Kushiel's Avatar

member of an extended family, not all of whom were traitors and conspirators. Thanks to my folly, the knowledge of his lineage had been broken harshly to him, and the attempts upon his life in Khebbel-im-Akkad had done little to endear his kin to him.
    Severio had helped offset that impression, he and his high-spirited Immortali, who ferried us back to Villa Gaudio, all the while serenading us-or me, at least-with absurdly high-flown lyrics, until Joscelin rolled his eyes in mock dismay and Imriel laughed aloud.
    For that alone, it was worth it.

Eighty-Nine
    IT WAS an uneventful journey home, for which I was grateful.
    Home. Home !
    How long had it been? Two years come spring, since I’d awakened in the night weeping and shaking, dreaming of Hyacinthe. It seemed longer, sometimes; sometimes, it seemed the time had gone in the blink of an eye.
    A year ago, we had been in Daršanga.
    Imriel had grown taller, an inch at least since we had arrived in Jebe-Barkal. In the spring, he would be twelve. What remained of his childhood-what the Mahrkagir had left of it-would pass quickly. I was reminded of it every day, watching him.
    Our mercenary escort treated him with good-natured affection, and he was comfortable with that, more comfortable than he was with being treated as nobility. Goat-herd prince, barbarian’s slave. These were the things he knew. They taught him how to curse in Caerdicci when they thought I was out of earshot. I smiled to myself and allowed it.
    At night, I dreamed.
    I dreamed I was alone on a barren island, surrounded by mists, and somewhere on the island was Hyacinthe. I never saw him, although I heard his voice, speaking my name. “Phèdre. Phèdre.” And I danced alone on the barren rock, a vast courtly measure, retracing in a circle every step I had taken before. When I came to the beginning, I knew, the mists would clear, and at the center of my circle would be revealed the tower of the Master of the Straits.
    Hyacinthe.
    Only I never got to the end, in my dreams. I awoke before I could arrive, my heart pounding, the Name of God straining on the tip of my tongue.
    All across the peninsula of Caerdicca Unitas, we retraced our steps. How many times had I made this journey? Once, with Ysandre and Amaury Trente-that is the one they tell tales about. Once, there and back, with Joscelin ... and once, there. That was the last time. We had sailed to Menekhet, afterward.
    Now we returned, step by step. Pavento, Milazza ... we stayed at inns, where we might, and the Serenissiman sailors who escorted us stayed up late, drinking and carousing. I paid the tally unquestioning. When we were caught between towns, we made camp by fresh water. It was at one such site that I told Joscelin while we lingered beside the campfire, Imriel already abed, the Serenissimans passing the wineskin unheeding.
    “She knew,” I said, gazing into the flickering flames.
    “What?” He was slow to understand, not having lived in my thoughts. “Melisande?”
    I nodded. “She knew what I asked, and why, and made the bargain anyway. And then she told me.”
    Joscelin was silent for a time. “Why would she do it?”
    “It was her gift,” I said, raising my gaze. “Her gift to Imriel, she said. Because of love.”
    “Love.” He repeated the word, and prodded the fire with a long branch.
    “Love,” I said.
    In the embers of the fire, a half-charred branch shifted and fell, sending a shower of orange sparks ascending heavenward. “Can you claim to know the whole of Elua’s will?” Joscelin murmured. “Those were the priest’s words, in Siovale. If he told me then I would defy my Queen for the sake of Melisande Shahrizai’s son, I would have laughed in his face.”
    I smiled. “’Tis a dangerous force, this love .”
    One corner of Joscelin’s mouth twitched. “That it is.”
    We crossed the border south of Milazza on a cold, dreary day. The ground was frozen solid and our horses stamped restlessly, hides cooling as we milled and awaited clearance from the Eisandine border-guards. If we had crossed in Camlach, we would have encountered the Black Shields of the Unforgiven, but this far south, they were the Lady of Marsilikos’ men, clad in chain-mail with thick cloaks of sea-blue wool to keep them warm, each worked with Eisheth’s symbol on the breast-two golden fish, nose to tail, forming a circle.
    “Comtesse.” The Captain of the Guard approached, bowing deeply. His face was troubled. “We did not look for