Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [345]
"Master of the Straits," Ysandre greeted him in her clear voice. "Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, be welcome to the City of Elua." And she made him a deep curtsy and held it, according a Tsingani half-breed, a laundress' son from the gutters of Night's Doorstep, the acknowledgment due a superior, which no ruling monarch of Terre d'Ange has extended to anyone in living memory.
The crowd drew its collective breath, then loosed it in a roar of acclaim.
"On behalf of Alba," Drustan called, "I bid you equal welcome." He too made a deep bow, then straightened, grinning. "And welcome you to my family as well, brother, with thanks for bringing safely to land my sister the lady Sibeal!"
Another roar followed his announcement.
Sibeal merely gave her quiet smile, and went to give the kiss of greeting to Drustan and Ysandre alike, and her young nieces Alais and Sidonie. All eyes remained on Hyacinthe, who stood alone before the joint regents. He bowed deeply, holding it long enough that there could be no doubt he acknowledged their sovereignty. The cloak of indeterminate color fell in immaculate folds as he straightened, his hair tumbling over the collar in black ringlets.
"Your majesties," he said, and although he did not raise his voice, it carried across the crowds, echoed from the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "My lady Queen, my lord Cruarch. I am glad to be here."
That was as far as he got, for the shouting drowned out even him. I daresay the majority of the crowd would have cheered no matter who he was, Rahab's get or laundress' son, for the sheer drama of the Master of the Straits entering the gates of the City of Elua. But there, atop the walls, perched a delegation surely dispatched from the less reputable parts of Night's Doorstep, a handful of young men in their twenties and thirties, Tsingani, half-breed and D'Angeline, who drummed their heels on the white walls of the City and chanted, "Hy-a-cinthe! Hy-a-cinthe!"
He looked around at that, and if I had wondered if the Master of the Straits could still weep, I had my answer. Tears shone on his cheeks as he bowed once more in their direction, swirling his cloak as he rose with a touch of the old Prince of Travellers' flair and sweeping both arms in the air and clapping his palms together.
A ripping peal of thunder split the clear sky.
Hyacinthe was home, if only for a little while.
The roaring din of the crowd eclipsed Quintilius Rousse's salute to Queen and Cruarch, and I had no idea what he said, only that Ysandre raised him up with both hands and kissed his cheek, and Drustan clasped his forearms, grinning. And then it was our turn, and I found my legs trembling as we dismounted and approached the royal pair. To be welcomed thuslyafter our defiance ... I had no words for the gratitude in my heart.
It was politics, yes; but somewhat more besides.
Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow, sweeping and precise, sunlight glinting from the battered steel of his vambraces—and the crowd loved that, too. When all was said and done, the Queen had named no other Champion. And here and there, they shouted for Imriel, who still carried the standard of Kushiel's Dart—my standard, the standard of Phèdre's Boys—prompted by the yells of Rousse's soldiers and the pride with which Imri carried it, executing his bow flawlessly without letting the standard dip. He won a few admirers that day on sheer presence alone.
I saw his eyes shine, and knew he did it on my behalf.
And then . . .
"Don't even think of it," Ysandre muttered through stiff lips as I made my curtsy, struggling against the desire to kneel and beg her forgiveness for the enormity of my transgressions against the throne. "I swear, Phèdre nó Delaunay, if you do ..."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, getting the words out even as her hand grasped my elbow, fingers digging in with painful pressure, keeping me upright. "Ysandre, I'm so sorry."
"I know." Her violet eyes softened despite the pressure of her fingertips, and Queen Ysandre de la Courcel shook her head. "You idiot,"