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In the morning, I daresay all of us were a trifle thick-headed. The revelry had gone late into the night and the wine-keg we had tapped was dry. I’d allowed Imriel two glasses, and his eyes had shone with it, color rising beneath his fair skin. He sang a shepherd’s love song in his clear, true voice, while Hugues played his flute. How long, I wondered, until his boy’s voice broke? It would be soon. His growth had slowed in Daršanga, but he was making up for lost time. “He’ll break hearts, that one,” Eugenie predicted.

I sent a bleary-eyed Hugues on errands that day, bearing word of the Cruarch’s impending return to Emile in Night’s Doorstep and to Eleazar in the Yeshuite quarter. It was a courtesy, since both would doubtless have heard the news already, but I had promised to notify both parties when we made ready to journey. When a knock came at the door, I thought it must be Hugues returning.

Instead it was a royal courier, with a summons from the Queen.

“What does she want now?” Joscelin asked, frowning at the missive. “Surely she hasn’t changed her mind.”

“Did her majesty give any indication?” I asked the courier.

He shook his head. “Only that your presence is requested, my lady. Yours, your consort’s and the boy.”

Once again, we travelled to the Palace, this time in our own carriage. All throughout the City, people were celebrating the news. The wineshops and taverns were open, markets were doing a brisk business. Wagers were settled, new wagers laid. Students given a day’s leave from the Academy thronged the streets, toasting the Cruarch’s health, looking forward to three days and nights of revelry when he reached the City. Drustan’s return had become a veritable rite of spring. I wished I shared their high spirits, but Ysandre’s summons had struck fear into my heart and my joyous mood had faded.

I kept a good face on it as a majordomo escorted us into the Palace, along with a pair of guards. I wondered if we were bound for the throne-room or a private audience. If it was state business, I thought, it will be the throne-room or the Hall of Audience. I feared what Ysandre might declare before an audience of state. What she might say in private, I could not guess, and feared even more.

As it happens, it was neither.

The majordomo brought us to the Salon of Eisheth’s Harp, a spacious chamber with elegant frescoes depicting the ill-fated romance of Eisheth and an Eisandine tauriere. It is a place where D’Angeline nobles gather to enjoy pleasant conversation and musical concerts. There was a small crowd assembled, and it seemed a flautist and a lute-player had recently concluded. Ysandre was seated on a couch in the central arrangement, surrounded by courtiers and attendants … and someone else I recognized.

“Prince Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel, the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, Messire Joscelin Verreuil,” the majordomo announced.

There was a half-second of silence in the Salon of Eisheth’s Harp.

“Elua’s Balls, lass, get over here and let me see you!” roared the unmistakable voice of the Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse as he rose from the couch, opening his arms. “What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

I crossed the distance in a daze to find myself engulfed in a bone-cracking embrace. “My lord Admiral,” I stammered when he let me go. “What brings you here?”

Rousse grinned at me. If there was grey in his ruddy hair, he was as hale and hearty as ever, blue eyes bright in his scarred, weathered face. “Oh, I hear we’re to fetch that sight-ridden Tsingano lad of yours as soon as Lord Drustan arrives. Sound all right to you?”

I blinked at him, then stared at Ysandre, belatedly curtsying. “Your majesty.”

Ysandre raised her fair brows. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you set off unaided on this quest, Phèdre. We have a vested interest in the well-being of Hyacinthe, Anasztaizia’s son. It has been arranged over the course of the winter. Lord Rousse has a flagship awaiting at Pointe des Soeurs in Azzalle. Whatsoever you require for this journey, you may arrange with Lord Rousse, who has an open writ with the Secretary of the Privy Purse. I trust you will be ready to depart by the time Drustan arrives?”

“Yes.” I swallowed against the tears that threatened to close my throat. It had meant a good deal more than I reckoned, losing Ysandre’s friendship, and I would give a great deal to have it back. “Yes, your majesty. We will be ready.”

“Good.” Ysandre’s gaze rested on Imriel. “I suppose you will insist upon going, young cousin?”

“Your majesty.” Imriel bowed, expressionless. “If you forbid it, I will stay.”

“And what resentments will that breed?” Ysandre smiled wryly, watching Quintilius Rousse gather Joscelin in a pounding embrace. “No, young cousin, I will not forbid it, much as I would like to do so. I have learned somewhat of when to stand in the way, and when to stand aside. Messire Verreuil,” she called to Joscelin, who freed himself to approach her, bowing. “In the future, I would appreciate it if you did not accompany Prince Imriel in public unarmed. I was promised, I believe, a Cassiline Brother to attend him? The Queen’s Champion?”

