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“Ah, little one.” Her voice rumbled in her chest, and she held me off to look at me. “You found it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” I wanted to laugh and cry at once. “I did.”

“Well.” Her teeth gleamed in a smile as one hand rose to clasp the leather pouch at her throat. “My dice always speak true. I knew you were special. You will have stories to tell my grandmother, yes? I have a vested interest in such matters, now.”

“We have stories, Fedabin.” I gripped her forearms, smiling. “Oh, yes, you may be sure of it! We have stories.”

And we told them, all that day and night, while the folk of Debeho feasted us and the rains drummed on the tight-woven thatch of their central hall, an unwalled building plastered with sun-baked mud. Beneath the roof, it was nearly dry. While communal dishes of spicy stews passed with spongy bread for the dipping, we ate with our fingers and told of the Melehakim, and what had passed in the land of Saba. And old Shoanete listened and nodded her head in approval, watching from the corner of her yellowed eye as Tifari Amu sat modestly beside her tall granddaughter. I made much of his bravery. Kaneka snorted, appearing to be unimpressed, but I saw how she eyed him consideringly.

Love as thou wilt
, I whispered, the Name of God throbbing on my tongue.

Imriel resumed old friendships with ease, greeting his playmates in the village. He was half-clad like the rest of them before the night was over, stripped to his breeches and spatchcocked in color, with his face and arms tanned by the sun-although he’d peeled like a snake while he healed, his sunburn had faded-and his torso milk-white. They darted in and out of the unwalled structure, splashing one another, playing some children’s game of tag with the veils of water dripping from the eaves, the older taunting the younger, boys baiting the girls. And it was good-ah, Elua, it was good!-to see Imriel de la Courcel at child’s play, shouting with laughter like any other boy his age.

“Would that it could remain thus,” Joscelin murmured to me.

“I know,” I said, leaning into his arm to kiss him. “I know, love.”

Kaneka leaned over, hearing us. “He looks well, the boy,” she said shrewdly. “Your company suits him, little one. Who would have thought it, when he spat in your face? I myself had wagered he would not withstand the next round of the Mahrkagir’s attention.”

“You never told me that, Fedabin,” I said, stiffening.

She laughed and patted my cheek. “Do not be so quick to anger! Who could have guessed what you were, in Daršanga? The omens were there, but I had lost the will to read them.” She felt at Joscelin’s arm, then, openly admiring. “And you, lord Joscelin. A leopard among wolves. You have healed well.”

“Well enough, my lady Kaneka.” He smiled quietly. “Not as before, but well enough to serve.”

“Then he serves you well enough, little one?” Kaneka nudged me, lest her meaning be lost. D’Angelines are more subtle in our banter. Her grandmother Shoanete cackled with laughter, leaning over her sticks. “You have no complaints?”

I flushed a bright red. “No complaints, Fedabin.”

“Good.” Kaneka settled back onto her stool, nodding to herself. “Good. It is well done, then. The story may end happily after all. It is important, for such a tale.”

“There is hope,” I said. “For us. Where there is life, there is hope. But the others-they paid the price of our hope. Of our lives.”

“Drucilla,” Kaneka murmured. “Jolanta, Nazneen, Erich, Rushad … yes, and others, so many others. Do not fear, little one. I have not forgotten. I will tell their stories too, and their sacrifices will be remembered. The
zenana
of Daršanga will live in my stories, in all its desperate courage. And it may be, as Amon-Re wills, that their tales will ensure such a thing may never come to pass in Jebe-Barkal. But it is important, little one, that hope endures. For when it fails-thus are the gates of despair opened, and one such as Lord Death enters the world. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Yes, Fedabin. I understand.”

We spent several days in Debeho, and I was as loathe to leave then as I had been before. It may sound foolish, but there are few places I have been happier. What appeared to be mud and squalor to the untrained eye was a community rich in kindness, possessed of a wealth of knowledge. They treated us generously, giving unstintingly of what they had, and we left Debeho with clean, dry garments, our tents patched and oiled, our stores replenished with unperishable goods and our mounts well tended.

And in all these exchanges, I beheld the Name of God, writ in unknowable letters.

“It is the last parting,” Kaneka said, embracing me before we left. “I knew you would return. Ah, take care, take care, little one! I will miss you.”

