Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Seventy-Six

"I will go." It was Drustan who spoke first, quick and firm, his dark eyes resolute in the blue masque of his face. I remembered how he had stepped forward, unhesitating, to take the blame for the Tarbh Cro.

One could not help but admire him.

And realize his worth to the folk of Alba.

"No, my lord." I shook my head, feeling the mass of my hair windblown and heavy with seawater. What would my loss cost Terre d’Ange? A nation at war had no need of one rather travel-worn anguissette. "We are near D’Angeline shores. It is my place to go."

While we argued in Cruithne, Quintilius Rousse peered over the edge of the ship, gauging the open water that lay between our vessel and the steps, mindful of the fact, which we ignored, that no one was going anywhere until it was bridged. The taller of the robed figures came to the edge of the promontory, pushing back his grey cowl to reveal himself a young man with dark hair and unassuming features.

"The waters are deep, sirrah," he said in a calm, carrying voice, speaking in archaic D’Angeline. "Bring your ship in close, and thou mayest lower a plank."

"Hear that?" Rousse turned around, snapping his fingers at the closest Cruithne, who stared uncomprehendingly at him. "Go on, to oars! We’re bringing this ship ashore!" The Admiral turned his best glare on me. "Whatever’s in your head, lass, no one’s going in alone, Queen’s emissary or no. So tell these wild blue lads to bend their backs, and we’ll see what game Elder Brother’s playing at."

I did, feeling a little foolish. Drustan gave Rousse a deep look, and went to the stern to survey the seas for any sign of our missing fleet. If he could buy the Albans' safety with his life, I thought, he would still do it. But Rousse was right, we didn’t know why the Master of the Straits had brought us here.

"What do you see?" I asked Hyacinthe, as the oars dipped raggedly and the ship drifted close to the terrace.

He gazed at the cliff wall, the broad steps, smiling strangely. "I see an island," he murmured. "What do you see, Phèdre nó Delaunay?"

To that, I had no answer. And, in short order, the ship came alongside the promontory and Quintilius Rousse gave word to drop anchor. The gangplank was lowered, but none of us disembarked, standing instead on deck and awaiting word from our strange hosts.

The second figure drew back his cowl: an older man, white-haired. "Those among thee, the Master wishes to see," he said, in the same archaic D’Angeline dialect his companion had used. I spared a quick glance at Drustan, and saw him frowning. He did not understand the words. The old one pointed, unerring. "Thou, thou, and thou. Thou."

Drustan, Rousse, myself…and Hyacinthe.

Joscelin stepped forward, and his daggers crossed and flashed as he gave an armed Cassiline bow. "Where she goes," he said softly, "I go. I have sworn it, in Cassiel’s name."

"Violence will not avail thee." It was the younger who spoke, smiling faintly. He nodded his dark head at the sea, and it rippled in response, our ship rocking. "Thy companions are safe, on First Sister’s shores. Wilst jeopardize their safety?"

I translated quickly, and Drustan caught Joscelin’s arm, understanding. "My folk, my people; he says they have them safe, brother. I beg you do nothing to bring them harm."

Joscelin did not release his daggers as I gave him Drustan’s words, though his knuckles grew white with strain. "To damnation and beyond," he said; his voice was faint, his expression terrible. "I have sworn it, Phèdre."

The lives of three thousand and some innocent Albans, and near all of Rousse’s men stood at risk. "Joscelin," I whispered, "I will kill you or myself before I let anyone else die for your vow, I swear it."

He looked at me; what he would have said, I don’t know. The older of the robed men lifted his hand and spoke, forestalling him. "He is Companion-sworn," he said to the younger, who bowed his head, acceding. "Let him come."

Drustan watched the proceedings intently, dark gaze darting from face to face. I translated and he nodded, releasing his grip on Joscelin’s arm.

"Gildas will take thee to the Master of the Straits," the younger man said. "I will see to the others. Thou art weary, and fearful. We offer rest and succor."

I repeated his words to Drustan, who nodded again and spoke reassuringly to his men. It was decided.

So, I thought, as we disembarked, crossing the gangplank, our footsteps sounding hollow above the water; the Master of the Straits has servants, and mortal ones. Do they wield his power, to ruffle the waves, or merely speak his command? The face of the waters spoke, and all understood; these men speak D’Angeline, the old tongue of courtly lays.

These things I thought as we mounted the steps, climbing upward into the skies. Gildas led, Rousse and Drustan behind, the young Cruarch’s misshapen foot causing his pace to slow somewhat as he scrambled from step to step. I followed, Joscelin stuck to my side like a tall Cassiline burr while Hyacinthe trailed behind us. I would have spoken to him, but his shuttered expression forbade it. Behind us, we heard the reassuring clamor of the remainder of our party disembarking, the skittering hoofbeats of frightened horses on stone, the babble of voices trying to communicate in foreign tongues.

We climbed and climbed, mounting into the sky. It was a vast temple at the summit, and no mistake. A broad path branched to the right at the foot of it, but further stairs awaited us before, steep and narrow, wrought of white marble. My breath grew thin and came in gasps, and I’d been living hard, riding with the Cruithne. I heard the men and horses turn off at the branching path, and envied them. Rousse was panting too, and I heard Hyacinthe’s breath ragged in his throat; Drustan set his face with grim determination and showed no sign of fatigue, though he labored twice as hard as any of us.

