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face was gentle, and there was compassion in his changeable eyes, the dark, color-shifting eyes of the Master of the Straits, who had inherited the mantle of Rahab’s pain and the twisted love he bore for these lands of ours.
    “Look.” Hyacinthe nodded across the harbor, to where the ship bore down upon us, sails flapping useless and slack, water dripping from its churning oars as the oarsmen set their backs to the task, hauling hard. “They are coming for us.”
    With difficulty I rose to my feet for the third time on those waters.
    I had not faltered.
    I saw their faces, as the Elua’s Promise hove alongside us, dropping anchor; filled with emotion, too profound for words. Quintilius Rousse, with all of a sailor’s awe at seeing the Lord of the Deep made manifest. Kristof, Oszkar’s son, who had witnessed the end of one Tsingano’s long road. Eleazar ben Enokh, who glowed, having heard the Name of God at last.
    And the others; the others! Oh, Elua, the others.
    Rousse’s sailors; Phèdre’s Boys. They would retain the name until they died.
    Of a surety, Hugues would make bad poetry of it, I saw it in his raptured features, and Ti-Philippe beside him. Were they lovers, then? I’d assumed it, never bothered to ask. I should have done. They were my people. I should know such things.
    Joscelin.
    There was anger there, in his summer-blue eyes; anger, that I had dared to send him away, that I had dared to send all of them. And there was knowledge-of why I had done it, of what it had cost me. No blame, at the last; only pride, and a relief vaster than the sea. We had gone beyond that, he and I.
    In the end, when all was said and done, Joscelin understood.
    His hands rested on Imriel’s shoulders, and what he knew, Imri knew. I saw it, in the depths of his eyes; as deep a blue as twilight, his mother’s eyes, a beauty as indescribable as a nightingale’s song, and a faith shining forth in them such as hers had never held.
    Imri had never doubted.

Ninety-Nine
    HOW I got aboard the ship, I cannot say for certain, for it transpired in a confused, muddled mix of efforts; wave and wind lifted at once in obedience to Hyacinthe’s murmured command, and then a half-dozen hands grappled for a hold on my sodden gown, unable to wait, and I was pushed and hauled at once, ignominious and dripping, into Joscelin’s arms.
    It was a good place to be.
    If the world had stayed there, unmoving, so would I, until time itself should cease. Since it did not, I let him go and turned to Imriel, a lump rising in my throat. With a sound half shout and half sob, he flung himself at me. I held him hard, pressing my cheek against his spray-dampened hair, tears stinging my eyes.
    “Phèdre nó Delaunay.” Quintilius Rousse’s voice, deep and unwontedly solemn. I looked up to see him sink to one knee before me, bowing his head. “I salute your courage, my lady of Montrève.”
    “Oh, don’t, my lord Admiral,” I said, embarrassed. “Please. I hate that.”
    Laughter rang across the waters, free and unfettered, and everyone aboard the ship turned to see Hyacinthe, standing on the sea. An obedient wave had raised him up to the level of the ship’s railing, held him there like a dais. “Let be, Phèdre,” he said, holding the case of pages under one arm. “You deserve it.” His gaze met mine across the distance. “Thank you.”
    I nodded, unable to speak. The wave curled over the railing, and, light as a swallow, Hyacinthe stepped off the waters and onto the ship’s deck, encountering silence and stares of awe. Now that it was done, no one knew how to address him.
    It was Joscelin who broke the stillness. “Tsingano,” he said. “Welcome back.”
    “Cassiline.” With a crooked smile, Hyacinthe reached out, and they clasped one another’s wrists in a strong grip. “My thanks to you.”
    Joscelin shrugged. “I had a vow to keep.”
    “I remember.”
    No more did they say to one another; I daresay it was enough, for them. There are ways in which men who know one another’s hearts and minds may speak without words, and whatever passed between them in that moment sufficed to satisfy both of them. Afterward, Rousse rose to offer a deep bow to the Master of the Straits and welcome him aboard ship, and others pressed close with curiosity, reaching with tentative hands to brush the edge of his sleeve, the hem of his cloak, assuring themselves Hyacinthe was no apparition, but flesh and bone. Imriel stood with me, out of the