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Like me, the Tsingani were waiting for spring.

And I introduced him too to Eleazar ben Enokh, the Yeshuite mystic. It grieved me to be unable to share the Name of God with Eleazar, who had sought it for so long-and yet I could not. When I thought upon it, my throat swelled near to closing, and I knew the Sacred Name had been entrusted to me for one purpose, and one purpose only.

“Adonai does as He wills, and none of us may grasp the whole of His thought.” Eleazar’s words were gentle. “My heart is glad on your behalf, Phèdre nó Delaunay.”

If I could not share the Name of God with him, I could tell him of the Tribe of Dân, and that I did, at length-of the union of Shalomon and Makeda and the Covenant of Wisdom, of Khemosh’s folly and the flight to Tisaar and the Lake of Tears, of the Ark of Broken Tablets on the island of Kapporeth. These things he recorded eagerly, and his wife Adara looked on with indulgence and interest.

In such ways did my Bitterest Winter pass.

I spent long hours composing letters, replying to a year’s worth of correspondence. Although my letters would not go overseas until spring, I wrote to Nicola L’Envers y Aragon in Amílcar, to Kazan Atrabiades in Epidauro, who had written to tell me of his new appointment, to Pasiphae Asterius, who is the Kore of the Tenemos. I studied, obsessively, everything in my library on the angel Rahab, which I had spent ten years compiling, and learned nothing new. I thought about the confrontation to come. Few guests called upon my home and few invited me to theirs during this time. I received several offers of assignations from such people as would never have dared inquire in the past-disreputable merchants, a petty lordling suspected of molesting his household servants. These I burned without deigning to reply.

The City of Elua was waiting to see if Ysandre would forgive me.

Every week, a representative of the Queen came to the house to ensure that Imriel was in good health and good spirits-Guillen Baphinol, a young Eisandine nobleman who had studied medicine at one of Eisheth’s sanctuaries. I treated him with unfailing politeness. At first, he made a show of inspecting the house and assessing its fortitude, testing the bars on the doors with a grave demeanor. Joscelin watched with amusement; Imriel with simmering resentment. Although it is small, my house is as secure as any manse within the City. I have always taken care with such things, ever since my lord Delaunay and my foster-brother Alcuin were slain within their own home. In time, Guillen warmed to us and I consulted him on such small bits of herb-lore as I have garnered in my travels. But he never gave any indication of Ysandre’s mind.

Not everyone I had known turned their back upon me. Once the gossip reached her ears, I had regular letters from Cecilie Laveau-Perrin, my old mentor in Naamah’s arts. Some years ago she had closed her salon for good and retired to her country estate of Perrinwolde, which, alas, lay a day’s ride outside the City walls. Nonetheless, it cheered me to receive her letters, and we resumed a lively correspondence.

I received an invitation, too, for all of us to call upon Thelesis de Mornay, the Queen’s Poet, and that I accepted, for she was in seclusion at the Palace and I might visit her without breaking my pledge. It had been mayhap three years since I had seen her last, and I was shocked at her condition. Touched by the fever of that first Bitterest Winter, Thelesis had never recovered completely. Her quarters has always been maintained at a nigh-uncomfortable warmth; now there was a fireplace in every room and multiple braziers and pots of boiling water suspended over the flames added moisture to the air, rendering it as hot and steamy as the plains of Jebe-Barkal in the rainy season. A servant in Courcel livery tended them with quiet diligence.

Thelesis looked older than her years, her hair streaked with grey, her skin grown sallow and loose on her small frame. But if her dark eyes were sunken, they still glowed, and her voice held a ghost of its rich musicality. “Phèdre nó Delaunay,” she whispered, giving me the kiss of greeting. “It is good to see you once more.”

I leaned my cheek against hers, feeling the frailty of her. “You are kind to do so, Thelesis. Pray, don’t let us overtax you.”

“Nonsense.” She held me off, smiling. “And you, Joscelin Verreuil! Come here and let me feel your strength, Queen’s Champion.”

“No longer,” he said, returning her kiss. “But it is good to see
you
, Queen’s Poet. I hope you are keeping yourself as well as may be.”

