Kushiel's Avatar (Page 139)
If it hadn't pleased them so, I might have minded more.
A lively correspondence went in and out of Montrève all summer long, keeping me abreast of news in the City of Elua and beyond. Nicola L'Envers y Aragon sent a lengthy reply to my own letter, giving a full account of all that had transpired in Aragonia since our visit. It had been a considerable task, rooting out the hidden network of the Carthaginian slave-trade, and her husband Ramiro had distinguished himself in the process, much to the surprise of those who thought him good only for drinking and gaming. I was glad to hear it, although sorry it meant Nicola would not be travelling that year. It would have been pleasant to see her.
Still, mayhap it was as well, for there was much to be done. For all that our surroundings were idyllic, my days were seldom idle. In addition to staying abreast of the changes being wrought in Montrève and continuing Imriel's studies—when I could keep him indoors, which wasn't often—I worked at cataloguing my new-found literary wealth, often lingering over individual texts longer than I ought. Visitors came and went, and our network of watchers in the countryside proved ef fective, for none came without warning.
Save one.
Hyacinthe.
He came at dusk on an evening when a gathering of storm clouds warred with the setting sun. 'Twas Richeline's cry in the herb garden that alerted me, and I left the manor in time to see him coming, a dim figure on a grey horse, his shape emerging from the veil of low mist that hung in the olive grove, shot through with the last slanting dazzle of the sun's gold before it sank behind the hills. Small wonder that he had passed unnoticed, cloaked in the elements he commanded.
“Phèdre.” He smiled at me as the mist dispersed, looming suddenly there and present, even as Richeline clapped both hands over her mouth, dropping the herbs she had picked for the evening meal. Droplets of mist clung to his black curls.
“Hyacinthe.” I swallowed. “I thought the night breeze was to whis per my name.”
“Not that,” he said, dismounting; only a man, for an instant, saddle-sore and weary. “Not yet. I have been riding the land, to take the measure of it, that I might know it and remember. And I wanted … I wanted to see how you lived, before I left.”
There was shouting, then, within the household, and Hugues burst from the rear door with his cudgel upraised, staring to see the Master of the Straits at our garden gate.
“Hugues,” I said, “would you see to Hyacinthe's horse?”
Thunder rumbled in reply and Hyacinthe made an absent gesture, whispering an incantation to dispel the clouds.
“Oh, don't.” The words came impulsively. “We need the rain.”
He smiled sidelong at me and murmured incomprehensible syllables.
A gentle rain began to fall, making a soft, silvery sound in the olive trees. A smell of damp earth arose around us. Such was his power, who was Master of the Straits.
I cleared my throat. “Will you come in?”
“Yes,” Hyacinthe said softly. “I'd like that.”
We were in the parlour when Joscelin and Imriel returned from their day's long ramble, damp through and through and in high spirits despite it, having found a meadow perfect for the training of hawks. They stopped short, upon finding Hyacinthe there.
How strange, to see them all in the same place.
Adjourning to the dining hall, we passed a pleasant meal together, and Hyacinthe told us of the gathering of the baro kumpai, and how he had chosen among the candidates set forth to lead the Tsingani. He had quizzed them all, asking how each would have handled the fate of his mother, Anasztaizia, driven from the Tsingani for having surrendered her virtue to a D'Angeline, the bitter price paid for a cousin's ill-placed wager. All of them knew the answer he sought; only Bexhet, son of Nadja, gave it unfaltering, with all the stammering pride of one raised a widow-woman's son, prepared to challenge the ancient code of the Tsingani that placed such inordinate weight on outmoded rules of honor that valued a woman's virginity above her person.
“You might have chosen a woman to lead them,” I said to tease him.
Hyacinthe gave me the ghost of his grin. “I might,” he said. “But to force growth is to kill it. Let the Tsingani grow at their own pace. Who knows? They may find the end of the Lungo Drom in it.”
Afterward, we retired once more to the parlour and Imriel served cordial on a silver tray, taking pride in his role, as deft and neat-handed as an adept of the Night Court, watching and listening with all the acuity I had taught him.
“Melisande's son,” Hyacinthe murmured in amazement as Imri left the room.
“No, Tsingano,” Joscelin corrected him. “Ours.” He drained his glass and set it down with a faint click, frowning. “Forgive my rudeness, for I am glad of your presence. Yet I must ask it: Why have you come?”
“Cassiline.” There was an ache in Hyacinthe's voice. “Forgive me. Yet I must know it: What is the price you paid for my freedom?”
I sent Imriel to bed, then, before we told the story in its entirety. It was his, yes, and there was no part I would deny him; but he was a boy, still. He would tell it himself in the fullness of time, to those he chooses to trust. Until then, I would protect him from it, from the parts he is too young to understand, from the parts that spark his nightmares anew.
