Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

Joscelin shook his head. "Pray for us, your majesty."

"Wait. There is one thing." I met Drustan's eyes. "You will return to Alba come autumn? And Sibeal with you?"

"We will," he said slowly, catching the shape of my thought. "You think that the Master of the Straits will hear her?"

"I think he will." I swallowed. "They are seers alike, Anasztaizia's son and Necthana's daughter. I didn't understand it, when we met on the waters; her dream, that is. I see more clearly, now. If you ... if you do not seek to land, but only to converse, I think he will allow it. And I might give her a message to bear. It is a long road, truly. We will be a year and more upon it. A word of hope ... it might help him to endure."

"Speak with Sibeal," said Drustan mab Necthana. "If it be her will, I will see it done."

TWENTY-FIVE

I MET with Sibeal, Drustan's sister, in the Royal Mews.There had been, I gathered, no few offers of lover's tokens or of marriage for the Cruarch of Alba's sister during her time in Terre d'Ange. Insofar as I heard, Sibeal had refused them all, with a serene grace against which no one could take offense. Instead, she preferred to spend her time in the unlikeliest of pursuits.

Currently, it was visiting the mews.

The Head Falconer, a slight, dark man with the aquiline features of his own charges, clearly adored her. He watched with doting eyes as she assumed the duty of feeding the fledglings, carrying a basket filled with gobbets of meat. Awkward and still partially down-feathered, the young birds craned their heads toward her with beaks parted, maws agape.

"Drustan said you wished to see me," Sibeal said in her soft Cruithne accent, setting down the basket.

"Yes." A bell rang beside my right ear, on the jesses of a perched hawk as it roused, then preened. I sidled to my left. "I have a message for Hyacinthe."

Her dark eyes were calm and unsurprised. "And you wish . . . ?"

"I wish you to bear it for me," I said firmly. The Head Falconer, clucking, hurried past me with gauntleted arm extended, untying the hawk's jesses and coaxing it onto his arm. It was not my choice of venue, but I had little time to waste.

"I do not think," Sibeal said reflectively, "the Master of the Straits wishes to let any vessel draw nigh."

"He'll let yours." I kept a wary eye on the hawk as the Head Falconer eased it onto a distant perch near the doorway onto the court yard. "Unless I miss my guess.”

"He might." The words were murmured, her head bowed. "I cannot say."

"You love him." I made the words blunt. It cost me, to say it; more than I had reckoned. It struck home in my own heart, and I saw her head rise, eyes startled. "He's D'Angeline, Sibeal, Tsingano or no. Love as thou wilt. I saw it, on Alba, all those years ago."

"Moiread." She breathed her sister's name; youngest of them all, slain in battle in Alba these many years gone by, a loss still grieved. "It was Moiread who made his heart glad. He might have loved her, and she him. Who can say? There was you, then and now. And I, I am only ..."

"Alive." I said. "Alive, and in love. Well and so, Sibeal, we too are sisters in this, for he is dear to my heart. But Moiread is dead, and I ... I have a long road to follow. Hyacinthe will understand that, if anyone will. Tell him I walk the Lungo Drom on his behalf, Joscelin and I. He was right about that. He saw it before I did. Tell him . . . tell him I go seeking the Name of God. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes. If he will allow it, I will tell him." Sibeal extended a hand toward one of the fledglings, stroking its half-grown plumage with one slender brown finger. "They are called eyasses, did you know? The young birds. Eyasses. It is a lovely word, I think."

"It is." I thought of the acolyte Liliane at the sanctuary of Elua, and our mounts following her in a line. I thought of the Battle of Bryn Gorrydum, where Moiread had died, and the black boar that had burst from the treeline there, giving the element of surprise into the hands of Drustan's forces. Truly, there were things in this world beyond my understanding. "Thank you, Sibeal."

"Come back." Her dark, visionary's eyes held mine. "It is what he would ask of you. However far you go, whether you find what you seek or no. Whatever is to become of us all. Come back."

A shiver brushed my skin, a touch of magic that was ancient when Elua was young. Earth's Eldest Children, they call themselves; barbar ians, Drustan might jest, but they are older than we. "I will try," I promised, bowing my head to Necthana's daughter and taking my leave.

Joscelin was awaiting me in the courtyard—the weathering yard, the falconers call it, where the birds are trained on long lines. He had padding wrapped about his vambraced forearm, a peregrine's talons biting deep into the leather as one of the Head Falconer's apprentices instructed him. "Phèdre!" He grinned, hoisting the bird to display it. "What do you think? Shall we build a mews at Montrève?”

