"Ah, Elua." Emotion flooded his face, his dark eyes liquid with unshed tears. "I thought I’d lost you, truly. Delaunay, Alcuin…Phèdre, I never thought to see you again. I can’t believe you survived what you did. To return here, and find yourself branded a murderess…I’d have fought harder against it, if I’d known you were alive. I’m so sorry."
"I know." I swallowed, hard. "At least it’s home, though. If I have to die anywhere…Oh, Hyacinthe, I’m so sorry about your mother."
He was quiet a moment, gazing unthinking toward the cookstove that had seemed so eternally her domain, rife with muttered prophecy and the chink of gold coins. "I know. I miss her. I always thought she would live to see me claim my birthright among the Tsingani, and not this sham I play at in Night’s Doorstep. But I waited too long." He rubbed at his eyes. "You should sleep. You must be exhausted."
"Yes. Good night," I whispered, kissing him on the brow. I felt his gaze follow me as I made my way to a warm and waiting bed.
There is a point beyond exhaustion, where sleep is hard in coming. I had reached it that night. After so long sharing a bed, it seemed strange to be alone in one, in clean linen sheets with a warm velvet coverlet atop them. Even after the strangeness of it wore off, giving way to drowsing familiarity, something seemed to be missing. The realization of what it was struck me with a shock, just before the tidal wave of sleep finally claimed me and dragged me under to the depths of oblivion, erasing the thought as the waves erase a line drawn in the sand by a child’s stick.
It was Joscelin.
I slept late into the morning, and awoke remembering nothing of it. Hyacinthe had been up and about and busy already, and the modest house gleamed; he’d brought in a girl he could trust, the daughter of a Tsingano seamstress his mother had known, to cook and clean. She went about her business with ducked head, eager to please and fearing to meet the eye of the Prince of Travellers or his mysterious friends.
"She’ll say naught," Hyacinthe assured us, and we believed him. He had found clothing, too; or bought it, rather, from the seamstress. I bathed again, murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving as the hot water steeped further traces of the Skaldi from my skin, and dressed afterward in the gown he’d provided, a dark-blue velvet that did not fit too ill.
Joscelin, in a sober dove-grey doublet and hose, struggled to drag a comb through his hair, damp and clean, but matted with Skaldi braidwork. He made no protest when I went to aid him with it, easing out the tangles.
His daggers, vambraces and sword lay in a tangle of steel and leathers on the kitchen table.
"You’re not…?" I began to ask; he shook his head, hair sliding over his shoulders.
"I may have kept you alive, but I’ve broken my vows nonetheless. I don’t have the right to bear arms."
"Do you want me to put it in a single braid, then?" I gathered his hair in my hands, feeling the fair, silken mass of it.
"No," he said resolutely. "I’ll put it in a club. I’ve still the right to that much, as a priest."
He was that, though I had forgotten it. I watched as his hands moved deftly, binding his hair into a club at the nape of his neck. Even without his arms, he looked a Cassiline again. Hyacinthe observed it all without comment, only the arch of his brows reminding me how far it was from where we’d begun.
"We should burn those," he said aloud, wrinkling his nose at the pile of garments, furs and woolens, we’d shed.
"No, leave them," I said quickly. "Elua, the smell alone will testify to our story! And we’ve naught else to prove it."
Joscelin laughed.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Hyacinthe glanced out the window onto the street and tensed. "There’s a carriage drawing up to the doorstep," he said, his voice tight. "You’d best get in the back, there’s an exit out the postern gate. If it’s not de Mornay, I’ll hold them off as long as I can."
We moved quickly, Joscelin sweeping his gear off the table, and hid ourselves in the scullery, where there was a passage to the rear of the house.
It didn’t take long. I heard the door open and one person enter, Hyacinthe’s courteous greeting. The voice that answered was unmistakable; fainter than I remembered, but rich and feminine.
Thelesis de Mornay.
I remember that I stumbled out of hiding weeping, even as she drew back the hood of her cloak, revealing the familiar plain features illumed by her dark eyes, which held grief and welcome alike. She took me in her arms, her embrace quick and fierce, unexpectedly strong.
"Ah, child…" her voice whispered at my ear. "I’m so glad to see you alive. Anafiel Delaunay would be proud of you." She grasped my arms then, shaking me a little. "He would be so proud," she repeated.
I gulped back my tears, gathering myself, fighting the shudder in my voice. "Thelesis…We need to speak to the Dauphine, to Gaspar Trevalion, Admiral Rousse, to whomever you trust. The Skaldi are planning to invade, they’ve a leader, and the Duc d’Aiglemort plans betrayal-"
"Shhh." Her hands at my arms steadied me. "I got your message, Phèdre. I knew you were no traitor. I’m taking you now to an audience with Ysandre de la Courcel. Are you ready to bear that much?"
It seemed sudden, too sudden. I looked around for an instant, frantic and uncertain. Joscelin stepped up to my side, empty-handed, but armed in Cassiline rigor.
"She will not go alone," he said in his softest, most deadly tone. "In the name of Cassiel, I will bear witness to this."
"And I." Hyacinthe bowed gracefully in his best Prince of Travellers manner, but his eyes when he straightened were cold and black. "I have lost Phèdre nó Delaunay once already, my lady, and protested too little. I do not propose to let the same mistake happen twice. And mayhap it will be that my small gift of the dromonde may be of service in this matter."
"It may be, Tsingano." Thelesis de Mornay gazed at him with her intent, dark eyes, laying one small hand upon his sleeve. "I pray that it may."
Chapter Fifty-Seven
It was at once like and unlike the old days, a covered carriage bearing me to the Palace, to meet in secret with one of Elua’s line. But no longer was I the darling of Naamah’s patrons, garbed in exquisite finery, awaited in breathless anticipation. Now I was a condemned murderess and an escaped Skaldi slave, awaiting the judgment of the heir-apparent of the realm, the very gown on my back there only by courtesy of the scapegrace of Night’s Doorstep.
Only the scarlet mote in my eye and the unfinished marque that twined my spine gave tongue to what I was; Delaunay’s anguissette the only such born in three generations.
We told our story, Joscelin and I, to Thelesis de Mornay in her carriage. Not the whole of it nor the details of our escape, but the gist of what mattered to the throne of Terre d’Ange. She listened intently, turning aside now and then to cough.
She believed; of that, I had no doubt. But would Ysandre de la Courcel? I had not met her, and could not guess.
The carriage drew round to a seldom-used entrance to the Palace, where we were met by guards in House Courcel livery, midnight-blue with the silver insignia. Delaunay’s lessons were not lost on me; I looked closely, and observed somewhat. Each of them bore on the small finger of his left hand a silver ring.
"The Dauphine’s personal guard," Thelesis said, stifling a cough. She’d seen me looking. "They may be trusted."
The Courcel guards checked us for weapons. Joscelin handed them the bundle of his Cassiline arms with a curt bow, and Hyacinthe gave them the dagger at his belt, sliding another out of his boot and gave it over with a shrug. I bore no weapons, but I had Trygve’s dagger in a sack with the other Skaldic items, and protested its removal, for those were our only proofs.