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Tsingani had not forgotten him, the Prince of Travellers, that he was remembered as his mother’s son. “Tell him ...” I said softly. “Tell him I am grateful for the knowledge.”
    “As you wish,” Ti-Philippe said, keeping his reservations to himself.
    With our affairs thus in order and Eugenie’s admonitions ringing in our ears, Joscelin and I took our leave once more, and the white walls of the City of Elua fell behind us as we headed northward toward the Champs-de-Guerre. I told him as we rode what Ti-Philippe had related to me. Unlike my chevalier, Joscelin understood. He had been there, when Hyacinthe made his choice, turning his back on the inheritance that awaited him to lay the gift of the dromonde before me and assuage my terrors.
    “The Prince of Travellers,” Joscelin said, shaking his head. “Do you know, I truly never believed him before that? Until we met the Tsingan kralis himself, I thought it was just another damned Tsingano lie.”
    “So did I,” I murmured. “Elua forgive me.”
    “Well, I’m not sure even Hyacinthe knew the truth of it until then.” He jogged his mount alongside mine, eventually glancing sidelong at me. “Master of the Straits. It’s hard to think of him thus. You do know she’s in love with him?”
    I gazed at the road before me betwixt my mount’s forward-pricked ears. “Sibeal?”
    “Mm-hmm.”
    I thought of the hope that had shone in her face, in her soft-spoken words. You will find a way to free him . I wondered if Hyacinthe knew, and what he felt about it. I wondered what I felt about it. But all I said aloud was, “I know.”

Thirteen
    WE PASSED the night in a pleasant inn, enjoying our evening meal in an open-air courtyard and conversing with other travellers. In the morning we found our mounts well rested, coats curried to a high sheen, led out to the roadside mounting-block by a country lad, his hands and feet too large for his gangling frame. He blushed and bowed when Joscelin gave him a silver centime, stealing glances at me beneath lashes as long as a girl’s. One day he would break hearts, I thought, but not yet.
    And then we were on our way again, riding down tree-lined roads through the fertile heart of D’Angeline farmland.
    The sun was not yet high overhead when we reached Champs-de-Guerre, those broad green fields where the standing army of Terre d’Ange trained and was barracked. Inquiring at the officer’s quarters, we were told that Duc Barquiel L’Envers was reviewing a corps of infantrymen on the main field.
    “Shall we wait?” Joscelin asked. “They’ll break soon enough for the midday meal.”
    “No,” I said decisively. “Let’s meet Lord Barquiel on the field.”
    An obliging lieutenant directed us to the place, though I reckon we’d have found it by the noise alone. It was a vast field, green turf churned to muddy collops by a thousand booted feet, with the grunting of men at strife and the clash of armor against armor and sword on shield resounding in the sunlit air.
    ’Twas easy enough to pick out Barquiel L’Envers, striding alongside the skirmish, a surcoat of L’Envers’ purple over his steel-plated armor, shouting exhortations at subcommanders and infantrymen alike. I drew rein on my mount and Joscelin followed suit.
    Presently Barquiel noticed, and gave orders to his standard-bearer to signal the practice ended. He himself came striding over with a grin.
    “Well, well, well.” Planting his feet, Barquiel L’Envers cocked his head at me. “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
    “Your grace.” I inclined my head, still seated in my saddle. Sunlight flashed on the Companion’s Star pinned at my breast, an unsubtle reminder that I had leave to address him as an equal. “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
    Beneath his turbaned helmet, an affectation from his days as the ambassador to Khebbel-im-Akkad, Barquiel L’Envers raised his brows. “Is there, indeed? And what does my lady Comtesse offer in exchange for free range to my thoughts?”
    I sat back, nonplussed. “What does my lord Duc desire?”
    If it was an assignation, I had no intention of granting it; but Barquiel L’Envers was too clever for aught so obvious. His violet gaze, so like his niece Ysandre’s, moved off me and onto Joscelin. “There is a myth,” he said casually, “popular among my men, that a bare-headed Cassiline with a sword and vambraces can defeat a