Even as a rank novice, he had a knack for it. And why not? He was, after all, Melisande's son-and Melisande was a skilled adept, wedding the art with her gift for manipulation and concealment. My lord Delaunay had taught her, too, in exchange for learning how to bend people to his will as living tools.

Now I taught her son, not for the sake of gaining power, but to safeguard his life.

Keeping watch at night, seeing Imriel warded every waking hour, being careful not to eat or drink anything not already tasted by another ... in these ways, we maintained vigilance in Nineveh, and all the while, my skin crawled with fearful anticipation. At the farewell fete, I put as good a face on it as I might, thanking Sinaddan-Shamabarsin for his hospitality and generosity. In truth, he had been a gracious host, and I could not fault his sincerity. Valere L'Envers maintained her bland smile and expressed her deep gratitude for our deeds, for the opportunity to meet such august personages.

I couldn't get out of Nineveh fast enough.

And leave we did, with a vast caravan bound for the west, for a good many women of the zenana would be travelling with us. And our escort. . . Prince Sinaddan had kept his promise. It was nearly the size of a small army. The tents, the supply-train, the wagon-loads of gifts and generous dowries; it needed a small army to transport us.

I didn't like it, not one bit. There were hundreds of unfamiliar faces, and hundreds of ways accidents could happen on the journey. And there was not a single blessed thing I could do about it. I'd asked for this escort myself.

For all that, it was a pleasant journey crossing the flood plains between the Great Rivers. The spring floods had deposited a load of rich alluvial soil on the arid plains, and it was farmland as far as the eye could see, fields of wheat and barley waving in the sun, villages flanked by rows of date palms. The days were warm without being unbearable, and the nights pleasantly cool. If not for my fear of Imriel's assassination, it might have been idyllic.

We had told Amaury Trente, of course, who'd heard us out in silence, his shoulders slumping. I pitied him. Unsubtle or no, Amaury was a good man and a loyal one, and he'd undertaken this mission out of regard for the Queen. Already, it had proved harder and led him further astray than he'd ever dreamed possible. This only made his task more difficult. Still, when I had finished, he sighed, squared his shoulders and went about informing his men, whom he vowed were trustworthy. I prayed he was right.

Between us, we kept a guard on Imriel at all times, unless he rode with Kaneka and the Jebeans, betimes joined by the Chowati. He ate no dish that was not from the common pot, and drank no water not drawn by friendly hands.

All went well until the day we crossed the Euphrate. The floods had subsided, but the river was still swollen to a dangerous torrent. I had not liked the raft-crossing the first time, and I dreaded it no less the second. There were ten passengers on our reed raft-Joscelin, Imriel and I, Kaneka and four others, along with two Akkadian soldiers, who looked no less wet and miserable than the rest, ostensibly placed there for our protection by their captain, Nurad-Sin.

Our unsteady vessel bucked and surged on the raging waters, drawn across by the raft-keepers, chanting and laughing with steady cheer, drawing it hand over hand along one of the massive, water-logged ropes that spanned the river, while a team on the far end hauled on a second rope. Once again, our poor horses had to swim for it, and I feared sorely for there lives. Imriel knelt anxiously at the edge of the raft, watching his Akkadian pony struggle valiantly against the current.

I was watching him. I should have heeded my own teaching, and watched the soldiers.

It happened so suddenly.

At mid-river, the raft was lurching so violently I didn't notice when one of the soldiers rose to his feet, thinking him pitched there by the raft's movement. In a single motion, half-falling, he lurched across the raft, arms extended, pushing Imriel over the edge.

A cry of dismay caught in my throat. Flecked with foam, the roiling brown water swept Imriel downstream into the struggling bodies of our horses, fouled amid their churning legs. With a wan smile, the soldier followed him overboard, letting himself tumble into the raging river. Amid the shouting and panic, one of the raft-keepers somehow lost his grip on the rope, and the force of the river tore it from the others' hands, the raft's surge sending the handlers on the far side staggering and reeling.

What would have happened if Joscelin had not lunged for the rope, catching it in his good right hand, I cannot say. His face was wracked in a grimace of pain, and his arm stretched taut in its socket. I cannot imagine how he held on without being pulled from the raft-but he did. In seconds, the other soldier had grabbed his legs, anchoring him, and the raft-keeper regained the rope with anxious cries. Our craft was stable.

