"Trouble?" Joscelin asked, materializing at my side.
"Who knows?" I said, shrugging. "I think I'm fated to be targeted by Tsingani fortunetellers. I'll be glad when we're on our way. Do you think Manoj will give Hyacinthe the horses and escort he asked for?"
"I think Manoj would give him just about anything," Joscelin said wryly. "Including Csavin's head on a platter, if Hyacinthe hadn't granted him forgiveness." That scene, with many drunken tears, had taken place earlier. "I just hope he remembers why we're here."
"I'm not sure we're all here for the same reasons," I said softly, watching the Tsingani revel, Hyacinthe among them. "Not anymore."
The second day is for talking.
Manoj had a half-dozen likely young horses, three- and four-year-olds, hunters for the most part, glossy coats polished to a high gleam, that would do nicely for patrolling rough borders. And he had too a half-dozen young men men in his kumpania eager for adventure, willing to ride across the wilds of outer Kusheth on the promise of great trade, returning by slow wagon.
It was important that Hyacinthe appear astute; the haggling went round in circles, until I thought I would die of tedium. Then the horses were examined one by one. We rode each one of them around the Hippochamp, like hundreds of others, tearing about in spring madness, shouting and laughing, hooves pounding, a race without victors or losers, while the smiths glancing up from the dozen small forges that had sprung up on the outskirts of the field and grinned through soot-stained faces.
"Pulls up a little lame, this one does," Hyacinthe said breathlessly, slowing to a trot under a stand of willows along the river, greenish-yellow buds emerging on their long trailing branches. We had lost Joscelin somewhere in the aimless race. "I think Grandpa-ji's testing me."
"Maybe so," I murmured. The exertion of the ride had brought out a touch of color on his face. "Hyacinthe . . . you know you're not bound to go to Alba. If you can help us get to Quintilius Rousse . .. that's all you pledged to Ysandre, after all."
"I know." My words had sobered him. Hyacinthe gazed across the
Hippochamp, the field bright and gay with his people. "I didn't. . . Phedre, I didn't know they'd accept me like this. I just wasn't sure. I didn't know it would be like this."
"No." I looked at him with pain in my heart. "But it is. And you are free to choose, Prince of Travellers."
There was no need to spell out the fact that choosing the Tsingani meant losing me; our friendship, what it was, what it might grow into. Or not. The promise of one kiss exchanged in a busy tavern. We both knew it. And knowing, we rode silent back to Manoj's campsite, where the old patriarch delighted to hear that Hyacinthe was clever enough to have spotted the game-legged horse in the lot.
On the third day, they trade. But our trade was done, or as good as; our journey was set, with a half-dozen of Manoj's great-nephews ready to go forth with us on the morrow. I do not recall their names, but they were eager and bold, with dark flashing eyes that looked sidelong at me, elbowing each other in the ribs at the thought of being on the Long Road with a whore's daughter who had no laxta to lose, only the fear of the evil eye keeping open expression of it at bay. That, and Joscelin's hands straying toward his dagger-hilts when he caught them at it.
And true enough, on the third day, a handful of Kusheline nobles arrived, strolling the new grass of the Hippochamp, looking smug at having the cleverness to steal a march on their compatriots and skim the cream of the early Tsingani horse-crop.
We watched them with amusement, sitting on folding stools outside the tents of Manoj's kumpania. Some of the women had warmed to me enough to share with me the secrets of the Hokkano, the myriad ways the Tsingani had devised to part D'Angeline nobles from their precious coin. It was something to see, the way the proud, defiant Tsingani turned obsequious; helpful and unctuous, palms extended, silver lies flowing from their tongues. Out of kindness, I will not mention the name of the Kusheline Marquise—though I know it, make no mistake—who gave over a bundle of jewels and coin to one of Hyacinthe's female cousins, who swore that burying it under the birthing-spot of an all-white foal would remove the curse it surely held. Suffice to say that when the Marquise returned to the spot—neatly marked by a stake and a snow-white ribbon—three days hence, she and her escort would unearth an empty packet in an empty field.
"It is a kindness to liberate such things from the possession of a fool," Hyacinthe's cousin said complacently upon her return, drawing the bundle from her bodice and fingering its contents. "Of course," she added, "even among the gadje, there are those it is unwise to attempt." She pointed with her chin, Tsingani-style, across the field.
