Imriel.

He rode in the thick of Rousse's sailors, Phedre's Boys, and one of them had entrusted him with bearingthe company standard, the banner that bore the image of Kushiel's Dart. Imri grinned with pride at the honor, but they'd taken to him out of genuine liking, impressed with his unwavering courage aboard the Elua's Promise. I swear, it seemed he'd grown another inch on this journey. I thought with rue of Hyacinthe's offer. In truth, it tempted me ... if only the tiniest bit. Not for the power, no, but the knowledge. To master the tongue of Heaven! Ah, Elua, that would be something. Mayhap I would recognize in the strange characters those I had seen forming in the dust of the Ark of Broken Tablets, that I might record them, writing for posterity the unpronounceable Name of God.

All knowledge is worth having.

So my lord Delaunay used to say, so I have always believed. Seven years, it had taken Hyacinthe to learn it, the tongue and script alone. How long would it take me? Less, I daresay; I had the advantage of ten years of Habiru behind me. That should halve it, at least.

In three years, Imriel would be fifteen.

And not for anything, not for the knowledge of all of the One God's secrets, did I want to miss those years. The furious, terrified child I had found in Daranga had grown into a boy on the brink of youth, proud and touchy and damaged, but with a streak of courage that awed grown men, a heart capable of love and tremendous sacrifice. While he grew to manhood, it would always be touch and go with Imri, his generosity of spirit at war with the bitter unfairness of the lot he'd drawn, of the horrors that had been visited upon him and the scars they'd left. Love alone could sway the balance.

I touched my bare throat, where once Melisande's diamond had hung.

I had a promise to keep.

Although, I thought, riding under the bright blue D'Angeline skies, it may be that Hyacinthe would be willing to share with me the alphabet alone, and mayhap a phonetic guide to the pronunciation of the unknown characters. After all, I'd done a fair job of teaching myself Jeb'ez from Audine Davul's guide.

Kaneka may have laughed at me in the zenana, but she'd understood me well enough, and I'd garnered that much studying on shipboard and over campfires. A few hours here and there ... I need not devote the last years of my youth to an all-consuming apprenticeship, but a good deal can be accomplished in a few stolen hours over time, if one is determined enough. Who knew what texts might be unearthed if correspondence was established between Saba and Terre d'Ange one day? Eleazar ben Enokh would be glad of the endeavor, of that I was sure. As the schism grew deeper among the Children of Yisra-el, those Yeshuites who sought peace over war were more and more likely to turn to his way of thinking; their presence among us on this journey was proof of that much.

"What on earth are you plotting now?" Joscelin's black gelding ranged alongside mine.

"Nothing." I smiled at him. "Just thinking."

Some five miles outside the City of Elua, the first emissaries met us; a joint party of Ysandre's and Drustan's men, the Queen's Guard resplendent in the blue and silver of House Courcel and the Cruarch's bare-chested in woolen Alban kilts, their elaborate woad markings and copper torques signifying that each was a nobleman's son. They formed an escort around us, leading us through the first of innumerable floral arches built along the way, a court herald calling out the news in stentorian tones to any who had not yet heard it, which I daresay was no one.

From there, our procession grew very, very slow. I have ridden in a triumph once before, when Ysandre returned to the City after the battle of Troyes-le-Monte, where we defeated the Skaldic army. I remember it well, for it was bittersweet, that occasion; as much as I was gladdened by our victory, I could not help but remember the dead and grieve for our losses.

This time, it was different. For all the terrors that had beset us on the waters, there had been no cost to human life. Hyacinthe was freed, and no one had died for it. As long and arduous as the journey had been, no one else had born the price of it. If I had entered the cavern of the Temenos and undergone the ritual of thetalos there and then, the chains of blood-guilt I bore would be no heavier.

I had not realized until then how profoundly grateful I was for it.

There was Daranga, of course; there would always be Daranga. None of us who had been there would ever be free of its shadow. But that. . . that had been somewhat other, and not the triumph we celebrated today.

Ysandre and Drustan met us at the gates.

