He gritted his teeth and adjusted, pulling ever harder. The improvised bandages around his hands darkened with blood. I thought about Kapporeth and wondered if we would reach it in time, and what would happen if we did. Who was I to seek the Name of God? Make of the self a vessel where there is no self, Eleazar had said, in perfect love. Love, I had known; but what is perfection? My lord Delaunay I had loved with a grateful heart, and Hyacinthe with youthful joy and adult sorrow. I had loved Joscelin and loved him still, with a depth and passion that words could not compass. Elua help me, I had loved Melisande Shahrizai, and there was a part of me which ever would.

And in all of these, there was myself, bound inextricably into the coils of love-by gratitude, by friendship, by guilt, by passion, by the fatal flaw of Kushiel's Dart. How could one put such a thing as the self aside? I knew only one path, the path I had found in the darkest hours in Daranga. I did not think it led to the Name of God, and in my heart, I was afraid.

"Phedre," Imriel called from the prow, pointing. "Dawn is coming."

So it was, the western horizon turning a leaden grey, the spokes of the Wheel paling against it. And in the rising light, I saw a hummock of land to the north of us.

"Look," I murmured. "Do you think?"

Joscelin rested the oars and stared. "Kapporeth?" he said dully. "It could be. It means we're off course.

But with my arm . . ."

"It could be." I shuddered. "I don't know. I don't know! Morit was guessing, at best. Let's make for it."

We did, Joscelin rowing with grim determination, the small isle emerging lush and green with the rising sun, exuberant with birdlife; fish eagles and kites and horn-billed ibis. The shores were thick with waving ferns, tall fronds untrodden by human foot. Our skiff edged along them, Imriel standing balanced in the prow, looking for signs of inhabitation.

"Nothing," he reported, gazing inland. "No path, no landing sign . . ." He looked back at me and turned pale. "Name of Elua!"

I turned to look.

It was a ship, of course; what else would it be? Looming in the distance, becoming visible in the dawn. I could barely make out twin banks of oars, four sets rising and falling. Someone had betrayed us, someone's faith had faltered, Hanoch ben Hadad's suspicions had been upheld . . . who knew? It didn't matter. It only mattered that they were coming for us.

"We can hide!" Imriel said, wild-eyed. "Go ashore, and hide! It's all overgrown, they won't find us!"

"No," I muttered. "It's not Kapporeth." Joscelin put up the oars with his bloodstained hands and watched me quietly, waiting. "Elua!" I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, thinking and praying. "It's not Kapporeth," I repeated, dropping my hands. "I was wrong, I shouldn't have doubted.We were on course, only slow. Joscelin, can you row?"

"Yes." The red stains spread on his bandages as he regarded me. "Phedre, the stars have faded."

I stared at the brightening sky. It was true; the stars we had followed all night were paling, lost in the light of the rising sun. The Wheel was fading, its spokes already lost; Moishe's Rod grew invisible. I closed my eyes again, feeling for the direction we had faced. My near-brother Alcuin had been good with maps. I never had, not like him. But Anafel Delaunay had trained both our memories.

Mine would have to do.

"That way," I said, pointing, not daring to open my eyes.

Swish, dip, pull.

We had to round the nameless island. I felt our course shifting, the skiff moving, and adjusted my arm accordingly. I dared not look, dared not lose the lodestone of my memory; not until I felt the open breezes blow, and our course align with my pointing arm. Then, I opened my eyes.

We were in open water and the skiff leapt forward with each pull of Joscelin's arms, drawing toward an unseen destination, a blur on the horizon. Swish, dip, pull. The rags tied round his hands were crimson with blood, blood smeared on the oar-handles.

It was a blur on the horizon. It was land.

"Go!" I shouted. "Go, go, go!"

Joscelin's face was blind and unseeing with concentration, his arms moving with relentless precision. I saw the muscles in his shoulders surge, his legs bracing and flexing. The skiff flew over the waters like a swallow on the wing. In the prow, Imriel knelt and looked backward, past Joscelin, past me, charting the progress of our pursuers. I saw the alarm reflected in his face. I did not turn to see why.

Ahead of us, the blur resolved into land; an island, small and unprepossessing, easily missed in the vast Lake of Tears. And it too was green and verdant, but it was marked, stamped by the footprint of mankind. I saw the shallow beach where the underbrush had been cleared, with a fishing boat on the shore and the structure on the hill above it; round, like the temple in Tisaar. I saw the path that cut like a blaze through the green, and evidence of a garden, a sown field, shapes too regular for nature.

