Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [348]
How strange, to see them all in the same place.
Adjourning to the dining hall, we passed a pleasant meal together, and Hyacinthe told us of the gathering of the baro kumpai, and how he had chosen among the candidates set forth to lead the Tsingani. He had quizzed them all, asking how each would have handled the fate of his mother, Anasztaizia, driven from the Tsingani for having surrendered her virtue to a D'Angeline, the bitter price paid for a cousin's ill-placed wager. All of them knew the answer he sought; only Bexhet, son of Nadja, gave it unfaltering, with all the stammering pride of one raised a widow-woman's son, prepared to challenge the ancient code of the Tsingani that placed such inordinate weight on outmoded rules of honor that valued a woman's virginity above her person.
"You might have chosen a woman to lead them," I said to tease him.
Hyacinthe gave me the ghost of his grin. "I might," he said. "But to force growth is to kill it. Let the Tsingani grow at their own pace. Who knows? They may find the end of the Lungo Drom in it."
Afterward, we retired once more to the parlour and Imriel served cordial on a silver tray, taking pride in his role, as deft and neat-handed as an adept of the Night Court, watching and listening with all the acuity I had taught him.
"Melisande's son," Hyacinthe murmured in amazement as Imri left the room.
"No, Tsingano," Joscelin corrected him. "Ours." He drained his glass and set it down with a faint click, frowning. "Forgive my rudeness, for I am glad of your presence. Yet I must ask it: Why have you come?"
"Cassiline." There was an ache in Hyacinthe's voice. "Forgive me. Yet I must know it: What is the price you paid for my freedom?"
I sent Imriel to bed, then, before we told the story in its entirety. It was his, yes, and there was no part I would deny him; but he was a boy, still. He would tell it himself in the fullness of time, to those hechooses to trust. Until then, I would protect him from it, from the parts he is too young to understand, from the parts that spark his nightmares anew.
To Hyacinthe, we told the truth.
From Melisande's first bargain, and the long road—our own Lungo Drom—it had engendered, we told him all. There were parts where Joscelin faltered, unable to describe what had ensued. I spoke of the zenana and the Mahrkagir's cruelty, the pall of Angra Mainyu, my voice sounding like a stranger's to me. And Hyacinthe wept, silently, tears seeping like slow rain on his brown cheeks as he learned the truth of Daršanga; what I had endured there, what Imri had undergone, and Joscelin, too, whose role in some ways was the hardest of all.
Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.
Even to Hyacinthe, I didn't tell the whole of it.
We told him of Jebe-Barkal, after, and the strangeness that was Saba, in all its attendant terrors and glories, the long effort of our voyage on the Lake of Tears, the awe that befell me upon Kapporeth and the Ark of Broken Tablets. And we spoke of the One God, of Yeshuites and the Children of Yisra-el, of Rahab and the Master of the Straits, of Blessed Elua and his Companions, and where their intertwined paths diverged. At some point, a weary Joscelin rose to bid me goodnight, his lips gentle on my cheek. I let him go, and remained awake long hours with Hyacinthe, the both of us quarreling over pronunciation and origins, tracing inadequate ciphers in the lees of our cordial on the tabletop, arguing the Name of God and the alphabet of heaven.
I don't know when I forgot his sea-shifting eyes and he ceased to be the Master of the Straits and became only Hyacinthe once more, my oldest friend, stubborn and clever as my lord Delaunay; as I myself had grown, truth be told.
Somewhere.
We knew, both of us. Hyacinthe bent his head and smiled ruefully, passing one hand over the marble table, the marks of our finger-drawn scribbling erasing with its passage. "I'll do as you asked," he said, hanging ringlets hiding his face.