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boy I had spoken-the Hyacinthe-that-was of my memory, or Imriel de la Courcel, whom I had never met. The pattern of fate, like the Name of God, was too vast to hold.
    Wondering, I slept and dreamed myself awake and wondering still, and knew no more until Joscelin shook me gently awake, and I opened my eyes to bright sunlight.
    It was time to go.

Twenty-Seven
    WERE attacked by bandits on the northern route through Caerdicca Unitas.
    It bears telling, for it served me a grave reminder of the limits of my own wisdom. I was so confidant in my own dire destiny, so sure I had done the right thing in forbidding Ti-Philippe to accompany us, that I paid scant heed to the normal dangers the road posed to a lone pair of travellers.
    The new riding attire I’d commissioned from Favrielle nó Eglantine was all she had promised; fluid and comfortable, with an elegance of line and richness of fabric that fair shouted D’Angeline nobility. Of a surety, it did so to those who attacked us, reckoning a D’Angeline noblewoman and her single man-at-arms easy prey.
    We were a day’s ride west of Pavento when it happened. An irony, that; it is where Ysandre’s couriers were slain, attempting to outrace Melisande’s messengers many years ago. I daresay we had been more vigilant on our first journey. Still, it happened nigh too fast for thought, in a deserted stretch of road.
    One moment, Joscelin and I were riding quietly side by side, trailing our newly acquired packhorses behind us; the next, some eight men had swarmed out of the hills.
    They were Caerdicci, by the look of them, although some few may have had Skaldic blood. Poor and hungry, to a man; outcasts and brigands, with no armor and shoddy weapons. Two of them ran behind us, severing the lead-lines to our packhorses and claiming them. One was at my side before I’d scarce blinked, a grubby hand clutching my riding skirts while the other shoved the point of a dagger at my waist. Another held my mare’s bridle. Joscelin’s gelding reared, having once been battle-trained; he swore, getting it under control. Three men ranged around him with knives and makeshift spears and one notched sword, and their leader stepped into the road before us.
    He held a crossbow, fine and new and gleaming, and I’ve no doubt it was stolen. Still, he held it cocked and level, pointed directly at Joscelin.
    “Give us all you carry,” he said in Caerdicci, speaking slowly and carefully, as if to a slow child, “and we will let you go unharmed. If you resist, your woman will be-”
    And no more did he get out, for in a motion too quick for the eye to detect, Joscelin ripped one of his daggers from its sheath, hurling it at the bandit leader. The man’s lips continued to move even as his hand rose, perplexed, fumbling at the hilt protruding from his throat, and his body slumped sideways.
    In the instant of gaping surprise that followed, I clasped my hands together and brought them down hard on the head of the man whose knife poked at my ribs. He staggered and looked at me open-mouthed, but I had already set heels to my mare’s flanks, hearing the ringing sound of Joscelin’s sword being drawn.
    “Cassiel!” His shout rose bright and hard on the midday air, the line of his blade arcing like a scythe as it sheared through flesh and bone, a spray of crimson blood following. His face was set in perfect fury. At a safe distance, I drew in my mare and sat her, trembling. Three men dead and another wounded, and he not trained to fight on horseback. He dismounted, stalking the remaining four. Seeing one retrieve the crossbow from their fallen leader, I drew breath to shout a warning, but Joscelin was already turning, braid flying out in a straight line, sword grasped in his two-handed grip.
    The bandit closed his eyes and pulled the crossbow’s trigger, whispering a prayer to any Caerdicci deities listening. There were none. The bolt flew and Joscelin’s vambraces flashed, deflecting the quarrel. Cassiline Brothers actually prepare for such feats. He advanced, the backstroke of his sword perfectly level, catching his assailant even as the man fumbled to load another bolt. The bandit crumpled at the waist and lay bleeding into the dust of the road.
    The others scattered. One of the packhorses balked and threw his head up hard, tearing the lead-line from his captor’s hand; the other spooked. A pair of the remaining bandits waved their arms and shouted as they ran, endeavoring to scare it into the