"Kapporeth," I whispered. "We have found it."

SEVENTY-SIX.

WE SCARCELY beat our pursuers ashore.

Imriel leapt out of the skiff the instant our prow touched land, hauling on it. I scrambled to grab Joscelin's weapons, ignoring the rocking of the vessel as he disembarked. By the time I followed, tossing him the oilskin bundle, the Sabaean craft had landed.

It was a footrace, after that. I caught a glimpse, as we raced for the path, of the soldiers who emerged from the Sabaean craft. To be sure, their armor and their weapons were ancient, of bronze and not steel, but the edges were no less keen for it, and there were at least twenty of them.

We had steel, yes. We had Joscelin.

He shoved his daggers into the empty sheathes on his belt as he ran, disentangling his baldric and slinging it over his shoulders, his sword jouncing in its scabbard. The oilskin cloth fell by the wayside as he tucked one vambrace under his arm, struggling to force his bleeding left hand into the mesh gauntlet of the other. Leather straps flopped with every stride, impossible to buckle on the run.

And then we were there, in the clearing atop the hill, with the round temple shut tight and slumberous in the early morning light, while twenty Sabaean soldiers fanned out to surround us, their bronze blades drawn and gleaming in the sun.

"I knew it," said Hanoch ben Hadad, jutting his black beard. "I knew it! There were too many women paying visits to my sister. I told the Sanhedrin as much."

"How is it, my lord captain?" I asked him softly, watching Joscelin fasten his vambraces out of the corner of my eye. "Is your sister not worthy of company? I found her a gracious hostess."

"Woman's folly," Hanoch said in a hard voice. "Prey to a gentle manner and a sad tale. She is aging, and lonely. It is fortunate for you my niece Ardath thought better of her folly and made confession to her husband Japhet in time for us to pursue. It would go worse if you had succeeded in profaning the temple."

Ardath. Yevuneh's daughter, with the nursing babe in her arms. I felt sick at it, the blood beating hard in my ears. To have come this far! "Ardath knows not what she does," I said, my voice sounding distant and strange. "It is fear that speaks."

"Fear, aye." He nodded. "She fears for her children's future, do we risk Adonai's wrath. Such is wisdom, the truth of women's wisdom; a mother's fear. A pity you did not think to do the same. Your son will suffer for your folly. Give thanks to Adonai that we have halted you in time. If the Sanhedrin is merciful, it may be that you will not be put to death, but only enslaved."

"And how shall you be rewarded, Hanoch ben Hadad, for finding Kapporeth, where Nemuel's shame is hidden?" I asked him, anger flaring. "I tell you this, it is Blessed Elua's will that has led us here, over deserts and mountains and rivers, through dangers that would render you faint to hear told! It is no matter for you to decide, no, nor the Sanhedrin of Elders. It is for Adonai Himself, and it is the wisdom of the women of Tisaar to know it, and hide no longer from the Will of God, who has forgotten you these long centuries!"

It gave Hanoch pause. His dark eyelids flickered, and his men glanced uneasily at one another.

"Nonetheless," he said, then, resolve firming. He pointed with the tip of his sword toward the closed door of the temple at our backs. "Therein lies the Holiest of Holies, and the way is barred to you. I am content.

Adonai's silence speaks. You will return with us to Tisaar, and face judgement."

Joscelin crossed his forearms and bowed, steel flashing in the rising sun. His daggers rode at his hips, his sword-hilt over his shoulder. Cassiline discipline held immaculate. No one watching would guess the ragged state of his hands, his bone-deep exhaustion. "My lord captain," he said in Habiru. "Do not do thisthing. I am loathe to shed blood in this place. Let my lady Phedre at least seek audience with the priest of Aaron's line."

Hanoch ben Hadad hesitated again, then shook his head. "No," he said, gesturing with his sword, and the line of Sabaean soldiery advanced a step, raising hide shields studded with ancient bronze. "I am sorry, D'Angeline. You are a valiant warrior, if your battle with the Shamsun tells any tale. But the way is barred to you. Adonai's will is clear."

I stole a glance over my shoulder. The temple doors remained adamantly closed.