“And I, you.” I smiled at her. “Be well, Kaneka.” I glanced toward our caravan, where Tifari Amu watched our farewell with a hunter’s tender patience. “And if any of our number
do
return, I pray you treat them gently.”

Kaneka laughed. “Will you never be done meddling?”

“Probably not,” I admitted.

“Ah, well.” She eyed Tifari sidelong, considering. “If the Ras’ highlander guide wished to return, he would not be unwelcome in Debeho. Does that satisfy you, little one?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning. “It does.”

We left quickly, then, before the rains could begin, before the sorrow could take root. It is hard, always saying farewell. What stories would Kaneka tell as she grew old? I might never know, for Debeho was far away, and Kaneka’s stories would likely never be written, but only passed from mouth to ear.

Mayhap, one day, they would filter to Terre d’Ange, carried on some travelling poet’s lips, woven of truth and imagination, as fabulous as a Mendacant’s cloak, romances and adventures and tragedies stitched through with a gleaming strand of hope, reminding listeners to love truly, to honor the dead, to uphold the covenant of wisdom and to never, even in darkest hours, surrender to despair.

I hoped it might be so.

Eighty-One

WE JOURNEYED to Meroë.

The balance of the journey does not bear telling, for it was uneventful, unless incessant rain may be considered an event. Tifari Amu was glad of heart, for I had related Kaneka’s words to him, and he pushed the pace as much as he dared. Nonetheless, it was a wet and arduous trek, and I would be happy when it had ended.

“Remember that,” Joscelin commented, wringing out his rain-soaked
chamma
, “when we are in the desert.”

By the time we reached Meroë, the rains had begun to ease. All along the flooded banks of the river, village farmers measured the waters and watched, waiting for their retreat. Once the waters had receded, they would plant cotton and millet. The sun shone brightly, longer each day, and the drenched earth steamed.

Meroë.

The city seemed almost like an old friend, after our long journey. Everything I saw-the mighty burial pyramids, the traders’ caravans with their long strings of camels, the inner walls of the royal palace, the embroidered capes of the soldiers, even the oliphaunts, whose platter-sized feet lifted from the mud with great sucking sounds-appeared familiar and welcome. Tifari Amu escorted us to the very hotel in which we had first stayed, and bartered with the hotel-keeper to give us the finest suite of rooms.

“Rest here,” he said, “and avail yourself of all amenities. I must report to Ras Lijasu, but he will doubtless wish to see you on the morrow.”

It was strange, after so long in company, to part; yet another farewell! Tifari and Bizan, we would likely see again, but not the bearers, who would take the Ras’ payment and return to their families. I kissed them all in parting, overwhelmed with emotion. Joscelin withdrew the much-shortened chain of trader’s coin he wore beneath his
chamma
and gave a gold link to each.

“It is not much,” he apologized in his faltering Jeb’ez, “but only for thanks.”

The quietest of the bearers, Bomani, tried to give it back. “It is not necessary, lord,” he said. “The Ras has paid us. And you have far togo.”

“It is necessary,” Joscelin said firmly.

“I will keep mine,” Nkuku said, clapping Joscelin on the back, “and remember the man who would dance with the rhinoceros! No wonder I fell into the thorns!”

There were a good many more jests before we parted-Nkuku had some sly advice for me having to do with snakes and bathing-pools-but in time, they left. And each one made a point of bidding Imriel farewell, treating him as a near-equal.

Well, and why not, I thought; he has earned it.

Our rooms were spacious and pleasant and
dry
. I cannot convey what luxury that was, to one who had not spent countless days waterlogged and sodden. For the first time in my life, I was almost loathe to visit the baths, reveling in the absence of water against my skin. After I did, I was glad of it, and gladder still to be wrapped in a thick cotton robe, clean and blessedly dry.

Most of our clothing, alas, was ruined, save for the peasant garb we had been given in Debeho. The Lugal’s gifts; the celadon riding-attire that Favrielle nó Eglantine had designed; the rose-silk gown with the crystal beading-all spoiled, the fabric rotted with moisture. I beheld it with dismay.

“It’s only clothing,” Joscelin said, shrugging. “You hold the Name of God, Phèdre. Does it matter what you wear?”

A sharp retort was forming on my tongue when a knock came at the door, proving to be a considerable train of servants sent on behalf of Ras Lijasu, who had received word of our return. And they brought with them an array of gifts-sweetmeats, scented oils, sundry fruits, and bolts of fine cloth, with a deferential tailor to take our measurements.

