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I watched Ysandre ride away, her back straight in the saddle, and sighed.

“Come on, then!” Quintilius Rousse, already mounted, chivvied his troops. “The sooner we’re underway, the sooner we’re on water, lads! My lady, are you ready? Yes? Then let us be off. The Lord of the Deep is waiting, and I say he’s waited long enough!”

Our journey began.

The first thing we noted was the Tsingani. It did not seem strange, at first; there are always Tsingani on the road in the spring, travelling to the horse-fairs. It was Imriel who noted that they were following us. With an entire squadron of Rousse’s men accompanying us-most of them drawn from the dedicated corps that still bore the name Phèdre’s Boys and held to marching-chants that made me wish to cover Imriel’s ears-we were not exactly unobtrusive. In the villages and cities along the way, the Tsingani presence seemed unremarkable. It was when we camped upon the open road that it became obvious.

The Tsingani were following us.

And they weren’t the only ones.

The Yeshuite presence was more subtle than the Tsingani, whose brightly painted wagons were unmistakable. But gradually, as we travelled, it became evident that there were Yeshuites among our followers, some on foot, others in wagons, plain and unmarked alongside the gaily painted Tsingani
kumpanias
.

“Elua’s Balls!” Quintilius Rousse exclaimed when the truth of it grew apparent. “What do
they
want?”

“They want to know what happens,” I said. “They want to hear the Name of God.”

What
would
happen when I spoke it? I did not know. It was a question too vast for me to comprehend. That which I knew and understood was trial enough. And so we rode across the green-growing land of Terre d’Ange, making for the Pointe des Soeurs, accompanied by our unlikely entourage. And I thought about the Name of God as we rode, and everything I saw was precious in my eyes, from the smallest leaf unfurling on the vine to my own companions. Brusque Rousse, loyal Ti-Philippe, eager Hugues, and ah, Elua! Joscelin, with his drab Cassiline attire covering his many scars, all gotten on my behalf, his hair worn loose to cover his arrow-gouged ear, his one concession to vanity.

And Imriel.
Imrìel
.

My heart ached at the sight of him, happy and proud to be embarking once more upon a heroic quest. He rode with his head erect, watchful and sharp, his hands steady on the reins.

A matter of honor
.

He believed it.

Oh, Melisande, I thought. You do not know this son of yours; of ours. Brother Selbert was right, he may surprise us all, in the end. Our goat-herd prince, our barbarian’s slave. Am I wrong, to risk him thusly? Yet if I did not, if I forbid it… Ysandre is right, too. What resentments would it breed? He has your pride, Melisande, and he must be allowed it. Anger would fester too easily in this one. I can only try to offset it, to teach him compassion.

Blessed Elua grant I live to do it.

And so I watched them all, and kept my plan a secret as we made our way across Terre d’Ange, our silent entourage growing.

We arrived to find a Pointe des Soeurs much changed from the lonely garrison it had been, an isolated fortress ten miles from the meanest village. An encampment the size of a small city had grown up around it since I had been there two years past, with lively trade going on to support it. Evrilac Duré, who served the duchy of Trevalion, greeted us and guided us to the fortress. It was he who had brought the news, two years gone, of the passing of the old Master of the Straits, though he had not known it as such.

“It began this winter,” he said shortly, in answer to my question regarding the encampment. “Tsingani, mostly. Watching and waiting. I don’t know what for, but I have a score of suits pending, begging a place on the Admiral’s ship. ’Tis for Lord Rousse to decide, I’ve told them.”

“He’s their
Tsingan kralis
,” I murmured. “Hyacinthe, that is. They speak his name at the crossroads. They are waiting for him to return.”

“Well.” Evrilac Duré eyed me. “He may not be what they expect, when he does. I heard the stories, my lady. I saw what I saw. And one who’s served as the Master of the Straits has more on his mind than a lot of motley Tsingani. I can tell you, the Cruarch’s sister waits here, too.”

“The Lady Sibeal,” I said.

“The same.” He gestured to his guard to raise the portcullis, admitting us into the fortress proper. “And I don’t mind telling you, we give a good deal of thought to it, here in Azzalle.”

He said no more; he didn’t need to. That much I had garnered during my Bitterest Winter in the City of Elua. The question of Drustan’s successor remained unsettled. According to the old laws of matrilineal heritage, no child of Drustan mab Necthana’s loins could inherit the rulership of Alba. It must be one of his sisters’ offspring. Breidaia, the eldest, had children. Sibeal did not.

