âDelaunay!â I gasped, the word an agony of grief. âAh, Elua, the message, Quintilius Rousse, the Master of the Straits . . . you sought passage for him, for the Pictish Prince, to DâAngeline soil! But why . . . why turn to Delaunay?â
âAnafiel Delaunay de Montrève.â Ysandre gave me the ghost of a smile. âYou never even knew his proper name, did you? His father, who is the Comte de Montrève, abjured him, when he tied his fate to my fatherâs and forebore to get heirs. He took his motherâs name as his own, then, for she loved him nonetheless. My lord de Toluard would know, being of Siovale.â
âSarafiel Delaunay,â Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, said unexpectedly, smiling. âShe was Eisandine by birth. There is an old story in Eisande, of Elua and a fisher-lad named Delaunay. Sarafiel would have understood. She sent Anafiel to me to be fostered when he was a child.â