He turned then, and pointed to the sanctum, raising his brows in inquiry.

"What will happen, my lord priest?" I asked him, shivering despite the morning's warmth, the lamp-lit closeted darkness of the temple. "What will happen, if I do?"

He shook his head, his mouth closed on the mysteries of Adonai's wrath.

Hyacinthe.

"Let it be done," I said.

The priest of Aaron's line parted the curtains of the Holiest of Holies.

SEVENTY-SEVEN.

WITHIN THE dim chamber, the Ark of Broken Tablets gleamed like a subtle sun.

The priest moved soundlessly on bare feet, lighting the lampstands about it until the flames were reflected in the gold, sending shifting patterns about the mud-brick walls. I held very still and gazed at it.

It was made of acacia wood, so the Tanakh claimed, overlaid with gold, and so I beheld it, still resting onthe gilded poles once used to carry it; a mighty chest, that would take four strong men to bear it.

And it was sealed with a lid of gold, that is called Kapporeth, the mercy seat after which the island was named, upon which were two cherubim facing one another-strange creatures, with the hindquarters of a bull, the forequarters of a lion and wings like the eagle, and faces ... ah, Elua! Faces such as I had seen in the temples of Terre d'Ange, human, and more; stern and serene. There was Kushiel's justice, Naamah's passion, Azza's pride, Shemhazai's intelligence, Camael's ferocity, Eisheth's healing, Anael's bounty, Cassiel's loyalty.

'Twas all encompassed in their carven faces.

The priest bowed low before the Ark, and took from a waiting stand a breastplate of hammered gold, held together before and aft by twisted links of chain. This he donned over his robes, and on his breast winked four lines of gems, three across; sardius, topaz and garnet, emerald, sapphire and diamond; jacinthe, agate and amethyst; beryl, onyx and jasper, each gem inscribed with a name-one each for the Twelve Tribes of the Children of Yisra-el.

And I, Elua's child, watched and trembled.

He took then in his hands a crown, engraved with the words, "Holy to Adonai." And this he placed against his brow, binding it with ties of blue-dyed silk. So had Nemuel done, I thought, on the plains of JebeBarkal. The priest stood waiting, sterner and taller in his regalia. I felt small, and tired. My muscles ached from the ordeal of rowing, and my hands were blistered and sore. There was no voice speaking between the cherubim, no presence of Elua; not even Kushiel to mark the way with his crimson haze.

"I don't know what to do, my lord," I said humbly. "I am only a supplicant here. All I want is to free my friend."

The priest laid his hands on two corners of the massive lid and looked fixedly at me, nodding at the opposite side of the Ark. The silent cherubim gazed at one another.

"The Name of God," I whispered. If it existed, it lay within the Ark. I reached out with trembling hands, curling my fingers beneath the corners opposite the priest. This was the transgression that had blasted Nemuel, and all his descendants. "I am scared, my lord priest."

He made me no answer, watching and waiting, not unkindly. The gems on his breastplate winked, naming the Twelve Tribes, silent prayers and reminders to an unresponsive god. If it was a transgression, this act, it was one for which the priest had already born a lifetime of punishment. Had he tried it already?

I could not know. My mouth was dry. Did I transgress here? If Adonai was merciful, I would only suffer the same. I licked my parched lips, thinking of the tongues I had mastered in my day. D'Angeline, Caerdicci, Hellene, Skaldic, Cruithne, all under Delaunay's guidance; Habiru, Illyrian, Akkadian, Persian, Jeb'ez; even zenyan. The argot of Tsingani, the dialect of the Dalriada.

All of this, I stood to lose.

And Naamah's arts, the arts of love. I remembered how Joscelin had kissed me in the bathing-pool.

That, I could not even bear to think of losing.

Oh, Hyacinthe, I thought. It is little, so little , compared to what you sacrificed. Forgive me my fear, that so ill becomes me. But I cannot help it, for it is so much of what I am, of what I have made myself. And I do not know what will become of us if I fail. With a silent prayer for forgiveness, I set myself and grittedmy teeth, lifting with all my might. Terrified of succeeding, terrified of failing, I sought to raise the massive lid, my fingernails digging, bending beneath the weight of it. And on the opposite side, the priest of Aaron's line bowed his head and lifted too, sinews standing out on his forearms, "Holy to Adonai"

engraved glimmering on his sweat-beaded brow.

