"And yet you plead clemency for the others?" he asked.

"For the innocent ones, yes." My burst of strength had faded, leaving me unspeakably weary. "I am a traitor's son, my lord. Should I be slain for it?"

Drustan looked away. "I will think on your words."

"Thank you." I paused. "And Berlik?"

"Berlik." He smiled sourly. "The Master of the Straits cannot find the magician in his sea-mirror, and Talorcan has lost the bear's trail. How can one lose a bear's trail? Would that I'd sent Urist with him."

"The bear is not always a bear," I murmured. "But I would have thought Urist would insist on going."

"No." Drustan looked back at me. "Urist will be accompanying you, Imriel. By his own request and my order. Home, to Terre d'Ange. As soon as the chirurgeon pronounces you fit to travel."

"Oh, no." I shook my head. "I'm staying."

"You are not." His face was adamant. "Imriel de la Courcel, I will think on your words. And when Berlik is captured, I will think on your request. But you are still bound by the Maghuin Dhonn, and you will not be safe until you're no longer on Alban soil."

"My lord!" I protested. " 'Tis a matter of honor."

"Is it a matter of honor that no one around you is safe?" Drustan asked, his voice rising with helpless fury. "By the Boar, lad! Dorelei mab Breidaia is dead and your child with her. My sister is inconsolable. Who will be next? Alais?"

Sick with guilt, I didn't answer.

Drustan sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't blame you, Imriel. I blame myself. But you draw trouble like a flame draws the moth. I cannot afford the risk. You're going home. This is not a matter on which I will be swayed."

"As my lord wills," I murmured.

It hurt; and yet he was right. While that damned talisman was still out there and Berlik at large, I wasn't safe. I didn't give a damn for my own safety, but his words had hit hard. There were others to think of. Others who might suffer Dorelei's fate.

Drustan might not blame me for it, but I did.

The days that followed were difficult. I don't think I could have endured them if it hadn't been for Alais. Betimes it would have been all too easy to sink into the black oblivion of utter despair. In the long, dark hours of night I would lie on my sickbed and think about dying, and the thought seemed sweet to me. It wouldn't be hard. All I had to do was resolve to refuse all food and will myself to die. I'd seen women do it in Daranga. There, in the midst of hell, they had seemed tranquil. I wanted that peace.

But then, in the mornings, Alais would come, cajoling and pleading.

"You promised," she said. "You promised to try!"

It wasn't until the fourth or fifth day that I noticed somewhat amiss. "Where's Celeste?" I asked her. "Does the temple not permit dogs?"

Alais went quiet. "Do you remember that time with the boar?"

"Ah, no." My heart ached anew. "Oh, Alais!"

She wiped her eyes. "She tried to protect us. To protect Dorelei."

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"We buried her beside Dorelei in a place of honor. Talorcan said she deserved it." Alais sniffled and tried to smile. "When you come back, someday, mayhap you can bring me a pup from Montreve. Not soon, but someday. I don't think Celeste would mind. I think she would want me to have one of her great-grand-nieces at my side."

"Of course." I blinked. "Surely, you're not staying?"

"I think I am." Her small face turned grave. "Not at Clunderry. Father won't allow it, and I'm not sure I could bear it. But he said I might continue my studies at Stormkeep, and live with Hyacinthe and Aunt Sibeal. Aunt Breidaia will be there, too. And Firdha agreed to it."

"Why?" I asked.

"I belong here," Alais said simply. "And I want to learn." She looked down at her lap, knotting her fingers. "Do you remember I told you I had a nightmare about a bear, once? And I thought it wasn't a true dream?" I nodded. "Well, I think mayhap I was wrong." Her fingers worked. "It might have made a difference. I don't know."

"There was nothing you could have done, love," I said gently. "And trying to meddle with the future is a bad idea. Dorelei thought it drove the Maghuin Dhonn a little bit mad, and I believe she was right. That's what this was all about, you know."

Alais looked up, her eyes troubled. "Yes, but I can't help having the dreams, Imri. Or at least not without being someone I'm not, all bound up like you are. I don't think that's right, either. Surely there's a balance. Not to seek a greater gift than one was given, but to understand the small one and use it wisely. That's all. Do you think it so wrong?"

I thought about it. "Well, you did tell me about the man with two faces. It helped me remember Lucius was my friend, and that may have made a difference in Lucca."

"I had another true dream about you, once," Alais said softly. "Do you remember?"

"Did it involve a snowstorm and a barren tree?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I dreamed we were brother and sister, really and truly." I didn't say anything. Alais smiled sadly. "I thought it meant you were to wed Dorelei and I was to wed Talorcan. I think I may have been wrong about that. Firdha says one of the most dangerous things you can do is apply your own desires to a dream's meaning."