They had given her the best quarters available and housed her honor guard of Cruithne warriors. Ghislain nó Trevalion had sent his own chef and his second chamberlain to ensure her comfort-and ours. This, too, had been arranged over the course of the winter months. Ysandre had not been idle while I brooded.

“Phèdre nó Delaunay.” Sibeal’s accent had improved. She held my hands in hers. “You have come, as I dreamed you would. Was the journey long?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was, my lady.”

She nodded gravely and turned to greet Joscelin. “It is good to see you, my brother.”

“Lady Sibeal.” Joscelin bowed, his vambraces flashing in the lamp-lit dining hall. “You honor me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I speak the truth. So my brother the Cruarch has named you, and so you are. And I … I have no place here, who have only watched and waited while others trod the dark path. But here my dream has led me, and I am grateful for your indulgence.”

It would have been easier if I could have disliked Sibeal and found it in my heart to resent her. In truth, I could not. She was too like her brother Drustan, with the same grave, dark eyes, the same calm dignity. And she loved Hyacinthe. Could I fault her for that? I loved him too. If I had trodden a dire path on his behalf, still, I had not done it alone.

So we dined together in the wind-battered halls of Pointe des Soeurs, and Quintilius Rousse conferred with his men, plotting our course. Evrilac Duré brought him the petitions to read, pleading for a spot aboard the flagship. Rousse scanned them with half an eye and scowled, passing them off to me.

“Tsingani and Yeshuites, clamoring for a berth! What do they think this is, a pleasure-barge? I’ve no room for landsmen underfoot. If the Lord of the Deep takes against us, we’ll need expert hands on deck, and no mistake.”

I glanced at the petitions. “They’ve a stake in the matter, my lord Admiral.”

“Let them get their own ships, if they’re so eager.” He glowered at me, looking particularly fearsome. “Two. I’ll grant you two places, Phèdre nó Delaunay. No more. And you shall have the choosing of it. You let them know at daybreak, for we’ll hoist sail soon after.”

“My lord.” I inclined my head, acknowledging his decision.

Ninety-Five

I REMAINED awake long into the small hours of the night. It was not so much the petitions, for those were easy, in the end. The hardest part was deciphering the scribblings of the guards who had accepted them, jotting notes on foolscap. Most of the Tsingani were illiterate, lacking the schooling that is inherent in D’Angeline society. Even the humblest of D’Angeline families see to the education of their children; it is a gift that Elua and his Companions have given us. We have not shared it well.

Kristof, son of Oszkar. I remembered the name. He had risked his
kumpania
to bring us word of the Carthaginian slavers.

And for the Yeshuites …

Eleazar had come. It grieved me that he had not sought me out to ask the boon. We studied together for many years, he and I. After the death of Rebbe Nahum ben Isaac, he was my closest comrade in the Yeshuite community. But I, in favor or not, was the Comtesse de Montrève. I fear he dared not ask.

Well, he would have his chance to hear the Name of God at last. He had earned it, having sought it for so long. I hoped it was a kindness I gave him, and not a death-sentence.

I would know upon the morrow.

Joscelin remained awake with me, long after Imriel had lost the battle and fallen into sound slumber on an adjacent pallet, worn out by travel and the sea winds. I talked over my decisions with him, the wick on the oil lamp trimmed low. And then, at last, there was only one thing left to discuss.

“What happens to us?” Joscelin asked softly, lying beside me. “Phèdre … if…
when
… you succeed in freeing Hyacinthe, what happens to you and me?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. A lock of his fair hair lay over his shoulder; I ran it between my fingers. It was easier than meeting his eyes. “Joscelin. You know I love you like my own life. Nothing that ever happens could change that. We
are
a family, you and I … and Imri. I would never break that bond.”

“But you love him, too.”

I did look at him, then; I had to. “Could you ask me not to?”

“No.” He shuddered and put his arms around me. “It scares me, that’s all.”

I felt his strength surrounding me, the steady beat of his heart close to mine, the Name of God sounding in every pulse. “My Perfect Companion,” I said, and smiled at him. “Joscelin. We spoke bold words about fear, do you remember? There is no one else like you. No one. We set ourselves in Elua’s hand when we entered Drujan. We are there still, and always.”

“I pray you’re right.” He kissed me then, and made no other reply.

There was no other to make.