We lifted together, and the lid rose. Inch by strenuous inch, it rose. My arms trembled. It rose. The space between the cherubim lay silent.

The heavy golden lid, the mercy seat, was raised into the darkling air.

Awkward and strained, I dared a glance inside the Ark.

And there I saw the Luvakh Shabab, the Broken Tablets; fragments, grey shards of stone battered to gravel, not even a single word of text remaining intact. These were the Tablets inscribed by Adonai's own hand? I would have wept, had I strength to spare. An empty chest with a heap of rubble at the bottom-such was the end of my quest. Such was the mystery Isis' grief had guarded. Such was the secret the Sabaeans had hidden from the Eye of God for more than a thousand years.

The rubble stirred of its own accord.

I caught my breath and held it.

My arms and back and shoulders ached with the strain of holding the lid aloft. Would that Joscelin were here! Truly, I had failed to reckon the cost of his labors. Two-thousand-year-old dust swirled in the gilded depths. The ancient rubble stirred, fragments of stone aligning, letters emerging; the Habiru alphabet, forming before my eyes to spell out the Name . . . Yod, Alef, Quf, Lamed . . . Nun? And, ah, Elua others among them I did not recognize! Kaf, Alef, more-too much, too fast, not even my Delaunay-trained memory could hold it, my facile tongue shaping the letters in vain, too slow, muscles trembling with the strain. Oh, unfair. A lost alphabet, letters I did not know, never etched by mortal hands. Twelve years' of study, gone to no avail. How could I utter a sound I had never heard? I sought to remember their shape, but they were gone, fleeting, before I could capture them. The emergent letters in the golden shadow of the lid spelling out an unpronounceable Name, half-glimpsed. Tears of despair stung my eyes, and I blinked in a futile effort to see.

Dust and rubble spoke; dust and rubble fell silent, returning to its component parts. My fingertips slipped on the corners of the lid, causing the priest's grip to falter. The lid fell with a lurching crash, solid gold. So what? Gold would not free Hyacinthe from his isle, and I did not need to be told that I had spent my one and only chance. I bowed my head and tasted the bitter fruit of failure. The voice between the cherubim had remained silent, but the Luvakh Shabab had spoken. Adonai had answered. He would not speak twice. Knowledge had failed me, and it was bitter, bitter indeed.

I should be glad, I thought, that I had tongue left to taste defeat.

I took a deep breath and raised my head to confront my failure.

On the far side of the Ark, his face framed betwixt the silent cherubim, the priest of Aaron's line was smiling. Neither young nor old, he was smiling; smiling, he who had aided me in raising the Kapporeth to no avail. I stared dumbly at him, uncomprehending. A man, a mortal man, with an unruly beard and kind eyes, radiant with joy. Why? His smiling teeth were strong and white, framing the cavern of his shriveled tongue. Such compassion, in his dark gaze; and such joy, such unbearable joy. I wanted to ask why, but fear stopped my mouth. It hurt too much to hope, now. Silence filled the Holiest of Holies. No stir, no echo, no whisper of sound.

Even the flames stood silent and motionless in the golden lamp-stands.

And in the deafening silence . . .

Tongueless and unvoiced, the priest spoke the unpronounceable Name of God.

"________________!".

How does one endure a sound not meant for mortal ears to bear? It burst within the confines of my skull like thunder over the mountains, rolling and brazen, setting off clamorous echoes. A word, one word, seared upon my memory. It burned in me like strong wine, like the first taste of joie I had known as a child, like Melisande's touch. I knew it all, then, saw my course mapped, from the moment I had glimpsed Anafiel Delaunay, all down the winding path that had led me here- here, to a humble temple on a hidden isle, surrounded by a goddess' grief. Who could have charted this course? The myriad branchings of my fate were foreordained and unknowable. Along dark paths, they had led me here.

Here. I understood it all, and grasped at last the whole of the pattern. I gasped for air, feeling my chest like to crack open, streaming flames. The Sacred Name! I was too small to contain it. My knees gave way beneath me and I sank to the earthen floor, curling my body around the space it hollowed within me.

The Name of God.

The Name of God.

Oh, Hyacinthe!

