Kushiel's Dart - Jacqueline Carey [255]
But it fell away, and there was only her, Melisande's face poised in a three-quarter turn, careless and beautiful, waiting to finish the gesture at any second, turning to look full upon me, fifty yards away or more, and see, completing the connection between us. Her diamond a millstone around my neck, the velvet cord merely awaiting the touch of her hand on its lead.
I was lost.
"She will pass, and see nothing."
It was a voice, hollow and insistent, penetrating my terror, anchoring itself in my soul and drawing me back. The veil lessened; I blinked, seeing Hyacinthe's face swim into focus before me, his dark, beautiful eyes. His hands held mine, gentle and firm. In the background, the Shahrizai rode onward, small, ornate figures on prancing horses.
"She will pass, and see nothing," he said, repeating it.
Sorrow, in his voice.
The Prince of Travellers had chosen.
SIXTY-FOUR
It was true that the Tsingan Kralis cared deeply for his half-breed grandson, that I believe.
But a silence fell after Hyacinthe's words, like the silence when a great wave has broken, while another greater wave gathers. And then the outcry arose.
"Vrajna! He has been taught the dromonde! Anaistaizia's son speaks the dromonde! He brings a curse upon us all!"
I will not recount the thousand voices that rose to vilify him; suffice to say that they did, these great-aunts and uncles and cousins who had taken him to their hearts. Hyacinthe stood beneath the onslaught, enduring, meeting my eyes in silent understanding. Not for me, I thought. Don't do this for me alone. He understood, shaking his head. It was not for me alone. Somewhere, in the distance, the scions of House Shahrizai glanced over, mildly curious at the Tsingani uproar, bent on trade, acquiring steeds for a war no one else in the realm knew was coming, taking no sides, merely hedging their bets against the need.
And somewhere an old crone smiled in vindication, a hundred gold coins draped around her withered neck.
Hyacinthe stood unmoving.
Joscelin's daggers were in his crossed hands, as he turned slowly in a circle, polite and deadly, warding me.
"Is it true?"
It was Manoj who broke the silence, fierce eyes anguished as he came forward, members of his kumpania falling away before the patriarch's approach.
Hyacinthe bowed his Prince of Travellers bow. "Yes, Grandpa-ji," he said softly. "I have the gift of the dromonde. My mother taught me to use it."
"It is vrajna." Manoj caught his breath as if it pained him. "Chavo, my grandson, Anasztaizia's son, you must renounce it. The dromonde is no business for men."
If Melisande had looked, in that instant, to the disturbance in the kumpania she would have known. Even if she had not seen me . . . the circle, the stillness, Hyacinthe at its center, and a Cassiline warrior-priest in a Mendacant's cloak . . . she would have known, somehow, that I was involved. Delaunay had taught her what he had taught me, to watch and listen, and see the patterns emerging from chaos. We were alike, in that. But Elua was merciful, and she did not look. The Shahrizai had already spared us one casual glance. They were there to buy horses.
And Hyacinthe shook his head with infinite regret, his eyes like black pearls shining with tears.
"I cannot, Grandpa-ji," he said quietly. "You cast my mother from the kumpania, but I am her son. If it is vrajna to be what she made me, then I am vrajna."
What did she see? A reflection in a blood-pricked eye? I do not know. Only, in the end, that we needed Hyacinthe. And the Long Road he chose was not the one the Tsingani had walked since Elua trod the earth.
"So be it," said the Tsingan Kralis, and turned