And Imriel had been carried twenty yards, his body now motionless, his head a dark spot on the surging waters.

It may have been hopeless, against that torrent, but he knew how to swim; I knew he did, he'd taught the younger children at the Sanctuary. Why was he not even struggling? I thought of how he'd been tangled amid the horses, their churning hooves, and felt sick at heart. In the raft, Joscelin got unsteadily to his knees, fumbling at the knot on his sling, making ready to go after him.

"Joscelin ..." I whispered.

He looked as sick as I felt. "I have to try."

That was when we heard the splash, and Jebean voices raised in fierce shouts of encouragement.

Kaneka's form cleaved the waters like a dark spear, long arms flashing in steady strokes, her legs kicking strongly, clearing the line of horses. Where the current was with her, she hurtled downstream; where it eddied and surged, she rode it with skill, drawing ever nearer to her objective. "Pull," I said to the raft-handlers. "Pull!"

They did, at a frantic pace, no longer laughing. I daresay we crossed the Euphrate at record speed. By the time we reached the far shore, Kaneka and Imriel were out of sight. I stumbled onto dry land, ignoring my sodden skirts, and grabbed the reins of the nearest horse, snatching them from the hands of a startled Akkadian soldier.

"Watch him," I said to Joscelin, pointing to the second soldier on our raft. "And get Amaury."

Without waiting for his acknowledgment, I flung myself on the horse's back and wheeled, heading downstream. It was soaked and skittish and unsaddled, but if nothing else, I have become a passing fair rider in my travels, and I clung to its slick hide and urged it onward.

Around the second bend, I came upon Kaneka hauling Imriel out of the shallows.

Water ran off her dark skin in rivulets and she was panting like a distance-runner, her arms trembling with the effort. Imriel was dead weight, hanging limp in her grasp. I drew up the horse so sharply its forehooves sprayed dirt and dismounted at a run.

Together we got him ashore.

"Turn ... on ... belly," Kaneka gasped in Jeb'ez, dropping in exhaustion. "Get. . . out. . . water."

Imriel wasn't breathing. Following her instruction, I turned him onto his stomach, pressing rhythmically between his shoulders. A trickle of water emerged from his slack mouth, dribbling onto the soil. I kept pressing. Then, all at once, he drew in a choked breath, coughed, and spewed out half the Euphrate.

I sat back on my heels and breathed a prayer of thanks.

By the time Lord Amaury and the others arrived, Imriel's wracking coughing and spitting had subsided and he was alert, albeit dazed. Beneath the inky tendrils of hair plastered to his brow was a crescent-shaped bruise where a horse's hoof had caught his temple, a deep blue against his bloodless pallor.

"He's all right?" Amaury asked, dismounting and offering his cloak to Kaneka, who'd stripped off her garment before diving.

"I think so." I smoothed the damp hair back from Imriel's brow, shading his eyes to see if his pupils contracted, knowing somewhat of what a blow to the head could do. Elua be praised, they did. "Are you all right, Imri?"

Sodden and shivering, as much with shock as the chill, he nodded. "Kaneka?"

"Here, little one." She answered him herself in zenyan, wrapping herself in Amaury's cloak and laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You gave me a fine chase."

"Elua!" Amaury said fervidly, eyeing her. "She swims like a fish. Phedre, will you convey my thanks and compliments?"

I did, translating them into Jeb'ez. Kaneka laughed, water sparkling like diamonds in her woolly hair.

"They call this a Great River?" she said contemptuously. "Let them try the Nahar in flood season, where itpasses the cataracts and the crocodiles wait. Now that is a river!"

Someone caught the horse I'd borrowed, which had wandered some distance away, and Imriel was bundled in another cloak. By the time we returned to our party, Imriel had stopped shivering and grown excited by the adventure, displaying the bruise on his temple to Joscelin with a boy's pride.

"Very nice," Joscelin said to him, raising his brows. "Phedre, may we speak?"

The drowned body of the guilty soldier had washed ashore on the far side. Captain Nurad-Sin made profound apologies, swearing up and down that the man was a new conscript, and he'd had no knowledge of his actions, any more than his innocent comrade had had. I heard him out, gauging his words sincere. In the end, I had no choice but to accept them. We were too far outnumbered to do anything else.