"As you say," Joscelin said gently, and his daggers sang free of their sheathes, crossed before him and shining like a star, blood trickling down the insides of his wrists. "Nonetheless. I have sworn a vow."

"Not to Adonai," replied the Sabaean captain. "Not to the Lord of Hosts, my friend."

"No." Joscelin smiled, and in the rising light of dawn, his eyes were the blue of summer skies over the fields of Terre d'Ange. "To his once-faithful servant Cassiel, whose memory is more true than God's. And I ... I protect and serve."

Hanoch ben Hadad shook his bronze-helmed head. "It will be your death, D'Angeline."

"So be it." At the sealed mouth of the temple, birds sang, the sun-warmed foliage released its green scent, and Joscelin Verreuil settled into a defensive stance, sounding almost careless. "It is the death I have spent a lifetime earning."

Something like regret crossed Hanoch ben Hadad's face before he raised his shield and set his sword, its worn bronze honed to a killing edge. "Take them!"

Spreading their line to flank Joscelin, the Sabaeans advanced at his command.

So close; so close! I felt the presence of a great mystery hovering near, almost within the grasp of my reaching fingers. Almost. I turned, flinging myself recklessly against the temple door, pounding with my blistered hands to no avail. "Please," I begged; in Habiru, in D'Angeline, in what tongue I could not say.

"Name of mercy, let me but ask!" But the door remained closed and locked, and no answer was forthcoming. In the background, I heard the terrible clash of battle as Joscelin engaged ben Hadad's men.

I had no more gambits to play. It hurt, to come so near and fail. Elua, but it hurt! I sank to my knees, disbelieving my own failure.

"Lady." A hand closed on my shoulder and a Sabaean soldier showed me the sword held loose in his grip. "This is sacred ground and no place for violence. It is over. You will come with us."

"No," I whispered. "Please, no."

And Imriel de la Courcel screamed.

It was the sound that had rent the night in the zenana, in the plains of Drujan, in Yevuneh's house; the sound of terror, pure and unadulterated, shrill and piercing and unbearable to the ear, bone-chilling and awful. His face was white as bleached linen, his pupils black and dilated. Moving with unexpected speed, he put himself between us, wrenched the sword from the startled soldier's grasp and slashed fiercely at him with a two-handed grip. "Leave her alone!" "Adonai!" The soldier took a step back, clutching his thigh where the tip of Imriel's blade had grazed it.

Others paused and stared, exchanging glances. Joscelin stood motionless, frozen in the ring of space his sword had cleared, his face a study in horror.

Hanoch ben Hadad grimaced. "Hold him at bay," he ordered the men surrounding Joscelin. He strode toward us, sunlight glinting off the worn, deadly edge of his bronze sword, and anger was like a storm on his face. "Boy," he said grimly, pointing his blade at a defiant Imriel, "the price for the blood you have spilled on the temple's doorstep is death."

It was like a dream, a terrible dream.

As in a dream, I felt here and not here, myself and not myself. Unthinking, I rose from my knees and pushed Imriel behind me, gazing up at the Sabaean captain. "I brought him here," I said, and it sounded to my ears as if a stranger had spoken. "I am responsible." I could hear the din of Joscelin's renewed efforts to break free of the soldiers who surrounded him. It seemed very far away. In all my musings on love, there was one I had not numbered. I had not reckoned on Imriel. There was no god's prompting here; only love, simple and unadorned. I understood, too late, what it meant to put the self aside. Still, there was one way left, and it was a way that ever stands open. It would not gain me the Name of God, but it would gain Imriel's life. "If the price is death, I will pay it."

For a moment, he bowed his head, then straightened and raised his sword. "You are the author of this blasphemy, and it is a dire transgression you have committed here. Better you should die and be shriven of it. I will accept the bargain."

I watched sunlight glint along the blade. "And you will spare the boy?"

Hanoch ben Hadad paused, then nodded. "In Adonai's mercy, I will."

So, I thought, this is how it ends. Hyacinthe, forgive me. I tried my best.

"Phedre, no!"

"Phedre!"

The first shout was Joscelin's, raw with anguish, searing my heart.

Almost, almost it was enough to sway me from my purpose. It was the second call that did it, Imriel's voice; not terrified, but taut and urgent. Behind me, I heard the clatter of a sword dropping as he grabbed my elbow with one hand, fingers digging into my flesh as he pointed past me at the temple door.

It was open.

