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of thought to it, here in Azzalle.”
    He said no more; he didn’t need to. That much I had garnered during my Bitterest Winter in the City of Elua. The question of Drustan’s successor remained unsettled. According to the old laws of matrilineal heritage, no child of Drustan mab Necthana’s loins could inherit the rulership of Alba. It must be one of his sisters’ offspring. Breidaia, the eldest, had children. Sibeal did not.
    They had given her the best quarters available and housed her honor guard of Cruithne warriors. Ghislain nó Trevalion had sent his own chef and his second chamberlain to ensure her comfort-and ours. This, too, had been arranged over the course of the winter months. Ysandre had not been idle while I brooded.
    “Phèdre nó Delaunay.” Sibeal’s accent had improved. She held my hands in hers. “You have come, as I dreamed you would. Was the journey long?”
    “Yes,” I said. “It was, my lady.”
    She nodded gravely and turned to greet Joscelin. “It is good to see you, my brother.”
    “Lady Sibeal.” Joscelin bowed, his vambraces flashing in the lamp-lit dining hall. “You honor me.”
    “No.” She shook her head. “I speak the truth. So my brother the Cruarch has named you, and so you are. And I ... I have no place here, who have only watched and waited while others trod the dark path. But here my dream has led me, and I am grateful for your indulgence.”
    It would have been easier if I could have disliked Sibeal and found it in my heart to resent her. In truth, I could not. She was too like her brother Drustan, with the same grave, dark eyes, the same calm dignity. And she loved Hyacinthe. Could I fault her for that? I loved him too. If I had trodden a dire path on his behalf, still, I had not done it alone.
    So we dined together in the wind-battered halls of Pointe des Soeurs, and Quintilius Rousse conferred with his men, plotting our course. Evrilac Duré brought him the petitions to read, pleading for a spot aboard the flagship. Rousse scanned them with half an eye and scowled, passing them off to me.
    “Tsingani and Yeshuites, clamoring for a berth! What do they think this is, a pleasure-barge? I’ve no room for landsmen underfoot. If the Lord of the Deep takes against us, we’ll need expert hands on deck, and no mistake.”
    I glanced at the petitions. “They’ve a stake in the matter, my lord Admiral.”
    “Let them get their own ships, if they’re so eager.” He glowered at me, looking particularly fearsome. “Two. I’ll grant you two places, Phèdre nó Delaunay. No more. And you shall have the choosing of it. You let them know at daybreak, for we’ll hoist sail soon after.”
    “My lord.” I inclined my head, acknowledging his decision.

Ninety-Five
    I REMAINED awake long into the small hours of the night. It was not so much the petitions, for those were easy, in the end. The hardest part was deciphering the scribblings of the guards who had accepted them, jotting notes on foolscap. Most of the Tsingani were illiterate, lacking the schooling that is inherent in D’Angeline society. Even the humblest of D’Angeline families see to the education of their children; it is a gift that Elua and his Companions have given us. We have not shared it well.
    Kristof, son of Oszkar. I remembered the name. He had risked his kumpania to bring us word of the Carthaginian slavers.
    And for the Yeshuites ...
    Eleazar had come. It grieved me that he had not sought me out to ask the boon. We studied together for many years, he and I. After the death of Rebbe Nahum ben Isaac, he was my closest comrade in the Yeshuite community. But I, in favor or not, was the Comtesse de Montrève. I fear he dared not ask.
    Well, he would have his chance to hear the Name of God at last. He had earned it, having sought it for so long. I hoped it was a kindness I gave him, and not a death-sentence.
    I would know upon the morrow.
    Joscelin remained awake with me, long after Imriel had lost the battle and fallen into sound slumber on an adjacent pallet, worn out by travel and the sea winds. I talked over my decisions with him, the wick on the oil lamp trimmed low. And then, at last, there was only one thing left to discuss.
    “What happens to us?” Joscelin asked softly, lying beside me. “Phèdre ... if... when ... you succeed in freeing Hyacinthe, what happens to you and me?”
    “I don’t know,” I whispered. A lock of his fair hair lay over his shoulder; I ran it between my