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We reached the bitter well that marked the halfway point, and it seemed almost sudden. I sat on a rock in the baking valley, watching the camels drink their fill, conscious of the heat but paying it scant heed. What a marvel it was, that creatures existed which could endure such conditions! How strange, that we humans needed salt to live, yet would die of its excess. Salt preserves flesh, and yet kills it, too. In saltwater are we nurtured in the womb, and salt runs in the red blood of our veins.

“Phèdre.” Joscelin’s voice was hoarse as he thrust the water-skin at me. “You need to drink.”

I did, tasting the water flat and warm in my mouth, feeling it moisten my tissues, thinking how odd that it should sustain life, and yet death was necessary for us to carry it, the cured leather hide holding portable life within it. How intricate, the working of our world!

“Mek Gamal is waiting,” Joscelin informed me. “And you’re making Imriel worry.”

I got back on my camel, then, and our journey resumed. We entered the sea of grey stone, where the wind had sculpted the landscape into fabulous formations. No winds blew this time, and the only sound for a hundred miles was the rattle of pebbles displaced by our camels’ broad hoof-pads. No wonder the Habiru prophets had escaped into the desert to think! I did, on that journey. I thought about Ras Lijasu and his merry good nature, his readiness to consider war a possibility. Was it something intrinsic to mortal kind, that we must always think of killing one another? I prayed it was not so. I had seen too much of death, too much of cruelty.

And yet it is what we do, again and again. And I … I was complicit in it, for had I not brought word to Ysandre of the Skaldic invasion, so many years ago? Had I not travelled to Alba, beseeching them to war?

What is our purpose, if not to kill and die?
Love as thou wilt
. ’Tis all well and good, if one is a god; not so easy for those of us of mortal kind. Would that there were only that in the world. Were it so, my lord Delaunay would still be alive, and I … Elua knows where I would be. Were love enough, if my mother and father could have lived upon it like Blessed Elua, would they have kept me? I hoped it were so.

But even Blessed Elua had his Companions. Where would he be, if Naamah had not given herself to the King of Persis for his freedom, had not laid down in the stews of Bhodistan with strangers so he might be fed? Where would he be, if Camael’s sword had not afforded him protection? What of Terre d’Ange, without Azza’s pride that staked our boundaries, without Shemhazai’s cleverness, that built our cities? Where would we be, without Eisheth’s healing skills, without Anael’s husbandry? How could we atone, without Kushiel’s mercy? How would Elua have answered the One God, if Cassiel had not handed him his dagger?

We are all these things, I thought, while the sun blazed in the sky and the ochre sands reflected its heat. Pride, desire, compassion, cleverness, belligerence, fruitfulness, loyalty … and guilt. But above it all stands love. And if we desire to be more than human, that is the star by which we must set our sights.

It is all we can do to try. It is enough.

Such were the things I thought in the desert, and the journey passed quicker than I believed possible. It was only when we reached Majibara and the vast silences of open spaces gave way to the clamor of the marketplace and the babble of a half-dozen tongues, situated beside the broad expanse of the rain-swollen Nahar that I reckoned the cost of it, and knew myself to be exhausted and half-fevered with thirst, feeling gaunt, scorched to the bone and somehow purged by our desert crossing.

We had reached Menekhet.

“You worry even me, sometimes,” Joscelin said to me that night as we lay abed at the inn, listening to distant music from the caravans. “I half thought you might wander off and leave us, if I didn’t watch you.”

“No.” I wound a length of his hair about my finger. “I was thinking, that’s all.”

“Across a week’s worth of desert?” He smiled a little. “About what?”

“Life,” I said. “Death, war, love … the nature of humanity.”

“Did you come to any conclusions?” he asked.

“No,” I said, and lifted my head to kiss him. “None I didn’t already know.” And with that I told them to him, not in words, but in the language of the flesh, of lips and tongue and hands, of quickening breath and the leap of blood in the veins, the salt-slickness of desire. It is the same questions we ask of our existence, and the answer is always the same. The mystery lies not in the question nor the answer, but in the asking and answering themselves, over and over again, and the end is engendered in the beginning.

That much, I had learned.

