Kushiel’s Dart

"You may. I will send for you an hour before sundown." He bowed, then turned to Hyacinthe. "This day, I give you. Only know that your feet will never again leave this soil."

Hyacinthe nodded, sober-eyed.

He understood.

In the tower once more, in a sitting room with glassless windows, I called for wine, raising my voice sharply. The servants jumped, and hurried to obey; I was beyond caring, at that moment. I drank half a glass at a draught when it arrived, and looked hard at Hyacinthe. The others drew away, leaving us alone.

"Why?" I asked him. "Why did you do it?"

He smiled faintly, toying with the wineglass in his hands. There were dark smudges under his eyes, but now that the worst had come to pass, he seemed more himself. "I couldn’t have, without you, you know. I didn’t have the answer. It was so vast, I couldn’t see it." He drank a little wine and stared past me out the window. "I knew it when I saw the isle, that my road ended here. I just couldn’t see why. Last night, when I saw that you knew, I was afraid."

"Hyacinthe." My voice broke as I whispered his name, tears starting in my eyes. "A nation at war has no need of anguissettes. It should be me. Let me stay."

"And do what?" he asked gently. "Throw rocks at the Skaldi? Knife the dying? Tell their fortunes? A nation at war has no need of Tsingani half-breeds untrained to arms, either."

"You have the dromonde! It is more than I can offer!"

"It’s the dromonde that brought me here, Phèdre." Hyacinthe took my hands in his and looked down at our interlaced fingers. "It’s the dromonde that sets me apart from D’Angeline and Tsingani alike. If it has led me to a place where I belong, then let me stay." Releasing my hands, he touched the diamond at my throat. "Kushiel marked you as his own," he said softly. "Whatever target he had in mind when he cast his Dart, I think it was not the Master of the Straits."

I shuddered and looked away.

"Besides," Hyacinthe added wryly, "that damned Cassiline would only turn around the instant we reached dry land, swim the Straits, and damn the lot of us. Bad enough he’s vow-blinded; being besotted with you makes him a positive menace."

"Joscelin?" Startled, I raised my voice. Joscelin looked over, brows raised in inquiry. I shook my head at him, and he turned back to Rousse.

"Elua help him, if he ever comes to realize it." Hyacinthe traced the line of my brows, brushing my lashes with a fingertip; the red-moted eye. "And you."

"Hyacinthe," I pleaded with him, pulling away, glancing around the austere tower room. "Look at this…this place. You’re the least-suited person in the world to end here! Without friends, laughter, music…you’ll go mad!"

He looked around, shrugging. "I’ll teach the Master of the Straits to play the timbales and the waves to dance. What would you have me say, Phèdre? If you could survive crossing the Camaeline Mountains in the dead of winter, I can survive one lonely island."

"Eight hundred years."

"Mayhap." Hyacinthe rested his chin on his hands. "The Prince of Travellers, chained to a rock. It’s funny, isn’t it?" I stared at him, until he shrugged again. "The rest of the Lost Book of Raziel is out there, somewhere. I’ve always been good at finding things. Who knows? Maybe there’s somewhat in those drowned pages to free me. Or maybe someone good at riddles will find a way." He flashed his impossible grin. "It wouldn’t be the least likely thing you’ve done."

"Don’t," I begged, half-laughing through tears. "Hyacinthe, it’s not funny."

"It is, a little." He looked more soberly at me. "Do me a favor, will you?" I nodded. "My house, the stable…it should go to my crew in Night’s Doorstep. I’ll write out a deed. Give it to Emile, I left him in charge. If there’s aught left of the City of Elua when this is done, he’ll know what to do."

"I promise."

"Good." He swallowed; it was a little harder, facing the reality of what he’d chosen. "And make an offering to Blessed Elua in my mother’s name."

I nodded again, my eyes blurred with tears. "Anasztaizia, daughter of Manoj." She had defied the Tsingani, and taught her son the dromonde. What do you suppose she saw, eh? The Lungo Drom and the kumpania, or somewhat else, a reflection in a blood-pricked eye? What Hyacinthe saw in mine, I knew; I could see it reflected in his, through my tears-a lonely tower on a lonely isle. "I will."