Kushiel’s Dart

"No." I shook my head, my voice turning hard. "That was different. I did not choose it. That is what it is, I think, to be used by an immortal."

"Kushiel’s Dart." Something in the way he said it made me think of One-Eyed Lodur, the wild priest of Odhinn. Joscelin shuddered inexplicably. "Come on, we’d best be off. One day, he said. Will he keep his word?"

"Yes," I said. "For a day."

"Here." He drew Ysandre’s ring on its chain over his head. "She trusted it to your keeping."

I took it back without comment, and we hurried onward.

In the courtyard, we met with Hyacinthe and the Tsingani, a roil of disorderly activity as adults, children and horses alike strained with eagerness to be on the open road. Tsingani do not like to sleep in stone walls, reckoning it unlucky. Neci’s brother-in-law finished hitching the team, jerking his chin toward the gate.

"Let’s go, rinkeni chavo, before the sea-Kralis changes his mind!" he said impatiently, looking to Hyacinthe as our leader.

Hyacinthe glanced inquiringly at me.

"I’m fine," I said, swinging into the saddle and managing to suppress a grimace. "We’ve one day. Let’s ride."

De Morhban’s men-at-arms watched us go, a few shouting and laughing, A few friendly calls were directed at Joscelin, who acknowledged them with a slight smile and bow.

"You really did entertain them," I said.

He shrugged. "What else was I to do? Go mad worrying about you? Anyway, it’s good practice."

"I think you enjoy it," I teased him, my heart growing lighter as the walls of Morhban Castle fell steadily behind us.

"I wouldn’t go that far." His tone was reserved, but the ghost of a smile still hovered at one corner of his mouth.

The day had dawned fine and clear, a hint of damp warmth in the brisk air, the sky above bearing only a few scudding clouds. We followed a winding coastal road, the blue-grey sea crashing on the rocks below us, sometimes near enough to send a plume of spray over our party. Seagulls wheeled overhead, filling the morning with their raucous cries. I strained to see across the waters and catch a glimpse of distant Alba, but we were too far, here. In Azzalle, they say, one can see the white cliffs across the Strait.

We’d been no more than an hour upon the road when we saw them, coming around a high outcropping. There, below us, a narrow bay cut into the coast, with a flat sandy beach skirting it. One of the Tsingani outriders gave the cry, and the children boiled out of the wagon, jumping and pointing.

The Queen’s fleet was anchored in the mouth of the bay, forty-some ships, their masts bobbing against the horizon. Their sails were lashed, but they flew the Courcel pennant, the silver swan snapping in the sea breeze. It was a beautiful sight. And on the beach, a vast encampment was set, with the figures of sailors made small by our height moving to and fro. There must have been a hundred oar-boats beached there, while others dared the plunging waves, heading out to or back from the fleet. We had found Quintilius Rousse.

"Come on!" Hyacinthe shouted, waving us onward. The Tsingani caught our exhilaration as we began our descent, scrambling incautiously down the steep, declining road. Rousse’s men spotted us well before we reached the bottom, assembling in mass, hands hovering over sword-hilts and bemused expressions on their faces.

Near to the bottom, our impatience took its toll; the wagon, lurching too fast, ran off the road and got hung up on a ridge. The racket of scared, squalling Tsingani children bid fair to outdo the gulls. Gisella and her sister, sighing, counted heads and checked limbs, while Neci and the men rode back shame-faced to prod at the wagon and mutter.

"Go ahead, chavi" Gisella said kindly to me, adjusting the scarf on her head and watching the Tsingani men with a practiced eye. "They’ll get it loose. You and the others go make the trade. Go make a name for Neci’s kumpania, who rode to the outermost west for gold."

I nodded, gathering Joscelin and Hyacinthe. We picked our way down the remainder of the cliff road carefully. By the time we reached bottom, the Admiral himself had arrived, a burly, imposing figure who parted a path through his men as surely as the prow of one of his ships.

"What vagabonds have we here?" he bellowed, roaring out the question, bright blue eyes squinting. "Elua’s Balls! Have the Travellers decided to push their Long Road across the sea?"

He was not, like Gaspar Trevalion, nearly an uncle to me, but he was Delaunay’s friend and a figure from my childhood, and unexpected tears choked me.

"My lord Admiral," I managed, dismounting and curtsying with some difficulty, "my lord Admiral, I bear a message from the Queen."

I looked up, then, and he looked down, and an expression of astonishment split his scarred face.