There was feasting, and fetes; Joscelin and I turned out to meet him, of course, a part of Ysandre's entourage. And I wore the Companion's Star upon my breast, and had Ti-Philippe in attendance with Hugues as his wide-eyed guest, and we pelted the Cruarch with rose-petals and sighed, charmed, with the others when the young Princess Alais hurled herself at her father at the gates of the City. She clung about his neck like a monkey, wrapping her legs about his waist, and Drustan smiled, burying his face in his daughter's hair and walking half the distance to the Palace, despite how his twisted left foot must have pained him.

Truly, it would have warmed a heart of stone.

It warmed Ysandre's heart, I know; and I could not find it in mine to begrudge her. No monarch has risen to the throne of Terre d'Ange under graver circumstances than Ysandre, and none has held it with more courage and compassion. If I seem to damn my lady Queen with faint praise, it is not my intention. I have cause to know, better than any, to what mettle Ysandre's spirit is tempered, and I could not ask for any finer.

No, my discontent lay with the shadow on my own soul.

It is no one's fault but my own that I underwent the ceremony of the thetalos on the island of Kriti, and came face-to-face with the chain of sorrow and suffering that had arisen from my actions. If I had not transgressed, I would have been purged of the knowledge and cleansed to face life renewed and forgiven. I know, for I saw what transpired in the heart of Kazan Atrabiades, who was my friend; friend and lover, and one-time captor. But I had transgressed, and I could not be absolved. The mystery into which I stumbled was not meant for me. What I saw, I must remember and endure. So I had, for ten years, and the pain of that knowledge had lain buried. Now, Hyacinthe's plight had split the healed flesh and the scars on my soul bled anew.

I went, when I had the time, to my last ally among the Yeshuites, the mystic scholar Eleazar ben Enokh.

He is held in awe and disdain among his people, Eleazar ben Enokh. Awe, for he is among the last of his kind and his knowledge is prodigious for all that he is young to it; disdain, for he looks backward and inward, pondering half-forgotten mysteries while the rest of his folk look increasingly to the north and the future. It is with Eleazar that I began studying the Akkadian language; and that too, his people disdain.

They are wrong, I think-Eleazar thinks it too. There are few tongues older than that which is spoken among the scions of the House of Ur, whose hero Ahzimandias led his people out of exile in the desert to reconquer their ancestral lands. Khebbel-im-Akkad, they call it; Akkad-that-is-reborn. Once upon a time, they were near-kin, the Akkadians and the Yeshuites. The Habiru, they were called then, the Children of Yisra-el; their language is still called the same. But when the Akkadians conquered, the Children of Yisra-el were dispersed and flung to the winds, their Twelve Tribes disbanded, Ten of the Twelve lost and the purity of their mother-tongue diffused.

So it is said, at any rate.

When the empire of Persis arose and overthrew the Akkadians, the royal court of the House of Ur fled, deep into the Umaiyyat, where they were succored by the Khalifate of the Umaiyyat. And there, for a thousand years, they maintained their traditions and language unaltered, and nurtured revenge. It was in Eleazar ben Enokh's heart that somewhere in the deep past, Akkadians and the Children of Yisra-el sprang from the same root. El, their deity was called; El, that is: God, whose True Name is unknowable.

Now the Yeshuites think less on the Name of God, having affixed their faith to His son Yeshua ben Yosef, and the Akkadians care little for El, having reconquered Persis in the name of Shamash, the Lion of the Sun, in accordance with Ahzimandias' vision.

But Eleazar ben Enokh, a Yeshuite who dwelt in the City of Elua, kept his heart attuned to his One God and courted Him with profound meditation, fasting and reciting hymns, composed in Habiru and Akkadian alike, seeking betwixt the two to find the original root words, the First Word of Creation that spoke the world into being-for that, he believed, was the Name of God.

I sat with him as he did, for we had become friends, Eleazar and I, of the unlikeliest sort. I knelt on mats in his prayer-room, abeyante, as I was taught long ago in the Night Court, sitting on my heels with the skirts of my velvet gown composed around me. Eleazar knelt too, and rocked, inclining back and forth and keening all the while in his strong voice. Betimes he arose and danced about the prayer-room, hopping and spinning, his spindling limbs akimbo beneath his black robes, head thrown back in ecstasy.

I daresay it looked humorous; I know his wife Adara smiled, ducking her head to hide it as she brought water and crusty bread bought fresh at the market into the prayer-room to make ready for her husband who would be ravenous when he broke his fast. To her credit, it never disturbed her that her husband kept company with the foremost courtesan in the City of Elua.