I followed her gaze, and that was when time stood still.
Four or five of them, no more, and a handful of the House Guard; riding slowly and gazing about, talking and laughing among themselves beneath the pale-blue sky. Fine mounts, as ever, and the devices that set them apart, long robes of night-black overlaid with ornate gold patterns, intricate and Eastern, always different, the Shahrizai, with long, rippling blue-black hair, faces as pale as carven ivory, set with sapphire eyes.
There were three men, buying war-horses. And two women.
One of them was Melisande.
I had forgotten—how could I?—how beautiful she was. Damnably and deadly, her flawless face, like a star among diamonds. Small and insignificant, a Didikani outcast girl among Tsingani, I stared across the Hippochamp at her, hot and cold shivers running across my skin, turning me to stone, hatred, and ah! Blessed Elua help me, yearning. No one else, not even Delaunay, knew me as she did, knew what it was to be what I was. What I am, and ever would be.
Every movement, every shift in the saddle, every slight change of pressure on the reins; I felt it, on my skin, in my flesh and bones.
And on the heels of it came terror, for I was here not as a Tsingani half-breed nor a Servant of Naamah nor victim of KushieFs Dart, but as Phedre no Delaunay, ambassador of Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange, and Melisande Shahrizai was the most dangerous traitor the realm had ever known.
I saw brightness and darkness, while my breath came in sharp white flashes and my heart beat like a frightened rabbit's, thumping fast and terrified in my breast. Voices surrounded me, speaking D'Angeline and Tsingani, none of it making sense, none able to penetrate the sound that beat at my eardrums like the ocean, low and vast and thralling, Melisande's careless laughter, that I could hear no matter how great the distance between us. Faces swam in my ken, none distinct. I was aware, somehow, sometime, of hands shaking my shoulders and Joscelin's presence, fearful and urgent, his hair streaming across the rising red tide of my vision as he shook me, sun-streaked wheat lashing a bloody haze.
But it fell away, and there was only her, Melisande's face poised in a three-quarter turn, careless and beautiful, waiting to finish the gesture at any second, turning to look full upon me, fifty yards away or more, and see, completing the connection between us. Her diamond a millstone around my neck, the velvet cord merely awaiting the touch of her hand on its lead.
I was lost.
"She will pass, and see nothing."
It was a voice, hollow and insistent, penetrating my terror, anchoring itself in my soul and drawing me back. The veil lessened; I blinked, seeing Hyacinthe's face swim into focus before me, his dark, beautiful eyes. His hands held mine, gentle and firm. In the background, the Shahrizai rode onward, small, ornate figures on prancing horses.
"She will pass, and see nothing," he said, repeating it.
Sorrow, in his voice.
The Prince of Travellers had chosen.
SIXTY-FOUR
It was true that the Tsingan Kralis cared deeply for his half-breed grandson, that I believe.
But a silence fell after Hyacinthe's words, like the silence when a great wave has broken, while another greater wave gathers. And then the outcry arose.
"Vrajna! He has been taught the dromonde! Anaistaizia's son speaks the dromonde't He brings a curse upon us all!"
I will not recount the thousand voices that rose to vilify him; suffice to say that they did, these great-aunts and uncles and cousins who had taken him to their hearts. Hyacinthe stood beneath the onslaught, enduring, meeting my eyes in silent understanding. Not for me, I thought. Don't do this for me alone. He understood, shaking his head. It was not for me alone. Somewhere, in the distance, the scions of House Shahrizai glanced over, mildly curious at the Tsingani uproar, bent on trade, acquiring steeds for a war no one else in the realm knew was coming, taking no sides, merely hedging their bets against the need.
And somewhere an old crone smiled in vindication, a hundred gold coins draped around her withered neck.
Hyacinthe stood unmoving.
Joscelin's daggers were in his crossed hands, as he turned slowly in a circle, polite and deadly, warding me.
"Is it true?"
It was Manoj who broke the silence, fierce eyes anguished as he came forward, members of his kumpania falling away before the patriarch's approach.
Hyacinthe bowed his Prince of Travellers bow. "Yes, Grandpa-ji," he said softly. "I have the gift of the dromonde. My mother taught me to use it."