How long I laid upon the floor, I cannot say. I would have laid there forever, I think, if the priest had not roused me. His hands were gentle, insistent, shaking my shoulders. His eyes were kind. I could smell the dusty soil of the temple floor, and the pall of incense. I could smell the peppers he'd had for dinner. I was alive, gravid with the Sacred Name. My body felt strange to me as the priest helped me to my feet. All the space in my mind was taken up by the Name. It swelled the cords of my throat, and I had to clench my teeth to keep from speaking it.

It would have destroyed me had I not found a place within myself where naught but love abided, simple and unencumbered. Only then had the priest, in his wisdom, opened the door. I marveled at the symmetry of the pattern. If I had not brought Imri out of the darkness of Daranga, this brightness would never have come to pass. Truly, love was a wondrous force, now that I perceived the complexities of its workings.

Everything in the temple seemed distinct, objects standing out bright against the darkness. I had trouble gauging distances. I touched a lamp-stand, marveling at the smoothness of gold. Freed from stasis, the flame in its bowl danced like a little animal, flickering saffron. I put my fingers close to it, feeling its warmth burn. I would have touched it too, if the priest had not put his hand on my wrist, drawing me away and shaking his head gently. He pointed toward the distant door in inquiry. Was I ready to leave?

I nodded my head, not daring to speak. The Name was insistent on my tongue. He led me into the outer circle, and there I sat upon a marble bench to don my shoes. I felt the cool surface of the marble, the tiny veins and flaws. I gazed at my bare feet, slender and white, engrained with dirt from the temple floor. So many delicate bones, articulated joints! All of that, all for the purpose of treading the earth. I put on my shoes with reluctance, and the priest had to help me with the buckles, for I could not cease marveling at their complexity. I gazed wondering at his deft fingers, at the cords of blue silk that secured his head-piece against the coarse black of his tight-curled hair. "Holy to Adonai." Such contrasts of color, of texture!

At the temple door, he paused and took my upturned face in his hands. I closed my eyes as he kissed my brow, knowing it for kinship, for blessing, for forgiveness. This was not my place, and Adonai was not my God. All of this, I knew.

It was a grave trust I had been given.

I prayed I would be worthy of it.

With that, the priest released me and opened the temple door. Sunlight streamed across the threshold, and the Name surged within me at the sight of so much brightness, ringing in my head with clarion tones.

I shut my teeth hard on it and stepped into the dazzling light. The sky, so blue! And the bushes! Never had I seen such green. I could see every leaf, sharp-edged; I could sense their roots, rustling in the dry soil.

And the people; oh, Elua, the people.

Joscelin, wild-eyed, leapt to his feet. All I could do was stare at him, dumbstruck. Every line, every plane of him was writ in an alphabet of flesh and bone, spelling out love. How had I never seen it? And Imriel, at his side-a tangled knot of fear and need, achingly vulnerable. It made my heart ache to look upon him.

"Do you have it?" Joscelin asked, half-dreading my answer. "Did you succeed?"

I nodded, the Name of God lodged in the throat like a stone.

"Can you . . . can you speak?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," I whispered.

In three swift strides, Joscelin reached me and swept me into a crushing embrace, raining kisses on my face. I clung to him, then kissed him hard, to make sure I still could. Fear left him in a shudder when I let him go. I knelt, then, and opened my arms to Imriel. He flung himself in them and caught me about the neck in a choke-hold, burying his face against my neck.

"I was scared, Phedre. I didn't know what would happen."

"Neither did I, Imri," I murmured. "Neither did I."

"What happens now?" It was Joscelin who spoke, and it was the Sabaeans he addressed, a hard edge to his voice. I straightened beside him.

They had put off their helmets and laid their shields aside during the long wait-and it must have beenlong, for the sun, I perceived, was nigh overhead. Hanoch ben Hadad looked at me with a mix of awe and disbelief.

"You have beheld the Sacred Name?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"How do we know this is so?"

I had no answer. I merely gazed at him, while the Name of God echoed like thunder in my thoughts, welling up to fill my mouth until I dared not utter a word. Across the clearing, the priest of Aaron's line stood in the temple doorway watching gravely, gems flashing across his gold-plated breast, gold at his brow, bare feet on the earthen floor.

"Hanoch," one of the soldiers said, trembling. "Hanoch, there is a brightness upon her face. I am afraid.