"Father of Nations!" Eleazar gasped in Habiru, "Lord of the Divine Countenance! Hear me, Your meager worshipper, and grant me the merest glimpse of Your throne! Ah!" He went rigid, kneeling, arms outflung. "Abu," he whispered, reverting to Akkadian, "Abu El, anaku basu kussu."

God, my Father, let me come before your throne. A look of bliss suffused his face, the straggling ends of his black beard quivering. I knelt patient and watched, while Eleazar ben Enokh descended slowly through the realms of Yeshuite heavens and returned to the here-and-now. I knew, when he opened his kind, brown eyes and shook his head, that he had returned empty-handed.

"I have no name."

The words were spoken with ritual sorrow. He believed, Eleazar ben Enokh, that he beheld the Presence of God in his transports, and that one day he might return with the Sacred Name writ fast upon his heart. I nodded in acknowledgment, bowing low before him.

"I am grateful for your efforts, father," I said formally. Eleazar sighed and sat cross-legged, his bony knees poking sharply into his robes.

"Yeshua have mercy on us," he said sadly, "but we have lost the gift of it since we followed the Mashiach. He sent His Son to redeem our broken covenant." He broke off a piece of bread and looked at it as if it were strange and wonderful in his sight, placing it on his tongue and chewing slowly. "It is said- " he swallowed a mouthful of bread, -that one tribe alone never faltered, that is the Tribe of Dan." Eleazar shook his head again. "Adonai is merciful, Phedre," he said softly, "and to us He sent His Son, Yeshua ben Yosef. I catch a glimpse of His throne, of His almighty feet; no more. For the rest, there is Yeshua." He smiled, and joy and sorrow alike were commingled in his mien. "It is upon his sacrifice that our redemption now depends. I do not think Adonai will make His sacred name known anymore to the Children of Yisra-El. Perhaps He will do it for Elua's child."

"Elua!" My voice was bitter. "Adonai cared so little for his ill-begotten scion Elua that he wandered forgotten for a hundred years while Adonai grieved for your Yeshua! I do not think He will share His name with one such as me."

"Then perhaps the Tribe of Dan holds it in keeping." Eleazar ignored my sharp tone and scrubbed at his face, weary with long prayer. "If you can find them."

To that, I said nothing; every Yeshuite knows the myth of the Lost Tribes. Most believe, if they venture an opinion, that they went north, beyond the barren steppes, where Yeshua's nation is to be founded in preparation for his return. Whether or not it is true, I do not know. Only that in the writings of Habiru sages before the coming of Yeshua, the Tribe of Dan is never mentioned among the exiles.

"And mayhap Shalomon's Ring lies forgotten at the bottom of my jewelry-box," I said, "but I don't think so." Rising, I repented of my ill grace and stooped to kiss his cheek. "Keep searching, Eleazar. Your God is fortunate to be served with such devotion."

He nodded, tearing off another piece of bread and placing it in his mouth. I left him there, chewing meditatively, the remembrance of glory illuminating his narrow features. Adara showed me to the door, where I pressed a small purse of coin into her hands. "A token," I said, "in gratitude for your hospitality."

So I said at every visit. Eleazar would never have taken it-or if he had, he would have given it away within the hour-but Adara knew the cost of bread and what was needful to allow her beloved husband to continue his contemplations untroubled.

"You are always welcome in our house, my lady." There was such gentle sweetness to her smile. "It tears at his heart to think how your friend suffers for Rahab's cruelty."

Such is the carelessness of gods, I thought as I made my way home. And we are powerless against it.Even here, in the blessed realm, where Elua and his Companions gave us surpassing gifts of grace and beauty and knowledge, begetting musicians and chirurgeons, architects and shipwrights, painters, poets and dancers, farmers and vintners, warriors and courtiers, there is no power to be found to thwart a forgotten curse by the One God's mighty servant. All the love in my heart was but a weak and foolish noise before the enduring force of Rahab's hatred. And why? Because the Lord of the Deep had loved a woman, and she had loved another than him.

Blessed Elua, I prayed, such things should not be. If there is a way, let me find it, for I do not think I can bear to live out my days with this knowledge. I do not think I can bear to laugh and make merry, living and loving while Hyacinthe raises wind and wave, gazes into a mirror and waits for time to make a monstrosity of him. Wherever the path lies, I will tread it. Whatever the price, I will pay it.

In a mood thus dark and foreboding, I arrived at my home to find Joscelin and Ti-Philippe awaiting me in the salon, their faces grave. Young Hugues was nowhere in sight, nor any of the house-servants. I paused, wondering at the way they stood shoulder-to-shoulder before the low table.

"What is it?"

