So it was done. We filed out of the guardhouse with an appropriate air of solemnity. My heart was so full, I didn't know what I felt. They'd come to find me. Of course they had. They'd been on the other side of the world, and I'd nearly gotten killed, then vanished into the wilderness. Still, it was like a dream, seeing them here. As strange as Maslin's appearance in the wilderness had been, this was no less unexpected, and a good deal more joyous.

I stopped in my tracks. "Maslin."

Joscelin raised his brows. "Maslin? What of him?"

"He came for me, too," I said. "Sidonie sent him. Not a-purpose, I don't think." I shook my head. "It's a long story. But he found me. I owe him my life, really, although he doesn't think so." I pointed north. "He's waiting for me, or at least he will be. We should send word."

"I'll fetch him," Hugues offered.

I grimaced. "I'm not sure if fetching is such a good idea. Maslin wasn't exactly honest with the captain, either. His involvement in this whole business didn't arise. I daresay the captain thinks I killed him along with the others. It might be best to keep it that way."

Ti-Philippe grinned. "What in Elua's name have you been up to, Imri?"

"Too much," I said.

"Oh, gods above," Phedre said in a small voice. She covered her face with both hands. "We should never have left you alone in Alba with that curse hanging over you. And Dorelei, poor, sweet girl. Hyacinthe promised to keep watch. I thought if anyone could keep you safe, it would be him."

"He did try. And there wasn't anything you could have done," I said gently. "It wouldn't have changed anything."

She shuddered and lowered her hands. "You can't know that. Not for a surety."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "It's over."

We lodged that night in the manor of the mayor of Tarkov, who had gladly accepted the honor of turning his home over to the heroic warlord Micah ben Ximon. I never did meet the mayor, who had already taken lodgings at an inn where he might boast of his illustrious guests. Hugues and Ti-Philippe elected to go in search of Maslin together and await us wherever he'd made camp. I suspect they were being discreet, allowing us time alone together as a family. It made me smile, picturing the shock on Maslin's face when they found him. Out of the same tact, Micah ben Ximon retired early.

We didn't.

I wanted to hear their story first. Mine was too big. They didn't press. It was the sort of thing they understood. I daresay they didn't care, as long as I was alive to tell it. It was Joscelin who told theirs; Phedre couldn't bear to. Ti-Philippe had set out after them as soon as the news from Alba had come. Acting without thinking, he'd gone immediately, while my life still hung in the balance. He'd found them in Kriti, completing their mysterious mission. Whatever it was, they concluded it in haste and departed immediately. For the entire duration of the long journey back to Terre d'Ange, they hadn't known whether I was alive or dead.

"I'm so sorry," I said. I'd been saying this a lot lately.

"Well, we found out as soon as we made harbor in Marsilikos." Joscelin smiled slightly. "Alive, and overturning the Court."

"Is Ysandre still furious?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm." He glanced at Phedre. "We didn't stay long enough to attempt to reason with her. Not after weeks of not knowing, then hearing you'd set out on your own with Urist to some unknown land."

Their sea passage home from Kriti had been infuriatingly slow, plagued by bad winds. By the time they travelled to Maarten's Crossing, it was well into autumn. There had been no word yet of the fate of Talorcan's party, but Adelmar of the Frisii was growing anxious about his decision to allow them passage, fearful that his greed in accepting Ysandre and Drustan's bribes would cost him Tadeuz Vral's goodwill. He knew perfectly well who Phedre and Joscelin were, and he adamantly refused to grant passage to them, and moreover, had sent orders to Norstock not to allow any D'Angeline or Alban passengers until further notice. Phedre's solution was ingenious.

"We made our own pilgrim caps," Joscelin said. "Let Adelmar think we were leaving, then doubled back through the wood and caught the pilgrims' route further north."

I laughed. "You sewed for me?"

"No." Phedre flushed. "Ti-Philippe did." I laughed harder. Her eyes sparkled. I think she was beginning to believe I actually was alive and well, sitting and talking with her. "I tried, I did. But I've never been handy with a needle."

Miraculously enough, it had actually worked. There were still stories told in Skaldia about the D'Angeline pair who had outwitted Waldemar Selig and ultimately caused his downfall; but no Skaldi in his or her right mind would imagine that they'd travel boldface the length of the land, passing themselves off as pilgrims under false names.

It was a long, long journey, rendered worse by encountering Talorcan and his men early at the outset. They'd arrived at the Vralian border to find the pilgrims' passage heavily guarded, alerted by the handful of Urist's veterans who'd made the attempt earlier. Largely outnumbered and unable to convince or bribe the Vralian border guard to grant them passage, Talorcan's company had been forced to turn back and they'd had trouble with the Skaldi on their return route. They were still seething from their defeat and had not the slightest idea what had become of Urist and me.