Ask no more."

"Why?" The Sabaean captain's voice rose in a rage. "After so long, why you?"

And that, too, I could not answer. Had I dared, I might have said that it was no curse, no wrath of god that had bound them for centuries, but only fear and guilt. The priest knew it. How many others before him had known? But no one had dared to ask the voiceless. And I- this was not my place, and Adonai was not my God. I could not answer for Him to the Sabaeans. They must ask Him themselves. What was entrusted to me served only one purpose. Aught else would be a transgression.

"Lady." It was a young soldier who stepped forward, his bronze helmet under his arm, his eyes soft and wondering. "I am Eshkol ben Avidan, and I am not afraid. I am sorry we sought to detain you. If you will it, we will take you to Tisaar. And there, I think, you may go free, although it is not my place to assure it."

"Eshkol!" ben Hadad hissed. "It is insubordination you speak!"

"No, captain," the soldier said politely. "It is, I think, wisdom."

In the temple doorway, the priest smiled.

"Yes, my lord soldier," I said, swallowing against the insistent pressure of the Name. "If you will take us, we will go."

SEVENTY-EIGHT.

IT WAS a long journey back to Tisaar, and a strange one. I sat silent for most of it, learning how to breathe and think with the awesome presence of the Name of God crowding my mind. Except for Hanoch ben Hadad, who remained sullen and uncertain, the Sabaeans rowed with a good will, trading off in teams, jesting in hushed tones as men will who have witnessed events beyond understanding. Even the soldier Imriel had wounded bore no ill will over it.

The courage of Eshkol ben Avidan had sparked them, and I heard in their voices and saw in their faces the dawn of wonder, of hope. Seeds had been sown here this day, which would bear fruit long after we were gone. Whose tool, I wondered, was I? For so long, I had focused upon my singular quest: To freeHyacinthe.

Now, here, an entire people, whose isolation had lasted longer than the Master of the Straits himself had lived. Whose purpose had I served? Mayhap I was only a small lever in Adonai's plan, serving to set something vast in motion as his slow attention returned to the neglected Tribe of Dan. I could not say.

In the end, it did not matter.

We had what we'd come for.

What transpired after we left Saba was between the Sabaeans themselves and Adonai, the One God, their Lord of Hosts. As for us ... I shuddered.

I'd never really thought ahead, beyond this point. What remained for us, aside from the dire repercussions of Joscelin and I having taken Imriel de la Courcel with us in defiance of the Queen's will, through myriad dangers to a land that was half-fable even in distant Jebe-Barkal . . .

. . . was between Rahab and I.

Well and so, I thought. This burden I cannot share or pass; it is mine, and mine alone, with the Name of God emblazoned inside my head. And that is as it should be, for it is my place Hyacinthe took. But I have faced death willingly twice today and we are a long way yet from home, and there are bandits and lions and crocodiles in our path, long sea journeys and the anger of Ysandre, which may be no small thing. So I will worry about facing down this angel known as Pride, and Insolence, later, because right now it is too much to fathom.

It was early evening by the time we reached Tisaar, and the harbor was filled with people-men, women and children, silent and watching, awaiting our return. Semira and Yevuneh and some of the others were clustered together under the dour eye of the Elders of the Sanhedrin, looking stubborn and fearful.

"People of Tisaar!" It was Eshkol ben Avidan who addressed them, leaping agilely onto the dock.

"Brothers and sisters, Melehakim! We have beheld a mystery this day."

He told them then what had transpired, while the vessel was secured and the rest of us disembarked.

My head ringing with the dreadful syllables of the Name, I was glad I did not have to speak. None of us were any too fit. After his long night's ordeal, Joscelin looked exhausted, harrowed with pain, streaks of dried blood on his hands and arms beneath his vambraces, and there were violet shadows under Imriel's eyes. I wondered if the priest would have opened the door if Imri hadn't screamed. Was that the sound, born out of pain and terror in Daranga, that had moved Adonai's heart to compassion? Mayhap it was so. If it was, he had played a role none of us had ever reckoned.

So I mused, unable to pay Eshkol's recitation the attention it deserved, caught up in the mysteries locked inside my head. But when Eshkol had done, the Elders of the Sanhedrin crowded round, pressing me with questions, anxious and demanding.