Joscelin stepped to one side, indicating a sealed missive that lay upon the table. Hardly an unusual thing, for I received correspondence almost daily-letters, offers of assignation, invitation, love poems. "This came by courier from La Serenissima."

Allegra Stregazza, I wondered; or mayhap Severio? Both of them wrote to me from time to time, and Joscelin was not overfond of my friendship with Severio, having never quite forgotten that I had once, briefly, entertained his offer of marriage. For all that he had forsworn jealousy, even Joscelin was human.

But that would not account for Ti-Philippe's countenance.

The pale vellum glowed against the dark, polished wood of the table, fine-grained and smooth, sealed with a generous blot of gilt wax. Kneeling, I picked up the letter to examine the insignia stamped into the seal.

My hands began to shake and I set it down, staring.

A crown of stars; Asherat's Crown, that adorns the Dogal Seal and the doors of the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea. And beneath it, etched in miniature, a device of three keys intertwined-the arms of House Shahrizai.

The letter had been sent by Melisande Shahrizai.

SEVEN.

TAKING A deep breath, I cracked the seal and opened the letter.

The room was deadly silent as I read. Joscelin and Ti-Philippe stared at each other over my head, neither daring to ask. It was short, only a few lines, penned in Melisande's elegant hand. I would have known her writing anywhere. I had seen it since I was a child in Delaunay's household, when the correspondence was lively between them, friends and rivals as they were. And I had seen it in the steading of the Skaldi warlord Waldemar Selig, when I realized with sinking horror the infinite depth of her treachery. Now I read it in my own home, and when I finished, set down the letter and pressed steepled fingers against my lips.

"Name of Elua!" Ti-Philippe exploded. "What does the she-bitch want? "

I looked up at him, lifting my head, and answered simply. "My help."

"What?" It was Joscelin, incredulous, who snatched up the letter and read it for himself, passing it to Ti-Philippe and taking an abrupt seat in a nearby chair. He stared at me open-mouthed, shaking his head in unconscious denial. "Phedre. No. She's mad. She has to be!"

Dear Phedre, the letter read, I am writing to ask your aid in a matter of vital importance. There is no one else I may trust. I swear to you, in Kushiel's name, that this is no ploy and poses no threat of harm to your loyalties. Make haste to La Serenissima, and I will explain.

That, and no more. I heard a stifled expletive from Ti-Philippe as he finished reading.

"No," Joscelin said again, although I had not spoken. The color was returning to his face. "Phedre, you can't possibly consider it. Whatever it is, it's bound to be a trick."

"No." I looked past him at the bust of Anafiel Delaunay which sat on a black marble plinth in my salon.

My lord Delaunay gazed back at me, silent as ever, a wry tenderness to his austere features. I remembered how I had first met Melisande in Delaunay's gymnasium, how she had touched my face, and my knees had turned to water. She was the only one he had ever allowed to see me before I entered Naamah's Service. They had been friends, once; and lovers, too. He might be alive today, but for her treachery. So might countless others. I have never dared number those dead by Melisande's deeds. "She swore it in Kushiel's name. Even Melisande has rules."

"You can't think it."

There was a ragged edge to Joscelin's voice I had not heard in more than ten years. My eyes stung with tears as I turned my gaze to him, swallowing hard. "It's Sibeal's dream, don't you see, and Hyacinthe's vision. Joscelin, I don't pretend to understand. But I have to go."

He was silent for a moment. "You would let her put her leash on you again."

"No." I took back the letter that Ti-Philippe had thrown onto the table, running the ball of my thumb over the waxen seal. "Melisande remains under the purview of the Temple of Asherat. She's not free to make claims on me. And I will not offer what I did once before."

"Melisande Shahrizai doesn't need her freedom to make claims on you," Joscelin whispered. "And you don't need to offer. Do you think I don't know that?"

"Joscelin." I dropped the letter and rubbed my temples. My head ached fiercely. "What do you want me to do? Stay here and slowly go mad, thinking about Hyacinthe and spending my days praying some poor, God-ridden Habiru mystic will stumble across the Sacred Name? I don't want to see Melisande; Blessed Elua knows I don't want to help her! But there have been dreams and visions pointing the way, and I prayed to Elua to show it to me. Now my prayer is answered; a letter, like a portent. What am I to do?

Ignore it?" I let my hands fall to my lap and shook my aching head. "I can't." "I'll go." Ti-Philippe's words sounded abrupt. "The Tsingano said the path would be dark. Well, I'm not afraid of darkness." He cleared his throat. "I can't imagine we'll see aught worse than we've seen before, my lady. And I'm not afraid of your facing Melisande Shahrizai. Whatever it is between you, you've outfaced her twice before, and won." He glanced at Joscelin. "People forget that."

