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I took another step, edging around the maw. “Rahab.”

In the depths, something gathered and flickered, a brightness coalescing. I took another breath, feeling light-headed and strange, walking on water as though it were dry earth. I have only given my
signale
once, and I would not give it now, not to this errant servant of the One God who had brought so much pain to someone I loved.

“Rahab, by the binding of your own curse, I summon you here!”

Brilliance erupted from the sea, gouts of water spewing into the sky, falling in shining cascades to shape a form so magnificent it made me want to weep, vaster and more noble than anything dreamt by mortal flesh. The Face of the Waters shaped by the Master of the Straits was but a pale echo of this form, which towered above the cliffs. Sunlight gleamed on its translucent shoulders as it inclined its massive head, sea-green locks falling about its face like rivers.

Not his true form, not yet.

I swallowed hard. “Rahab. In the Name of God, I summon you here.”

And the world …
shifted
.

It is said that among a hundred artists who saw them living, not a one captured the beauty of Blessed Elua and his Companions. I did not know, before, how such a thing could be. I have known the Scions of Elua. I spent the earliest part of my life in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, where they have bred for beauty for a thousand generations. I understood it, now.

The angel Rahab manifested on the waters.

His beauty was like a sword unsheathed, bright as sun-struck steel and twice as hard. It hurt to behold him. Every bone, every articulated joint, was shaped with terrible purpose. The span of his brow held all the grace of the moon’s curve rising above the sea’s horizon. In the hollows of his eyes were the shadows of grottos no human gaze would ever behold. Whether he was fair or dark, I could not say, for his flesh shone with a brilliance that owed nothing to our limited understanding of light, and his hair was at once like tarnished water, like kelp, like the corona of an eclipsed sun.

“
You have summoned me
.”

The words rang like silver chimes, piercing the innermost membranes of my ears. If a voice could sound like the dazzle of sunlight on the waters, on all the waters of the world, refracting and multiplying a thousandfold, Rahab’s did.

If Hyacinthe had not stood behind me, I would have fled for dry land.

“Rahab.” I licked my lips, tasting salt and fear. “I bid you to relinquish your curse.”

Slow and inevitable, his head rose like the evening star ascending through twilight, chin raised in defiance. The shape of his lips was cruel and remorseless, formed by the dying utterance of every sailor ever drowned at sea. And his eyes-ah, Elua! They were white as bone, and yet they
saw
, and saw and saw. When the One God ordered the seas to part for Moishe, when the whale swallowed Yehonah, those eyes were already ancient. In those eyes, Blessed Elua was a babe-in-arms.

“
My curse
.”

On the waters, of the waters, the angel Rahab extended his arms. Manacles encircled his wrists, a heavy chain running betwixt them, wrought of granite, it seemed, or more; something more adamant than stone, more dense than any substance mortal hands might wield, each link forged and sealed by the divine alphabet. Rippling and shifting, Rahab’s immortal flesh shone against those bonds, the only constraint to his power, confining him to the sea and the One God’s will. He held out his hands toward me, showing his chains, the cruel mouth shaping words that rang with beauty.

“
For as long as G-d’s punishment endures, so does my curse. I have sworn it
.”

The water grew soft under my feet, and I floundered again, sputtering. The waves rose once more, tall and raging, and seawater filled my mouth, salt as blood and more bitter. I lost my footing, and a great swell swamped me, turning me over until I could not say which way was up and it seemed the ocean would have me, hauling at the waterlogged folds of my gown with a tremendous force. Struggle though I would, the water’s pull was stronger. My lungs burned, and I could not catch my breath.

As if from a great distance, I heard a voice cry my name, high and clear and urgent. “Phèdre! Phèdre!”

Imriel.

Young and unbroken, his voice carried over the waters, as it had carried over the battle in the Mahrkagir’s festal hall, over the thunderous clamor of the rhinoceros’ charge, outside the doors of the temple. And I knew, then, which way lay life, and love. I found my feet in the sinking waters, and heard Hyacinthe, repeating the charm like a curse, filled with all the fury and defiance of the lost years of his life.

I stood with an effort, dripping.

“On pain of banishment,” I gasped, “I bid you relinquish your curse!”