“Yes,” I answered him when they had gone. “In Meroë, it matters.”

We dined well that night and slept in a proper bed in clean, dry sheets that had been scented with orange-blossom, with a solid roof over our heads to keep out the rains when they began, falling as relentlessly over the city as they had the plains and mountains.

And I slept like the dead until Imriel’s nightmare roused me.

It was different, this time; not the inhuman, rending screams of before, but a choked, fearful moaning. “I’ll go,” I murmured to Joscelin, clambering out of our bed and struggling into my bathing-robe. I made my way to the smaller room we’d allotted Imriel, stumbling over a footstool in the dark. Faint starlight filtered through the unshuttered windows. He was thrashing, entwined in the bedclothes. I perched on the edge of his pallet, keeping my voice gentle. “Imri. Imri, it’s all right. It’s just a nightmare.”

He awoke when I touched him, breathing hard and rubbing his face. “I was dreaming.”

“I know.” I smoothed his tangled hair and settled myself, tucking one leg beneath me. “Daršanga?”

He nodded. “From before.”

I tugged the sheets loose where they’d enwrapped him. “Before what?”

“Before you came.” His face was ghostly in the starlight.

“Ah.” I got the sheets unwound. Imriel’s gaze was fixed on me, his eyes dark as holes in his pallid face. “It’s over, you know. It will never happen again.”

“I know.” He swallowed. “He did things to me.”

My hands stilled. “The Mahrkagir.”

Imri nodded.

“Do you want to tell me?”

He nodded again, his expression rigid with fear.

“All right,” I said gently, my heart an agony within me. “Tell me.”

He did.

And I listened as he told me, stroking his brow when his voice faltered, closing my eyes in pain when he continued. If the Mahrkagir had spared him the worst, still, he had been ingenious in his torments, and there are sins against the spirit more dire than those against the flesh. Many of the punishments he described, I have known at the hands of other patrons, and called it pleasure-but ah, Elua! It was Imriel it happened to;
Imri
! A boy, a child of ten, enslaved, and terrified. So I listened, while silent tears stung my eyes. All I feared in a child of my own blood, every pain and humiliation I knew I could bear to endure, but not to behold-it had already befallen him.

At last, he finished.

“Imriel.” I cupped his face in my hands, and he watched me fearfully. “It’s not your fault, do you understand? None of it. What the Mahrkagir did to you was done against your will. It is a grave wrong, and you were not to blame.”

“But he did worse things to others.” He looked sick. “Because of me. He told me so.”

“No.” I shook my head. “He lied, Imri; ill words. He said it only to hurt you.”

“There were things he made me do.” His voice was faint. “He said if I didn’t…” He swallowed. “He made me plead for their lives. He promised to spare them, even though he didn’t. And I did. I did what he told me.”

“And
lived
,” I said fiercely. “Never be ashamed of that! Kaneka is right, where there is life, there is hope. You were right, to survive. You did right, Imri. You tried to protect others. It’s not your fault he lied. The Mahrkagir did wrong. And he has paid the price of it.”

“You killed him.” It was not a question, not quite.

“Yes.” I nodded. “Blessed Elua set his life in my hand, and I took it. He is dead, Imri. No one will ever hurt you like that again.”

“Do you promise it?”

I looked into his haunted eyes and thought about Anafiel Delaunay’s vow, that he had sworn to Prince Rolande so many years ago, about Joscelin’s vow, and how it had shaped his life; impossible vows, warping the fates of all around them. And I thought about Imriel de la Courcel, who hated for anyone to see him cry, for whom the night held such terrors. In the broad light of day, he would never ask such a thing. “I do,” I said, kissing his damp brow. “I promise it.”

Imriel sighed and I felt some of the fear leave him. I held him close.

“Imri,” I said to him. He lifted his head sleepily from my breast to gaze at me with his mother’s eyes. “Imri, if you hadn’t acted as you did, on Kapporeth, things would have gone very differently. I want you to know that.”

He smiled. It was his own smile. “I didn’t want them to hurt you.”

“So I gathered.” I raised my eyebrows. “Mind, if you ever try the like again, I’ll have Joscelin sit on you.” It made him laugh. I kissed him again. “It was well done, love. It was a greater gift than I have ever received, and one I pray is never repeated. Now go to sleep, will you? We have to meet the Ras on the morrow.”