"Alais ..." I murmured.

"It's all right." She drew her knees up beneath the skirt of her gown, wrapping her arms around them. "I don't know why I was so upset about it. You and Sidonie." She cocked her head, considering. "No, that's not true. I was jealous. You were always mine, Imri." I raised my brows, and Alais laughed. "Well, not like that! Like..."

"Like a brother?" I suggested.

Alais nodded. "I love Sidonie, I do. Not many people know her well. She's very ...careful. But it can be hard to be her younger sister. Everything was always set, everything was certain for her. She's the Dauphine. She's the pretty one, the proper one, the one who never gets her clothing torn, or spills her food, or blurts out the wrong thing at the wrong time, or gets forgotten, or cares what anyone thinks."

I thought about linen ripping beneath my fingers and Sidonie's voice at my ear, gasping ragged entreaties, and despite the pang of guilt that came with it, I smiled for the first time since Dorelei's death. "That's not really true, you know."

"Well, it always felt like it." Alais smiled too, wistfully. "And then there was you, Imri. I was too young to remember the arguments, and anyway, I didn't care. I only knew you were brave and strong and kind, and a little bit wild and dangerous, but in a good way. Like a fierce, loyal dog that no one else can pet. And you'd had adventures; terrible adventures and wonderful adventures. And you weren't afraid of anything, but you always listened to me and treated me like a real person."

Her description startled me. "Is that how I seemed?"

"Oh, yes!" Alais' face glowed. "And everyone else except Phedre and Joscelin was too stupid to see it; too stupid to see you, the real you. That made you mine."

"Oh, Alais!" My throat tightened. As though her words had dislodged a core of grief trapped deep in me, I started crying again; deep, racking sobs that made my chest ache.

Fearless, she'd said. Ah, Elua! I'd been anything but.

I wept for the child I'd been, masking terror that made me awaken thrashing and screaming in the night. I wept for the man I'd become, trying to be good and making a mess of it. I wept for Sidonie, who had reckoned the cost of our dalliance so much better than I, and yet had taken the rare risk of being careless.

I wept for love's terrible price.

I wept for Dorelei, who had been brave and strong and kind, and taught me to be the things I only pretended to be. Who had forced me to confront my own insufferable self-absorption with courage and honesty. I wept for her warm, brown skin that had smelled like fresh-baked bread, for the dimples that showed in her cheeks when she smiled, truly smiled.

And I wept for our son, who never had a chance.

It felt like being torn apart; and yet the chirurgeon Girard was right. There was healing in it. I was aware, distantly, of Alais' alarm. She went to fetch the chirurgeon, and I heard his gentle voice telling her not to worry, to let my grief run its course.

And in time it did.

When it passed, I was limp and exhausted and hollow. My chest and abdomen ached with a deep, burning pain, and I could tell my healing wounds had been opened anew. But I felt calmer, like the sky after a terrible storm has passed, discharging all its fury.

Alais was still there, watching me fearfully. "I'm sorry, Imri," she whispered. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"It's not your fault." I dragged my forearm over my swollen eyes, then shifted and patted the bed. "Come here." She came over and curled up beside me. I ran my hand over her black curls. "Whatever happens, in my heart, you'll always be a sister to me, Alais. I couldn't ask for a better one."

She swallowed. "I'm so sorry about Dorelei. I miss her."

"So do I." I closed my eyes. "So do I, villain."

"You loved her after all, didn't you?" she asked. "In the end?"

"I did." I stroked her hair. "It was hard not to."

"But not like you love Sidonie?"

"No." I opened my eyes and met her solemn gaze. "No, that was different. I'm sorry if it was hurtful to you, Alais. I didn't intend it to be. Neither of us did."

"I think Sidonie must love you very much," she mused.

"Do you?" I asked.

Alais nodded. "I do. She's like that. She's very fierce, even though it doesn't show."

I couldn't help but smile. "Oh, I know."

She made a face. "It's a little strange to think about, Imri."

"Well, don't think about it," I suggested.

"But I might have to, mightn't I?" Alais considered me. "I'll do it if you promise to stop thinking about dying."

"Oh, you will, will you?" I tugged at one of her curls. "I'll be honest. It hurts, Alais, at least right now. It feels an awful lot like dishonoring Dorelei's memory."

"You smiled, though," she said shrewdly. "I saw it. Anyway, Dorelei wouldn't want you to die, Imri. She'd want you to go on living. And she would want you to be happy. I know."

"It's complicated." I shrugged. "We'll see."