The seas shimmered about Rahab, rising in columns, in towers, more water than the harbor could possibly hold, rising to threaten the very cliffs. Quintilius Rousse’s flagship rode the crests, pitching steeply, drawn toward the epicenter that was Rahab. His bone-white gaze sought mine, and he seemed at once no taller than a man and vast as mountains. “
You dare
?” he asked, bringing his adamant chains taut with a clap like thunder, “
You dare, misbegotten child of Elua
?”

There is strength in yielding. I had gone beyond my own fear.

“Elua understood love,” I said to him. “The world may have been better served, my lord Rahab, had you done the same. Will you go peaceably? I offer you that choice.”

The seas towered and raged, and Rahab shone like a chained star in their midst, silver-dark, bone-white, kelp-green, cloaked in raiment like water and lit with an inner fire that owed nothing to this world of mortal clay. “
As my heart knows no peace, nor shall yours
!”

So it was to be.

Of a strangeness, I felt calm. The Sacred Name blossomed like a rose within me, swelling to fill every part, until there was no room left for any trace of fear. I saw in Rahab the centuries reaching back untold, the ancient conflict-rebellion, born of pride; subservience, born of adoration. I saw the hatred and bitter envy he bore for Elua and his Companions. All the joy and wonder of the deep seas, I beheld in him, and loneliness, too. And love; ah, Elua! It had hurt, it had cut to the bone. Nothing in the endless centuries of tempestuous service to the One God had prepared Rahab for the vagaries of mortal love, for the pain of rejection.

“In the Name of God,” I said with pity, “I banish you, Rahab.”

Waves clashed in answer, and Rahab grew terrible with wrath, gathering fury, blue-white lightning flashing in the writhing locks of his hair as the mighty voice chimed. “
You lack the right, Elua’s child
!”

But it was there, in every part of me, in every fiber of my being, rising like a tide to overflow me and I would have laughed, if my throat had not been filled with it, or wept, if I could. I had travelled to the farthest reaches of the known world for the Name of God, and walked paths darker than I had dreamed.

All that was left was to speak it.

I did.

“_________________”

If the whole of the mortal world were a brazen bell, and that bell were tolled; that would be the sound of it, as the unpronounceable syllables rolled from my tongue, ringing over the waters, tolling without beginning or end, and it was as if there had never been anything else, not sea nor land nor sky, but only this endless Word, that was before time began. For the space of time in which I spoke it, nothing else existed. Then … everything, and I at the center of it, hollow and echoing, my tongue a dumbstruck clapper in the vault of my mouth, while I swayed beneath it, dazed and empty, a sounding vessel whose time had passed.

I had spoken the Name of God.

Ah,
Elua
!

It was done.

Without a sound, Rahab’s head bowed, like night’s last star vanishing in the dawn. Sorrow, and defeat. One arm rose, sweeping, a plumed wing of water and sea-foam, trailing adamant shackles, passing before his face. Bittersweet, this ending. Even the anger of a spurned heart had held mercy in it. The curse that had divided Terre d’Ange and Alba before Hyacinthe’s sacrifice, that had bound him afterward, had held us safe, had protected our shores. Where the One God had abandoned His misbegotten grandchildren, Rahab, in all the anguish of his immortal heart, had not.

Now it was ended.

The brightness that was Rahab sank and subsided, winds dying, towering crests dwindling to ripples, a glimmering on the waters. And then … nothing. He was gone, and I, I was a hollow vessel, empty of purpose, the scoured walls of my being forgetful of what they had contained. The flagship
Elua’s Promise
bobbed on the waters, momentarily rudderless, thin shouts arising. On the translucent, buoyant chasm of the harbor, I fell to my knees, my soaked skirts floating about me, born on the gentle waves.

“Phèdre.”

Hyacinthe’s voice; Hyacinthe’s hand, upon my shoulder. I gazed up at him, glad of the reminder. Yes, that was who I was, then. Phèdre, Phèdre nó Delaunay, Delaunay’s
anguissette
; Kushiel’s Chosen, Naamah’s Servant. And his friend, Hyacinthe’s true friend. His face was gentle, and there was compassion in his changeable eyes, the dark, color-shifting eyes of the Master of the Straits, who had inherited the mantle of Rahab’s pain and the twisted love he bore for these lands of ours.

“Look.” Hyacinthe nodded across the harbor, to where the ship bore down upon us, sails flapping useless and slack, water dripping from its churning oars as the oarsmen set their backs to the task, hauling hard. “They are coming for us.”

