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calmly, my hands clasped before me to hide their trembling. In truth, it was that very thing that terrified me. I had always known, before. I may have misgauged her moves-with, as Ysandre observed, near-fatal results-but I had grasped the nature of the game. Now, I could not guess. I am writing to ask your aid ... That sounded nothing like Melisande; and that alone made me nervous. “When I know, I will tell you, I promise.”
    “Elua,” Ysandre sighed, and took my face between her hands, planting an unexpected kiss on my brow. “I swear, near-cousin, you cause me more worry than ten Shahrizai courtiers and my daughter Alais rolled into one,” she said. “My lord Cassiline, please do whatever it is you do to bring her back safely.”
    Joscelin bowed, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I think sometimes they understood each other too well, those two. Drustan rose and came to take my hands.
    “Necthana’s daughters dream true dreams,” he said. “My sister Moiread knew your voice before ever you set foot on Alba’s shores. We will await your return.”
    So we took our leave.
    We travelled lightly, Joscelin and I, making a straight course overland across Caerdicca Unitas. It felt strange, covering the same territory through which we had ridden ten years ago in Ysandre’s entourage, desperate to thwart the last, deadly stroke of Melisande’s scheme. Now, I was riding to her aid ... because she had asked it. Passing strange indeed. It was on that journey that we heard the stories they tell of Ysandre’s ride, the fell and glorious company of D’Angelines who passed like the wind along the northern route betwixt Milazza and La Serenissima. Joscelin and I heard them in the inns along the way, exchanging glances, remembering the metal taste of fear in our mouths, saddle-weary aches and the endless arguing of Ysandre de la Courcel and Lord Amaury Trente.
    Of such stuff are legends made.
    Naught of moment befell us in our journey and the weather held passing fair, with only a few showers of rain to dampen our spirits. The northern route is safe, now, as safe as ever it has been. Once, the threat of Skaldi raiders was prevalent, but now the southern border of Skaldia is peaceful, and a number of tribes have formed a loose federation, trading freely with the Caerdicci. It is Waldemar Selig’s doing, in a way. Although his endeavor failed-Blessed Elua be thanked-he was somewhat new among the Skaldi: a leader who thought. He gave them ambition and hunger for the finer elements of civilization, and he taught them that together, they might achieve what they never could apart. Shattered by defeat at D’Angeline hands, the Skaldi have grown circumspect, and seek now to acquire through honest trade and effort what they once sought to seize by might of arms.
    One day, I think, they may try it again. But for now, there is peace.
    Of La Serenissima, I have written elsewhere at length. Suffice it to say that the city is unchanged. It is beautiful still, redolent with the light that reflects from the water of her many canals, and reeking too with the odor of those same canals. It is a city that holds too many memories for me, and few of them good.
    I might have presented myself, under other circumstances, at either the Dogal Palace or the Little Court, and availed myself of the hospitality that would surely have been rendered me. Incredible though it seems, Cesare Stregazza is still Doge of La Serenissima. I think he must be nearly ninety years of age now, which is unheard-of for his kind. Members of the Stregazza family seldom enjoy long lives. I daresay he would remember me, since I saved his throne for him. It is his younger son Ricciardo who administers much of the daily business of the city, or so Allegra writes. I think he will succeed his father as Doge. I hope so, for he is worthy.
    The Little Court is Severio’s, now. It has been for three years. They do not call it that, anymore; the Palazzo Immortali, he renamed it, after his social club. There is still a D’Angeline presence there-how not, when Severio is grandson to Prince Benedicte de la Courcel himself-but it is no longer a court in exile. For all that his blood is a quarter D’Angeline, Severio is Serenissiman to the core. He married a Serenissiman noblewoman some years ago, a daughter of the Hundred Worthy Families, and seems content with his lot. She is not, I understand, entirely unamenable to rough play in the bedchamber; a fortunate