We had scant difficulty in hiring a felucca to take us to Iskandria. The flood-tides were receding, and trade was brisk all up and down the Nahar. We spent a half-day in the harbor, hiring a vessel, a sturdy craft piloted by a good-natured Menekhetan sailor by the name of Inherit, who spoke a smattering of Jeb’ez and a few words of Hellene. It was nothing fancy, but it would suffice.

After so many farewells, it seemed almost strange to leave Majibara, where we knew no one and had no ties. Our leavetaking of Mek Gamal had been a businesslike affair, the caravan-leader owing allegiance only to Ras Lijasu, pleased at a crossing safely made, eager to strike a deal for a profitable return.

At dawn, we ventured to the harbor, paying bearers to carry our trunks and load them into the hold of the sturdy felucca. The rising sun turned the lake-sized harbor of the river to an expanse of hammered gold. We waited patient on the docks while Inherit offered prayers to the gods of Menekhet and most especially Sebek, the crocodile-god of the Nahar.

Once he had finished, he beckoned us aboard, smiling cheerfully. We situated ourselves about the vessel as he raised the lateen sail. On the docks, a pair of loitering sailors aided him, untying the lines and tossing them aboard. Down the river, the burgeoning green banks of tamarisk and papyrus awaited us.

We were on our way.

Eighty-Three

OUR RETURN to Iskandria was swifter than our departure, for we travelled with the current and, although the Upper Nahar was calm, it flowed strongly after the rains. Inherit canted his sail hither and thither to catch the fitful breeze, but whether he succeeded or no, the steady current bore us onward. When the sail’s belly did swell with wind, the felucca swooped like a swallow on the broad breast of the river, causing Imriel to shout with glee.

We passed the island temple of Houba, where I had offered a prayer to Isis.

We passed countless plantations, greening in the bright sun, dotted with Menekhetans working hurriedly to make the most of the growing season.

We passed crocodiles and hippopotami, and the many birds we had seen before. On that journey, Kaneka had taught us the names in Jeb’ez. This time, Inherit taught us in Menekhetan, pointing and naming as we went. Imriel played the game along with me, his facile mind quick to grasp new words; Joscelin merely rolled his eyes and took out his fishing gear, trailing a line in the water, catching little in the swiftness of our passage over the waters. In the evenings we made camp on the outskirts of villages, and traded with the villagers for our meals as we had done before.

It was after we had stopped to pay homage at the temple of Sebek-at Inherit’s insistence, for I would gladly have foregone the pleasure a second time-that we realized how swiftly indeed this leg of our journey would come to an end.

“Phèdre.” In the prow of the felucca, Joscelin set down his neatly wound fishing line. “What happens when we reach Iskandria?”

I glanced toward the stern, where Inherit was teaching Imriel to steer the vessel, both of them absorbed with the tiller. “We present ourselves to Ambassador de Penfars, I suppose. If we’re not seized on arrival.”

He raised his brows. “You think Ysandre’s that angry?”

“No. I don’t know. She’ll have taken the betrayal harder, coming from the two of us.” I thought about it. “We’ve broken no law in Menekhet. But certainly she would be within her rights to ask Pharaoh for the favor.”

“And risk exposing Imriel?”

“Probably not,” I conceded.

“I don’t think so, either. So,” he said. “If we’re to be hauled back in disgrace, like as not a delegation awaits us at the embassy.”

“Like as not.” I looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

Joscelin shrugged. “I made the decision first, Phèdre. Have you thought of what you’ll say to Ysandre?”

“Yes,” I said and swallowed hard.

“She owes you a boon,” he said. “The Companion’s Star?”

I nodded.

“Aught within her power and right to grant,” Joscelin mused. “It is that, although she’ll not like it, not one bit. ’Tis your decision to make, love. Is it worth it, to lose the goodwill of the Queen forever?”

I turned to watch Imriel; we both did. Under Inherit’s guidance, he held the tiller with both hands, white-knuckled, eyes bright with excitement in his sun-tanned face. Catching sight of us, he grinned with pride.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s worth it.”

In a scant handful of days, we reached the end of the broad, stately river to enter the myriad waterways south of the city. The vegetation was lusher than ever after the rains, the odor moist and rank. Here our course slowed and it took the better part of a day to navigate the swampy delta. The air was unmoving, the felucca’s sail hanging slack. We drifted slowly on the sluggish current. Inherit used a long pole to facilitate our passage, humming cheerfully and pointing out black-headed ibis and egrets with their snowy crests, describing how they differed from their brethren further upstream.