"It is vrajna." Manoj caught his breath as if it pained him. "Chavo, my grandson, Anasztaizia's son, you must renounce it. The dromonde is no business for men."
If Melisande had looked, in that instant, to the disturbance in the kumpania^ she would have known. Even if she had not seen me . . . the circle, the stillness, Hyacinthe at its center, and a Cassiline warrior-priest in a Mendacant's cloak . . . she would have known, somehow, that I was involved. Delaunay had taught her what he had taught me, to watch and listen, and see the patterns emerging from chaos. We were alike, in that. But Elua was merciful, and she did not look. The Shahrizai had already spared us one casual glance. They were there to buy horses.
And Hyacinthe shook his head with infinite regret, his eyes like black pearls shining with tears.
"I cannot, Grandpa-ji," he said quietly. "You cast my mother from the kumpania, but I am her son. If it is vrajna to be what she made me, then I am vrajna."
What did she see? A reflection in a blood-pricked eye? I do not know. Only, in the end, that we needed Hyacinthe. And the Long Road he chose was not the one the Tsingani had walked since Elua trod the earth.
"So be it," said the Tsingan Kralis, and turned his back on his grandson. "My daughter is dead. I have no grandson."
A wailing arose then and they mourned Hyacinthe, as if he were not standing alive before them. I saw the blood drain from his face, leaving him grey. It was Joscelin who held us together, then, shoving his daggers into their sheaths, gathering our things, herding us out of the camp of Manoj's kumpania. On the outskirts of the Hippochamp, we met Neci's folk.
"Are you still minded to make your name?" Joscelin asked Neci bluntly, speaking in plain D'Angeline.
The Tsingano glanced at us all, startled, then looked to his wife. She shrugged once, looked at the others, then nodded vigorously, beginning to summon the children.
Somewhere, in the background, the Shahrizai were concluding a deal, and I shivered as if with the ague.
"Good," Joscelin said in a hard tone. "Get your horses and your things. We're riding west."
And so we did.
It is a remarkable thing, the speed with with a Tsingani company can become mobile. I daresay most armies could learn a thing or two about efficiency from them. Neci's family had one wagon, a team to draw it, and five horses to trade. Only two were hunters; there was a broodmare and her foal, and a yearling besides. In a matter of minutes, Neci had concluded a deal for the mare and the younglings, trading for two more hunters and a rangy gelding of indeterminate ancestry. And in that time, Gisella and her sister had the wagon hitched and the family ready to move.
Enough time, however, for word to spread. By the time we set out, they knew Hyacinthe no longer existed in the Tsingan Kralis' eyes. I thought for a moment that Neci would back out of the deal, but then Joscelin paid him a deposit in gold as surety against the trade with Rousse, and greed and pride won out. They would take the risk.
We were four days riding with Neci's family, following the Lusande west toward the harsh, stony hills of outlying Kusheth. The Lusande Valley is lush and rich in the center of the province, and we saw a fair number of folk as we travelled. The Tsingani traded with them, mending pots and horseshoes in exchange for wine and foodstuffs. Sometimes we saw nobles and their retinues, House Guards in gleaming Kusheline devices, but we had no fear of discovery. With Neci's family, our disguise was complete, more than it would have been even with Manoj's riders. Joscelin performed for small crowds more than once, growing confident in his Mendacant's trade, while the children went among the spectators with tins, begging copper coins. I had a quiet word with Gisella to ensure that no purses were lifted; if we landed before the judiciary, our quest would be in vain.
It was a strange thing, to sojourn with an eloquent Cassiline and a quiet Tsingano. I spoke with Hyacinthe the first night, the others leaving us to it in privacy.
"You could still go back, you know," I said, sitting beside him. "When this is done. Manoj would take you back, I think. They like to forgive."
Hyacinthe shook his head. "No," he said softly. "He never forgave my mother, you know, for all his tears. Some things are unforgiveable. Murder, theft, treachery . .. but not that which is vrajna. I knew this. I was swept up in it, Phedre. I'd never known what it was like to have such a family, so many folk to call cousin and aunt and near-brother."
"I know." I slipped my hand into his. "Believe me, I do know."
