Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [43]
But Phèdre did not think he would do so, ever, and she knew him better than anyone. And in truth, the greater question was whether or not he would train a successor.
Hyacinthe spent ten long years in bleak isolation learning his trade. The Straits had another Master, once; for eight hundred years, in fact. It was a curse that bound him to it—the curse of Rahab, Lord of the Deep, one of the One God's angels. The curse passed to Hyacinthe, but it was broken now. Phèdre broke it with the Name of God, compelling Rahab to release him. Hyacinthe was no longer condemned to his lonely isle, shackled to an immortality of decrepitude.
Still, such power was a fearsome burden, more fearsome than ruler-ship. I didn't know the Master of the Straits well, but I'd seen the awful strain of it in his eyes. No one knew, not even Phèdre, if Hyacinthe would see fit to pass it on to another, or let the knowledge die with him. I suspect even Hyacinthe does not yet know.
Sometimes I thought it would be best if it passed from the world forever. Power is a dangerous tool to wield. In the wrong hands, it is deadly. What I saw in Drujan, I can never forget.
Then I thought about Phèdre, and the day she spoke the Name of God.
It is a thing I will never forget. No one who saw it will; how Hyacinthe made the waters bear her weight, and she stood upon them before the terrible, bright presence and spoke the Sacred Word. Her, I would trust with almost any power on earth, but there are few people born capable of making the choices Phèdre has made.
There were no easy answers, and I was glad the matter is not mine to decide.
Indeed, as the days lengthened and we made ready to depart for Montrève, I felt the simpler burdens I carried lighten. I visited Alais, and promised to bring her a puppy, as I had forgotten to do last year. I said my good-byes to Eugenie and the rest of the household staff.
"Ah, lad!" Eugenie embraced me, then took me by the shoulders and shook me. "You needn't be so happy to leave."
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling a moment's flicker of guilt. "It's just—"
"I know what it is." She patted my cheek. "Go on, it will do you a world of good to get away from those nattering nobles and breathe fresh country air. Put a few pounds on that skinny frame of yours, and come back!"
I laughed. "I will, Eugenie."
It was a lighthearted trip, unlike the one that had brought us to the City. We travelled at our leisure, staying at inns along the way. Phèdre liked to sit in the common room and listen, taking the tenor of ordinary D'Angeline folk from all walks of life. Invariably, someone would recognize her. The scarlet mote of Kushiel's Dart made it hard to hide her identity, and Joscelin was not exactly inconspicuous with his Cassiline arms. Then there were songs and poems, and the wine would flow freely into the small hours of the night.
I wondered, sometimes, what it must be like to be thus beloved.
Make no mistake, I did not begrudge either of them, not for a single heartbeat. I knew, better than anyone, the price of their heroism. Daršanga nearly destroyed them both; nearly destroyed all of us. In the City, some envied them and accused them of false modesty. It was no such thing. If Phèdre accepted praise with a quiet smile, or Joscelin shook his head and demurred at telling the story of his duel against the Cassiline traitor-assassin, it was because they were mindful of the true story that lies beneath the poems; the blood and toil and sacrifice. Still, I wondered.
They were my stories, too; some of them. But there was scant heroism in my role. I was abducted and sold into slavery; I was rescued,