Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [347]
Afterward, Joscelin set about building a mews.
I had promised him that, although I'd forgotten it. Elua knows, he remembered. A bestiary, I'd said, if we returned in one piece. I was fortunate that he sought only a mews; and a kennel, for after the initial word of our return, his brother Luc sent a long, gossip-filled letter and a gift of a hound-bitch from Verreuil ready to whelp, which delighted Imri to no end. As for the mews, Ysandre sent her own Head Falconer to supervise the construction of it, and I must needs be resigned to a portion of my estate being given over to the manly pursuits of hunting and fishing.
If it hadn't pleased them so, I might have minded more.
A lively correspondence went in and out of Montrève all summer long, keeping me abreast of news in the City of Elua and beyond. Nicola L'Envers y Aragon sent a lengthy reply to my own letter, giving a full account of all that had transpired in Aragonia since our visit. It had been a considerable task, rooting out the hidden network of the Carthaginian slave-trade, and her husband Ramiro had distinguished himself in the process, much to the surprise of those who thought him good only for drinking and gaming. I was glad to hear it, although sorry it meant Nicola would not be travelling that year. It would have been pleasant to see her.
Still, mayhap it was as well, for there was much to be done. For all that our surroundings were idyllic, my days were seldom idle. In addition to staying abreast of the changes being wrought in Montrève and continuing Imriel's studies—when I could keep him indoors, which wasn't often—I worked at cataloguing my new-found literary wealth, often lingering over individual texts longer than I ought. Visitors came and went, and our network of watchers in the countryside proved effective, for none came without warning.
Save one.
Hyacinthe.
He came at dusk on an evening when a gathering of storm clouds warred with the setting sun. 'Twas Richeline's cry in the herb garden that alerted me, and I left the manor in time to see him coming, a dim figure on a grey horse, his shape emerging from the veil of low mist that hung in the olive grove, shot through with the last slanting dazzle of the sun's gold before it sank behind the hills. Small wonder that he had passed unnoticed, cloaked in the elements he commanded.
"Phèdre." He smiled at me as the mist dispersed, looming suddenly there and present, even as Richeline clapped both hands over her mouth, dropping the herbs she had picked for the evening meal. Droplets of mist clung to his black curls.
"Hyacinthe." I swallowed. "I thought the night breeze was to whisper my name."
"Not that," he said, dismounting; only a man, for an instant, saddle-sore and weary. "Not yet. I have been riding the land, to take the measure of it, that I might know it and remember. And I wanted ... I wanted to see how you lived, before I left."
There was shouting, then, within the household, and Hugues burst from the rear door with his cudgel upraised, staring to see the Master of the Straits at our garden gate.
"Hugues," I said, "would you see to Hyacinthe's horse?"
Thunder rumbled in reply and Hyacinthe made an absent gesture, whispering an incantation to dispel the clouds.
"Oh, don't." The words came impulsively. "We need the rain."
He smiled sidelong at me and murmured incomprehensible syllables.
A gentle rain began to fall, making a soft, silvery sound in the olive trees. A smell of damp earth arose around us. Such was his power, who was Master of the Straits.
I cleared my throat. "Will you come in?"
"Yes," Hyacinthe said softly. "I'd like that."
We were in the parlour when Joscelin and Imriel returned from their day's long ramble, damp through and through and in high spirits