To Hyacinthe, we told the truth.
From Melisande's first bargain, and the long road—our own Lungo Drom—it had engendered, we told him all. There were parts where Joscelin faltered, unable to describe what had ensued. I spoke of the zenana and the Mahrkagir's cruelty, the pall of Angra Mainyu, my voice sounding like a stranger's to me. And Hyacinthe wept, silently, tears seeping like slow rain on his brown cheeks as he learned the truth of Daršanga; what I had endured there, what Imri had undergone, and Joscelin, too, whose role in some ways was the hardest of all.
Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.
Even to Hyacinthe, I didn't tell the whole of it.
We told him of Jebe-Barkal, after, and the strangeness that was Saba, in all its attendant terrors and glories, the long effort of our voyage on the Lake of Tears, the awe that befell me upon Kapporeth and the Ark of Broken Tablets. And we spoke of the One God, of Yeshuites and the Children of Yisra-el, of Rahab and the Master of the Straits, of Blessed Elua and his Companions, and where their intertwined paths diverged. At some point, a weary Joscelin rose to bid me goodnight, his lips gentle on my cheek. I let him go, and remained awake long hours with Hyacinthe, the both of us quarreling over pronunciation and origins, tracing inadequate ciphers in the lees of our cordial on the tabletop, arguing the Name of God and the alphabet of heaven.
I don't know when I forgot his sea-shifting eyes and he ceased to be the Master of the Straits and became only Hyacinthe once more, my oldest friend, stubborn and clever as my lord Delaunay; as I myself had grown, truth be told.
Somewhere.
We knew, both of us. Hyacinthe bent his head and smiled ruefully, passing one hand over the marble table, the marks of our finger-drawn scribbling erasing with its passage. “I'll do as you asked,” he said, hanging ringlets hiding his face. “The alphabet shall be yours, once . . . once we're established in Alba.”
An unexpected pain seared my heart. “You and Sibeal.”
He nodded without looking up. “She sees you in my dreams, you know,” he murmured. “She understands.”
“When will you go?”
“A month.” He did look up, then, and the Tsingano lad I'd loved looked out of his eyes. “Six weeks, mayhap. No longer.”
“Will you go as you came here?” I asked, hating the thought of it. “A mist-wrought shadow crossing the land, your passage unmarked by man nor beast?”
“Mayhap.” Hyacinthe shrugged. ” 'Tis simpler, thus. Does it mat ter?”
“Yes,” I said. I had an idea. “Yes, it does.”
Hyacinthe left in the morning, when the early mists still rose from the fields, blending to surround him and shroud his figure as he de parted. My household rose to see him off, watching his mounted form vanish into his surroundings, as the night's rain dripped from the olives and the silvery-green leaves sighed at his passing.
“What are you plotting now?” Joscelin inquired, reading my ex pression with the ease of one who'd had long practice at it.
“Nothing,” I said, then amended it. “A fête. I'm planning a fête.”
ONE HUNDRED TWO
THEY ARE still talking of it in the City of Elua.If it had not been for the aid of a good many people, I daresay I could not have pulled it off; and foremost among them is my old mentor, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin, who gave me invaluable advice. There was my factor, Jacques Brenin, who negotiated the sale of various texts, without which I could not have afforded this endeavor. It was his idea, too, to solicit donations from the many lords and ladies who courted my favor, in the name of honoring the Master of the Straits.
Of a surety, I needed Emile's aid, and that I knew I had. Where he led, Night's Doorstep followed. Hyacinthe's return had only aug mented that. And for once, the City would follow the lead of Night's Doorstep instead of the Palace.
That was my tribute to Hyacinthe.
While I have lived, only one thing has brought the City of Elua to a standstill. Fever did not do it, so I am told; I was in Skaldia when it struck. Even Waldemar Selig's invasion did not do it, for he never got this far south. The City halted, they say, when Percy de Somerville assailed its walls, and Ysandre's uncle, Barquiel L'Envers, sealed the gates against him. It halted for a day, they say, before wagering resumed and the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers reopened its doors.
Well and so; it halted for my fête.
I took my time making ready that night; an autumn night, unsea sonably warm, winter's chill held in abeyance. Joscelin came into my bathing-room, which was the one chamber of my household I held sacrosanct. He grinned to see me sunk neck-deep in warm water and scented oils. My maid-servant Clory, Eugenie's niece, retreated blushing at his approach.
“It smells like a hot-house in here,” Joscelin said, perching on the edge of the tub and dabbling his fingers in the scented waters.