What I remember most, once the column of flame spent its initial fury and sank to a moderate blaze, is the old Chief Magus Arshaka, his rheumy eyes filled with tears, arms outstretched in blessing, his lips moving in prayer as he knelt before the Sacred Fire, bright flames illuming his filthy robes. I remember it because I had no time for it. I went straightaway to Joscelin, sitting on the bloodstained stones and gasping for air, his right hand clasped loosely about the hilt of his battered sword, his left arm cradled in his lap. He smelled of scorched wool and hot metal. "The boy?" he asked, eyes rolling to meet mine.

"Alive," I said, my voice choked. "Alive, my love."

"See?" Imriel knelt in front of him, his face anxious. "Joscelin, see? I am here."

Joscelin nodded and closed his eyes. "See to the others," he murmured. "I'll not die of a broken arm."

I got to my feet. "Stay with him," I said to Imriel. "Do you hear me? Stay with him, or I swear, I'll kill you myself."

"I will." Imriel's voice broke on the words. Huddled on the flagstones, he looked at me with his mother's eyes, and such an expression in them as hers had never held. "I promise, Phedre, I will."

It would have to do. While the surviving Drujani and Tatars, addled by opium and terror, made their surrender-some to stunned members of the zenana and some to the Magi, openly weeping before the Sacred Fire-I went to assess the wounded and number the dead.

And outside the gates of Daranga, the revolution spread.

What stories they tell in Drujan, I cannot say. I did not linger long enough to hear them told, and I have never been back, nor shall I, not while I draw breath. This I know to be true, for I learned it that night: the fires kindled in the palace ignited in the city and elsewhere. Jahanadar, the Land of Fires, reclaimed its ancient title, and the hand of Ahura Mazda reached out to reclaim his own.

Well and good; so he might. But it was the folk of a hundred disparate nations, captives and slaves, who paid his ransom.

So many died. So many.

In the doorway to the kitchens, Erich the Skaldi lay dying, his body pierced by a dozen wounds, a sword in his hand and a look of peace on his face. Rushad, a carving knife in his hand, lay slain across his knees, having done his valiant best to defend his fallen friend; gentle Rushad, who was no more a warrior than I. All I could do was to clasp Erich's hand and sing softly to him, cradle-songs, such as I had learned as a slave. Erich died smiling, his hand slackening in mine. And I went on to the next. So many, so many dead. Jolanta, her fingers clutched about a Drujani sword-hilt, stuck together with blood. Nazneen the Ephesian, willowy in death as in life, a Tatar war-axe buried in her skull. Among the women of the zenana, one in three had died . . . Erich, Rushad-two of the Akkadian eunuchs. Gone, all of them.

But there were survivors, too.

Uru-Azag came limping from the inner doors of Daranga, grey-faced and grim, gathering a contingent to secure the fortress. After the Sacred Fire, there was no resistance. With Kaneka's aid, conferring with Joscelin, who had propped himself on a bench, they got matters well in hand. Here and there, an initiate from the vahmyacam wandered in dazed shock, having learned too late that their offerings were in vain.

Angra Mainyu's reign was broken.

There was one man, with a crimson spill of blood drying on his chin, who took it hardest. I rememberedhim. He was one who had brought his son to the dais, a boy no older than four or five years. The Mahrkagir's age, I thought, when the Akkadians had taken Daranga. We had struck too late for the boy; his father had eaten his heart.

Would that there had been another way.

I did what I could, ignoring the thanks-giving prayers of the Magi, calling upon my experience of too many battlefields to help Drucilla, who had bound her own wounds and remained on her feet, trembling.

She pressed her fist hard against her belly and gasped orders. The Carthaginian carpenter's daughter was a shadow at my shoulder, aiding without argument, recruiting others. The Caerdicci seamstress who had altered the fit of my gown learned to sew flesh and sinew under Drucilla's tutelage.

Together, we saved a good many.

Until at last it was Joscelin's turn. Removing the chain-mail shirt alone was a torture.

I could not have done it without Drucilla. It was she who instructed me on how to draw his arm straight, pulling by main force until the shattered bones fell into alignment, feeling with delicate fingertips that each was in place. It was a mercy that none had pierced the skin. Cold sweat stood in beads on Joscelin's brow, and he swore a blue streak, using terms I did not know he knew. And then it was done. I bound the fracture as Drucilla instructed, wrapping it firmly with lengths of woolen cloth and securing it with a careful splint.

"A sling," Drucilla murmured, plucking at her shawl. "To keep the arm immobile. Use this. I'll have no need of it."

