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time. Another crowd, distant, lined the cliffs above the harbor. I saw the Tsingano Kristof raise his hand in salute, and wondered how many he left behind in his kumpania . I was afraid to ask. Eleazar pointed his face into the wind, eager as a lover, his beard blowing in the breeze.
    Sibeal stood alone in the prow, swaying with the ship’s motion, flanked by her watchful Cruithne warriors. In my dreams, it was always I who stood there.
    But I ... I had Joscelin, looking green and swallowing hard against his illness, standing adamant at Imriel’s side, and Ti-Philippe, who looked at home and glad upon the sea, and Hugues, keen as a hound on the scent for adventure.
    I was not alone.
    Not yet.
    The winds blew fair and steady, like a summons. I wondered if Hyacinthe knew, if even now he plied his skills, the Master of the Straits, bringing us homeward. The sky turned into a clear blue vault above us, a few scudding clouds high overhead. Sunlight sparkled on the water, and the gulls circled with raucous cries, hoping we might prove a fishing vessel casting offal from our catch overboard. After so long, the confrontation to come seemed unreal. It was a day for rejoicing, not for endings.
    For some hours, we flew over the water. Altogether too soon, the cry came from the crow’s nest-the Three Sisters had been sighted. The sun was not yet at its zenith when we drew in sight of the tall cliffs of Third Sister. So close to land; so far from the world! For this short journey, I had travelled to Saba and back. I held my breath as Quintilius Rousse took the helm and shouted orders, maneuvering the flagship around the jutting coast of the island and into the narrow defile that marked the ingress to the harbor.
    Between the towering cliffs, it went suddenly wind-still.
    “Out oars!” Rousse bellowed as the sails fell slack and empty, the pennants drooping. “Row!”
    When first I entered the domain of the Master of the Straits, it was wave-borne; on the second occasion, wind-blown. This time, we glided into the secluded harbor on the effort of mortal labor, wrought of muscle, sinew, bone and sweat.
    The water was as flat and calm as a mirror, reflecting the rocky promontory and the carved steps, so that it seemed a second stair led to a temple at the bottom of the harbor, small with distance and impossibly deep, wreathed with clouds on the sea’s floor. The advancing ship’s prow forged ripples, revealing the illusion, distorting the image of the lone figure who stood upon the promontory, waiting.
    Hyacinthe.
    The Name of God surged within me, and I yearned to shout it to the empty skies.
    He was clad as before, in rusty black velvet in an archaic style, old lace spilling like sea-foam at his cuffs and throat. This time, a cloak of indeterminate color hung from his shoulders, satin-lined. It may have been violet, once; time and sun and salt had faded it to a vague tarnished silver, like twilight on the ocean. As our ship drew near the shore, only a few yards of open water remaining, Hyacinthe placed the palms of both hands together at waist height, then opened them and held them flat to the earth.
    I heard Sibeal whisper his name.
    The ship halted, oars locked fast in the limpid water. The rowers strained in vain, sinews cracking. Across the distance I gazed at Hyacinthe unspeaking, the Sacred Name locked fast in my throat.
    He gazed back at me, unnamable colors shifting in his fathomless eyes, and hope and fear lying distant at the bottom, as tenuous as the temple’s reflection. “You’ve come,” he said at last, and his voice sounded odd and unused, not at all like my dream. “I saw you set sail in the sea-mirror of the temple.”
    “Yes.” I swallowed. “Hyacinthe, I have the key.”
    Fear and hope leapt in his too-dark eyes and the boy I’d loved looked out of the face of the Master of the Straits. He bowed his head to hide it, pressing his fingers to his temples.
    “Elder Brother!” Quintilius Rousse made his way to the railing, addressing him with the traditional title sailors accorded the Master of the Straits. “I’m here in the name of her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel, Tsingano. Have you grown too proud to let old friends ashore? We’re on the Queen’s business, breaking this curse of yours.”
    “My lord Admiral.” Hyacinthe lifted his head, mouth twisting in a smile. “Forgive my manners. It is a pleasure to see you once more. My lady ... my lady Sibeal.” He looked at her for a