"You brought the Alban army, you and Joscelin."
"Well." I thought of Drustan mab Necthana, of Grainne and Eamonn of the Dalriada. "We carried the Queen's plea, yes. But I rather think they brought themselves. And," I said soberly, "it was Hyacinthe who paid the price of that crossing."
"Hyacinthe," Imriel murmured.
"Yes," I said. "Hyacinthe."
They don't tell his story in the inland villages of Terre d'Ange. Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, a footnote in the Ysandrine Cycle. Out side the Tsingani and those who maintain watch along the coast of Azzalle, no one remembers more. A bargain was struck with the Master of the Straits, a price was paid. The mystery of the Master of the Straits, eight hundred years old, endures. An apprentice was taken; the cycle continues unbroken. About me, they tell stories, because I remained, scarlet mote and all, to become the Comtesse de Montrève, the Queen's confidante, the most famous of Naamah's Servants in many generations, who stood upon a balcony in the Temple of Asherat and denounced a vast conspiracy.
Of Hyacinthe—of his quick grin and his irrepressible charm, of his knack with horses and his gift of the dromonde—of Hyacinthe, the poets do not sing.
One day, I thought, they will.
I hoped Hyacinthe could still laugh when they did.
NINETY
IT WAS snowing the day we sighted the white walls of the City of Elua.Our Serenissiman escorts insisted on seeing us into the city, al though I would have dismissed them earlier. "Ah, no, lady," their leader said cheerfully. "Lord Ricciardo paid us to see you home, and it's home we will see you, to your doorstep and no less."
The sky was leaden, flakes of snow drifting aimlessly to lie without accumulating on the frozen earth. In the vineyards, the grape vines were desiccated tangles of brown along the fences. At the southern gate, a pair of guards in City livery traded places, sharing a charcoal brazier, stripping off their gloves to warm their chilled hands. The rest were lurking in the garrison.
Joscelin rode forward to announce us. "The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève returns," he said in his most inflectionless voice.
There was a brief, stunned silence.
"My lady!" One of the guards stepped forward, bowing low. "Welcome home."
"Thank you." I gazed through the gate, at the familiar streets that lay beyond, the elegant architecture in perfect scale to its surroundings. People strolled the streets, swathed in warm cloaks against the chill, laughing and remarking on the snow. A smart carriage drawn by a pair of matched bays passed; I knew the arms emblazoned on the door, the silver harrow of the Marquis d'Arguil. He had chided Joscelin and me for failing to attend their cherry-blossom fête when last I had seen him, and begged us to attend their next gathering. It seemed a very long time ago. "My lord guardsman," I said, drawing a deep breath. "Pray send word to her majesty Queen Ysandre that I have returned. We will go now to my home, and thence to the Palace forthwith to attend upon her pleasure."
"My lady." He bowed again; his tone had changed. He had seen Imriel. Like the border-guard, he guessed. "It will be done."
"These men," I said, indicating our Serenissiman escort, "are in the service of Lord Ricciardo Stregazza of La Serenissima, and due free passage in the City in accordance with our alliance."
"It is granted." He stepped aside to allow us through, watching and wondering. Half the garrison turned out to watch as we entered the gates; the other half crowded in the doorway of the gatehouse, fighting for exit.
Hearing the whispers, Imriel drew up the hood of his cloak and lowered his head.
"You have nothing to hide," I told him.
He glanced at me from under the shadow of his hood and said nothing, but his bare knuckles were white on the reins.
Behind us, I heard the sound of a mounted guardsman pelting for the Palace.
Joscelin took the lead as we rode through the City of Elua, unper turbed by the whispers. They recognized him, of course. No one else who is not a sworn member of the Cassiline Brotherhood would dare wear the arms—the vambraces glinting steel beneath his sleeves, the twin daggers at his hips, the hilt of his sword riding over his shoulder. And they knew me. Imriel was a slight figure, shrouded and hooded. Our Serenissiman guards pressed close around us, glowering, and I was glad they had stayed.
The whispers followed us. "Phèdre," I heard, my name spoken as in my dream. "Phèdre." And as in my dream, we retraced our journey, step by step, winding our way through the City of Elua in a slow and stately pavane.
In the narrow courtyard outside my house, my stable-keeper Benoit dropped his jaw to see us, a pair of buckets swinging from a yolk across his shoulders.
"Benoit," I said. "We are back. Will you prepare a stall—"
That was as far as I got before the door opened and a young man burst through it, with ruddy cheeks and shoulders on him like an ox. He stared at us in disbelief before shouting at the top of his considerable lungs. "Philippe! Philippe!"