"No," I whispered, kneeling beside her. "Drucilla, no."

"I'll have no need," she repeated faintly, smiling, reaching up to touch my hair with her maimed hands.

"Phedre. You spoke true, didn't you? An ill-luck name. Still, I will die as I lived, a physician to the end, and not a creature of darkness. You have given me that. It is not a gift I thought to find; not here."

"No." Tears coursed my cheeks, salt and bitter; it seemed unfair that she, who had fought so valiantly to preserve life, to preserve her own sanity, should die. "If you will only tell us what needs be done . . .

Drucilla, we can do it, I swear to you!"

Behind me, the Caerdicci seamstress murmured agreement, and other voices echoed it.

"The blade has pierced my bowels," Drucilla said gently, her hand falling away, fingers trailing damp across my tear-stained face. "I feel it, child; the poison in my blood-stream. If you had a chirurgeon's tools and a chirurgeon's skill. . ." She smiled with sorrow and kindness, plucking at the woolen fabric that draped her. "It would still be too late. Take the shawl."

Shaking with grief, I did. It was her wish. She watched the seamstress Helena fold it with care and tie it in exacting knots, making a sling for Joscelin's arm. When it was done, her lashes fluttered closed, and Uru-Azag and two of the Akkadians carried her with all tenderness to the corner of the hall where we had established our infirmary, laying her on cushions purloined from the zenana and heaping blankets atop her.

"Remember this," I told Imriel, who watched gravely. "Remember her courage. Remember them all." Wordless, he nodded.

It was somewhere in the small hours of the night that Drucilla died, and sometime afterward that the Chief Magus came for me, a lamp in his hand.

"Come," he said in Persian, as I blinked out of a half-waking doze on a makeshift pallet where I maintained a vigil in the infirmary. Somewhere, a clean robe had been found for the old man and the worst of the filth washed from his hair and beard. For all the deep lines that scored his face, he looked stronger than I would have believed possible mere hours before. "We must speak."

"Stay with them," I said to Joscelin, who had come instantly alert, reaching for his sword with his good right hand.

"And let you out of my sight? Not likely," he muttered, levering himself to his feet and calling one of the Akkadians to stand guard over the injured, and the sleeping Imriel. "Now," he said to the ancient Magus, "we will go."

Arshaka inclined his head. "Bringer of Omens. As you wish."

And so saying, he led us through the palace, up a winding stair to one of the lookout towers. There, in a small garret, a Drujani guard lay dead-who had killed him, I do not know-and a shuttered window had been forced open, a square of darkness looking out over the city below and the land beyond.

"Behold," said the Chief Magus. "Jahanadar, the Land of Fires."

In the city of Daranga, the Sacred Fire burned in the ruined temple. Everywhere there were torches lit, wavering in lines. Voices raised in celebration and prayer floated on the night breeze, crying Ahura Mazda's name. Beyond, across the plain of the peninsula, blazes were scattered like stars emerging from the clouds.

"You cannot stay here," the Magus Arshaka said gently. "The Lord of Light has reclaimed his people.

Soon, they will come for Daranga, and you are too few to hold it."

Joscelin made a sound in his throat that might have been a dour laugh.

"It is ours now, my lord Magus," I reminded him.

"It is," he acknowledged. "This night. You have captives, servants, Magi, all bent to your will. For what you have done, Ahura Mazda permits it. What of the dawn? Will the women of the zenana fight once the madness of Angra Mainyu has passed? Or shall you hold the doors with a handful of eunuchs and wounded warriors? Will Ahura Mazda's grace endure, while you send for aid from Khebbel-im-Akkad and level the Spear of Shamash at our heart?" Slowly, regretfully, Arshaka shook his venerable head. "It will not. Better that you should throw open the doors of Daranga and go home. Leave us to our own."

I rested my hands on the windowsill, looking at the men of the secondary garrison assembling at the doors below, their hands empty of weapons, pleading for admission that they might be redeemed in the light of the Sacred Fire. "There are a few thousand of the Mahrkagir's men remaining between Daranga and the border, my lord Magus. We thought to take a sea route."

"You have sailors among you, oarsmen?" He read the answer in my averted face. "If there were such a vessel to suit your needs, I would walk among the people and order it myself, child. But there is not; onlysuch fishing craft as will land you shattered upon the rocks should you attempt such a journey. Your route lies over land. Angra Mainyu's power lies broken, and his former servants will answer to the people of Drujan. If you will give me your word that you will sue for peace on our behalf when you reach Akkad, I will order that your company be allowed to pass unmolested."

"You have the power to order this?" I asked him.

