“Delaunay!” I gasped, the word an agony of grief. “Ah, Elua, the message, Quintilius Rousse, the Master of the Straits . . . you sought passage for him, for the Pictish Prince, to D’Angeline soil! But why . . . why turn to Delaunay?”
“Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève.” Ysandre gave me the ghost of a smile. “You 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 father’s and forebore to get heirs. He took his mother’s name as his own, then, for she loved him nonetheless. My lord de Toluard would know, being of Siovale.”
“Sarafiel Delaunay,” Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, said unexpectedly, smiling. “She 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.”