How many times had I stood among the throng welcoming Drustan's return? As many years as they had been wed. Now I beheld a like spectacle from the other side, riding at a snail's pace down the packed road, while onlookers shouted and threw a hail of flowers and the harried City Guard sought to keep spectators from spilling onto the road. The white walls of the City of Elua were crowded with watchers.

A contingent of Ysandre's ladies-in-waiting tossed sweets and coins to the children, who shouted with glee.

As befitted their status, Hyacinthe and Sibeal rode first, flanked by Cruithne warriors. Behind Quintilius Rousse, I sat my mare and watched as they dismounted.

"Master of the Straits," Ysandre greeted him in her clear voice. "Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, be welcome to the City of Elua." And she made him a deep curtsy and held it, according a Tsingani half-breed, a laundress' son from the gutters of Night's Doorstep, the acknowledgment due a superior, which no ruling monarch of Terre d'Ange has extended to anyone in living memory.

The crowd drew its collective breath, then loosed it in a roar of acclaim.

"On behalf of Alba," Drustan called, "I bid you equal welcome." He too made a deep bow, then straightened, grinning. "And welcome you to my family as well, brother, with thanks for bringing safely to land my sister the lady Sibeal!"

Another roar followed his announcement.

Sibeal merely gave her quiet smile, and went to give the kiss of greeting to Drustan and Ysandre alike, and her young nieces Alais and Sidonie. All eyes remained on Hyacinthe, who stood alone before the joint regents. He bowed deeply, holding it long enough that there could be no doubt he acknowledged their sovereignty. The cloak of indeterminate color fell in immaculate folds as he straightened, his hair tumbling over the collar in black ringlets.

"Your majesties," he said, and although he did not raise his voice, it carried across the crowds, echoed from the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "My lady Queen, my lord Cruarch. I am glad to be here." That was as far as he got, for the shouting drowned out even him. I daresay the majority of the crowd would have cheered no matter who he was, Rahab's get or laundress' son, for the sheer drama of the Master of the Straits entering the gates of the City of Elua. But there, atop the walls, perched a delegation surely dispatched from the less reputable parts of Night's Doorstep, a handful of young men in their twenties and thirties, Tsingani, half-breed and D'Angeline, who drummed their heels on the white walls of the City and chanted, "Hy-a-cinthe! Hy-a-cinthe!"

He looked around at that, and if I had wondered if the Master of the Straits could still weep, I had my answer. Tears shone on his cheeks as he bowed once more in their direction, swirling his cloak as he rose with a touch of the old Prince of Travellers' flair and sweeping both arms in the air and clapping his palms together.

A ripping peal of thunder split the clear sky.

Hyacinthe was home, if only for a little while.

The roaring din of the crowd eclipsed Quintilius Rousse's salute to Queen and Cruarch, and I had no idea what he said, only that Ysandre raised him up with both hands and kissed his cheek, and Drustan clasped his forearms, grinning. And then it was our turn, and I found my legs trembling as we dismounted and approached the royal pair. To be welcomed thusly after our defiance ... I had no words for the gratitude in my heart.

It was politics, yes; but somewhat more besides.

Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow, sweeping and precise, sunlight glinting from the battered steel of his vambraces-and the crowd loved that, too. When all was said and done, the Queen had named no other Champion. And here and there, they shouted for Imriel, who still carried the standard of Kushiel's Dart-my standard, the standard of Phedre's Boys-prompted by the yells of Rousse's soldiers and the pride with which Imri carried it, executing his bow flawlessly without letting the standard dip. He won a few admirers that day on sheer presence alone.

I saw his eyes shine, and knew he did it on my behalf.

And then . . .

"Don't even think of it," Ysandre muttered through stiff lips as I made my curtsy, struggling against the desire to kneel and beg her forgiveness for the enormity of my transgressions against the throne. "I swear, Phedre no Delaunay, if you do ..."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, getting the words out even as her hand grasped my elbow, fingers digging in with painful pressure, keeping me upright. "Ysandre, I'm so sorry."