“To the market wharf, Kyria?” he asked in a mix of Menekhetan and Hellene when we drew within sight of the city, clusters of palms bowing over the buildings. “You can hire a carriage there, but if you get out before we reach the wharf, there is no toll to pay.”

“No,” I said. “Take us to the wharf, Inherit.”

He complied, poling briskly, then springing to attend the sail as a little breeze arose. I watched the city of Iskandria take shape around us, the familiar landmark of the great lighthouse visible at a distance, the wide, gracious streets and elegant buildings. It was gilded in the evening light, and I could smell the odors that had seemed so exotic upon our first arrival, the scent of oranges and strong spices in the air, and meat grilling for the evening meal.

The market wharf was a busy place, the canal laden with small craft; farmers selling the season’s first produce, loading the remnants for departure; fishermen and hunters of waterfowl returning with their catch. There were few travellers such as ourselves, for most went by caravan or caught the larger barges at the port south of the city. We had to wait and jockey for position before we could secure a place and disembark. The tax-collector strolled over as Joscelin and Inherit unloaded our goods, paying us scant attention as he inspected our trunks.

“You speak Menekhetan?” he asked, holding up one of my Jebean gowns.

“A little, only,” I said. “Hellene?”

“Do you take me for a farmer or a fisherman? Yes, I speak Hellene.” He gave me a brusque nod. “Are these for trade, Kyria, or personal…
Serapis
!” The tax-collector’s face turned pale as he regarded me for the first time.

“My lord?” I asked, puzzled.

He grabbed my wrist, leaning close. “Kyria, are you …
Nesmut’s friend
?”

I drew back, seeing Imriel fetch Joscelin. “And if I am?”

“Forgive me.” The tax-collector released my wrist and bowed, watching out of the corner of his eye as Joscelin approached, hands resting lightly on his dagger-hilts. “I have been charged with a message for you, Kyria. All of us have, who ward the passages of the city. ‘A D’Angeline woman of surpassing beauty, dark of hair and fair of face, with a mark as red as hibiscus in her left eye.’”

“
Nesmut
said that?” I asked.

“No, Kyria.” He shook his head. “That was only what I was told to ask. My orders come from Pharaoh.”

“And what,” I asked, “is Pharaoh’s message?”

“He wants to see you,” said the tax-collector. “Immediately.”

Immediately proved to be a relative term; it took time to settle our accounts with Inherit, and it took time for Joscelin and me to argue the matter to our satisfaction, while Imriel sat on a trunk and watched. In the end, of course, it was a foregone conclusion; a request from Pharaoh in the city of Iskandria amounted to a command. The tax-collector sent word to the Palace of Pharaohs through discreet channels that “Nesmut’s friend” had arrived; a covered carriage with a pair of royal guards arrived in short order.

All the while, we stood in plain sight in the marketplace, surrounded by curious denizens. In any other city, I daresay word of our arrival would have reached the D’Angeline embassy before we departed-but this was Iskandria, and those surrounding us were fishers, farmers and hunters, and commonfolk of the city. And Ambassador de Penfars had never bothered to court the Menekhetans, only those of Hellene lineage.

His loss, I thought, and hoped it was not ours.

Our goods were loaded into the carriage, and we ourselves embarked, sitting apprehensively with the curtains drawn.

“Phèdre?” Imriel’s voice was worried. “Are we in trouble?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, love. Ptolemy Dikaios is … well, not a friend, but an ally, of sorts. I don’t think he would harm us. There’s no profit in it.”

“Likely he wishes to turn us over to Ambassador de Penfars himself,” Joscelin said quietly. “If he lost stature for letting us slip through Iskandria before, this will restore it.”

“Oh.” Imriel continued to look worried. I didn’t blame him.

At the gates, the Pharaoh’s guard searched our things, taking considerable interest in the immense, bejeweled necklace at the bottom of my trunk.

“It is a gift,” I told them. “From Queen Zanadakhete of Jebe-Barkal to her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel of Terre d’Ange. And neither one, I daresay, would be pleased to find it gone astray in Pharaoh’s palace.”

“You will get your things back, Kyria,” one of them replied. “Do not fear. Kyrios, your weapons, please.”