“Your majesty.” Joscelin bowed again and straightened, grinning. “I will not appear before you unarmed again.”

“Good.” Ysandre glanced around at the gape-mouthed courtiers. “Is there anyone here who has somewhat to say? No? Well and good. My lord Rousse, I grant you leave to make your arrangements. I expect a full accounting of your plans.”

And with that, we were dismissed.

We spent the better part of the day in discussion with Quintilius Rousse, who returned with us to the house. Eugenie nearly tied herself into a knot attempting to stage a fit reception for the Royal Admiral-her kitchens were in complete disarray from last night’s revelry. I daresay Rousse never noticed, quaffing wine and eating the savories set in front of him with a good will.

“So you’ve got the Name of God locked in your pretty head, eh lass?” he asked shrewdly. “Well, it may be and it may not, but either way, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I promised that a long time ago. The question is, what happens when we get there?”

I shrugged. “We try to summon Rahab.”

“And if he comes?”

“I speak the Name of God and banish him.” I gripped my hands together; they were cold. “My lord Rousse, in ten years, I’ve learned no more. I cannot tell you what will happen if he comes, nor if the banishment succeeds. Of a surety, it will be dangerous. How much so, I do not know.”

“The Lord of the Deep,” Quintilius Rousse mused. “I thought it was something, to see the Master of the Straits and live. This will be something, Phèdre nó Delaunay, such as no sailor ever dreamed, whether we survive it or no.” He reached over and set a brawny hand on Ti-Philippe’s knee, giving it a shake. “You’re game, aren’t you, my lad? You haven’t forgotten how to haul a lanyard, I hope?”

“No, sir!” Ti-Philippe grinned at him. “I’ll not be left behind this time!”

“And how about you, you half-mad Cassiline?” Rousse eyed Joscelin. “Still puking over the rails?”

“All the way.” Joscelin smiled. “It hasn’t stopped me yet.”

“And Melisande’s whelp.” He looked at Imriel and shook his head. “Elua’s Balls, boy, but you’ve a look of your mother! Still, Phèdre says you know your way around a ship, and won’t get underfoot. You’re bound to do this, eh?”

“Yes, my lord Admiral.” Imriel was too fascinated to take offense. Between his blunt speech, his size and the old trawler scar that dragged at half his face, Quintilius Rousse was an imposing figure indeed. He was also one of my lord Delaunay’s oldest friends, and one of the few people in the world I trusted implicitly. “The Tsingani helped Phèdre and Joscelin to find me because of Hyacinthe. It’s a matter of honor,” he added with a touch of defiance.

“Honor, eh?” Rousse squinted at him. “Doesn’t
sound
much like your mother.”

Imriel’s jaw set and his nostrils flared. “I’m not my mother, Lord Rousse.”

Quintilius Rousse roared with laughter. “Ah, boy, I should hope not! One’s trial enough; the world’s not fit to withstand two of the like. Well, for all that she’s got a knack for finding trouble like I’ve never seen, Phèdre nó Delaunay has a gift for choosing friends. And if she’s chosen to make you her son, I reckon you’ll do.”

With Rousse’s aid, our plans were made. This would be a larger excursion than the last one. After our meeting in the Salon of Eisheth’s Harp, word spread like wildfire through the City. Letters of invitation began to trickle into my home, swelling to a flood. I declined them all with courtesy. It would be different, afterward … if there was an afterward. Much as I mislike the hypocrisy of court politics, it is a part of life among D’Angeline peers. For Imriel’s sake, it would be a necessity.

Now, I needed to concentrate on Rahab.

By means I did not question, Eleazar ben Enokh found a banned treatise on the summoning of angels, which he gave to me for a promise of discretion. I studied the incantations, committing the formula to memory. As I had never heard of such a thing proving effectual in living memory, I doubted its merit. Still, it was worth trying.

Joscelin was right, though. A plan was taking shape in my mind.

This plan, I kept silent and told no one. If I had, I think, they might have tried to stop me, to dissuade me. I hoped it would not come to it. If it did … well. Until we reached the shores of Third Sister, there was no way of knowing. I had only the Name of God to guide me, syllables beating inside my mind as surely and steadily as my own pulse.

