Kushiel's Dart

oversaw the loading of our crew.
    "My lord Cruarch," he said to Drustan, in the Cruithne taught him by Moiread and her sisters, "I will be watching." Hyacinthe grasped Drus-tan's hands, gold signet uppermost. "Blessed Elua keep you safe."
    Drustan nodded. "The Cullach Gorrym will sing of your sacrifice," he said quietly. Their eyes met; there was no need of translating.
    As the Cruarch made his lame progress to the steps, Quintilius Rousse stepped up to embrace Hyacinthe. "Ah, lad!" he said roughly. "You guided us through the mists to safe landing. I'll not forget." He wiped his eyes. "I'll curse the name of the Master of the Straits no more, Younger Brother. If there's aught you need sail for, send the wind to whisper in my ear."
    "Bring them safe to shore," Hyacinthe said. "I ask no more than that, my lord Admiral."
    Rousse left, and Joscelin took his place. "Tsingano," he murmured, gripping Hyacinthe's wrists. "I have no words."
    Hyacinthe smiled wryly. "Funny. There's plenty I could say to you, Cassiline. You've come a long way since first I saw you, baited by Eglantine tumblers. You made the beginnings of a fair Mendacant, even."
    "That I owe to you." Joscelin's hands tightened on Hyacinthe's wrists. "And a lesson in courage, too, Tsingano." He said the traditional Tsingani farewell, then; he must have learned it among the kumpanias . "I will speak your name and remember it."
    "And yours." Hyacinthe leaned forward, and spoke in a low tone, so low I could not overhear. Awaiting my leavetaking, I turned to the Master of the Straits, who stood watching with eyes opaque as clouded crystal.
    "Why did you let us cross for a song?" I asked abruptly, the question arising from wherever unanswered mysteries dwell. "And Thelesis de Mor-nay, and others. Why?"
    The clouded eyes met mine. "My mother sang," the Master of the Straits said softly, his voice merging with the winds. "Sometimes, she sang to me. It is the only kindness I remember. After eight hundred years, I hunger for new songs."
    I shivered and drew my cloak about myself. "I have no kindness to give you, my lord of the Straits, nor thanks. The price of your freedom is too high."
    He did not answer, but only bowed. He knew, I think, the measure of that price.
    Then Joscelin was gone and it was time to say good-bye.
    Atop the lonely isle, Hyacinthe and I looked at one another.
    "You're right," he said. "From Mont Nuit to the Palace, we would have ruled the City."
    That was all he said and all there was to say. For a moment, I clung to him, then he pried my fingers gently from about his neck. "Elua keep you, Phedre," he whispered. "Go. Get out of this place."
    All the long way down, step by broad step, I didn't dare look back. Tear-blinded, I made the descent, helped over the gangplank by Elua knows who. Colors and faces blurred; I heard Quintilius Rousse shouting, and the clanking of the chain as the anchor was weighed. Our ship set her prow toward the open seas, and a breath of wind came at our back. Up went the sails, snapping as they bellied full. Grey cliff walls rushed by in a blur, and we were clear, free of the isle, setting a northward course.
    I looked back, then, when we were on the open sea. I could see them still, the columns of the temple rising atop the promontory, two small figures; one robed, still as a statue, the other smaller, black ringlets wind-tossed.
    A shout drew my attention. One of Drustan's Cruithne pointed.
    There, in the rigging, Joscelin clung, one-handed, feet braced in the ropes. His free hand clutched his sword, torn free of its scabbard; he held it aloft, the rising sun sparking a steel gleam from its length, a wild and dangerous tribute. High atop the cliffs, Hyacinthe's figure raised one hand in farewell and held it.
    I laughed until I cried, or cried until I laughed. I am not sure which. Not until the isle was out of sight did Joscelin sheathe his sword and climb down, dropping the last few yards.
    "Are you all right?" he asked me, only a little breathless.
    "Yes," I said, drawing in my breath in a gasp. "No. Ah, Elua, Joscelin ... what did he say to you, at the end?"
    Leaning on the railing, he looked at the water surging past the ship as the Master of the Straits drove us back up the coast of Terre d'Ange.
    "He said not to tell you," Joscelin said. "He said not knowing would drive you mad."
    I jerked my head, stung. "He did not!" I retorted in outrage, although it sounded very like something Hyacinthe might have said. Joscelin