“As you see.” Thelesis waved a hand, indicating the boiling pot, the braziers, the eternal disarray of her quarters, which were strewn haphazardly with books and scrolls and fragments of half-finished writing. At the farthest worktable, a young girl in a drab smock sat perched on a stool, grinding oak-galls in a mortar, shards of husks strewn about the floor. In all the time I have known Thelesis de Mornay-which is a good many years, now-she has never been able to work surrounded by order. With her dark poet’s eyes, she watched Imriel take it in. “A proper mess, isn’t it?” she asked him.

“Phèdre makes a mess of her study when she’s trying to find something.” He offered the words warily, watching her reaction. “She doesn’t think so, but she does.”

“Does she?” Thelesis smiled. “I wouldn’t have imagined it. I am Thelesis de Mornay. You must be Imriel.”

He made a half-bow. “Imriel nó Montrève.”

“I know.” She touched his cheek lightly. “A fine name you bear, and a noble one. Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève was a friend of mine, and I mourn him still. He would be proud of what Phèdre has made of his name, and as proud again to know you bear it. He never did, you know, not in his adult lifetime. Have you heard that story?”

“Yes.” Imriel relaxed, smiling back at her. “We have a bust of him, you know.”

“I know.” It had been her gift to me. “I’d like to hear your story, Imriel, if you wouldn’t mind telling it to me. Yours, and Phèdre’s and Joscelin’s, too.”

So we told our story to the Queen’s Poet from beginning to end, and it was a long time in the telling. The quiet servant brought tea sweetened with honey and a plate of small cakes, a warm blanket of fine-combed wool which he settled carefully about his mistress’ shoulders as Thelesis sat and listened without interrupting, sipping tea to suppress her cough. From time to time, her dark eyes filled with tears. We told the story in turns, and the only sound save for one voice speaking was the soft noise of oak-galls being ground to powder for ink. In time, even that fell silent as Thelesis’ young apprentice ceased her labors to listen, perched on her stool, chin in her hands.

“Oh, my,” Thelesis murmured when we had finished. “Oh, children.”

There wasn’t much more she could say. At the distant worktable, her apprentice picked up her bowl and resumed grinding.

“It’s not a tale fit for poetry,” I said. “Not Daršanga.”

“No.” Her gaze rested on Imri, filled with compassion. “But it is a story that must be told, that we might remember and never let such a thing come to pass again. I will think on how best it might be done. I may not live to see it finished, but I daresay I will see it begun.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” I said, not wanting to hear them.

Her smile was tinged with sorrow. “Ah, Phèdre! You’ve never shied away from truth. I’ve lived through such times as poets dream of, and I have no regrets. But don’t fear, my dear, I’ll not leave yet. To miss the end of the story-ah, now that would grieve me.” Her tone changed. “It must be hard for you to wait.”

I took a deep breath, and made no reply.

“Ysandre will forgive you, you know.” Thelesis read my expression. “You gave her no choice, Phèdre. And I daresay she took it harder, coming from you. But I remember your young Tsingano friend very well indeed, and I suspect he has reserves of fortitude he’s yet to tap. Nearly two years ago, you gave him the gift of hope. He’ll wait thirty years, if he must; three months is naught to one facing immortality.”

My heart rose. “Sibeal delivered my message?”

“No one told you?” She shook her head. “Of course not. Who would dare? Yes, my dear, she did. He permitted the Cruarch’s ship to enter the harbor, and she told him. And don’t forget, Hyacinthe has the gift of the
dromonde
, does he not? As many unforeseeable turns as the path of your life has taken before, I suspect it lies clear at this point.”

“To Rahab.” I shivered.

“To the angel known as Pride,” Thelesis said, “and Insolence.” Her voice was gentle. “Do you know what you will do when you arrive?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

“She’ll have a plan by the time we get there,” Joscelin said to Imriel. “It will probably involve me swimming three times around the island carrying you on my back, wearing Ras Lijasu’s lion’s mane on your head and screaming at the top of your lungs and waving a sword. That should get Rahab’s attention, don’t you think?”

Imriel grinned. “Can you swim when you’re seasick?”

“Shhh.” Joscelin tweaked a lock of his hair. “You’re not supposed to reveal that, especially in front of the Queen’s Poet,”

I caught Thelesis watching their exchange. She smiled, seeing me take notice. “What was it you said to Ysandre? Not all families are born of blood and seed?”

“She told you that?” I was surprised.

