“I cannot see it,” Hyacinthe whispered, arms blundering outward in the thick mists. “Phèdre, I cannot see our road.” I went to him, then; they left us alone, muttering. Joscelin watched silently, offering no comment. “You can, Hyacinthe. I know you can,” I said, taking his arm. “It’s only mist! What’s that to the veils of what-might-be?” “It is vrajna.” He shivered, cold beneath my grasp. “They were right, Manoj was right, this is no business for men.” Waves lapped at the sides of our ship, little waves, moving us nowhere. We were becalmed. The rowers had paused. “Prince of Travellers,” I
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