Kushiel’s Dart

"They knew, my lady," Quintilius Rousse said at last, catching my eye and hearing my silence. When had I become "my lady" to him? I tried to remember, and could not. "All those who sign on with me, you may believe it, know the risks. To die on land…it is a glorious thing. 'Tis the watery grave we fear." He looked sidelong at me in the firelight and cleared his throat. "I promised them somewhat."

"What?" He’d caught me wandering, I feared. "My lord Admiral?"

He cleared his throat again, and scratched at his bandaged skull. "I promised…I promised they’d be knighted, those that lived. At your own hand."

Doubly unawares, he’d caught me; I looked at him in surprise. "My hand?"

"You’re the Queen’s ambassador," he said gruffly. "They respect you. And you’ve the right."

"They do? I do?"

On the far side of the fire, Joscelin lifted his head. "You do, Phèdre."

It was the first he’d spoken since the cairn. I blinked at him. "If it is so, Joscelin, then you-"

"No." His voice was harsh. "Not I. I am Cassiel’s servant, and a poor one at that. But they, they deserve it."

I looked bewilderedly at Quintilius Rousse. "Let it be done, then, if they truly wish it at my hands. They’ve earned as much, and more."

The Admiral grinned and rose awkwardly, wounded leg stiff. With one hand, he placed fingers to his lips and blew a piercing whistle. With the other, he drew his sword and gave it unto me. It weighed more than I guessed, a curved blade, clean, but the grip still slick with the sweat of battle. I stood holding it, feeling like a child at a Masque, while the D’Angeline sailors filed one by one out of the darkness beyond the firelight.

I did it, then; Rousse supplied the words and I repeated them. In Elua’s name and that of Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d’Ange, I bequeathed the title of Chevalier on twenty-odd D’Angeline sailors, feeling all the while an imposter. But their eyes, as they knelt, said I was somewhat else.

"Well done," Quintilius Rousse exclaimed, reclaiming his sword and clapping me on the back when it was done. "I’ll give them a fighting-name, I will. Phèdre’s Boys, I’ll call this lot! Let 'em take pride in that!"

"My lord," I said, not sure if I were laughing or weeping, "I wish you wouldn’t." Somewhere, beyond the fire, Joscelin’s eyes shone, red-rimmed with dire amusement and unshed tears.

"We are at war, little Night-Blooming Flower," the Admiral said, his breath smelling of wine. "Or so you tell me. What did you expect? If they will fight for you, well and good. If they take pride in dying for your name, so much the better. What did you think, when you bid me on this mission?"

"I don’t know," I whispered, and buried my face in my hands. I saw, in the darkness there, Waldemar Selig and twenty thousand Skaldi, the Allies of Camlach, glittering and fierce. It was not true. I had known. "Call them what you will."

He did, too. The name still stands, in the Royal Fleet.

When Quintilius Rousse had departed, I sought out Hyacinthe, who maintained an unspeaking vigil at Moiread’s bier.

"I heard," he said dully, sensing my approach. "Congratulations."

"Hyacinthe." I said his name, once my signale, and touched his shoulder. "I never sought acclaim for it. You know that."

He heaved a sigh, shuddering all over, and his face took on an expression I recognized as human. "I know," he said softly. "It is war. But, ah, Elua! Phèdre, why? She was only a girl."

"You cared for her." I said the obvious.

"I cared for her." Hyacinthe smiled painfully, faint and wry. "Yes. Or I might have, at least. Waking dreamer, that’s what she named me, isn’t it? She said it, first. On the beach." Another profound shudder; I put my arms around him. His voice came muffled against my shoulder. "My own people, they cast me out for it…you believed, I know it’s true, you talked the Admiral into as much…but she was the first, to touch me, to put a name to it, in welcome, Necthana’s daughter…"

Hyacinthe wept, I wept; both of us did. War is a strange thing. All that lay unspoken between us, unaddressed, set aside for this business of war. We are on a mission for the Queen. That, above all else…I knew it, as well as he. And yet, when he turned his grief-stricken face to mine, I kissed him, lowering my lips to his. His arms caught at me like a drowning man’s.

At Balm House, in the Night Court, they say Naamah lay with the King of Persis out of compassion, to heal the pain in his soul. I grew up in the Night Court, I knew such things, yet never did I understand them until that night, when I drew Hyacinthe out of the circle of torchlight that surrounded Moiread’s bier.