"Elua willing." I stood back a healthy distance, regarding the per egrine's fierce, round eye, its raptor's beak. I had seen that look on my patrons; I did not need to endure it from a bird. "We may build a bestiary, if you like, providing we return in one piece. Are you ready?"

With some reluctance, Joscelin returned the peregrine unto its keeper, and we departed. It was only one of several meetings I had arranged prior to our leave-taking, and 'twas the next I dreaded the most.

I have learned, in my trade and in my life, to deal with monarchs and their kin, with seers and scholars, priests and pirates alike. But if there is one person capable of striking fear into my heart, it is my couturiere, Favrielle nó Eglantine.

To be sure, she owed me a debt of gratitude; and never let me forget for an instant that it was a most unwelcome debt, no matter how much she prized the end result—which was, indeed, her freedom and her fame. If I had not paid the price of her marque to Eglantine House, she would have toiled in obscurity long into her middle years. Well and so; I do not think it was such a terrible thing to have done!

Nonetheless, Favrielle misliked the burden of gratitude.

"Short notice," she said in the antechamber of her salon. "What a surprise, Comtesse." As if I'd not gone to the trouble of making an appointment. "Are you in need of a gown for the Queen's piquet tournament, or is it some new patron you must now impress?"

"Neither." I strove to be gracious, ignoring Joscelin's suppressed laughter. "It's naught that requires your personal attention. I need two riding outfits, nothing more, fit for long travel."

"Nothing more." Favrielle nó Eglantine raised her brows, red-gold, like her mop of curls and the freckles sprinkled across her impish nose. On anyone else, it would have looked charming; Favrielle managed to convey unspeakable disdain. "All the world looks to Terre d'Ange to set the mode of fashion, and all Terre d'Ange looks to the City of Elua. And in the City of Elua, everyone looks to Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève, because they know I clothe you, on the road no less than in the ballroom. Do not presume to tell me, Comtesse, what does and does not require my personal attention. So. Where do you travel?"

"La Serenissima and Menekhet," I said humbly. "And afterward, Jebe-Barkal."

"Jebe-Barkal!" It took her by surprise, but only for an instant. Favrielle's green eyes narrowed in thought. "You'll want somewhat light in weight, then, and none too close-fitting, but sturdy enough to wear. Light colors, too, but naught that will show the stain of travel." She nodded decisively. "Come. I'll show you some fabrics."

Casting a backward glance at Joscelin, I followed Favrielle into the depths of her salon; two floors, it occupied now, an entire building in the clothiers' district. The building, she owned outright. Her staff of drapers and cutters and embroiderers, seamstresses and tailors, watched us with amusement and an obvious fondness for the irascible mistress of their salon.

In the end, I chose two fabrics—a saffron wool, fine-carded and light as a cloud, and a raw silk of pale celadon green.

"You can wear it," Favrielle said critically, holding a length of the bolt near my face. "Although it's not your best color." She surveyed me, scarred lip curling. "I suppose I'll need to take your measurements anew?"

"They've not changed since you measured me last," I said with some heat.

"If you say so." Her eyebrows rose again. I sighed, and let her measure me anew, standing patient as the knotted cord was wrapped around my breast, waist and hips. Favrielle made notations on a piece of foolscap.

"Well?" I asked.

Head averted beneath the tumbled mass of red-gold curls, she hid a smile. "It seems your measurements are unchanged, Comtesse."

"I told you as much."

"You did." Without lifting her head, Favrielle made a rough sketch of riding attire in a series of swift, elegant lines. "This is what I'm thinking, do you see? Conventional, but with a looseness of drape that affords better motion and permits the flow of air. And an overgarment, broad-sleeved and hooded, that will keep off the sun's glare or the night's chill. Will it suit?"

"Yes." I looked at her handiwork and sighed. "Beautifully. How soon can you have it done?"

"Come back in two days for a final fitting." She sketched a fine border of embroidery, then looked up at me. The indirect light caught the genuine curiosity in her green eyes, showed plainly the scar tissue that twisted her upper lip. If not for that, Favrielle would have been an adept of Eglantine House, a Servant of Naamah in her own right. "Why Jebe-Barkal?”

"Because," I said. "There is somewhat I must do there. It is a debt I owe a friend."

"A debt." She cocked her head, lip curling. "You're very keen on debts, Comtesse."

Anger born of long frustration blossomed within me, and I met her gaze with a level stare. "Mock me if you will, but you are of Eglantine House, Favrielle, and trained there nigh to adept status. You know the art of telling tales as well as that of draping cloth; it was you who told me the story of Naamah's daughter Mara, the first anguissette. Do you know the tale of how a Tsingano half-breed called the Prince of Trav ellers became the Master of the Straits?"