"So that's what happened to them," I murmured. "Talorcan must have been frustrated as hell."

"Yes." Phedre nodded. "It was disheartening. Still, we kept going."

It was strange to think about all of us on our separate quests at the same time, struggling with mishaps, misfortune, and misunderstanding. Halfway through Skaldia, winter had struck with a vengeance. Ti-Philippe had gotten desperately sick, a relapse of the ague he'd suffered after swimming in the canals of La Serenissima. It must have been, I thought, around the time that I was beginning to search the endless holdings of Miroslas, while Maslin's Tarkovan companions were realizing that they'd ridden the wrong direction in pursuit of me.

Ti-Philippe had recovered, but his illness had slowed their progress. Although he begged them to leave him, they hadn't dared. Not in Skaldia. By the time they reached Vralia, the siege in Petrovik had ended and the country was abuzz with Micah ben Ximon's name.

"So we went in search of him," Joscelin said. "We found him a few days ago on the road from Petrovik bound for Vralgrad."

"And learned you'd been imprisoned as a spy, and he couldn't be bothered to spare a man to free you!" Phedre's voice crackled with rare anger.

"Well, he was in the midst of a war," I said philosophically.

"He thought you were safe enough where you were," Joscelin said. "And that mayhap a few months in a gaol cell would cool your ardor for vengeance."

"It did, in a way," I said.

"Did you ...?" His voice trailed off.

"Yes." I rubbed my eyes. I'd forgotten, they wouldn't have understood all of what transpired in the guardhouse. I'd been speaking Rus when I spoke of Berlik. I hadn't done so badly after all, if I'd mastered-well, not mastered, but learned a bit of it-a tongue that Phedre didn't know. "It wasn't what I thought it would be in the end. Not at all. But it's done. Maslin has his head," I added.

Joscelin stared. "His head."

"Well, his skull." I cleared my throat. "To bury under Dorelei's feet so her spirit will rest easily. We had to boil it. It was supposed to be preserved in lime, but that was spoiled in the shipwreck. Urist said it would be all right this way."

"His head," he repeated.

"It's an Alban custom," Phedre murmured. "Remember Grainne?" And then, quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

"I'm sorry!" I said in alarm. "Please don't cry. I shouldn't have said anything about the head." I knelt beside her chair and put my arms around her. "I'm here, I'm all right. Everything is, or it will be."

"I know." She drew a shuddering breath. "Oh, Blessed Elua! Lucca was bad enough, but at least I knew Denise Fleurais at the embassy was doing everything humanly possible to get you out of there. This ...Imriel, if you'd died out here, all alone, or in Alba...I just, I just don't know what I would have done."

"But he didn't, love," Joscelin said gently. "Look at him! We came all this way, and he didn't even need rescuing."

"You look at him!" she cried. "He looks five years older and worn down to the bone. He lost a wife and a child and nearly got killed, and we weren't there for him!"

"I know," Joscelin said, stroking her hair. "Believe me, I know."

I let Phedre go and sat quietly on the floor, my arms around my knees. I didn't know what to say. I'd never seen her so thoroughly unstrung before, not even during the worst of Daranga. It was unnerving. "You did rescue me," I said at length. "You rescued me ten years ago, and you rescue me every day of my life. Every skill I used to survive, the two of you taught me. Everything I know of hope and persistence in the face of despair, I learned from you. You taught me to love, and that love is reason enough and more to keep living."

Phedre wiped her eyes. "We should have been there."

"I'm not a child," I said softly. "You can't protect me from the whole world, Phedre."

"I can try," she said.

I smiled. "Do I really look five years older?"

"You look like hell," Joscelin said. "And by the way, what shipwreck?"

I opened my mouth to reply. "No," Phedre said. The old, familiar strength surfaced in her expression; stubborn, surprising, and resilient.

The knowledge that she hadn't been there when it happened would always tear her up inside. But she would face this, as she had faced everything else. "Start at the beginning."

So I did.

I hadn't told anyone but Sidonie the whole story of what had happened that terrible night in Clunderry. I told it to Phedre and Joscelin. It was easier. I'd had a longer time to live with it. I told it without faltering. I didn't dwell on the details, but I didn't censor them, either. And then I told the rest. Urist's promise to Dorelei. The upset I'd caused in the City of Elua. The pursuit, the pilgrims, the shipwreck. Tarkov, and Kebek the Tatar. Miroslas, and the long hunt that followed. It went quicker than I would have reckoned. There wasn't that much to tell, really. Days of labor on the barren island, days of tedium in a gaol cell, days and days of snow and cold, and then the end, and how it happened. It was the things I couldn't put into words that mattered the most.