Alais kissed my cheek, then clambered out of bed. "I have to go," she said. "It's getting late, and you should rest. I think Messire Girard wants to check your bandages, too." She stood for a moment, pursing her lips. "There's something else you should know."

I peered at her. "Oh?"

"Father got a message last night," she said. "Hyacinthe was watching in his sea-mirror. He saw a bear climb out of the water on the far side of the Straits, yesterday morning, in Azzalle. It lay on the shore for a long time. He thought it was odd."

A cold, satisfying rage rose in me. "Did he kill it?"

"No." She frowned. "He said that he couldn't be sure. He's seen other bears, dozens of them, and he's not going to start calling down the lightning to purge the earth of them." She shuddered. "We...we told him to look for a bear with pale eyes, but he couldn't tell. Do you think a bear could swim that far? Father didn't."

It was at least seven leagues across the Straits at the narrowest part. "I don't know," I said. "But if I were Berlik, I'd try"

"That's what I thought," Alais said.

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

Alais' words gave me a reason to live.I wanted vengeance.

I'd known hatred before. In Daranga, I'd hated to the depths of my young soul. I'd hated the mad Mahrkagir and his terrible ka-Magi, and Jagun the Tatar warlord who had seared my flesh with a burning brand, marking me like cattle. I'd hated them with sick, helpless loathing, and I'd gloated over their deaths.

This was different.

It was a pure, clean, righteous fury, cleansing as fire. Life was distilled to a simple purpose. I was a man, not a child. I was not helpless. I would heal and regain my strength. I would hunt down Berlik and kill him, and then I would bring his skull back to Clunderry to be buried at Dorelei's feet for all eternity.

It had seemed like a barbaric custom, once. Now I understood it.

I became a model patient. Since I would not be allowed to travel until the chirurgeon Girard said I was ready, I heeded every word of advice that he gave me. I suffered my bandages to be changed, my wounds bathed and salved. I ate everything I was given, drank every tonic. I slept when he told me to rest, my conscience soothed by the clarity of my purpose. When he allowed me to get up and walk about, I did. When he told me not to overexert myself, I didn't.

I resolved to make myself as cold and hard as a blade, keen and ruthless.

Alais came every day to keep me company. She told me how the hunt for Berlik was progressing. Mostly, it wasn't. There was no sign of him in Alba, and the Maghuin Dhonn who had been found professed a terrified innocence. She told me that Drustan had imprisoned several of them and put them several to hard questioning, but he hadn't killed anyone yet. She told me that Drustan had written to Bernadette de Trevalion to bid her spread word throughout Azzalle to search for a bear with pale eyes, or a man with bear-claws tattooed on his face. I thought what a grim piece of irony it would be if the woman who'd tried to have me killed for the sake of stale vengeance became the agent of Kushiel's justice.

Days passed.

Bit by bit, my body healed.

It was Urist, of all people, who tempered my resolve. He paid me a visit, bringing with him my daggers and vambraces, which he had retrieved from the stone circle when Talorcan had ordered him to fetch Morwen's body. My throat tightened at the sight of the vambraces, remembering Dorelei buckling them on my arms that terrible night, but I didn't weep. I told him that once we were on D'Angeline soil, I meant to begin hunting for Berlik. I asked for his aid; for the sake of Dorelei, for the honor of Clunderry.

I thought he'd give it unstinting, but then, I thought he'd have ridden with Talorcan, too. Instead, Urist gave me a long look. "I'll do it on one condition. You're to return to the City of Elua first."

"And lose weeks?" I scowled. "Name of Elua! Why?"

"There's no proof that bear-witch bastard's crossed the Straits. And you're not going to be fit to ride for at least a month, anyway," he said. "I talked to that D'Angeline healer. He said he'll consent to allow you to travel in another day or two, so long as you do it as an invalid. Litter or carriage."

"That's not an answer," I observed.

"True." Urist sat upright in the bedchamber's single chair, hands on his knees, facing me. He'd sat just so the night we'd talked about the cattle-raid on Briclaedh, only he looked older and wearier. "My lord, your wife was a sweet lass. And no matter what anyone says, her blood's on both our hands, isn't it?"

It was a relief to hear someone acknowledge it. "Yes," I said. "It is."

"Guilt's a hard burden to bear," he mused. "Take it from a man who killed his own brother, traitor though he was. Believe me, I want vengeance for the lass as much as you do." He smiled ruefully beneath his worn, blurred warrior's tattoos. "When all's said and done, you weren't a bad husband to her, nor a bad lord to Clunderry, either. She loved you. She knew you, too; better than you knew her, I'll wager."

"I'll wager you're right," I murmured.