So much to say, at such a time, and none of it adequate. We sat like that for a long time. Hyacinthe put his arm about me and I laid my head on his shoulder, falling at length into the white exhaustion that follows strong emotion, until at last I slept, and dreamed I was awake. At least I did not dream of Melisande, which I had feared; Hyacinthe's presence kept those dreams at bay. So I slept, and woke to find it morning, and Hyacinthe still asleep, the two of us entwined like twins, my hair spread like a silken drape across his chest. Someone had laid a blanket over us. I sat up blinking at the daylight. Across the camp, Joscelin glanced at me, and politely looked away. Hyacinthe stirred, waking.
It was hard to leave the warmth of him. I fumbled for Ysandre's signet, on its chain beneath my dress, beneath the deadly weight of Melisande's diamond.
A mission for the Queen; that, above all else.
Our caravan moved slowly, the pace dictated by the Tsingani wagon, which was not built for speed, but by the third evening we left behind the rich spring valleys for the rocky terrain of outer Kusheth, and on the fourth day our progress was torturously slow, as the wagon had to be pushed at times. The children bounced shrieking in the back while all the men—Neci, his brother-in-law and cousin, Hyacinthe and Joscelin alike—set their backs to it and shoved, grunting.
But when we made camp that night, we could smell salt air.
I had taken our landmarks from atop the tallest hill, and studied them against the map Ysandre had provided us—a luxury, after the Skaldic wilderness. Joscelin gazed over my shoulder.
"There," I said, pointing. "The Pointe d'Oeste lies there. Rousse's fleet is quartered three miles to the north. If we take the road that runs just south of that ridge, we should reach him before noon."
"Good." Hunkering on his heels, Joscelin sifted a handful of dirt through his hand. Opening his hand, he showed me the thin, pale grass sprouts taking root even in the rocky soil. "Spring's coming even here," he said softly. "How long do you think Waldemar Selig will wait?"
"We're months from the first harvest." Fear made my heart beat faster. "He can't possibly be provisioned. And he'll wait for that."
"Not so far off." Joscelin lifted his head, staring toward the darkening west. "And we've a long way to go."
"Tomorrow," I said, and repeated it more firmly. "We'll reach Quin-tilius Rousse tomorrow."
And indeed, so we should have done. Except that it was not to be.
Perhaps we had grown overconfident, secure in our disguise, travelling unimpeded the breadth of Kusheth; but truly, I think it would not have mattered. The guard that stopped us was there for a purpose, and they would have stopped any travellers, Tsingani or royal courier alike.
Laboring over a hillcrest, we didn't see them until we were nigh upon them, and one of the children shouted out a warning. "Dordi-ma! Gavveroti!"
A squadron of twenty guardsmen, arranged across the road, waiting for us. Behind them, a mile off, we could see the grey sea wrinkling. The day was overcast, and the light glinted dully on their armor. A breeze lifted the standard-bearer's flag. I knew its device, echoed on their livery. I had seen it, in another time and place.
A raven and the sea.
The arms of the Duc de Morhban.
Spurring his horse, Hyacinthe rode quickly to the head of the caravan. This much, we had discussed. Better that he should be our spokesman than Joscelin or I, who might be marked as unusual.
"Where are you bound, Tsingano?" The leader of the guard invested the word with scorn; I noticed it more, now.
"We have an agreement to trade with the Queen's Admiral," Hyacinthe said reasonably. "May we pass, my lord?"
The leader of the guard turned his head and spat upon the ground. "The Queen's Admiral sails where he will, but this is Morhban. No one crosses without the Due's permission. You'll wait on his grace."
In point of truth, we'd been crossing Morhban for some time now; it is the sovereign duchy of Kusheth, and vast. I understood. It was access to the Queen's Admiral that Quincel de Morhban was controlling. Hyacinthe turned back as if to survey our party, meeting my eyes briefly. I gave an imperceptible nod. We dared not try to fight our way through, not with the rest of Morhban's troops a mere mile or two away.
"Then we will wait," Hyacinthe said calmly.
So wait we did, while de Morhban's men idled and a rider headed south. The adult Tsingani were scared, but bore it well; the children, our best disguise, carried the act for us. One of the little girls found a nest of baby rabbits, which kept them all occupied.
