Kushiel's Dart

"long-neck baby water bird." But Thelesis de Mornay spoke and read Cruithne, and moreover, it was she who'd told me that Delaunay might have been the King's Poet, had matters not fallen out as they had. "Will it do?"
    "It'll do, and more. Leave it unsigned." Hyacinthe, idling with his chair tipped back, moved into action, snatching the letter from my hand and grabbing a taper to seal it deftly with a blob of wax. "Give it me now, there's a party bound for the Lute and Mask later this evening. I'll see it in Thelesis de Mornay's hand by noon tomorrow, if I have to bribe half of Night's Doorstep to get it there."
    He was out the door within seconds, swirling his cloak around him.
    "You were right to trust him," Joscelin said quietly. "I was wrong." I met his gaze across the table; he gave me his wry smile. "I can admit that much."
    "Well, and you were right about Taavi and Danele," I said to him. "I never told you, but I could have killed you when you asked their help. But you were right."
    "They were good people. I hope they're well." He stood up. "If there's naught more to be done this night..."
    "Go, get some sleep." I stifled a yawn at the thought of it. "I'll stay awake until Hyacinthe comes back."
    "I'll leave you alone, then. I'm sure you want a chance to talk with him." The same wry smile, but something caught at it, twisting at my heart.
    "Joscelin ..." I looked up at him. It seemed impossible to believe, here in this childhood haven, all that we'd been through together. All of it. "Joscelin, whatever happens to us ... you did it. You kept your vow to protect and serve. You brought me home safe," I said softly. "Thank you."
    He swept his Cassiline bow, and left me to wait.
    Hyacinthe was some time returning, and entered the house quietly, turning the key carefully in the lock. I started, having fallen into a doze, slumped at the kitchen table.
    "You're awake." He came to sit with me, taking my hands in his. "You should be in bed."
    "How did it go?"
    "Fine." He inspected my hands, turning them gently. "Thelesis should have the letter by tomorrow, unless young Marc-Baptiste has a terrible quarrel with Japheth no Eglantine-Vardennes, which is not likely. He thinks I'm sheltering Sarphiel the Reclusive, who is indeed mad enough to send the Prince of Travellers with an unsigned love note to the King's Poet. Thelesis was ill, you know, but the King's own physician attended her, and she's on the mend. Phedre, it looks like you've been working as a galley-slave."
    "I know." I pulled my hands away. They were red-roughened and chafed by cold, scratched and torn, with dirt engrained that a single bath couldn't remove. "But I can build a fire with a single sodden log in the middle of a snowstorm."
    "Ah, Elua." Emotion flooded his face, his dark eyes liquid with unshed tears. "I thought I'd lost you, truly. Delaunay, Alcuin . . . Phedre, I never thought to see you again. I can't believe you survived what you did. To return here, and find yourself branded a murderess ... I'd have fought harder against it, if I'd known you were alive. I'm so sorry."
    "I know." I swallowed, hard. "At least it's home, though. If I have to die anywhere . . . Oh, Hyacinthe, I'm so sorry about your mother."
    He was quiet a moment, gazing unthinking toward the cookstove that had seemed so eternally her domain, rife with muttered prophecy and the chink of gold coins. "I know. I miss her. I always thought she would live to see me claim my birthright among the Tsingani, and not this sham I play at in Night's Doorstep. But I waited too long." He rubbed at his eyes. "You should sleep. You must be exhausted."
    "Yes. Good night," I whispered, kissing him on the brow. I felt his gaze follow me as I made my way to a warm and waiting bed.
    There is a point beyond exhaustion, where sleep is hard in coming. I had reached it that night. After so long sharing a bed, it seemed strange to be alone in one, in clean linen sheets with a warm velvet coverlet atop them. Even after the strangeness of it wore off, giving way to drowsing familiarity, something seemed to be missing. The realization of what it was struck me with a shock, just before the tidal wave of sleep finally claimed me and dragged me under to the depths of oblivion, erasing the thought as the waves erase a line drawn in the sand by a child's stick.
    It was Joscelin.
    I slept late into the morning, and awoke remembering nothing of it. Hyacinthe had been up and about and busy already, and the modest