“Even a Queen may recognize Elua’s hand at work, Phèdre nó Delaunay. Give her time.” Thelesis turned her head away to cough, covering her mouth with a kerchief worked with the Courcel insignia. In the background, the apprentice girl set down her pestle and slipped from the stool, bringing the bowl of fine-ground gall for inspection. “Well done,” Thelesis said, regaining her voice. “Thank you, Alais.”

Alais? I started, only now recognizing the dark-haired girl in the drab smock as Ysandre’s youngest daughter. So much, I thought, for my vaunted powers of observation. “Princess Alais,” I said with alacrity, rising to curtsy.

She peered at me with the violet eyes of House L’Envers and wrinkled her nose. “I’m only Alais, here. Thelesis lets me help, sometimes.”

“Now?” I raised my eyebrows at Thelesis.

“She wanted to hear her cousin’s story,” she said. “Ysandre did not object. Her grandfather Ganelon sought to protect her from unpleasant truths when she was a child. She will not do the same with her daughters. Better they should know the worst, from the beginning, and live their lives accordingly.”

“Sidonie didn’t want to hear it,” Alais said complacently. “She doesn’t like to get dirty, either. I do. Will you tell me about seeing lions, cousin?” The latter was directed to Imriel. “I will show you how we make ink.”

Imriel glanced at me, uncertain. I shrugged. “Go ahead, if you like.”

“Alais, you’re not to touch the vitriol,” Thelesis called. “Remember last time.”

“I won’t.”

Joscelin, who had risen to bow to the young Princess, laughed aloud as she led Imri away to her worktable. “That one’s a handful! I remember, it was Alais who wanted to play with my daggers. How old is she, now? Seven? Eight?”

“Eight,” Thelesis said. “She has dreams, sometimes, that hold truths; small things, but accurate. Drustan thinks she may have inherited the gift of his mother, Necthana.”

We watched them without speaking, the two heads bent intently over the worktable as Alais explained to Imriel how the powdered galls were mixed with vitriol and gum arabic to make an enduring ink that would not run or smear, even in dampness. At a distance, they might have been brother and sister. She has dreams, I thought, and he has nightmares. I have both, but Blessed Elua willing, that will soon be over. For these two, life is composed wholly of beginnings.

“We speak of stories ending,” Thelesis de Mornay said softly, “when in truth it is we who end. The stories go on and on.”

I prayed silently that they would not go on without me.

Not yet.

Hyacinthe
!

Ninety-Three

THE FITFUL winds of early spring came and went. All across Terre d’Ange, the fields began greening. Shoots emerged from the rich soil, straining toward the sun. Crocuses blossomed in purple, white and yellow, and trees were hazed with leaf-buds. In the mountains, shepherds prepared for lambing. In the countryside, farmers watched the weather and planted seed. On the coasts, sailors gauged the winds and made ready to voyage.

And in the City of Elua, they wagered on the date of the Cruarch’s arrival.

I daresay I had never awaited it with such anxiety myself, fond though I am of Drustan mab Necthana. For that was the letter of Ysandre’s sentence upon me: When the Cruarch entered the gates of the City, I was free to leave it.

It was Guillen Baphinol who brought us the news, ostensibly in the form of an official visit. But his horse was lathered when he pulled up in the courtyard and his shouting brought Joscelin at a run, his sword at the ready. Cassilines may only draw their swords to kill, but when it came to Imriel’s safety, he didn’t bother with his daggers.

“Peace,” Guillen said breathlessly, putting up his hands. “Peace, Messire Verreuil. I’ve news! The Cruarch’s flagship has been sighted!”

Joscelin stared at him, then let out a whoop of joy and embraced the Eisandine lordling.

Guillen Baphinol grinned, thumping his back. “I thought you’d be pleased, my lord!”

We threw a fête that evening, and the entire household celebrated. Once the preparations were done, I gave everyone, from Eugenie to the stable-keeper Benoit, the night off. The waiting had weighed hard on all of us, and cast a three-month pall over what should have been a joyous homecoming. We celebrated it that night. I do not doubt that among the Great Houses of Terre d’Ange, they would be appalled to know that at House Montrève, the serving-maid was seated with the chevalier, and the stable-keeper dined at the table with straw still in his hair, but it was
my
household, and these were the people who had kept it together in duress. I have been a peer of the realm and a barbarian’s slave alike, and I am not too proud to dine with someone with the muck fresh-cleaned from beneath his nails.

Elua grant I never will be.

Although he did smell faintly of the stables.