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Hyacinthe, my dearest friend, had been one of them … and it was because of this that I regarded Night’s Doorstep, that cut-rate antechamber to the civilized pleasures of the Night Court, as a sanctuary. It was where I went when I escaped the rigors of Cereus House, and later Delaunay’s. My Prince of Travellers earned his silver telling fortunes to drunken nobles, using the gift of the
dromonde
; but also selling information and trading favors, and, more pragmatically, running a livery stable and lodging-house.

It was the latter that he had left to Emile, chief among his cadre of runners and assistants. Ti-Philippe had arranged the meeting ahead of time, and we found a table held for us at the Cockerel.

“My lady Phèdre nó Delaunay!” Emile cried as I entered the busy inn. He went down on one knee and spread both arms wide. “You honor me with your presence!”

Ignoring the starts and murmurs from the throng of patrons, I smiled and went to greet him, taking his hands in mine. “Emile. It is good to see you.”

“And you.” He kissed both my hands and rose, no taller, but considerably broader than I remembered him. It had been eight years, at least; I had visited only once since my time in La Serenissima. “Chevalier Philippe, Messire Cassiline … come, sit, my friends! Let us speak of old times and old acquaintances.”

A space cleared around our table, leaving a respectful aisle about us. I couldn’t for the life of me have said whether it was due to my dubious fame, my quick-tempered chevalier Ti-Philippe, Joscelin’s Cassiline arms and dry, capable air, or if it was commanded by Emile’s presence. Clearly, he had prospered in Night’s Doorstep, and was a person to be reckoned with, at least in the Cockerel.

Once a jug had been procured and wine poured all around, Emile leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “You have word of Hyacinthe?”

“I have,” I said, and drawing a deep breath, I told him the story of our journey to the Three Sisters, the passage of power from the Master of the Straits, and the dire twist on Hyacinthe’s curse.

When I had done, tears shone in Emile’s dark eyes. “Ah! You break my heart anew. You may not have known it, Comtesse, but he was like a brother to me.”

“I know,” I said compassionately. “Emile, there is more, if you will hear it. I may have a key to unlocking this curse; or at least, I may know where it lies. It’s a long, hard path, and there’s something else I must do first if I am to pursue it. I know the Tsingani go everywhere, hear everything, more than the
gadje
suspect. Are you well enough connected to use their ears for me?”

He smiled a little to hear me use the Tsingani word for outsiders. “Well enough, I think. It is different than it was in Hyacinthe’s day. The chevalier told you Manoj is dead? Now, the
kumpanias
interact more freely with those of us in the cities, and they do not despise the
Didikani
as they once did.”

Like Hyacinthe, Emile was of mixed blood, D’Angeline and Tsingani-
Didikani
, they called them; half-breed. “So you hear things.”

“I hear things.” Emile rubbed his thumb and forefingers together as if holding a coin. “Sometimes I tell them,” he said, then closed his hand in a fist. “Sometimes I do not. For you …” He opened his hand wide. “For you I will sing like a lark. What do you wish to hear, Phèdre nó Delaunay?”

“Any news of Imriel de la Courcel,” I said. “Or a child matching his description.”

There was a pause, and all of us-Joscelin, Ti-Philippe and I-leaned in close, but eventually Emile shook his head, regretfully. “No. I am sorry. It has been five years, at least, since anyone placed a wager in Night’s Doorstep on the whereabouts of the missing prince. The gambling-houses will give you any odds you like, and laugh as they take your money. But I will listen.” He glanced shrewdly at me. “A child matching his description, you say?”

“A child,” I said, “gone missing from the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, in lower Siovale. A boy, ten years of age, with his mother’s eyes.” I reached out and put my hand over his, closing his fingers. “And this information, Emile, is not to be sold at any price.”

“I would not!” He looked hurt. “Hyacinthe was my friend, my lady. Anyone he befriended, Tsingani,
Didikani
, D’Angeline alike, he treated with loyalty. What do I care for missing heirs? I would not sell this knowledge for profit when you might use it to win my friend’s freedom.”

“Good.” I relaxed “If you hear anything-”

“If I hear anything, I will come to you.” Emile drank off his wine at one draught and refilled his mug. “It is true, what I said. The story has grown slowly, but it has grown, and spread. Now Manoj is dead, and there is no Tsingan kralis. The
kumpanias
speak his name at the crossroads. Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia.”