The priest of Aaron's line stood in the doorway, silent and watching, with bare feet and a white linen robe trimmed in blue and scarlet and purple, shimmering with gold thread. Hanoch ben Hadad put up his sword, taking two uncertain steps backward, his face blank with confusion. In the silence that followed, all fighting ceased. A few yards away, Joscelin abandoned the scene of battle, walking past the stunned soldiers to join us. We looked at one another, he and I.

"All right, then," he said simply. "Go ask him, Phedre."

I let out a shuddering breath. "I will." No one else moved as I approached the priest. He was neither young nor old, but somewhere in between, his closed mouth smiling amid an unruly black beard. A mortal man, no more and no less, a frail vessel to ward such unearthly power and bear the unbroken lineage of the One God's anger. His eyes were dark, like all Sabaeans, and the early heat brought a faint sheen of perspiration to his mahogany skin.

"I am Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve of Terre d'Ange," I said to him in Habiru, "and I seek to know the Name of God."

The priest smiled a little more and mouthed a word. There, he mouthed, pointing into the shadowy interior of the temple. In the cavity of his mouth I saw the truth of Sabaean legend, the stump of a tongue withered like a drought-stricken root. My skin prickled with nerves, and something else. I turned to face Hanoch ben Hadad.

"My lord captain," I said. "Will you gainsay my passage?"

He had fallen to his knees; all the Sabaeans had, arms discarded, bowing and rocking with murmured prayers. Only Joscelin and Imriel remained standing, watching me. Joscelin's daggers were sheathed and he held Imri close to him with one arm.

"Well," I said to them in D'Angeline, conscious of my own tongue and how it worked in tandem with my lips, shaping words, giving voice to my utterance. If these were to be my last words, I wished they were less banal. "I had better go, then."

Joscelin cleared his throat. "I suppose ... I suppose you'd better."

"Yes." I nodded like an idiot. "In case I can't tell you afterward . . . well. I love you."

"I know," he said. "I love you."

"And you," I said to Imriel. "And you."

He gave a rough nod, not trusting his voice.

"Well, then," I addressed the priest. "Let us go."

And the priest of Aaron's line smiled and bowed low, indicating the way. I stepped across the threshold of the temple into the dark interior. I heard the door close behind us, blotting out the morning sun. I stood in darkness as he took up a single lamp, kindling a taper and lighting other lamps. My eyes adjusted slowly to the lack of sunlight.

It was a temple, no different in structure from the one in the city, save humbler, wrought of mud-brick.

Only the adornments were splendid; fretted lamps, gilded sconces, shedding a rich golden glow throughout the simple interior. The priest pointed at my feet and I stooped to remove my shoes. The floor of the temple was hard-packed earth, dry and crumbling in patches.

"Is it well?" I asked him. "I have brought ... I have brought no offering, my lord priest."

You, he mouthed, pointing at me, and the shriveled root of his tongue moved within the cavern of his mouth. You. And then he pointed at himself, touching his own breast. Me. "Yes," I said softly. "There is that."

And I followed him, then, into the second circle of the temple of Kapporeth, understanding that he was like me; mortal, and marked all unwitting by the touch of a god. Kushiel, Adonai; does it matter, in the end? We pay for sins we do not remember, and seek to do a will we can scarce fathom. That is what it is, to be a god's chosen.

In the second circle there were treasures, more treasures, heaped upon the earthen floor; vessels of gold and silver, tribute dating back to Shalomon's day. And beyond . . . Elua! The Holiest of Holies, Han-och ben Hadad had called it. I stared at the opening of the inner sanctum, veiled with curtains of scarlet and purple and blue, and shivered.

It was there, I thought. The Ark of Broken Tablets.

The Name of God.

Preserved in silence these long years, a millennium and more, shrouded by a goddess' grief. Who was I to breach it?

Hyacinthe.

Repressing my fear, I followed the priest as he circumnavigated the inner sanctum and approached the altar in its alcove. The altar was of solid gold, and a lamp burned upon it; the Ur Tamid, the light that is never extinguished. Even so is it in Yeshuite temples to this day. A large incensor sat upon the altar, gold on gold, the inner bowl darkened with years of offerings. Mouthing a noiseless prayer, the priest offered a generous handful, lighting the fragrant lumps of resin with a taper. Sweet, pungent smoke rose and hovered against the ceiling in a bluish cloud.