Kushiel's Dart

departure, I received one last surprise. A royal page came to fetch me, claiming strangers at the Palace gates were asking for me.
    Joscelin came with me as I hurried through the Palace, fearful of who awaited. His face was set and grim, hands hovering over his dagger-hilts; he had leave to wear his Cassiline arms even in the presence of the Queen. It was a kindness of Ysandre's, who had seen how he felt stripped without them-and a cleverness, too, for he would ever have guarded her life as his own, or mine.
    What I expected, I could not say, but we found awaiting us a young couple in simple, well-made country attire.
    "My Lady de Montreve," the young man said and bowed; his wife curtsied. His face, as he straightened, was familiar, but I was too disconcerted by the greeting to place it. "I am Purnell Friote, of Perrinwolde. This is my wife, Richeline." She bobbed another curtsy. He gave me an open grin, eyes friendly beneath a shock of brown hair. "My nephew taught you to ride a horse, do you remember? The Lady Cecilie said you might have need of a seneschal."
    I did remember, with such delight that I kissed them both, to their blushing surprise. It was only then that Cecilie showed herself, smiling at the success of her venture.
    "Gavin swears Purnell can do aught that he can, and twice as swiftly," she said as I took her hands in gratitude. "My Perrinwolde's grown too small to hold the expansion of the Friote clan, and you'll have need of your own folk about you. Let them work with Montreve's folk, and it will ease your way, for you'll find no kinder hearts in Terre d'Ange."
    Better advice I never had, and if Montreve made me welcome, it was due in no small part to the efforts of Purnell and Richeline Friote, who came willing to learn the ways of the estate, and in such an open and friendly manner that it won the hearts of the Siovalese as easily as Perrinwolde had won mine.
    So it was that we were a party of seven when we departed, amid too many farewells to count, striking out once more on the open road and bound for Montreve.
    "When we are settled," I said to Joscelin, as the City of Elua dwindled behind us, "there is somewhat that I want to do." He looked inquiringly at me. "I want to visit L'Arene, to find Taavi and Danele."
    Joscelin smiled, remembering. "I'd like that, actually. You think mayhap they might accept a gift of thanks, now that you're a peer of the realm?" he added, amused.
    "They might," I said. "And they might know someone willing to tutor me in Yeshuite." I glanced over to see his fair brows rise. "If Delaunay knew it, he never taught me. And the Master of the Straits was fathered and cursed by Rahab, who serves the One God of the Yeshuites. If there's aught to be found that might break his binding, it's in Yeshuite lore."
    "Hyacinthe," Joscelin said softly.
    I nodded.
    "Well, then, we'll go to L'Arene." He laughed. "And, Elua help us, you can pit yourself against the gods."
    I loved him for that.
    Onward we rode to Montreve.

NINETY-SIX
    It is one thing to visit a country estate, it is another to inherit one. Even with the very capable aid Cecilie had bequeathed me, it took the better part of a year to settle into the rhythms of Montreve, to gain the trust and goodwill of its folk, who were understandably perplexed at how a Siovalese holding had passed into the possession of a City-bred Servant of Naamah.
    Montreve itself was beautiful, a green jewel set in the low mountains. To Joscehn, born in Siovale, it was nearly a homecoming. We rode the length and breadth of it together, and fell in love with its simple charm, its rugged hills and green valleys, the unexpected pleasure of a meadow. It is sheep country, there, and it transpired that I was rich in flocks.
    The manor-house itself was all quaint elegance, with touches of Ei-sandine luxury; Delaunay's mother, I guessed. It had small, brilliant gardens, rambling with colorful flowers for three-quarters of the year, grown wild for lack of tending. Richeline Friote made these her especial care.
    And there was a library, where Anafiel Delaunay had spent his boyhood study, immersed in the Siovalese love of learning. I found his name one day, scratched with a knife-point into the wooden surface of a reading table, and had to fight back tears.
    Joscelin's love of the land, my love for Delaunay; these things, I think, along with the good nature of the Friotes and the bold, cheerful manner of my three Chevaliers, won over the folk of Montreve. Once