"I know." Her violet eyes softened despite the pressure of her fingertips, and Queen Ysandre de la Courcel shook her head. "You idiot," she said fondly, then gave me the kiss of greeting in front of ten thousand assembled watchers, restoring my status as her favored confidante, and taking her time in doing it.

This, too, met with considerable approval.

It was Terre d'Ange, after all. I was flushed when I made my curtsy to Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba. His eyes glinted with amusement and gladness. "So you did it after all."

"Yes." I knew what he meant. Drustan had been there, when Hy-acinthe paid the price both of us would have taken on ourselves had it been allowed. I drew a deep breath and loosed it in a tremulous laugh, feeling strange with this unmixed, untempered joy. "We did."

And Drustan too kissed me, and we passed through the gate that the procession might continue, while the cheers rose around us in endless waves beneath the cloudless sky, free of spite or envy, surging in the bright air of the City of Elua, for once celebrating a victory unalloyed with defeat.

I was content.

We were home, all of us.

ONE HUNDRED ONE.

THE SUMMER passed swiftly.

I was visibly and undeniably in favor once more, and the same nobles who had shunned me during the long and bitter winter sent small gifts and jocular invitations to this event and that, most of which I declined, pleading an over-full schedule, which was no lie. At Hyacinthe's word, Ghislain no Trevalion sent a galley to retrieve the library from the Master of the Straits' tower, and I had my hands full cataloguing some four hundred tomes and scrolls, many of which had been believed lost. Word of this was leaked, and I had to field a half-dozen bids from academies and universities throughout the realm that wished to increase their archives.

Of course, I intended to see first what was there and have fair-copies made.

Hyacinthe, for his part, dwelt at the Palace and spent long hours closeted with Queen and Cruarch and his intended, Sibeal. What transpired in those sessions, I cannot say, save that an agreement was reached and Drustan mab Necthana granted them a coastal territory in Alba, north of Bryn Gorrydum, where the erstwhile Master of the Straits might maintain his vigil. Thence would they travel, come autumn, after plighting their troth before the Cruarch's mother and kin in Alba.

Of a surety, he met with the baro kumpai of the Tsingani, the four families who were foremost among their folk, and a successor was chosen among them. This meeting took place outside the walls of the City of Elua, for full-blooded Tsingani who follow the Long Road have ever been uncomfortable in enclosed spaces, and I am told it was the greatest gathering of their kind ever held in the shadow of the City walls.

I missed it, for we were in Montreve at the time, returning to my long-neglected estate.

It was good to visit Montreve. Imriel loved it there; I hadn't reckoned on that. I should have, raised as he was in the mountains of Siovale. The pace of life is slower, there. We found everything much in order, for if I had been two years absent, Purnell Friote and his wife Richeline were capable seneschals, maintaining the manor in impeccable readiness for our return, all the while carrying on effortlessly without us. They had three children between them, Imri's age and younger, and he fell in among them with ease, squabbling and scrapping and jumping out of hay-lofts as a boy his age ought. It did my heart good tosee it.

Between them, Joscelin and Ti-Philippe saw to the security of our estate, riding the borders and ensuring that every outlying crofter and free-holder knew the value of what they warded, setting up a system of watchers and messengers to maintain the borders. They are a shrewd folk, the Siovalese-and we had won their loyalty, as much by benign neglect as aught else. Siovalese prefer not to be troubled by their overlords, and I had surely done that much. If they had been uncertain of me at the beginning, they had accepted my stewardship of Montreve over the years. Now it had become a matter of pride, and not a few families sent sons and daughters to the manor to take positions in my household. The garrison, which had stood empty for years, was staffed with some twenty eager young recruits, and Ti-Philippe and Joscelin undertook to train them. By the time they were done, I had no doubts that there were few places in Terre d'Ange safer for Imriel than my lord Delaunay's childhood home of Montreve.

Afterward, Joscelin set about building a mews.

