.
    It was Joscelin who arranged the meeting; he had become friendly with this grand Yeshuite scholar-Nahum ben Isaac, his name was-insofar as Joscelin became friendly with anyone in those days.
    The day was cold and sharp, and I was glad of the carriage affording protection from the wind. We did not linger in the courtyard, but hurried into the hall.
    Knowing some little bit about Yeshuite sensibilities, thanks first to our friends Taavi and Danele, who gave us succor on our flight from the Allies of Camlach, and latterly to Seth ben Yavin, the young scholar who had tutored me in Montrève, I dressed modestly. It is not my way to flaunt myself as a Servant of Naamah-whatever certain prudish Cassilines may think-but I have my vanity. Nonetheless, I put it aside to meet the Rebbe, donning a gown of brown worsted which I used to wear travelling, and a thick woolen shawl. Well-made, but the sort of stuff a rustic noblewoman might don for commonwear. With a woolen cap on my head, my hair coiled in a braid, and sturdy boots, surely, I thought, I was the very picture of drab modesty.
    That is what I thought at home, anyway. When we entered the hall of the yeshiva, where charcoal braziers battled the chill and the sound of children's voices murmuring filled the air, it was another matter.
    In a sea of foreign faces, a D'Angeline stands out like a beacon, flashing that deadly beauty that cuts like a blade. In the City, among my own kind, I forgot; here, as voices fell silent and Yeshuite children raised wondering eyes, I remembered. What must it be like, for them? I had offered Cecilie an apology on their behalf, but still. To see the blood-lineage of an errant branch of their own mythology stamped in the faces of the folk who surround them; it must be a strangeness. Yeshua ben Yosef walked the earth, and died, and was risen. So they believe, with enduring stubbornness; he is their .Mashiach, the Redeemer and the King-to-Come. But Blessed Elua, whom they do not acknowledge, walked the earth as well, and he and his Companions peopled a nation. There is no D'Angeline peasant, no matter how mean his origins, but has a tale in his heritage of a celestially begotten ancestor; mayhap it is only that Azza tumbled his thirty-generations-ago grandmother in a haystack, but there it is.
    So the children stared, and the young woman leading them. Joscelin cleared his throat. "We are here to see the Rebbe," he told them, blushing-although they were not staring at him. Only me. "I am sorry, we are early. Please continue."
    To my surprise, the young woman colored too. "Caleb, tell the Rebbe his friend Joscelin Verreuil is here," she said to one of the boys in charmingly accented D'Angeline. "And... I am sorry," she said to me, "who shall I say is with him?"
    "I am Phèdre nó Delaunay," I said, remembering to add, "the Comtesse de Montrève."
    "Oh!" Her color deepened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Removing it hastily, she pushed the boy gently toward the door. "Make haste, Caleb."
    He must have done so, for a tall man of middle years and a solemn face emerged in short order. "I am sorry, Comtesse," he said, giving a brief bow. "We expected you at three bells, but the Rebbe will see you now." He allowed a small smile for Joscelin. "Brother Verreuil. A pleasure, my apostate friend."
    "Barukh hatah Adonai, father." With an answering smile, Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow. "This way," he said to me, gesturing.
    How often had he been here since the first visit? It had not been long, and yet he was familiar with the passages, striding surely along at the rear as our escort guided us. There were small cubbyholes for study; I heard the murmuring voices of older scholars reciting passages that were half-familiar to me.
    The Rebbe's quarters were larger, though poorly illumed. He kept us waiting a moment in the hallway, before our guide ushered us into his study.
    Joscelin had spoken truly; Nahum ben Isaac cut a formidable figure indeed. Despite