With difficulty I rose to my feet for the third time on those waters.

I had not faltered.

I saw their faces, as the
Elua’s Promise
hove alongside us, dropping anchor; filled with emotion, too profound for words. Quintilius Rousse, with all of a sailor’s awe at seeing the Lord of the Deep made manifest. Kristof, Oszkar’s son, who had witnessed the end of one Tsingano’s long road. Eleazar ben Enokh, who glowed, having heard the Name of God at last.

And the others; the others! Oh, Elua, the others.

Rousse’s sailors; Phèdre’s Boys. They would retain the name until they died.

Of a surety, Hugues would make bad poetry of it, I saw it in his raptured features, and Ti-Philippe beside him. Were they lovers, then? I’d assumed it, never bothered to ask. I should have done. They were my people. I should know such things.

Joscelin.

There was anger there, in his summer-blue eyes; anger, that I had dared to send him away, that I had dared to send all of them. And there was knowledge-of why I had done it, of what it had cost me. No blame, at the last; only pride, and a relief vaster than the sea. We had gone beyond that, he and I.

In the end, when all was said and done, Joscelin understood.

His hands rested on Imriel’s shoulders, and what he knew, Imri knew. I saw it, in the depths of his eyes; as deep a blue as twilight, his mother’s eyes, a beauty as indescribable as a nightingale’s song, and a faith shining forth in them such as hers had never held.

Imri had never doubted.

Ninety-Nine

HOW I got aboard the ship, I cannot say for certain, for it transpired in a confused, muddled mix of efforts; wave and wind lifted at once in obedience to Hyacinthe’s murmured command, and then a half-dozen hands grappled for a hold on my sodden gown, unable to wait, and I was pushed and hauled at once, ignominious and dripping, into Joscelin’s arms.

It was a good place to be.

If the world had stayed there, unmoving, so would I, until time itself should cease. Since it did not, I let him go and turned to Imriel, a lump rising in my throat. With a sound half shout and half sob, he flung himself at me. I held him hard, pressing my cheek against his spray-dampened hair, tears stinging my eyes.

“Phèdre nó Delaunay.” Quintilius Rousse’s voice, deep and unwontedly solemn. I looked up to see him sink to one knee before me, bowing his head. “I salute your courage, my lady of Montrève.”

“Oh, don’t, my lord Admiral,” I said, embarrassed. “Please. I hate that.”

Laughter rang across the waters, free and unfettered, and everyone aboard the ship turned to see Hyacinthe, standing on the sea. An obedient wave had raised him up to the level of the ship’s railing, held him there like a dais. “Let be, Phèdre,” he said, holding the case of pages under one arm. “You deserve it.” His gaze met mine across the distance. “Thank you.”

I nodded, unable to speak. The wave curled over the railing, and, light as a swallow, Hyacinthe stepped off the waters and onto the ship’s deck, encountering silence and stares of awe. Now that it was done, no one knew how to address him.

It was Joscelin who broke the stillness. “Tsingano,” he said. “Welcome back.”

“Cassiline.” With a crooked smile, Hyacinthe reached out, and they clasped one another’s wrists in a strong grip. “My thanks to you.”

Joscelin shrugged. “I had a vow to keep.”

“I remember.”

No more did they say to one another; I daresay it was enough, for them. There are ways in which men who know one another’s hearts and minds may speak without words, and whatever passed between them in that moment sufficed to satisfy both of them. Afterward, Rousse rose to offer a deep bow to the Master of the Straits and welcome him aboard ship, and others pressed close with curiosity, reaching with tentative hands to brush the edge of his sleeve, the hem of his cloak, assuring themselves Hyacinthe was no apparition, but flesh and bone. Imriel stood with me, out of the way, watching as Kristof approached him.

“
Tsingan kralis
,” he said in a husky voice. “You have returned.”

Hyacinthe’s changeable eyes were cold and dark. “Since when do the Tsingani acknowledge the rights of a
Didikani
gotten out of wedlock, Oszkar’s son? Did my grandfather Manoj not have nephews of his blood? Did he name no heir among them?”

“The four families of the
baro kumpai
chose you, Anazstaizia’s son.” Although sweat stood on his brow, Kristof stood unflinching. “There have been changes. Your mother’s name is spoken and remembered.”