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foot to foot in an excess of excitement. Drustan looked purposeful, and his sister Sibeal, serene. I felt sick.
    I had forgotten how the island rushed upon one, how the ingress was hidden by high, steep walls. ’Twas a mighty wave had brought us the first time. This time, it was the wind that picked us out like a child’s toy, bearing us into the cliff-flanked harbor. I had forgotten how the open temple sat atop the isle, the endless stone stair cascading down to a rocky promontory.
    Where a lone figure awaited us.
    Even at a distance, I recognized him. My mouth opened to admit an involuntary sound, squeezed out by the unexpected, painful contraction of my heart.
    Hyacinthe .
    He lifted one hand and the wind went still. Our ship drifted, born on bobbing wavelets toward the shore. He lowered both hands and a shuddering ripple arose in the scant yards that separated the ship’s planks from the rock shore, the water heaving and churning. And he stood there, very much alone, clad in breeches and doublet of a rusty black velvet, salt-stained lace at his breast and cuffs.
    I made a choked gasp and he gave a rueful smile, his eyes, Hyacinthe’s eyes, dark and aware in his familiar, beloved face, taut fingers outstretched at the churning waves. His hair still spilled in blue-black ringlets over his shoulders, longer than when I had left him. Tiny crow’s-feet were etched at the corners of his eyes, always wont to smile; his eyes, Elua, oh!
    “Hello, Phèdre,” Hyacinthe said softly. “It’s good to see you.”
    His eyes went deeper and darker than ever I had seen, his pupils twin abysses, blackness unending. And around them his irises constricted in rings, shadow-shifting, oceanic depths reflected in a thousand wavering lights. I heard Joscelin’s cracked exclamation, saw those unearthly eyes shift.
    “And you, Cassiline.” Hyacinthe bowed from the waist, ironically. “My lord Drustan.” His voice changed. “Sibeal.”
    “ Hyacinthe !” I breathed, nails digging into the railing. “Oh, Hyas ... name of Elua, let us come ashore!”
    He shook his head, locks stirring, fingers still outstretched at the sea and a crooked smile quirked his mouth. “I can’t, Phèdre, don’t you see? I don’t dare. You’re the only ones I’ve let get this close, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t trust you. Once you set foot ashore, the geis is invoked.” He bowed again, this time to Drustan. “Half the riddle is done, my lord Cruarch; you have wed Ysandre in love, Alban and D’Angeline united. For the rest...” He shrugged. “I will not ask anyone to take my place.”
    I was weeping open-eyed, the tears running heedless down my cheeks. As if from a distance, I heard Drustan say, “There was a storm that was no storm, ten days ago and more. What does it betoken?”
    “He is dead.” Hyacinthe’s voice was quiet, yet it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It had never been so, in my memory. “The one you called the Master of the Straits. What you have seen is the passage of power.”
    “Then come!” I caught my breath, regaining control of my voice, and spoke fiercely. “Come with us! Let it be ended.”
    Hyacinthe smiled, and his smile was terrible, not reaching the dark-ringed abysses of his eyes. “Do you think I can?” he asked, and relaxed his fingers, making to step onto the surging waves that bordered us.
    All at once, the world lurched . I can find no better word to describe it. While we remained stationary, adrift on the waters, and Hyacinthe sought but to take a simple step, the very mass of the world itself shifted in a nauseating fashion. And in that few feet of water, something changed, opening; an abyss deeper and darker than aught in Hyacinthe’s eyes, a bottomless, sickening void around which my world suddenly pivoted and in its depths, a radiant and dreadful presence moved, a defiant, destructive rage. I thought, for an instant, that he had done it, had completed the step and bridged the gap between us ... and then the world righted itself, and I found we were adrift still, the abyss and the presence gone and Hyacinthe bent over double on the shore, gasping for air. He raised his haunted eyes, and his voice, when he spoke, belonged to the Tsingano lad I remembered.
    “You see ?” he panted, sweat beading his brow. “It cannot be done. Merely to try is like dying. I ought to know, I’ve done it enough times.” He straightened slowly, as if the motion pained him. “Let it be