Kushiel’s Dart

"Neither did she," I said. "It means the Black Boar, in Cruithne. And there is no reason, no reason at all, my lord, why she should have known those words, or linked them to me." I rose, stretching out my joints. "When we are in sight of the kingdom of Dalriada, then, will you let Hyacinthe speak?"

"Those were his mother’s words." Quintilius Rousse’s voice was rough, though I could see he believed, a little. No one could pass the Master of the Straits and not come to believe in things unseen. "Did the lad ever speak you true?"

"Not me," I answered truthfully. "He fears it, to speak for friends. But he spoke it for Melisande, once."

"What did he tell her?" The Admiral’s hands lay slack on the wheel, caught up despite himself. All sailors love a good tale, I have learned. He looked at me with sharp curiosity.

"That which yields," I said, feeling a chill despite the mild wind and hugging my elbows, "is not always weak."

I walked away, then, close-wrapped in my velvet cloak, salt-stained now, a gift of the Duc de Morhban, feeling Rousse’s sharp gaze still at my back. An easy enough prophecy, a skeptic might say; but not if one is that which yields. I made my way across the wooden decks, polished to a high gleam-Quintilius Rousse abided no idle hands on his ship-to find Hyacinthe trying his luck at fishing. He glanced up at me, boasting.

"Phèdre, look! Three to one, I’ve caught." He dangled a string offish at me, bright silvery bodies jerking and twisting, drowning in dry air. "We had a wager, Remy and I," he added, nodding toward the sailor beside him, who looked more amused than not.

"Very nice." I inspected his fish cursorily. "Hyacinthe…If I asked you to see where the Long Road we travel touches land once more, could you do it?"

His black eyes gleamed wickedly in the sunlight, and he grasped the largest of the fish, offering it to me with both hands. "For you, O Star of the Evening, anything. Are you sure you don’t want to ask your Cassiline? He may be jealous of such bounty."

I laughed, despite myself. "I’ll risk it."

For a day and another night, then, we made our way up the coast of Alba, tacking against the slow winds. Our third day broke misty and strange, becalming us, until even the Courcel pennant hung limp from the tallest mast. Rousse set his men to oars, then, cursing them, and we moved torturously slow, the green coast appearing and receding out of the mists.

"Now, if ever," Quintilius Rousse said grimly, calling me on deck. "Bring on the Tsingano lad, Phèdre nó Delaunay. Let him point the way."

There was no mockery in Hyacinthe now. He walked slowly to the prow of the ship, his face raised to the mists that held us thick-clasped. His head turned from side to side, like a hunting dog casting about for a scent, sight-blinded, all his senses elsewhere. The sailors watched him closely, having decided he was lucky-no few had had the ill fortune of dicing with him, I learned later-and Quintilius Rousse, in all his doubt, held his breath.

"I cannot see it," Hyacinthe whispered, arms blundering outward in the thick mists. "Phèdre, I cannot see our road."

I went to him, then; they left us alone, muttering. Joscelin watched silently, offering no comment.

"You can, Hyacinthe. I know you can," I said, taking his arm. "It’s only mist! What’s that to the veils of what-might-be?"

"It is vrajna." He shivered, cold beneath my grasp. "They were right, Manoj was right, this is no business for men."

Waves lapped at the sides of our ship, little waves, moving us nowhere. We were becalmed. The rowers had paused.

"Prince of Travellers," I said. "The Long Road will lead us home. Let it show the way."

Hyacinthe shivered again, his black gaze blurred and fearful. "No. You don’t understand. The Long Road goes on and on. There is no home for us, only the journey."

"You are half D’Angeline!" I raised my voice unintending, shaking him. "Hyacinthe! Elua’s blood in your veins, to ground you home, and Tsingani, to show the way. You can see it, you have to! Where is the Cullach Gorrym?"

His head turned, this way and that, dampness beading on his black ringlets. "I cannot see it," he repeated, shuddering. "It is vrajna! They were right. I should never have looked, never. Men were not meant to part the veils. Now this mist is sent to veil us all, for my sin."

I stood there, my fingers digging into his arm, and cast my gaze about. Up, upward, where the sun rode faint above the mists, a white disk. The ship’s three masts rose, bobbing, to disappear in greyness. "If you cannot see through it," I said fiercely, "then see over it!"

Hyacinthe looked at me slowly, then up at the tallest mast, the crow’s nest lost in the mists. "Up there?" he asked, his voice full of fear. "You want me to look from up there?"