After a time, Joscelin too slept, and I alone was left awake to watch over them. I listened to Imriel murmur in his sleep, too quiet for a full-blown nightmare. I gazed at Joscelin’s arm outflung in a patch of moonlight. His hand lay open, the fingers slightly curled. How many times had that strong arm protected me? I could not even count any more. The moon travelled across the night sky, and waves broke on the shore below the fortress.

I wondered what would happen on the morrow.

In time I too slept, and sleeping, dreamed I woke still, watching and waiting. Not until I opened my eyes to the dim grey light of dawn and the sound of seagulls did I realize I had slept. Rousse’s men were stirring, making ready for departure. In the fortress, the kitchens were already bustling. Leaving Joscelin to attend Imriel, I rode out to the encampment with Evrilac Duré and a company of his men. There too, life was stirring, cookfires lit, Tsingani and Yeshuites awaiting. They had seen our party enter. They knew it would be today.

“There is room,” I called, raising my voice, “for two people, and two people only on the Royal Admiral’s flagship. You who have petitioned for this place, know that the journey is dangerous; the end, uncertain. Does anyone wish to withdraw?”

There was a pause as my words were relayed across the encampment. Afterward, silence. In the quiet, a Tsingano babe wailed, hushed by its mother. No other sound answered.

“So be it,” I said. “For the Tsingani, to whom he who is Master of the Straits was born, I grant passage to Kristof, Oszkar’s son, who gave aid when it was most needed. For the Yeshuites, I summon Eleazar ben Enokh, who has spent his life seeking the Name of God.”

And they came, the both of them; the Tsingano
tseroman
bidding his
kumpania
farewell, clad in a shirt of bright yellow, his face guarded as he approached us. Eleazar rode a little donkey, his feet peddling on the ground, a smile of delight splitting his tangled beard.

“You should have asked,” I told him.

“It was not yours to grant, before.” His smile broadened. “Now, it is.”

I sighed, and addressed them both. “You understand we may not return from this?”

Eleazar only beamed, and bobbed his head. I felt a moment’s grief for Adara, who had let her husband go to pursue his dream. Kristof gave a brusque nod. “You have walked the
Lungo Drom
for him, lady,” he said. “It is fitting one of us should be there to see its end, no matter what it be.”

Thus did we make our way back to the fortress of Pointe des Soeurs, and the hungry eyes of those left behind watched us go. Quintilius Rousse had not spoken idly. His flagship, that was named
Elua’s Promise
, sat at harbor, ready for departure. A half-dozen pennants fluttered from its mast-the golden lily-and-stars of Elua and his Companions, the silver swan of House Courcel, the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym, the crag-and-moon of Montrève, the Navigator’s Star of Trevalion, and there … a sable banner with a ragged circle of scarlet, crossed by a barbed golden dart.

Kushiel’s Dart.

“It is fitting,” Quintilius Rousse said somberly. “My lady.”

We boarded the ship, all of us. The rising sun emerged from a bank of clouds, laying a cloak of golden light upon the grey waters. The anchor was raised and the sails were hoisted, bearing the silver swan wrought large on a blue field. The oarsmen set to, and their efforts carried us out of the harbor of Pointe des Soeurs.

On the shore, Evrilac Duré and his men cheered. I wondered if they were glad to be remaining behind this time. Another crowd, distant, lined the cliffs above the harbor. I saw the Tsingano Kristof raise his hand in salute, and wondered how many he left behind in his
kumpania
. I was afraid to ask. Eleazar pointed his face into the wind, eager as a lover, his beard blowing in the breeze.

Sibeal stood alone in the prow, swaying with the ship’s motion, flanked by her watchful Cruithne warriors. In my dreams, it was always I who stood there.

But I … I had Joscelin, looking green and swallowing hard against his illness, standing adamant at Imriel’s side, and Ti-Philippe, who looked at home and glad upon the sea, and Hugues, keen as a hound on the scent for adventure.

I was not alone.

Not yet.

The winds blew fair and steady, like a summons. I wondered if Hyacinthe knew, if even now he plied his skills, the Master of the Straits, bringing us homeward. The sky turned into a clear blue vault above us, a few scudding clouds high overhead. Sunlight sparkled on the water, and the gulls circled with raucous cries, hoping we might prove a fishing vessel casting offal from our catch overboard. After so long, the confrontation to come seemed unreal. It was a day for rejoicing, not for endings.