Kushiel's Avatar

saddle, and sighed.
    “Come on, then!” Quintilius Rousse, already mounted, chivvied his troops. “The sooner we’re underway, the sooner we’re on water, lads! My lady, are you ready? Yes? Then let us be off. The Lord of the Deep is waiting, and I say he’s waited long enough!”
    Our journey began.
    The first thing we noted was the Tsingani. It did not seem strange, at first; there are always Tsingani on the road in the spring, travelling to the horse-fairs. It was Imriel who noted that they were following us. With an entire squadron of Rousse’s men accompanying us-most of them drawn from the dedicated corps that still bore the name Phèdre’s Boys and held to marching-chants that made me wish to cover Imriel’s ears-we were not exactly unobtrusive. In the villages and cities along the way, the Tsingani presence seemed unremarkable. It was when we camped upon the open road that it became obvious.
    The Tsingani were following us.
    And they weren’t the only ones.
    The Yeshuite presence was more subtle than the Tsingani, whose brightly painted wagons were unmistakable. But gradually, as we travelled, it became evident that there were Yeshuites among our followers, some on foot, others in wagons, plain and unmarked alongside the gaily painted Tsingani kumpanias .
    “Elua’s Balls!” Quintilius Rousse exclaimed when the truth of it grew apparent. “What do they want?”
    “They want to know what happens,” I said. “They want to hear the Name of God.”
    What would happen when I spoke it? I did not know. It was a question too vast for me to comprehend. That which I knew and understood was trial enough. And so we rode across the green-growing land of Terre d’Ange, making for the Pointe des Soeurs, accompanied by our unlikely entourage. And I thought about the Name of God as we rode, and everything I saw was precious in my eyes, from the smallest leaf unfurling on the vine to my own companions. Brusque Rousse, loyal Ti-Philippe, eager Hugues, and ah, Elua! Joscelin, with his drab Cassiline attire covering his many scars, all gotten on my behalf, his hair worn loose to cover his arrow-gouged ear, his one concession to vanity.
    And Imriel. Imrìel .
    My heart ached at the sight of him, happy and proud to be embarking once more upon a heroic quest. He rode with his head erect, watchful and sharp, his hands steady on the reins.
    A matter of honor .
    He believed it.
    Oh, Melisande, I thought. You do not know this son of yours; of ours. Brother Selbert was right, he may surprise us all, in the end. Our goat-herd prince, our barbarian’s slave. Am I wrong, to risk him thusly? Yet if I did not, if I forbid it... Ysandre is right, too. What resentments would it breed? He has your pride, Melisande, and he must be allowed it. Anger would fester too easily in this one. I can only try to offset it, to teach him compassion.
    Blessed Elua grant I live to do it.
    And so I watched them all, and kept my plan a secret as we made our way across Terre d’Ange, our silent entourage growing.
    We arrived to find a Pointe des Soeurs much changed from the lonely garrison it had been, an isolated fortress ten miles from the meanest village. An encampment the size of a small city had grown up around it since I had been there two years past, with lively trade going on to support it. Evrilac Duré, who served the duchy of Trevalion, greeted us and guided us to the fortress. It was he who had brought the news, two years gone, of the passing of the old Master of the Straits, though he had not known it as such.
    “It began this winter,” he said shortly, in answer to my question regarding the encampment. “Tsingani, mostly. Watching and waiting. I don’t know what for, but I have a score of suits pending, begging a place on the Admiral’s ship. ’Tis for Lord Rousse to decide, I’ve told them.”
    “He’s their Tsingan kralis ,” I murmured. “Hyacinthe, that is. They speak his name at the crossroads. They are waiting for him to return.”
    “Well.” Evrilac Duré eyed me. “He may not be what they expect, when he does. I heard the stories, my lady. I saw what I saw. And one who’s served as the Master of the Straits has more on his mind than a lot of motley Tsingani. I can tell you, the Cruarch’s sister waits here, too.”
    “The Lady Sibeal,” I said.
    “The same.” He gestured to his guard to raise the portcullis, admitting us into the fortress proper. “And I don’t mind telling you, we give a good deal