“He followed the Long Road to its end,” Joscelin murmured unexpectedly.

“The
Lungo Drom
,” Emile echoed, sighing. “Some of us walk the inner path, and some of us the outer. I do not know anyone who has walked a longer road than Anasztaizia’s son.”

None of us did. Ti-Philippe raised his mug. “To Hyacinthe.”

“To Hyacinthe.” Emile clinked the rim of his mug in salute, then surged to his feet, hoisting his mug in the air. “To Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia!” he shouted. “Come, whoever remembers his name, I’ll stand a drink to toast the Prince of Travellers!”

The resultant roar was staggering, and even though I daresay half of them were cheering nothing more than free wine, it brought a lump to my throat. I remembered Hyacinthe holding court at the Cockerel, his face bright with mirth … and I remembered him on the island, despair in the shifting depths of his power-stricken eyes.

Whatsoever might come to pass, I feared the bold, merry companion of Emile’s youth was gone forever.

I drank to his memory, and tasted the salt of my tears.

Fifteen

“NOW YOU remember why we don’t go to Night’s Doorstep more often.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, squinting against the merciless D’Angeline sun, which sent dazzling spears of pain into my eyes. My head was pounding like one of Audine Davul’s drums, and I could have sworn my soft-gaited mare was clopping like a plow-horse.

“We could have departed on the morrow.”

“I’m
not
losing a day to the Cockerel’s rot-gut wine!” There had been a good deal of it after that first toast. Emile’s largesse had flowed freely, and I’d felt obliged to stand a round afterward-it does not pay to be seen as stingy, when one has a reputation in the City-and between my private griefs and the public outpouring of nostalgic melancholy, I’d drunk enough to be sorry for it. With typical Cassiline restraint, Joscelin had abstained after the first toast and drunk only water.

“You look slightly green, Phèdre,” he said, regarding me.

I opened my eyes wide enough to glare at him. “
I’m fine
.”

Despite my aching head, we made good time, and by the second day, I had recovered from the ill effects of too many toasts and we had passed from the rich fields of L’Agnace into the hilly terrain of Siovale. As always, something in Joscelin eased at the return to the province of his childhood, the set of his shoulders more relaxed, his smile coming quicker. I loved to see it in him, although it made me feel guilty for keeping him overmuch in the City. On the third day, we entered the winding mountain paths.

The village of Landras is located at the foothill of a mountain; the Sanctuary of Elua that bears its name, they told us there, lies beyond, over the peak and in the basin of a steep valley. Upon reaching it, we passed the evening in the village, enjoying the mayor’s hospitality and relating in turn the latest news from the City to an avid audience. Siovalese are odd folk, most of them of Shemhazai’s lineage, prone to pondering the vagaries of human nature and exploring the dynamics of the physical world. It is not unusual to find a sheep-herder eager to argue Hellene philosophy or a wool-dyer intent on building a better waterwheel, and they are keen to discuss politics as well. It reminded me with a pang of regret that I would have little time to attend to my own estates in Montrève this summer.

In the morning, we departed, following the narrow trail up the mountain, our pack-mules laboring under the tribute-gifts the mayor had pressed upon us to deliver to the sanctuary. The air was cooler in the heights, pine forests giving way to grassy plateaus. We picked our way around steep outcroppings of rock and sheer drop-offs. Joscelin’s eyes sparkled, and he delighted in pointing out wildlife as we rode; ptarmigan and white-capped finches and shy ouzels, and once a herd of wild chamois, watching us with curious gazes.

“There,” he said, pointing as we gained the summit.

The valley lay far below, a green swathe carpeted with blazing scarlet poppies and riven by a swift river. I caught my breath to see the grey stone buildings of the sanctuary itself and the rough-hewn effigy of Elua, seen in miniature from above. On the far side of the valley, winding trails stitched the mountains, leading to meadow plateaus and the peaks beyond.

“Goat-tracks,” Joscelin mused, scanning the distant crags. “That’s where it would have happened. No wonder no one saw anything.”

High overhead, an eagle circled and gave its piercing cry; stooped, and dove. I thought of its prey and shivered. “Let’s go down.”

It took the better part of an hour to make our descent, even on horseback. Although I’ve seen my share of mountains, I let Joscelin lead, glad of his expertise. By the time we reached bottom, there was no doubt but that we had been seen and were expected.

