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 Kushiel’s Dart, but as Phèdre nó 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.
Chapter 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 Mendicant’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."