They listened to those, too.

When I finished, Phedre sighed. "I swear to Elua," she murmured. "I'd like to lock you up in a safe place and never let you leave."

"Sidonie said somewhat like that." I paused. "Did you see her?"

"We did." She didn't quite smile, but almost. "You held out a long time before asking."

I felt myself blush, and laughed. "You came a long way. I didn't want to appear insufferably self-absorbed."

"She's well," Joscelin said. "Terrified for you, engaged in a silent contest of wills with her mother, but well."

"Was there any message?" I asked hopefully.

"Just come home," Phedre said.

Chapter Sixty-Five.

On the following day, we caught up with Maslin, Hugues, and Ti-Philippe west of Tarkov. Micah ben Ximon and the large contingent of soldiers with him accompanied us. Maslin still wore a stunned expression at the turn of events. I didn't blame him. I felt it, too.Our plan was to continue on to Vralgrad. We didn't have a great deal of choice in the matter, since Micah was insistent on it. If luck was with us, Tadeuz Vral would be merciful and forgive me for the deaths of Berlik and the Tarkovan guards. In hindsight it was fortunate that Talorcan and his men had turned back in frustration rather than trying to give battle against the Vralian border guard. That, Tadeuz Vral would be unlikely to forgive. And thanks to Micah ben Ximon's discretion, he didn't know about the first attempt.

Mayhap since Micah had won a second war for him, it would render his mood charitable. Micah thought that the Rebbe's intervention might make the difference in the end; that, and the fact that Berlik had not chosen to accept the Yeshuite faith. I hoped so. Whatever transpired, we were like to be trapped there for a while until the spring thaw made a sea voyage possible. Our only other choice would be to attempt a passage overland through Skaldia. Somehow, I doubted the pilgrim-hat ploy would work as well in the opposite direction.

Riding from Tarkov to Kargad took only a day. It was strange to remember how long that journey had seemed when I'd made it before, alone and on foot. It hadn't even begun to snow at that point. Since then, I'd endured so much worse.

We passed through Kargad without stopping and continued along the banks of the frozen Ulsk River. I thought about Ethan of Ommsmeer and his family, but I made no attempt to contact them. I didn't think he would welcome the knowledge of what I had done.

I wondered what story might one day find its way to his ears; the hard truth, or the wishful fantasy concocted by the priests and acolytes of Miroslas? It would be a piece of irony indeed if Berlik of the Maghuin Dhonn became a Yeshuite icon in his death.

All along the Ulsk, and then later, the Volkov, people hailed Micah ben Ximon and his men as conquering heroes. I had supposed that the frozen waterways would be abandoned in winter, but I was wrong. Vralians are hearty and ingenious folk. There were a number of traders travelling over the frozen rivers in horse-drawn sleighs.

Ben Ximon acknowledged the cheers somberly. From what I could gather, he'd led an effective siege, marshaling his army and blockading Petrovik before its inhabitants were able to stock sufficient supplies to make it through the long winter without venturing outside its walls. There were women and children there. Some, I heard, were so weak they could barely walk by the time the surrender came. Some had likely died of sicknesses they would have survived otherwise.

Micah ben Ximon didn't look as though he felt himself a hero.

For our part, we drew the sort of wondering stares that D'Angelines in distant, isolated lands do; and mayhap that, too, would work itself into the tale.

"Did you know most Vralians believe an angel appeared to Micah ben Ximon in a dream and taught him to fight?" I asked Joscelin.

"So he said." He gave a half-smile. "And there I was, expecting to be hailed as his mentor. He asked for my silence on the matter, which is one of the reasons he agreed to aid us in securing your freedom. Unnecessary though it proved, I gave my word. You'll not see me draw my daggers in Vralia. I'll rely on my sword if I must."

"Does it trouble you?" I asked.

Joscelin shook his head. "Not especially. I don't condone the lie, but it doesn't sound as though he started it himself. He just never refuted it, nor did anyone else who knew. Anyway, it's his business."

I didn't tell him that I'd told the Yeshuite sailor Ravi that the myth was untrue, that I'd practiced the Cassiline forms in front of him and the crew. Still, my practicing on a shipwrecked shore-or behind the locked door of a gaol cell with only Kebek for an audience-wasn't quite the same as Joscelin revealing himself in all his prowess before Micah ben Ximon's men. I wondered if that particular truth would seep out, or if Ravi and the others would keep their silence and let the myth endure. When all was said and done, I doubted Joscelin would care either way. He had never been one to care about appearances or heroics or receiving accolades for his deeds. I daresay keeping Phedre in one piece had kept him too busy; and then later, protecting me, too.

