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waited.
    Drustan mab Necthana entered the City of Elua.

Ninety-Four
    ON THAT day, Ysandre staged a meeting in Elua’s Square in the center of the City, where four fountains play beneath an ancient oak said to have been planted by Blessed Elua himself. It was there we had been bidden to assemble, waiting for the Cruarch’s procession to pass. We heard them long before they arrived, handbells ringing, voices raised in cheers.
    It was all very splendid, with Drustan in his crimson cloak with the Cruarch’s gold torque at his throat, Ysandre at his side in a gown of spring-green silk, heavy with gold embroidery. Her shoulders were bare and she wore the necklace of Queen Zanadakhete, the massive emerald glinting on her breast. Elua’s banner, the Courcel swan and the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym fluttered overhead. Alais rode perched on the pommel of her father’s saddle, beaming; the Dauphine Sidonie was grave at her mother’s side on a matching pony. Twin lines of the Queen’s Guard in the livery of House Courcel flanked them, and throngs of people pressed close, throwing flowers. Petals fell like fragrant rain.
    In the shadow of the great oak, we met them, Quintilius Rousse in his finest regalia, standing stalwart to receive the Queen’s commendation. I wore a riding-gown of forest-green velvet, the color of House Montrève. Hugues was carrying our banner, looking solemn in his new livery. Imriel had wanted garments in Montrève’s color, but I’d thought better of it, and he was outfitted instead in a deep-blue doublet and breeches, giving the nod to his Courcel heritage. Joscelin, of course, had contrived to secure himself attire in an unremarkable shade of grey, only his Cassiline arms identifying him. I was resigned to it by now.
    “My lords and ladies, mesdames and messires!” Ysandre waited until their entourage had halted and raised her clear voice, addressing the crowds. “On this day, we not only welcome our husband and the august ruler of Alba, Drustan mab Necthana, into the City of Elua, but we bid farewell and godspeed to our Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse, who leads this expedition to the Three Sisters, in the hopes of breaking forevermore the curse of the Master of the Straits. Know that our best hopes go with them.” Her mare shifted sideways, and Ysandre settled her, glancing at me. “Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève,” she said, her tone softening. “On this day, your sentence is ended, and you are free to pursue that which you have sought for ten years and more. Know that we wish you well, and pray for your success.”
    Standing beside my mount, I curtsied deeply, and my household followed suit.
    Drustan mab Necthana dismounted, giving his reins to his daughter Alais’ keeping. Heedless of propriety, he came over to greet us all, clasping arms with Quintilius Rousse, embracing Joscelin like a brother. He shook hands gravely with Imriel, who was greatly impressed with the intricate patterns of blue woad that decorated the Cruarch’s face.
    “Phèdre.” Drustan set his hands on my shoulders. We had always understood one another, he and I. “You truly believe you have the means to free him?”
    I nodded, unable to reply. The Name of God crowded my tongue. All I could do was gaze at Drustan, seeing in his dark eyes the knowledge of Hyacinthe’s sacrifice, the guilt that had plagued him for so long. Like me, he would have taken it upon himself if he could have. He had been there. He knew. I heard in my mind the dry chirruping sound of a grasshopper, and remembered anew what was at stake.
    Immortality without youth; an eternity of aging. That was what Hyacinthe endured, while the rest of us loved and fought and reproduced, carrying on our stories without him.
    “May it be so.” Drustan bent his head to kiss my brow. “The honor of the Cullach Gorrym goes with you to fight for our brother Hyacinthe. Sibeal awaits you in Pointes des Soeurs, Phèdre. She carries my hope in her heart.”
    So it was done, and Drustan remounted his horse, securing Alais in the crook of his arm. And the crowds cheered and pelted them with flowers, urging them on their way. In the City of Elua, the revelry would begin in earnest that day, and by evenfall, the salons of reception would be overflowing in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, as D’Angelines sought to celebrate in their own fashion the reunion of their Queen and her husband.
    I watched Ysandre ride away, her back straight in the