Lamplight lent his creased features a stern dignity. "By the grace of Ahura Mazda, I do."

"Ahura Mazda." My voice hardened. "My lord Magus, I have never wittingly blasphemed the gods of any land, and I do not discount your long travail. But this night. . . this night. . . you owe any power you hold to the grace of Blessed Elua and the gods of Terre d'Ange, to Naamah's compassion, to Kushiel's cruel justice, and above all to Cas-siel's loyalty."

Joscelin stirred, at that. The Chief Magus never moved. "It may be, Elua's child," he said unflinching, his words an eerie echo of the aka-Magus Gashtaham's. "It may be. But it is the will of your gods that has freed the Lord of Light, and you are a long way from Terre d'Ange. Heed my counsel, take my offer, and go."

It was too great a matter to decide on my own. Though I was grateful to be alive, I was weary to the bone, exhausted in body and spirit. I did not know, until then, it was possible to know such utter weariness and live. The gods of Terre d'Ange may be merciful, but they use their chosen hard. My head ached from tears wept for the dead, and I had yet to reckon the cost to the living. Ah, Elua! To myself, and to Joscelin most of all. Still, my task was far from done. I owed a debt to the zenana-and there was my promise. There was Imriel. He trusted me. Whatever it took to see him safe, it must be done. Beyond that, I could not think. Turning away from the old man, I leant my brow upon the window-sash, gazing across the dark plain, scattered with fires like distant stars. "Joscelin," I murmured. "What do we do?"

He came to stand behind me, his bound arm clumsy between us. "Love." The broken caress in his voice brought tears to my eyes. "I don't think we have a choice. The priest speaks the truth. Will you order the captives slain, if they chafe at our hold? The servants?" In the darkness, he shook his head. "I couldn't.

Neither could you. And the others, were they to do it... from what have we freed them, if they become like that which they despised? For good or for ill, Blessed Elua has set free Ahura Mazda. It is his will that led us here. I think we can but trust in it, and pray it leads us out."

I tried to think of another way.

I couldn't.

"I want aid," I said, rounding on the Magus Arshaka. "As much as you can give, whatever you can give.

I want horses, mounts for whomever can sit one, and wagons for those who can't. I want armor and arms for whomever will bear them, and supplies, bandages and medicaments, tents and blankets, and provision enough to get us to the border and beyond. I want a mule-train to carry them, and hostlers and bearers. I want four Magi to accompany us, whomever you deem hale enough for the journey. If you have talismans or tokens that will signify the protection of Ahura Mazda, I want those, too."

With every sentence, he nodded, and when I finished, said, "It will be done. All of it."

"It had better." I stepped close to the ancient priest, close enough that he drew back lest my nearness taint him, and I knew that in his eyes, I was still Death's Whore, the Mahrkagir's favorite. "My lord Magus, I swear to you, if you play us false, may Elua have mercy upon your soul." "I do not lie," Arshaka said stiffly. "Ever."

Thus our fate was decided.

FIFTY-EIGHT.

WE DEPARTED before sundown.

It was not enough time to make ready for a journey of such difficulty, not nearly enough, but our skins itched with the presence of danger, and al] of us yearned to be free of the shadow of Daranga.

The Chief Magus Arshaka kept his word. Stores were plundered, stables looted to provide all that I had requested. When the doors of the palace were opened, we braced ourselves to fight or die, but the inrushing guards of the outer garrison hailed the Magi as heroes.

It would have been a bitter irony, had I cared. I didn't. All I wanted was to see us out of Drujan, and safe.

Most of the zenana was going; only the Tatar women took their leave, rejoining such tribesmen as had survived, already preparing a hasty retreat of their own, no longer in favor. It surprised me, a little, that the women were willing to return to the very men who had given them to the Mahrkagir. Not much. The will that had united us had already begun to falter, and the call of blood-and home-is strong.

The others would ride with us to Khebbel-im-Akkad, where I fully intended to prevail upon the ties of House L'Envers and the D'Angeline throne to abjure Valere L'Envers and her husband to see each and every one restored to her homeland.

If we made it.

The dead who remained would be laid to rest in Drujan-with honor. The Chief Magus Arshaka had promised it. I could only accept his word. He had sworn to uphold the truth above all else and revile the dark lie. I suppose that he did, and I am wrong to resent him and his kind after their long suffering. But I am only mortal, and I could not forget the disgust in his face when I drew near to him.