I'd gotten half out of the saddle and almost remembered the young man's name by the time Ti-Philippe came at a run, sword half-drawn from a scabbard he clutched in his bare hand. He skidded to a halt on the frost-slick paving stones and let out a whoop of pure joy, tossing his sword aside. "Phèdre!" Grabbing me about the waist, he swung me free from the saddle and spun me around. "You're alive!"
"You doubted it?" I asked dizzily when he set me down.
"I shouldn't have," he said, and grinned. "I shouldn't have. Cassiline!" He turned to Joscelin, who had dismounted, and embraced him hard, thumping his back. "Elua's Balls, it's good to see you!"
"And you, sailor." Even Joscelin was beaming. "And you!"
"And what have you brought home this time, my lady? " Ti-Philippe inquired, surveying the others, still seated in their saddles. "A Yeshuite sage? A Jebean honor guard? They don't look Jebean . . ." His voice trailed off as Imriel drew back his hood. "Name of Elua!"
"Imriel de la Courcel," he finished for me. "Ah, my lady! You've done it now."
After that, a good deal of chaos ensued, foremost of which was the emergence of Eugenie, who pushed everyone else aside to embrace me and then take me by the shoulders and shake me, weeping, only to embrace me again. Joscelin, she kissed resoundingly on both cheeks, then shook. Imriel watched it wide-eyed. Ti-Philippe saw to the business of dismissing the Serenissimans with thanks and a gift of coin. He spoke Caerdicci and sailor's argot alike, and I've no doubt he instructed them on the best possible places to spend one's coin on dice and wine and pleasure in the City of Elua. I thanked them too, before they left, and promised to commend them to Ricciardo Stregazza. All the while, Hugues—I had remembered his name—toiled to bring our laden trunks inside the house, while Benoit tended to our mounts and Eugenie commenced to turn the entire household upside down to welcome us home.
"Don't," I said gently to her. "We're bound straightaway for the Palace. It's not an occasion to celebrate, not yet. A bath and a bite of food is all."
Her shoulders slumped, then straightened. "Ah, child. It's the boy, isn't it?"
I nodded.
Eugenie patted my cheek. "He needs a bit of tending, doesn't he? And a light touch, I'm guessing. Will you be bringing him home from the Palace, my lady?"
"You know who he is?”
"Shouldn't I?" There was kind wisdom in her smile. "I told you once, my lady: Hearth and home mean love, too. And if ever there was a lad in need of it, it's that one."
I found Imriel in the salon, considering the bust of Delaunay upon its marble plinth. I sat upon the couch and watched him. It seemed strange to be here. The house was immaculately kept, smelling of citrus oil and beeswax. Everything was as I had left it, down to the smallest detail—the pomander ball on the low table, the engraved fire-screen angled just so, the tall vase in the corner with leathery dried flowers that rattled like a gourd when shaken, a gift from a long-ago patron with an interest in botany.
"Who was he?" Imriel asked without turning around.
"That is my lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève, of whom I have spoken," I said. "He bought my marque, and adopted me into his household. And he trained me in the arts of covertcy."
"He made you his spy."
"Yes," I said. "He did. But he asked me, every step of the way, if I was certain it was my own desire. I always wondered, Imri, why he kept asking me the same question, over and over, when my answer was always the same. I understand it better now."
Imriel sat down next to me. "Like you keep asking if I'm sure."
On the plinth, the bust of Delaunay watched us both, his austere marble features imbued with all the irony and tenderness of the living man. I rested my chin in my hands and gazed back at him, wondering what he would make of this unlikely turn of events, wishing he was here, as I have wished a thousand times since his death. "Yes," I said. "Like that."
"Were you ever sorry?"
I glanced at Imriel to find him smiling, eyes dancing; he already knew the answer. "No." I smiled back at him. "I may have cursed it once or twice, but I never regretted it. Not in the end."
"I won't either, you know," he said. "I won't."
"I may remind you of that on occasion." I leaned over to kiss his brow. "Come on, I'll show you to the bathing-room so we can get you presentable for court."
"Can I wear my chamma and Ras Lijasu's belt?"
"Mmm, better not. It's too cold, and anyway, I'd rather not remind Ysandre— " A pounding at the front door interrupted my words. "Imriel, go into the kitchen with Eugenie. Go!"
He went, the shadow of fear back in his eyes. Ti-Philippe, Joscelin and Hugues were already in the entryway when I arrived. Ti-Philippe motioned for silence, then opened the small speaking-partition in the door, standing well to the side. "Who calls upon the Comtesse de Mon-trève?"