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young men in their twenties and thirties, Tsingani, half-breed and D’Angeline, who drummed their heels on the white walls of the City and chanted, “Hy-a-cinthe! Hy-a-cinthe!”
    He looked around at that, and if I had wondered if the Master of the Straits could still weep, I had my answer. Tears shone on his cheeks as he bowed once more in their direction, swirling his cloak as he rose with a touch of the old Prince of Travellers’ flair and sweeping both arms in the air and clapping his palms together.
    A ripping peal of thunder split the clear sky.
    Hyacinthe was home, if only for a little while.
    The roaring din of the crowd eclipsed Quintilius Rousse’s salute to Queen and Cruarch, and I had no idea what he said, only that Ysandre raised him up with both hands and kissed his cheek, and Drustan clasped his forearms, grinning. And then it was our turn, and I found my legs trembling as we dismounted and approached the royal pair. To be welcomed thusly after our defiance ... I had no words for the gratitude in my heart.
    It was politics, yes; but somewhat more besides.
    Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow, sweeping and precise, sunlight glinting from the battered steel of his vambraces-and the crowd loved that, too. When all was said and done, the Queen had named no other Champion. And here and there, they shouted for Imriel, who still carried the standard of Kushiel’s Dart-my standard, the standard of Phèdre’s Boys-prompted by the yells of Rousse’s soldiers and the pride with which Imri carried it, executing his bow flawlessly without letting the standard dip. He won a few admirers that day on sheer presence alone.
    I saw his eyes shine, and knew he did it on my behalf.
    And then ...
    “Don’t even think of it,” Ysandre muttered through stiff lips as I made my curtsy, struggling against the desire to kneel and beg her forgiveness for the enormity of my transgressions against the throne. “I swear, Phèdre nó Delaunay, if you do ...”
    “I’m sorry,” I whispered, getting the words out even as her hand grasped my elbow, fingers digging in with painful pressure, keeping me upright. “Ysandre, I’m so sorry.”
    “I know.” Her violet eyes softened despite the pressure of her fingertips, and Queen Ysandre de la Courcel shook her head. “You idiot,” she said fondly, then gave me the kiss of greeting in front of ten thousand assembled watchers, restoring my status as her favored confidante, and taking her time in doing it.
    This, too, met with considerable approval. It was Terre d’Ange, after all.
    I was flushed when I made my curtsy to Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba. His eyes glinted with amusement and gladness. “So you did it after all.”
    “Yes.” I knew what he meant. Drustan had been there, when Hyacinthe paid the price both of us would have taken on ourselves had it been allowed. I drew a deep breath and loosed it in a tremulous laugh, feeling strange with this unmixed, untempered joy. “We did.”
    And Drustan too kissed me, and we passed through the gate that the procession might continue, while the cheers rose around us in endless waves beneath the cloudless sky, free of spite or envy, surging in the bright air of the City of Elua, for once celebrating a victory unalloyed with defeat.
    I was content.
    We were home, all of us.

One Hundred One
    THE SUMMER passed swiftly.
    I was visibly and undeniably in favor once more, and the same nobles who had shunned me during the long and bitter winter sent small gifts and jocular invitations to this event and that, most of which I declined, pleading an over-full schedule, which was no lie. At Hyacinthe’s word, Ghislain nó Trevalion sent a galley to retrieve the library from the Master of the Straits’ tower, and I had my hands full cataloguing some four hundred tomes and scrolls, many of which had been believed lost. Word of this was leaked, and I had to field a half-dozen bids from academies and universities throughout the realm that wished to increase their archives. Of course, I intended to see first what was there and have fair-copies made.
    Hyacinthe, for his part, dwelt at the Palace and spent long hours closeted with Queen and Cruarch and his intended, Sibeal. What transpired in those sessions, I cannot say, save that an agreement was reached and Drustan mab Necthana granted them a coastal territory in Alba, north of Bryn Gorrydum, where the erstwhile Master of the Straits might maintain his vigil. Thence would they