I had promised him that, although I'd forgotten it. Elua knows, he remembered. A bestiary, I'd said, if we returned in one piece. I was fortunate that he sought only a mews; and a kennel, for after the initial word of our return, his brother Luc sent a long, gossip-filled letter and a gift of a hound-bitch from Verreuil ready to whelp, which delighted Imri to no end. As for the mews, Ysandre sent her own Head Falconer to supervise the construction of it, and I must needs be resigned to a portion of my estate being given over to the manly pursuits of hunting and fishing.

If it hadn't pleased them so, I might have minded more.

A lively correspondence went in and out of Montreve all summer long, keeping me abreast of news in the City of Elua and beyond. Nicola L'Envers y Aragon sent a lengthy reply to my own letter, giving a full account of all that had transpired in Aragonia since our visit. It had been a considerable task, rooting out the hidden network of the Carthaginian slave-trade, and her husband Ramiro had distinguished himself in the process, much to the surprise of those who thought him good only for drinking and gaming. I was glad to hear it, although sorry it meant Nicola would not be travelling that year. It would have been pleasant to see her.

Still, mayhap it was as well, for there was much to be done. For all that our surroundings were idyllic, my days were seldom idle. In addition to staying abreast of the changes being wrought in Montreve and continuing Imriel's studies-when I could keep him indoors, which wasn't often-I worked at cataloguing my new-found literary wealth, often lingering over individual texts longer than I ought. Visitors came and went, and our network of watchers in the countryside proved effective, for none came without warning.

Save one.

Hyacinthe.

He came at dusk on an evening when a gathering of storm clouds warred with the setting sun. 'Twas Richeline's cry in the herb garden that alerted me, and I left the manor in time to see him coming, a dim figure on a grey horse, his shape emerging from the veil of low mist that hung in the olive grove, shot through with the last slanting dazzle of the sun's gold before it sank behind the hills. Small wonder that he had passed unnoticed, cloaked in the elements he commanded.

"Phedre." He smiled at me as the mist dispersed, looming suddenly there and present, even as Richeline clapped both hands over her mouth, dropping the herbs she had picked for the evening meal. Droplets of mist clung to his black curls. "Hyacinthe." I swallowed. "I thought the night breeze was to whisper my name."

"Not that," he said, dismounting; only a man, for an instant, saddle-sore and weary. "Not yet. I have been riding the land, to take the measure of it, that I might know it and remember. And I wanted ... I wanted to see how you lived, before I left."

There was shouting, then, within the household, and Hugues burst from the rear door with his cudgel upraised, staring to see the Master of the Straits at our garden gate.

"Hugues," I said, "would you see to Hyacinthe's horse?"

Thunder rumbled in reply and Hyacinthe made an absent gesture, whispering an incantation to dispel the clouds.

"Oh, don't." The words came impulsively. "We need the rain."

He smiled sidelong at me and murmured incomprehensible syllables.

A gentle rain began to fall, making a soft, silvery sound in the olive trees. A smell of damp earth arose around us. Such was his power, who was Master of the Straits.

I cleared my throat. "Will you come in?"

"Yes," Hyacinthe said softly. "I'd like that."

We were in the parlour when Joscelin and Imriel returned from their day's long ramble, damp through and through and in high spirits despite it, having found a meadow perfect for the training of hawks. They stopped short, upon finding Hyacinthe there.

How strange, to see them all in the same place.

Adjourning to the dining hall, we passed a pleasant meal together, and Hyacinthe told us of the gathering of the baro kumpai, and how he had chosen among the candidates set forth to lead the Tsingani. He had quizzed them all, asking how each would have handled the fate of his mother, Anasztaizia, driven from the Tsingani for having surrendered her virtue to a D'Angeline, the bitter price paid for a cousin's ill-placed wager. All of them knew the answer he sought; only Bexhet, son of Nadja, gave it unfaltering, with all the stammering pride of one raised a widow-woman's son, prepared to challenge the ancient code of the Tsingani that placed such inordinate weight on outmoded rules of honor that valued a woman's virginity above her person.