Joscelin…Joscelin was Cassiline. He’d run miles behind Gunter’s thane’s horse, through deep snow, and come out of it glaring hatred. I shook off his hand when he sought to brace my elbow, aiding me up the steps.

And white-haired Gildas wasn’t even winded.

So we gained the temple.

It is my fate, it seems, to fall privy to rare and splendid vistas in a state of exhaustion too profound to care. At the summit of this lonely isle, where columns of white marble rose into open air, like a prayer uttered to an unheeding god, I bent over and gasped for breath, fixing my gaze on the lone figure at the center of the temple.

He was tall and robed in grey, like the others, yet unlike, for the color of his robe shifted under the open skies, dark and pale with the changing light, hanging motionless in the breeze. His hair hung long and unbound, iron-grey, I thought; then it too shifted, changing color with the scudding clouds. He stood alone, his back to us, and a great bronze vessel, broad and shallow, stood beside him on a tripod, at the heart of the rectangular structure.

"Come," Gildas said, and began to walk.

We followed him across the white marble flagstones.

The tall figure turned as we drew near, regarding us with sea-green eyes, revealing a face at once ancient and elemental, mantled in iron-grey locks, a face as white as shell and older than bones, shifting and fluid, with a power in it that rose from the very depths of the ocean.

I had seen the face of the waters, terrible and powerful.

A sending, no more. A thought born of a sea-rooted mind, the reaching hand of power. This…this was the Master of the Straits.

"My lord," I whispered, and knelt.

Drustan mab Necthana took one lurching step forward, locking gazes with the Master of the Straits. The high breeze lifted his scarlet cloak. "Lord of the Waters," he said evenly. "You gave your pledge. When the Cullach Gorrym ruled in Alba, you would allow us the crossing. Why have you brought us here?"

The Master of the Straits smiled, and his eyes lightened to the color of sun-shot mist. "You were warned, young Cruarch," he said, and though his mouth moved, the words seemed to arise from the very wind, echoing around the open temple. "You were warned…Alban."

A gift of tongues, the Skaldi claimed I had; witchery. I had Delaunay for a teacher, no more and no less. The Master of the Straits had the gift of tongues, for I swear it, I heard the words in D’Angeline, but Drustan heard Cruithne, and replied in kind.

"Lord of the Waters," he said sharply. "You gave warning as a hunter lays bait. Why have you brought us here?"

On my knees, I thought, mind racing. Drustan was right, the honeyed promise of safe passage, a toothless warning, easy to discard. The Master of the Straits wanted something of us. What? Beside me, Joscelin’s hands hovered over his hilts. Quintilius Rousse stood like a bull ready to charge, head lowered. Hyacinthe was swaying on his feet, barely upright.

"Why?" the Master of the Straits mused, and the sea-winds sighed around us. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed at the far oceans. "Why." He turned back to us, and his eyes were as dark as thunderheads. "Eight hundred years I have ruled, chained to this rock, claimed by neither earth nor sky!" He raised his voice, and the winds lashed us and the clouds roiled, the seas far below beating themselves in a frenzy against the cliffs. His hair rose on the wind, standing around his face like a dreadful corona. "Eight hundred years! And you ask me why?"

We braced ourselves, recoiling against the wind; through the fingers raised to shield my face, I saw Drustan mab Necthana leaning into it, eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked, shouting the word. "Lord of the Waters, you hold my people hostage! Why?"

The winds died, the Master of the Straits smiled once more, his eyes softening back to sea-green. "Alban," he said, caressing the word. Reaching out one hand, he pointed to the gold signet ring, Rolande’s ring, on Drustan’s hand. "You have the courage, to live the dream that will free me. Your mother saw it, in the dark behind her eyes. The swan and the boar. Alban and D’Angeline, love defiant. But it is only half."

I understood. It was my gift, Delaunay’s training, to hear the unspoken thing, to see the connections beneath the surface. I rose. "My lord," I said carefully. "This I understand to be true. You are bound here, to this isle, whether you will it or no. You wish to break this binding. Two things are needful. One is the union of Alban and D’Angeline, present in the betrothal of Drustan and Ysandre. What is the other?"

"Ahhh." He took a step toward me and caressed my face with one hand, as if he had the power to mold my flesh like water. I closed my eyes and shuddered profoundly. "One who hears, and listens, and thinks. That is well. You have named the riddle. Answer it in full, and you may leave." Drawing his hand back, he swept his arm across the shallow cauldron, sleeve trailing, taking on the hue of bronze.

The cauldron was filled with water that rippled and stilled, reflecting not sky, but the face of Ysandre de la Courcel, who sat in a makeshift throne, the accoutrements of a war-camp behind her, listening intently to someone unseen. Drustan gave a short cry, and Quintilius Rousse pressed his fist to his brow.

"Answer it in full," the Master of the Straits said, and smiled, and his eyes were as bleached as old bones, "and you shall have my aid in full. Fail, and the seas shall claim you." He pointed to the western skies, where the sun sank low and red over the waters. "One night, I give you. When the sun stands overhead tomorrow, you will answer, or die."