"I don't forget!" Joscelin raised his voice sharply. In the old days, they had quarrelled often; this was the first time since La Serenissima. "But I don't trust anyone's luck to continue forever, even Phedre's. And if you think you have seen all the world holds of darkness, chevalier, you are sore mistaken."

"Enough!" I cut them off before the quarrel could escalate. "Joscelin," I said, fixing him with my gaze. "I am going to do this thing. Is it your will to accompany me?"

His smile was tight as a grimace. "I have sworn it. To damnation and beyond," he added, casting a pointed glance in Ti-Philippe's direction. "Though I would sooner that than Melisande's doorstep."

"My lady, you would be better served- ' Ti-Philippe began.

"No." I shook my head at him. "Philippe, I value your courage and your loyalty more than I can say. But if there is anyone I need at my side, it is Joscelin. You, I need here. I need someone I can trust to keep watch over my household and my estates. And I need to know," I said gently, "someone is here, safe and well, keeping the lamps lit for our safe return."

Now it was Ti-Philippe who had tears in his eyes. "My lady," he said, "you know I would face any danger on your behalf."

"I know. I am asking you not to, and mayhap it is a harder thing." I laughed. "Anyway, of what are we speaking? A spring journey to La Serenissima? We'll be there and back inside a month. A paltry thing, as dangers go."

"There are no paltry dangers where Melisande Shahrizai is concerned," Joscelin muttered. "Captive, or no."

Ysandre, predictably, was displeased. I had to tell her, reckoning I owed my Queen as much. She scowled at me and paced the pleasant bounds of the drawing-room in which we met, her mood and actions more suitable to official chambers. I stood patiently and waited out her anger, glad of Joscelin's solid presence at my shoulder. For some reason, she had far greater faith in him not to undertake anything foolish-a misplaced sentiment, in my opinion. Ysandre had not been there when Joscelin crawled the underside of a hanging bridge to the prison-fortress of La Dolorosa and assailed it single-handed with naught but his daggers. Well and so, if Ysandre de la Courcel thought a Cassiline less rash than a courtesan, let her. I knew better.

For his part, Drustan mab Necthana said nothing, only sitting and thinking, his dark eyes grave and thoughtful. He had sailed to the Three Sisters on the strength of Sibeal's dream; he would not gainsay my going.

"Fine," Ysandre said at last, irritable, fetching up before us. "Go. I tried to dissuade you once before, and I was in the wrong; I swore I would not do it again. Only remember, Melisande played you for a fool the entire time, and it is only with Elua's blessing that we are not all dead of it. If you think this is aught different, you're making the same mistake." She looked curiously at me. "Do you even have the slightestidea what game she's playing at now?"

"No." I answered calmly, my hands clasped before me to hide their trembling. In truth, it was that very thing that terrified me. I had always known, before. I may have misgauged her moves-with, as Ysandre observed, near-fatal results-but I had grasped the nature of the game. Now, I could not guess. I am writing to ask your aid. . . That sounded nothing like Melisande; and that alone made me nervous. "When I know, I will tell you, I promise."

"Elua," Ysandre sighed, and took my face between her hands, planting an unexpected kiss on my brow.

"I swear, near-cousin, you cause me more worry than ten Shahrizai courtiers and my daughter Alais rolled into one," she said. "My lord Cassiline, please do whatever it is you do to bring her back safely."

Joscelin bowed, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I think sometimes they understood each other too well, those two. Drustan rose and came to take my hands.

"Necthana's daughters dream true dreams," he said. "My sister Moiread knew your voice before ever you set foot on Alba's shores. We will await your return."

So we took our leave.

We travelled lightly, Joscelin and I, making a straight course overland across Caerdicca Unitas. It felt strange, covering the same territory through which we had ridden ten years ago in Ysandre's entourage, desperate to thwart the last, deadly stroke of Melisande's scheme. Now, I was riding to her aid . . .

because she had asked it. Passing strange indeed. It was on that journey that we heard the stories they tell of Ysandre's ride, the fell and glorious company of D'Angelines who passed like the wind along the northern route betwixt Milazza and La Serenissima. Joscelin and I heard them in the inns along the way, exchanging glances, remembering the metal taste of fear in our mouths, saddle-weary aches and the endless arguing of Ysandre de la Courcel and Lord Amaury Trente.

Of such stuff are legends made.