“Welcome, travellers!” It was a young female acolyte who met us in the courtyard, fresh-faced and pretty. She made a formal bow, hands in the sleeves of her short brown robe. My weary mare lowered her head and blew a soft equine snort. “Ah, poor thing.” The acolyte stepped forward, laying consoling hands on my mount’s lathered neck.

“Sister priestess,” I said. “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and this is my consort, Joscelin Verreuil. Might we speak with Brother Selbert?”

The acolyte, who had lain her cheek alongside my mare’s, glanced up with a start. “Oh! Oh yes, of course.” She smiled. “He is expecting you, I think. At least he is expecting
someone
. If you will dismount, I will see to your horses, and he will meet you in the sanctuary proper … oh! And the mules, of course. You have brought us … what have you brought? Lentils, I think, and salted anchovies, ah! Thank you, thank you, my lady.”

I watched her move among the animals and explore the mules’ panniers as I dismounted. There was an old scar at her temple, a dented crescent, faded with age. “Is there someplace where we may wash the dust of our journey from our faces, Sister?”

“Oh!” She startled again, and laughed. “He has told me, again and again, and still I forget. ‘Liliane, offer them water!’” Her eyes were as wide and guileless as a child’s, and I understood, then, that she was a touch simple. “Yes, my lady, there is a cistern, there,” she said, pointing. “And I am not a priestess yet. Only Liliane.”

“Thank you, Liliane.”

“You are welcome!” She beamed at us both, then added carefully, “And I will take good care of them, I promise. Your horses
and
the mules.”

I didn’t doubt it, for as she set off blithely across the courtyard toward the stables, our mounts and pack-animals fell in behind her unbidden, a string of tall beasts following nose-to-tail behind the barefoot young woman in rough-spun robes.

Joscelin blinked. “Now there,” he said, “is one truly touched by Blessed Elua.”

The water in the cistern was bracingly cold and refreshing. We both drank deep from the dipper, then splashed it over our hands and faces. It was a narrow, arched passageway that led to the Sanctuary of Elua, cool and dark, opening onto the splendid vista we had glimpsed from above.

No longer small with distance, the statue of Blessed Elua stood alone in the field, tall and towering beneath the immense blue sky. His arms were outstretched, and bright poppies lapped at his granite feet. Stooping, I unfastened the buckles on my fine riding boots and unrolled my stockings. The soil was dry and crumbling beneath my bare feet.

“We have nothing to offer,” I murmured to Joscelin.

He placed his own boots in the rack at the entryway. “We have ourselves.”

There is a stillness that comes upon one in sacred places. Hand in hand, we crossed the field of wild poppies, crushing sweet grass and pale green leaves beneath our tread. Elua smiled in welcome as we entered his long shadow, a smile as sweet and guileless as his acolyte’s. His left palm, extended in offering, bore the deep gash of Cassiel’s dagger. It had been his answer to the One God’s arch-herald, who bade him take his place in Heaven. Elua had smiled then, too, and borrowed Cassiel’s dagger. Scoring his palm, he let his blood fall in scarlet drops, and anemones blossomed where it fell.
My grandfather’s Heaven is bloodless: and I am not. Let him offer a better place, where we may love and sing and grow as we are wont, where our children and our children’s children may join us, and I will go
. I knelt at the base of the statue with a wordless prayer, my skirts spilling in billows over the twining foliage, the petals of crimson satin with their velvet-black stamens, vivid as the mote in my eye. Bowing my head, I pressed my lips against the sun-warmed granite of Blessed Elua’s feet.

“Phèdre nó Delaunay.”

It was a man’s voice that spoke my name, gentle as a breeze. Rising, I turned and saw him, Elua’s priest, clad in blue robes the color of the summer sky, with the handsome, austere features of Siovale. His eyes, like the leaves of the poppies, were a pale silvery-green, and his light brown hair fell down his back in a single cabled braid.

“Brother Selbert,” I acknowledged him.

“Yes.” He smiled. “I have been expecting you.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin rise from his own obeisance, bowing in the Cassiline manner, crossed hands hovering over the hilts of his daggers. “Me, my lord?” I asked the priest. “How is it so?”

“You,” he said. “Or someone. You are not the first.” He cocked his head, and I heard in the distance the sound of shepherd’s pipes calling and answering across the far crags. “Did the Queen send you?”