Maslin was quiet and withdrawn around him at first; around all of them. As he'd said, he wasn't a complete fool. For most of our acquaintance, he'd behaved very badly toward me, and having half of Montreve's household present reminded him of it. For a time, I wasn't sure if the tentative friendship we'd forged would endure, or vanish as Maslin sank back into envy and bitterness. But I hadn't reckoned on Phedre, who had noticed the change between us and Maslin's withdrawal alike.

"You look so much like your father," she said to him one evening, when we were lodged in a small, smoky inn in a town whose name I can't recall. "I remember the first time I saw him."

"Oh?" It was all Maslin said, but there was hunger in it.

"It was at the Longest Night fete at Cereus House," she said. "I was shy of my tenth birthday, but the Dowayne permitted me to attend, as I'd be a part of my lord Delaunay's household the following year and no longer eligible."

That was the infamous fete at which Baudoin de Trevalion appeared as the Sun Prince, already plotting treason; and yet Phedre managed to tell the story without a hint of censure, painting a vivid portrait of the affair-the madcap prince and his glittering entourage, Maslin's father Isidore d'Aiglemort foremost among them. She told other tales, too, and although all of us knew the shadow that would fall over d'Aiglemort's story in the end, somehow, she made it bearable and brought to life a time when Maslin's father was young and vibrant, the heroic leader of the Allies of Camlach and a darling of Terre d'Ange. If Maslin could have eaten her words with a spoon, I daresay he would have.

No one said aught to gainsay it. There was that which came after, yes. But in the end, Isidore d'Aiglemort gave his life to save his people.

I watched Maslin become easier in our presence that night. It was a kindness she was offering him, and he'd grown enough to accept it with grace and be grateful for it. I was glad for him.

It was another cold, bright day when we reached Vralgrad. The city threw open its gates to welcome its returning hero. Micah ben Ximon's bannermen carried their staves high. Yeshua's cross fluttered brilliantly under the hard blue sky, scarlet on white. In Terre d'Ange, Queen Ysandre would have been there herself to receive her royal commander, but there was only a company of royal guardsmen in their white and red brocade coats. Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral was in the temple, giving thanks to God and Yeshua ben Yosef for his victory. The streets were thronged with ordinary citizens clad in heavy winter attire, their breath rising in frosty gusts as they cheered and shouted.

They cheered us, too. After all, we were there with him.

It all felt very odd. I'd sooner have entered quietly with our small D'Angeline company. For good or ill, great events were stirring in Vralia, and they'd naught to do with us. I didn't even know what I thought about it. I'd liked Tadeuz Vral, which I hadn't expected. But then, I'd come to be fond of Kebek the Tatar, too. It didn't seem unreasonable to me that whoever ruled Vralia might come to some accommodation with the Tatars that didn't involve conquering them or forcing them to accept the Yeshuite faith. I might have liked Fedor Vral if I'd met him, too, but I hadn't. Vralia was a nation in the throes of transformation, and all it had been to me was the backdrop against which my own personal quest had played out.

And yet if Joscelin hadn't taught a young Yeshuite living in La Serenissima and forbidden to bear a sword how to fight in the Cassiline style, mayhap none of this would have come to pass.

Truly, the ways of the gods were mysterious and unknowable.

I was grateful when Micah ben Ximon headed for the great temple and dispatched us to the palace with a pair of royal guardsmen and a promise of hospitality. Grateful for the hospitality, grateful for the relative quietude. And most grateful of all to see Urist.

Tadeuz Vral had been generous. I daresay it was a lucky thing that the rumors from Tarkov had never reached his ears, or he might have rescinded his generosity. But they hadn't, and he hadn't. Urist was still esconced at the palace. He retained the same chamber that had been given us when we first arrived, although I found out later that he spent most of his time among the palace guards, dicing and following news of the war, picking up bits and pieces of Rus and teaching them to curse in Cruithne.

It must have worked well enough, for someone sent word to him. We had only just arrived in the great entry hall with its inlaid tile floor when he came limping out from a corridor, leaning on a walking-stick, a vast grin splitting his tattooed face. I was so glad to see him, gladder than I'd reckoned. When all was said and done, he was the only one who had been there at Clunderry when it happened. It made a difference, sharing the memory.

For a moment, we just stood there. I was carrying the battered leather bag with Berlik's skull, not daring trust it to any of the palace servants. Urist's dark eyes gleamed. "You did it."

"I did," I said.

He gave a nod. "Thought you would." He clapped me on the shoulder with gruff affection. "On to Clunderry, eh?"

"My lord Urist-" Phedre began in protest.