Never, I daresay, has an undertaking been fraught with such chaos. Merely explaining it took the better part of the morning, accomplished in a babble of tongues, with the zenyan argot pervading. Outfitting the carts for the wounded took the rest, and transporting them the afternoon. That part, I supervised, attempting all the while to keep my eye on Imriel. Three times, he went to see the dead to confirm that the Kereyit Tatar Jagun was well and truly slain, which he assuredly was, and once he vanished in search of one of Joscelin's Cassiline daggers, the one that had killed the Skotophagotis. One of the women had snatched it up in passing in the wild rush for the festal hall. He found it, too, the hilt jutting from a Drujani soldier's ribs.

"Did you put him up to that?" I asked Joscelin, weary and distraught.

He shook his head. "I mentioned it, that's all. My mistake. Phedre, are you sure you're fit to ride?

You're white as a sheet. We can make room in the third wagon." "I'll be fine."

Joscelin raised his eyebrows. "Phedre," he said gently. "I've heard . . . stories."

I looked away. "Yes, well. It doesn't matter. Let me . . . just let me leave as I came. Not..." I watched a pair of Drujani servants bring out a young Hellene woman on a litter, careful not to jostle her. "Not like that. A victim."

"All right, then." He gave a wry smile when I glanced at him, shifting his arm in its sling. "Remember, if you faint and fall off your horse, I'm not going to be able to catch you."

"I won't." The words caught in my throat; I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him smile, except in battle. "I promise. Joscelin ..." I pressed my fingers to my aching temples, willing the too-ready tears to subside. "We'll put Imri in the wagon."

"He won't like it," he warned.

"Probably not," I said. "But it's the best place for him. You must have seen what Jagun did to him in the hall. The welts are still healing."

It was Joscelin's turn to look away. "I hate this," he said quietly. "I cannot tell you how much I hate this."

"I know." Even if there had been time, it was too enormous to discuss, too immediate. It lay between us, incomprehensible. I touched his uninjured hand. "Joscelin. Let's just. . . let's just get out of this alive, first. The rest can wait. If we can do that, the rest can wait."

After a moment, he nodded. "It will have to."

With a couple of hours of light left to us, we took our leave of Daranga.

It was an unwieldy, polyglot caravan of riders and wagons and mules, inching and groaning along, flying the pure-white standard of Ahura Mazda and flanked by four unhappy Magi. Still, we were moving, and the grey walls and pitch-blackened roofs of Daranga palace fell behind us. In the city, people stared open-mouthed, unsure what to make of our company, but leaving us unmolested. No one cringed or fled.

In the open temple, the Sacred Fire burned, and a party of workers cleared rubble, cleaning the square, righting the marble benches. The forges had gone cold. We passed through the city and onto the open road.

Joscelin was right; it hurt to ride. If I had willed myself past the endless nights of torment, my body had not forgotten the abuse it had undergone, the ravages of the Mahrkagir's iron rod. I was sore and raw, and the pressure of the saddle made me bite my lip in an effort not to scream.

I rode anyway.

Mayhap it was a punishment, a means of castigating myself for the pain I had inflicted in this god-cursed quest; I cannot say. It was foolish, I know that much, but it was somewhat I needed to do. I had ridden into Daranga of my own will. I would leave the same way.

And behind me, straddling the saddle with his knees and clinging to my waist with determination, rising with a wince at every bump, rode Imriel. He'd refused the wagon-Joscelin had been right about that, too. I understood it, understood his folly better than my own. He had his mother's pride, and I could not help but love it in him.

How not, when I had loved it in her?

Thus began our long, absurd trek across Drujan, which does not bear telling. Enough to say that we made it, most of us. Betimes we saw soldiers, the wolves of Angra Mainyu, bereft and leaderless. Some of them came to seek the Magi's blessing, penitent. Some saw the white flags and fled. I do not know who ruled in Daranga, unless it be the Magus Arshaka.

Some of the injured died, despite our best efforts. Wounds took septic, or bled internally; one, with a blow to the head, fell asleep and never awakened. We lost seven in all, leaving scarcely fifty survivors from the zenana.

One was the Hellene girl I'd watched carried out, an islander sold at auction, traded to a Skotophagotis for a handful of coin. Ismene, her name was; I knew them all, by then. A sword-stroke had caught her beneath the armpit, and the gash had festered. I stayed with her the night she died, fever raging. Just before dawn, it broke and she grew lucid.

"Lypiphera" she said, seeing me and smiling. "I thought it was you."

"Shh, lie still." I removed the damp cloth, feeling her brow as she sought to rise, finding it cool. "Ismene, why do you call me that? I've heard it before."

"It is a story," she whispered, watching me wring out the cloth. "A story that slaves tell in Hellas.