"Thank you for your concern, my lord Captain," I said politely. "Her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel is eagerly awaiting the return of her young kinsman, Prince Imriel. She would be most wroth if ill befell him now, after such trials, and I daresay his highness the Lugal would be displeased as well. I pray you ensure your men know this."

He gave a grim nod. "You may be sure of it, my lady."

Mayhap he did, for the next leg of our journey passed without event. I spent the time scavenging paper and ink as unobtrusively as I might, working on various missives by the light of our campfires at night, and during the day, riding among the women of the zenana and conversing with the Ephesians.

They were the first to leave our company, departing with an honor guard of Akkadians and a wagon-load of royal gifts to make their way over land to Ephesium. We made our farewells, and I watched them go, filled with a dour satisfaction.

"Do you care to tell me what that expression betokens?" Joscelin asked.

"Wait till we've crossed the Yehordan," I said.

Once we had, I told him. Joscelin laughed aloud, and went to fetch Nurad-Sin himself. Veiled and proper, seated within my tent while he stood outside it, I addressed the Akkadian captain again.

"My lord Captain," I said to him. "You are aware I have . . . concerns . . . for Prince Imriel's safety."

Nurad-Sin bowed. "My lady, I am. Before Shamash, I pledge you, I have taken every precaution to ensure that no further incidents occur."

"So," I said, "have I. Each of the Ephesian women with whom we parted company a few days past bears with her a missive, addressed in my name to her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange. These I have instructed to be given to the D'Angeline ambassador in Ephesium city, and thanks to the Lugal's generosity, the women of the zenana shall have the means to accomplish this. In these letters, I have chronicled such events as have befallen us thus far, and laid forth my suspicions as to their cause."

The Akkadian captain went pale. "My lady, the Lugal esteems you above gold. Surely you do not suspect. . . ?" "No." I said it with a blandness that would have done Valere L'Envers credit. "Not in the least. While Prince Imriel lives, my suspicions will go unspoken. Should any accident befall him..." I shrugged. "It is my instruction that the letters be sent. Mayhap, my lord Captain, you might see to it that every man among you-every conscript, every veteran, every hostler and cook and water-porter, for I do not expect you to vouch for every one-is aware of this."

He gave a deep bow. "My lady, it shall be done."

"Well," said Joscelin when he had gone. "You've done what you could."

It didn't feel like enough.

SIXTY-THREE.

"WHY CAN'T you come home with me?"

It was inevitable, I suppose; the only wonder was that Imriel had waited until we were a day's ride from Tyre to broach the subject. I sighed, trying to find the words.

"Imri ... I made a promise, a long time ago. It's not one I can break."

He lifted guileless blue eyes to mine. "If he loves you, wouldn't he understand?"

"He might," I said, thinking of Hyacinthe, who had never dreamed that the dark road I would travel would prove so very dark indeed, with so many branching forks. "It doesn't matter. That's not the point."

Imriel rode for a while in silence, then, "Do you love him more than Joscelin?"

"No. Imriel, listen. If someone had taken your place in Daranga, if. . . if Beryl had gone in your stead,"

I said, recalling the name of the eldest girl in the Sanctuary of Elua, the one who had recited the verses about Kushiel's Dart. "If Beryl had taken your place, and you had the chance to free her, could you go home instead?"

His black brows, straighter than his mother's, knit in thought. "No," he said finally, reluctant. "But..."

"But what?"

"Why do you have to love him so much?"

I smiled. "Why? I don't know. I've known him since I was, oh, younger than you. Whenever I was upset, or scared, or angry... it was always to Hyacinthe that I ran. There was a time, Imri, when he was my only true friend; a long time."

"Was he like me?" he asked. "When he was a boy?"

I considered him. "No. Not much."

"I want to go with you." The words were so soft I could scarce hear them. "With you and Joscelin, to Jebe-Barkal." "You can't," I said. "Imri, we've talked about this. You've a life awaiting you in Terre d'Ange, and the Queen herself anxious to meet you, to make you a member of her family; of House Courcel, into which you were born."

"And people who want me dead." His mouth was set in a hard, unchildish line.

"Yes," I said. "And that. But Lord Amaury won't let that happen, and neither will Queen Ysandre. And when it comes to it, they're a great deal more qualified for the job than I."

