Kushiel's Dart (76 page)

"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.