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hoisting his mug in the air. “To Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia!” he shouted. “Come, whoever remembers his name, I’ll stand a drink to toast the Prince of Travellers!”
    The resultant roar was staggering, and even though I daresay half of them were cheering nothing more than free wine, it brought a lump to my throat. I remembered Hyacinthe holding court at the Cockerel, his face bright with mirth ... and I remembered him on the island, despair in the shifting depths of his power-stricken eyes.
    Whatsoever might come to pass, I feared the bold, merry companion of Emile’s youth was gone forever.
    I drank to his memory, and tasted the salt of my tears.

Fifteen
    “NOW YOU remember why we don’t go to Night’s Doorstep more often.”
    “Shut up,” I muttered, squinting against the merciless D’Angeline sun, which sent dazzling spears of pain into my eyes. My head was pounding like one of Audine Davul’s drums, and I could have sworn my soft-gaited mare was clopping like a plow-horse.
    “We could have departed on the morrow.”
    “I’m not losing a day to the Cockerel’s rot-gut wine!” There had been a good deal of it after that first toast. Emile’s largesse had flowed freely, and I’d felt obliged to stand a round afterward-it does not pay to be seen as stingy, when one has a reputation in the City-and between my private griefs and the public outpouring of nostalgic melancholy, I’d drunk enough to be sorry for it. With typical Cassiline restraint, Joscelin had abstained after the first toast and drunk only water.
    “You look slightly green, Phèdre,” he said, regarding me.
    I opened my eyes wide enough to glare at him. “ I’m fine .”
    Despite my aching head, we made good time, and by the second day, I had recovered from the ill effects of too many toasts and we had passed from the rich fields of L’Agnace into the hilly terrain of Siovale. As always, something in Joscelin eased at the return to the province of his childhood, the set of his shoulders more relaxed, his smile coming quicker. I loved to see it in him, although it made me feel guilty for keeping him overmuch in the City. On the third day, we entered the winding mountain paths.
    The village of Landras is located at the foothill of a mountain; the Sanctuary of Elua that bears its name, they told us there, lies beyond, over the peak and in the basin of a steep valley. Upon reaching it, we passed the evening in the village, enjoying the mayor’s hospitality and relating in turn the latest news from the City to an avid audience. Siovalese are odd folk, most of them of Shemhazai’s lineage, prone to pondering the vagaries of human nature and exploring the dynamics of the physical world. It is not unusual to find a sheep-herder eager to argue Hellene philosophy or a wool-dyer intent on building a better waterwheel, and they are keen to discuss politics as well. It reminded me with a pang of regret that I would have little time to attend to my own estates in Montrève this summer.
    In the morning, we departed, following the narrow trail up the mountain, our pack-mules laboring under the tribute-gifts the mayor had pressed upon us to deliver to the sanctuary. The air was cooler in the heights, pine forests giving way to grassy plateaus. We picked our way around steep outcroppings of rock and sheer drop-offs. Joscelin’s eyes sparkled, and he delighted in pointing out wildlife as we rode; ptarmigan and white-capped finches and shy ouzels, and once a herd of wild chamois, watching us with curious gazes.
    “There,” he said, pointing as we gained the summit.
    The valley lay far below, a green swathe carpeted with blazing scarlet poppies and riven by a swift river. I caught my breath to see the grey stone buildings of the sanctuary itself and the rough-hewn effigy of Elua, seen in miniature from above. On the far side of the valley, winding trails stitched the mountains, leading to meadow plateaus and the peaks beyond.
    “Goat-tracks,” Joscelin mused, scanning the distant crags. “That’s where it would have happened. No wonder no one saw anything.”
    High overhead, an eagle circled and gave its piercing cry; stooped, and dove. I thought of its prey and shivered. “Let’s go down.”
    It took the better part of an hour to make our descent, even on horseback. Although I’ve seen my share of mountains, I let Joscelin lead, glad of his expertise. By the time we reached bottom, there was no doubt but that we had been seen and