“So.” Ysandre broke the long, long silence. Her violet eyes were bemused. “Terre d’Ange owes its freedom to Melisande Shahrizai?” I nodded wearily. “In a sense.” Joscelin shook his head. “The humors of the gods are perverse.” “Yes.” Phèdre’s gaze rested on us, on Sidonie and me. “But in the end, they are merciful.”
