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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 Valère 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 Daršanga, 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. Phèdre … 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.”

“Phèdre.” 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 Darsanga, 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 Daršanga 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 Daršanga, 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. “Will you teach me to use this, when you come back?”

“I swear it, my prince.” There was a strained tone to Joscelin’s voice as he bowed, the movement a halting approximation of his old Cassiline grace. He closed his eyes as Imriel hugged him, and I thought I saw tears spiking his lashes. “Ward yourself well until I do.”

And then it was ended, and we went to our quarters, which seemed strangely empty without Imriel’s presence. There was no need for either of us to keep watch, no need for Joscelin to post himself before the door. It is odd, the things to which one can become accustomed.

“Funny,” Joscelin said, unbuckling his vambraces. His left forearm had lost the calluses of a lifetime, and the leather straps had chafed it raw. “I never expected to
like
him.”

“Melisande’s son,” I murmured.

“Yes.” He prodded the oozing patches of flesh and winced. “Melisande’s son. Do you want to see them off in the morning?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

And we would have done, had we not slept overlate. Small wonder, I thought, waking to see the first low rays of the sun penetrating our window. It had been-how long?-weeks, at least, since both of us had slept through a night undisturbed. I roused Joscelin, who came awake with customary quickness. Hastily donning our attire, cloaked against the dawn chill, we hurried to the harbor in time to see the anchor drawn, hear the oarsmen chant as the galley turned round in the still waters of the harbor, making ready to hoist sail.

They were there, standing on deck, Lord Amaury’s curling auburn hair unmistakably lit by the slanting early sun. He raised one hand in salute, and we waved from the quai. Imriel was a shrouded figure, huddled in a hooded Akkadian cloak and giving no indication of having seen us. Someone-Vigny, I thought-kept a watchful eye upon him.

“Well,” said Joscelin. “That’s that.”

“Did you-?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “One of the men hauling anchor … I thought, mayhap, I saw marks on his face. Like scratches. Healed scratches.”

Joscelin stared after the receding galley. “Phèdre … if you did … Lord Amaury knows, yes? You told him about the letters to the Ephesians, about the instructions you gave the others. And he’s prepared to make it known to the ship’s captain, what repercussions may await if Imriel doesn’t make it safe to port in Marsilikos.”

“Yes,” I said. “Amaury knows.”

“Then let it be,” he said firmly, tugging my arm. “You’re chasing phantoms, now. Valère tried twice; she won’t try a third time, and even if she did, there’s naught we can do about it. ’Tis Amaury’s job, and one to which the Queen appointed him. Let him do it.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I went with him. Like as not he was right; even I thought I was imagining things. We returned to the inn and packed our things-vastly reduced from that with which we’d left Nineveh, the bulk of it going westward with Lord Amaury-and went to break our fast and meet with Kaneka and the others.

It was a smallish ship bound for Iskandría; a Menekhetan trader, for which I was glad. It would go unladen, for the Lugal had paid the entire passage, and there were but twelve of us, Jebean, Menekhetan and D’Angeline, with the run of the vessel. When the sun stood high overhead, they cast anchor and in short order we were away, sails hoisting to catch the wind. I stood on deck and watched the gulf of sparkling water widen between us and the coastline of Khebbel-im-Akkad, feeling a giddy lightness as it did.

So, I thought, it is ended. We leave Drujan behind us.

And I prayed the distance would make a difference.

It was a pleasure, after Khebbel-im-Akkad, to go unveiled, to feel the salt spray upon my face. After the
zenana
, I retained a fondness for open spaces, and there is none so vast as the ocean. We dined together in the mess-hall, attended by sailors glad to have drawn such light duty for full pay, laughing as our plates and cups slid the length of the built-in trestle with the ship’s swaying, laughing all the harder when Joscelin, with a peculiar look on his face, excused himself to go above-deck.

“He does not like the sea?” Kaneka asked with a grin.

“’Tis a long-standing quarrel between them,” I replied.