Imriel gave me a look that went clear to the bone. "But you are the only one who is my friend, my true friend."

We made camp that night a few miles outside Tyre, and it was Joscelin who broached the subject while Imriel slept, sitting cross-legged on his blankets before the opening of our tent and massaging his arm with the Eisandine chirurgeon's balm. The bindings and splint had at last come off, and despite his best efforts squeezing rocks and the like, his left arm was pallid and puny, his grip on his dagger feeble at best.

"It's a long way," he said quietly. "And we've been a long time from home. Phedre . . . I'm not saying we shouldn't go, eventually. But. . . look at me. I'll not be much use, if there's trouble. And you . . . Elua, love! If ever there was a time you needed to heal, it's now."

"I'm fine," I said.

Joscelin merely looked at me.

"All right," I said. "I'm not fine. But I'm well enough to travel, and so are you. Joscelin . . . there's a part of me, a big part, that would like nothing better than to see Imriel restored safely, to deliver a warning in person to Ysandre, to go home. But if we do?" I shuddered. "I'm not sure I can face leaving it again. And I can't live knowing that there's somewhat I might do to win Hyacinthe's freedom. Mayhap ..." I swallowed. "Mayhap it would be best if you went with Imriel."

He flinched. "You don't mean it."

"I don't know." I put my head in my hands. "It's-it's like you said, it's what you trained all your life to do. Not trail around after luckless whores on half-mad quests."

"Phedre." There was a sound in his voice almost like laughter, although with no levity in it. "If you can't go home while Hyacinthe remains cursed, how can you possibly imagine I could endure letting you go to Jebe-Barkal alone?"

"So you'll go?"

"I swore it to damnation and beyond." He flexed his left hand, testing the muscles. "This would be the beyond."

Our arrival in Tyre was auspicious. The skies were a bright, hard blue above and a good steady wind blew southwesterly. The Lugal's couriers had been there ahead of us, arranging for our varied transports.

'Twas no difficulty for those of us bound for Menekhet, as trade ships travelled regularly, but the longer journeys-Hellas, Illyria, Caerdicca Unitas, Carthage, Aragonia, Terre d'Ange-required special commissions. His highness Sinaddan-Shamabarsin had been the soul of generosity. The ships were ready and waiting, the finest money could buy, captains and crew hailing the women of the Mahrkagir's zenana as noble-born passengers.

It was a considerable shock, albeit a pleasant one, to some, especially those who had been slave-born.

By some means they did not fully comprehend, the horrible dross of their lives, the degradations of Dar-?anga, had been converted to status. I was glad, for they deserved it. I hoped it would enable some of them to find happiness, or at least contentment. There are many things wealth cannot buy, and most of those are enumerated by philosophers who have never woken wondering if this day would be their last. It pleased me to know that the survivors of Daranga would, at the least, not have to worry about buying bread.

For the rest, it was up to them. The living must carry on for the dead.

Rushad . . . Drucilla . . . Erich. There was no ship bound for Skaldia. I never even learned his story, never knew how he came to be a Drujani captive. All I had done was hold his hand, and sing him songs as he died. I hoped he'd gotten his answers from All-Father Odhinn.

It was no longer in my heart to hate or fear the Skaldi.

There were tears aplenty upon parting, and if I dared now leave no written trail, I left a good many instructions, whispered in the ears of a dozen women-safeguards, hedged bets, messages for a half-dozen D'Angeline ambassadors. It was the last great conspiracy of the zenana of Daranga, and every one of them undertook it willingly.

Our ship, set to leave at midday on the morrow, would be the last to leave; the D'Angeline ship would sail at dawn. We passed one last night together in a fine Tyrean inn, which the Lugal had reserved for our pleasure, even ensuring that there would be no fuss about men and women dining in common. The festivities went long into the night, and I daresay I filled Amaury Trente's ear with more advice than he needed.

At the end of the evening, I bid farewell to Imriel, who would bunk with Lord Amaury's men. "Be well,"

I whispered, holding him close. "Be safe. Remember what I taught you."

"I will." His voice was muffled, lost in my hair; his arms wound hard about my neck. He let me go, sniffling and blinking at Joscelin, one hand on the prized Akkadian dagger that was thrust through his belt.