Kushiel's Chosen

argued. He was younger than I had thought in the tavern, no more than seventeen or eighteen.
    "Go," I said, leaning forward. "They will settle it, and follow."
    He glanced once at Kazan, who nodded; Oltukh settled himself on the bench next to Micah and took an oar, and the skiff moved speedily into the center of the canal as they rowed in unison. Before long, the gondola followed, the sound of Illyrian voices raised in quarrel still audible.
    Kazan spared a grin.
    La Serenissima is built on islands; some large, some small, some reclaimed from the sea and linked by bridges and waterways .. . and some not. It was to one of the latter that Micah ben Ximon guided us, a small hummock of land with a dense pine forest, interlocking roots at the water's edge making landing difficult. It was obvious that some preliminary clearing had been done at the shoreline, but work had been abandoned.
    The boats were dragged ashore and concealed under clumps of browning autumn ferns, and we picked our way across the burned swathe of land, roots poking out of the cinders, tripping up my skirts. Although no path was visible, Micah strode boldly into the scrub pines on the verge of the forest as if he knew where he went. I followed doggedly, and Kazan made hand signals to his men, who fanned out to flank us. It was familiar enough terrain to them, Dobrek's hills being much the same, although they glanced warily over their shoulders, looking for Leskii.
    This time, I was not looking for forest spirits. I was looking for Joscelin.
    The pine forest closed in on us, dark-green and forbidding. Here, no workmen's boots had trod. Micah led us unfaltering, pine mast giving way softly beneath his steps. Itching and hot with exertion, I pulled off the hood of my woolen cloak and let the breeze cool me. There was no one to see. I looked at Kazan, who loosened his sword within its sheath, teeth bared in a battle-smile. By the time the forest gave way to an open glade, I was uneasy with misgivings. I had given the Rebbe my name. If the Yeshuites chose to betray me, 'twould be easy enough, and doubtless well rewarded.
    Micah halted, Kazan and I beside him. To the right and the left of us, the other Illyrians emerged from the forest, several with short swords already drawn. In the center of the glade, some ten men stood ranged in a loose line, all of them armed and two with crossbows.
    My heart was beating like a drum.
    I took a step forward. Their leader took a step forward.
    He wore rough-spun garb like the rest and his tangled mane of hair was an odd, ashen hue, but steel flashed at his wrists and the hilt of a broadsword rose over his left shoulder and I would have known him anywhere.
    "Phèdre?"
    His voice, Joscelin's voice, cracked on my name and tears blurred my eyes at the disbelief in it, the wondering hope against hope. I took one step and then another and tried to say his name, only my voice broke and caught in my throat, and then he was moving, running, until he was there and his hands came hard around me, solid and living, and I was lifted clean off my feet, gazing down at his incredulous face. Laughing and weeping at once, I cupping his face in both hands and kissed him all over it.
    "Oh, Joscelin, Joscelin!" My own voice, breathless with joy. He let me slide through his grip and set me down, burying both hands in my hair and drawing me to him.
    "Never again, never, never, never, Phèdre, I swear it," he murmured, muffled words punctuated with frantic kisses, "in the name of Blessed Elua, I swear it, I will never leave you again, take a thousand patrons if you want, take ten thousand, wed Severio Stregazza, I don't care, but I will never leave you!"
    I raised my face and he kissed me, long and hard, until desire and love, like a dagger in the heart, sent the world reeling around me and I had to cling to the front of his jerkin when he released me, struggling to remain on my feet.
    We regarded one another.
    "You're alive," Joscelin whispered, astonishment in his summer-blue eyes.
    "You're ... your hair!" I said idiotically to him, reaching up to touch it, ragged dun streaked with ash-grey. "What did you do to your hair?"
    "It's walnut dye." It was another voice that spoke, a D'Angeline voice, thready but familiar. "It washes out, in time." I whirled in Joscelin's arms, seeking the speaker; Ti-Philippe grinned at me, thin, worn face beaming under a similarly ragged crop of hair, dyed a flat, dark brown.
    "Philippe!" I flung both arms about his