Naught of moment befell us in our journey and the weather held passing fair, with only a few showers of rain to dampen our spirits. The northern route is safe, now, as safe as ever it has been. Once, the threat of Skaldi raiders was prevalent, but now the southern border of Skaldia is peaceful, and a number of tribes have formed a loose federation, trading freely with the Caerdicci. It is Waldemar Selig's doing, in a way. Although his endeavor failed-Blessed Elua be thanked-he was somewhat new among the Skaldi: a leader who thought. He gave them ambition and hunger for the finer elements of civilization, and he taught them that together, they might achieve what they never could apart. Shattered by defeat at D'Angeline hands, the Skaldi have grown circumspect, and seek now to acquire through honest trade and effort what they once sought to seize by might of arms.

One day, I think, they may try it again. But for now, there is peace.

Of La Serenissima, I have written elsewhere at length. Suffice it to say that the city is unchanged. It is beautiful still, redolent with the light that reflects from the water of her many canals, and reeking too with the odor of those same canals. It is a city that holds too many memories for me, and few of them good.

I might have presented myself, under other circumstances, at either the Dogal Palace or the Little Court, and availed myself of the hospitality that would surely have been rendered me. Incredible though it seems, Cesare Stregazza is still Doge of La Serenissima. I think he must be nearly ninety years of age now, which is unheard-of for his kind. Members of the Stregazza family seldom enjoy long lives. I daresay hewould remember me, since I saved his throne for him. It is his younger son Ricciardo who administers much of the daily business of the city, or so Allegra writes. I think he will succeed his father as Doge. I hope so, for he is worthy.

The Little Court is Severio's, now. It has been for three years. They do not call it that, anymore; the Palazzo Immortali, he renamed it, after his social club. There is still a D'Angeline presence there-how not, when Severio is grandson to Prince Benedicte de la Courcel himself- but it is no longer a court in exile. For all that his blood is a quarter D'Angeline, Severio is Serenissiman to the core. He married a Serenissiman noblewoman some years ago, a daughter of the Hundred Worthy Families, and seems content with his lot. She is not, I understand, entirely unamenable to rough play in the bedchamber; a fortunate happenstance, as I had cause to know. Severio had once been a patron of mine, and his appetites bore a keen edge.

I did not wish to intrude into either situation on this particular errand. There is a good deal of bitterness still over Prince Benedicte's betrayal and the plot laid by Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza-and D'Angeline influence is held much to blame. Unfairly, I think, for Marco Stregazza was the Doge's own elder son . . . but still.

The genius behind it was Melisande.

And I had ridden to La Serenissima in response to her request for aid.

In light of this fact, Joscelin and I took lodgings at one of the finer inns near the Campo Grande. La Serenissima is a city of trade above all, and there was nothing strange about a D'Angeline couple travelling there. The only strangeness was in my mind, and the echo of memory as I gazed from my balcony onto the bustling market in the square below, the morning sun glittering on the Great Canal and striking gold from the domed roof of the Temple of Asherat. Joscelin came to stand beside me and we looked, thinking the same thoughts.

"There," he said, pointing. "That's where the parrot-merchant's stand stood, from Jebe-Barkal. Do you remember?"

"The Yeshuite," I said. "The Immortali picked a fight with him, and Ti-Philippe had a bloody nose at the end of it." I frowned. "How did you end up defending the parrot-stand?"

"I don't remember." He leaned on the railing, bracing his arms. "Elua, but I was an idiot then! It's a wonder you forgave me."

"No." I curled my fingers about his forearm. "We were both idiots, and I was cruel. I was so blinded by my quest, I didn't care how much I hurt you. I taught myself to relish the pain instead. Call it an anguissette's folly."

Joscelin gazed down into the marketplace. "But you were right," he said, "when I thought you were on a fool's errand. And I was too proud to admit how terrified I was of losing you. It would have been different if I had."

"Ah, well." I rested my head against his shoulder. "Elua willing, we are a little older now, and a little wiser. Whatever happens ..." I drew back to look at his face. "Joscelin, you know I would never leave you?"

"I know," he said softly. "I do know it, Phedre. But what lies between you and Melisande frightens me,because Kushiel's hand is in it. You are his Chosen, and he has marked you for his own . . . and I, I am only Cassiel's servant, no more. What is that, to one who was the Punisher of God?"

Alone among the Companions of Elua, Cassiel bore no gifts, no earthly power. No province bears his name, and he left no mortal lineage. Only the Cassiline Brothers, middle sons, sworn into fruitless loyalty.

What was it indeed to the cruel and merciful might of Kushiel, lord of atonement, guardian of the brazen portals of Hell? It is not an easy thing, to be Kushiel's Chosen.

"Love," I said to Joscelin. "Only love. And if that is not enough, Elua help us all."

Joscelin shivered and put his arms around me.