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Yisra-el, those Yeshuites who sought peace over war were more and more likely to turn to his way of thinking; their presence among us on this journey was proof of that much.
    “What on earth are you plotting now?” Joscelin’s black gelding ranged alongside mine.
    “Nothing.” I smiled at him. “Just thinking.”
    Some five miles outside the City of Elua, the first emissaries met us; a joint party of Ysandre’s and Drustan’s men, the Queen’s Guard resplendent in the blue and silver of House Courcel and the Cruarch’s bare-chested in woolen Alban kilts, their elaborate woad markings and copper torques signifying that each was a nobleman’s son. They formed an escort around us, leading us through the first of innumerable floral arches built along the way, a court herald calling out the news in stentorian tones to any who had not yet heard it, which I daresay was no one.
    From there, our procession grew very, very slow.
    I have ridden in a triumph once before, when Ysandre returned to the City after the battle of Troyes-le-Monte, where we defeated the Skaldic army. I remember it well, for it was bittersweet, that occasion; as much as I was gladdened by our victory, I could not help but remember the dead and grieve for our losses.
    This time, it was different. For all the terrors that had beset us on the waters, there had been no cost to human life. Hyacinthe was freed, and no one had died for it. As long and arduous as the journey had been, no one else had born the price of it. If I had entered the cavern of the Temenos and undergone the ritual of thetalos there and then, the chains of blood-guilt I bore would be no heavier.
    I had not realized until then how profoundly grateful I was for it.
    There was Daršanga, of course; there would always be Daršanga. None of us who had been there would ever be free of its shadow. But that... that had been somewhat other , and not the triumph we celebrated today.
    Ysandre and Drustan met us at the gates.
    How many times had I stood among the throng welcoming Drustan’s return? As many years as they had been wed. Now I beheld a like spectacle from the other side, riding at a snail’s pace down the packed road, while onlookers shouted and threw a hail of flowers and the harried City Guard sought to keep spectators from spilling onto the road. The white walls of the City of Elua were crowded with watchers. A contingent of Ysandre’s ladies-in-waiting tossed sweets and coins to the children, who shouted with glee.
    As befitted their status, Hyacinthe and Sibeal rode first, flanked by Cruithne warriors. Behind Quintilius Rousse, I sat my mare and watched as they dismounted.
    “Master of the Straits,” Ysandre greeted him in her clear voice. “Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, be welcome to the City of Elua.” And she made him a deep curtsy and held it, according a Tsingani half-breed, a laundress’ son from the gutters of Night’s Doorstep, the acknowledgment due a superior, which no ruling monarch of Terre d’Ange has extended to anyone in living memory.
    The crowd drew its collective breath, then loosed it in a roar of acclaim.
    “On behalf of Alba,” Drustan called, “I bid you equal welcome.” He too made a deep bow, then straightened, grinning. “And welcome you to my family as well, brother, with thanks for bringing safely to land my sister the lady Sibeal!”
    Another roar followed his announcement.
    Sibeal merely gave her quiet smile, and went to give the kiss of greeting to Drustan and Ysandre alike, and her young nieces Alais and Sidonie. All eyes remained on Hyacinthe, who stood alone before the joint regents. He bowed deeply, holding it long enough that there could be no doubt he acknowledged their sovereignty. The cloak of indeterminate color fell in immaculate folds as he straightened, his hair tumbling over the collar in black ringlets.
    “Your majesties,” he said, and although he did not raise his voice, it carried across the crowds, echoed from the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “My lady Queen, my lord Cruarch. I am glad to be here.”
    That was as far as he got, for the shouting drowned out even him. I daresay the majority of the crowd would have cheered no matter who he was, Rahab’s get or laundress’ son, for the sheer drama of the Master of the Straits entering the gates of the City of Elua. But there, atop the walls, perched a delegation surely dispatched from the less reputable parts of Night’s Doorstep, a handful of