"You might have chosen a woman to lead them," I said to tease him.

Hyacinthe gave me the ghost of his grin. "I might," he said. "But to force growth is to kill it. Let the Tsingani grow at their own pace. Who knows? They may find the end of the Lungo Drom in it."

Afterward, we retired once more to the parlour and Imriel served cordial on a silver tray, taking pride in his role, as deft and neat-handed as an adept of the Night Court, watching and listening with all the acuity I had taught him.

"Melisande's son," Hyacinthe murmured in amazement as Imri left the room. "No, Tsingano," Joscelin corrected him. "Ours." He drained his glass and set it down with a faint click, frowning. "Forgive my rudeness, for I am glad of your presence. Yet I must ask it: Why have you come?"

"Cassiline." There was an ache in Hyacinthe's voice. "Forgive me. Yet I must know it: What is the price you paid for my freedom?"

I sent Imriel to bed, then, before we told the story in its entirety. It was his, yes, and there was no part I would deny him; but he was a boy, still. He would tell it himself in the fullness of time, to those he chooses to trust. Until then, I would protect him from it, from the parts he is too young to understand, from the parts that spark his nightmares anew.

To Hyacinthe, we told the truth.

From Melisande's first bargain, and the long road-our own Lungo Drom-it had engendered, we told him all. There were parts where Joscelin faltered, unable to describe what had ensued. I spoke of the zenana and the Mahrkagir's cruelty, the pall of Angra Mainyu, my voice sounding like a stranger's to me.

And Hyacinthe wept, silently, tears seeping like slow rain on his brown cheeks as he learned the truth of Daranga; what I had endured there, what Imri had undergone, and Joscelin, too, whose role in some ways was the hardest of all.

Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.

Even to Hyacinthe, I didn't tell the whole of it.

We told him of Jebe-Barkal, after, and the strangeness that was Saba, in all its attendant terrors and glories, the long effort of our voyage on the Lake of Tears, the awe that befell me upon Kapporeth and the Ark of Broken Tablets. And we spoke of the One God, of Yeshuites and the Children of Yisra-el, of Rahab and the Master of the Straits, of Blessed Elua and his Companions, and where their intertwined paths diverged. At some point, a weary Joscelin rose to bid me goodnight, his lips gentle on my cheek. I let him go, and remained awake long hours with Hyacinthe, the both of us quarreling over pronunciation and origins, tracing inadequate ciphers in the lees of our cordial on the tabletop, arguing the Name of God and the alphabet of heaven.

I don't know when I forgot his sea-shifting eyes and he ceased to be the Master of the Straits and became only Hyacinthe once more, my oldest friend, stubborn and clever as my lord Delaunay; as I myself had grown, truth be told.

Somewhere.

We knew, both of us. Hyacinthe bent his head and smiled ruefully, passing one hand over the marble table, the marks of our finger-drawn scribbling erasing with its passage. "I'll do as you asked," he said, hanging ringlets hiding his face. "The alphabet shall be yours, once . . . once we're established in Alba."

An unexpected pain seared my heart. "You and Sibeal."

He nodded without looking up. "She sees you in my dreams, you know," he murmured. "She understands."

"When will you go?" "A month." He did look up, then, and the Tsingano lad I'd loved looked out of his eyes. "Six weeks, mayhap. No longer."

"Will you go as you came here?" I asked, hating the thought of it. "A mist-wrought shadow crossing the land, your passage unmarked by man nor beast?"

"Mayhap." Hyacinthe shrugged. " 'Tis simpler, thus. Does it matter?"

"Yes," I said. I had an idea. "Yes, it does."

Hyacinthe left in the morning, when the early mists still rose from the fields, blending to surround him and shroud his figure as he departed. My household rose to see him off, watching his mounted form vanish into his surroundings, as the night's rain dripped from the olives and the silvery-green leaves sighed at his passing.

"What are you plotting now?" Joscelin inquired, reading my expression with the ease of one who'd had long practice at it.

"Nothing," I said, then amended it. "A fete. I'm planning a fete."