The days passed at a snail’s pace. Every day, a courier raced eastward from Azzalle, last in a chain, reporting on the progress of the Cruarch’s party. A corps of Rousse’s sailors, trained to fight at sea and on land, would accompany us. I was glad it was Rousse’s men and not the Royal Army, misliking the idea of travelling with Imriel amid soldiers who owed their allegiance to Duc Barquiel L’Envers.

Our caravan was chosen and outfitted, stores at the ready, horses shod, baggage-train made ready.

We waited.

Drustan mab Necthana entered the City of Elua.

Ninety-Four

ON THAT day, Ysandre staged a meeting in Elua’s Square in the center of the City, where four fountains play beneath an ancient oak said to have been planted by Blessed Elua himself. It was there we had been bidden to assemble, waiting for the Cruarch’s procession to pass. We heard them long before they arrived, handbells ringing, voices raised in cheers.

It was all very splendid, with Drustan in his crimson cloak with the Cruarch’s gold torque at his throat, Ysandre at his side in a gown of spring-green silk, heavy with gold embroidery. Her shoulders were bare and she wore the necklace of Queen Zanadakhete, the massive emerald glinting on her breast. Elua’s banner, the Courcel swan and the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym fluttered overhead. Alais rode perched on the pommel of her father’s saddle, beaming; the Dauphine Sidonie was grave at her mother’s side on a matching pony. Twin lines of the Queen’s Guard in the livery of House Courcel flanked them, and throngs of people pressed close, throwing flowers. Petals fell like fragrant rain.

In the shadow of the great oak, we met them, Quintilius Rousse in his finest regalia, standing stalwart to receive the Queen’s commendation. I wore a riding-gown of forest-green velvet, the color of House Montrève. Hugues was carrying our banner, looking solemn in his new livery. Imriel had wanted garments in Montrève’s color, but I’d thought better of it, and he was outfitted instead in a deep-blue doublet and breeches, giving the nod to his Courcel heritage. Joscelin, of course, had contrived to secure himself attire in an unremarkable shade of grey, only his Cassiline arms identifying him. I was resigned to it by now.

“My lords and ladies, mesdames and messires!” Ysandre waited until their entourage had halted and raised her clear voice, addressing the crowds. “On this day, we not only welcome our husband and the august ruler of Alba, Drustan mab Necthana, into the City of Elua, but we bid farewell and godspeed to our Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse, who leads this expedition to the Three Sisters, in the hopes of breaking forevermore the curse of the Master of the Straits. Know that our best hopes go with them.” Her mare shifted sideways, and Ysandre settled her, glancing at me. “Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève,” she said, her tone softening. “On this day, your sentence is ended, and you are free to pursue that which you have sought for ten years and more. Know that we wish you well, and pray for your success.”

Standing beside my mount, I curtsied deeply, and my household followed suit.

Drustan mab Necthana dismounted, giving his reins to his daughter Alais’ keeping. Heedless of propriety, he came over to greet us all, clasping arms with Quintilius Rousse, embracing Joscelin like a brother. He shook hands gravely with Imriel, who was greatly impressed with the intricate patterns of blue woad that decorated the Cruarch’s face.

“Phèdre.” Drustan set his hands on my shoulders. We had always understood one another, he and I. “You truly believe you have the means to free him?”

I nodded, unable to reply. The Name of God crowded my tongue. All I could do was gaze at Drustan, seeing in his dark eyes the knowledge of Hyacinthe’s sacrifice, the guilt that had plagued him for so long. Like me, he would have taken it upon himself if he could have. He had been there. He knew. I heard in my mind the dry chirruping sound of a grasshopper, and remembered anew what was at stake.

Immortality without youth; an eternity of aging. That was what Hyacinthe endured, while the rest of us loved and fought and reproduced, carrying on our stories without him.

“May it be so.” Drustan bent his head to kiss my brow. “The honor of the Cullach Gorrym goes with you to fight for our brother Hyacinthe. Sibeal awaits you in Pointes des Soeurs, Phèdre. She carries my hope in her heart.”

So it was done, and Drustan remounted his horse, securing Alais in the crook of his arm. And the crowds cheered and pelted them with flowers, urging them on their way. In the City of Elua, the revelry would begin in earnest that day, and by evenfall, the salons of reception would be overflowing in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, asD’Angelines sought to celebrate in their own fashion the reunion of their Queen and her husband.