With that, she told us to avail ourselves of the bathing-room and bid us good evening, and we spoke no more that night, bone-weary as we were.

Nonetheless, I lay awake for a long time that night, listening to the quiet breathing of Joscelin beside me and Imriel in the next pallet, mercifully too tired for nightmares. My muscles ached and my blisters stung. If it was only that, I could have slept; I have known worse. I lay awake listening to the Name of God, pulsing in my mind with each throb of blood in my veins, hearing the web of debate that spread itself through sleepless Tisaar.

Some chains are forged for us.

Those are the hardest to bear.

SEVENTY-NINE

IN THE morning, Tifari Amu and his companions were freed from imprisonment.They were a little battered, but not the much worse for wear. Tifari grinned in unwonted high spirits when I embraced him.

"Kaneka warned me it would be foolish to desert you," he said, returning my embrace. "Lucky for me Bizan and the others agreed! Shall we go home now, lady?"

Home.

He was thinking of Meroë, I knew; but I thought of Terre d'Ange. "Home," I agreed fervently. "Yes, my lord Tifari. Let us go home."

As always, 'twas a matter more easily said than done. All our goods—our mounts, our donkeys, our gear and supplies—had been seized by Sabaean forces when they took the Jebeans. It was a matter of a day to arrange for their return, effected by shamefaced soldiers under the direction of Eshkol ben Avidan. And it was another day before everything could be inspected, the horses decreed sound, water- skins tight and our stores sufficient.

In Tisaar, the mood was uncertain, fraught with optimism and fear. With my aid as translator, Tifari Amu spoke before the Sanhedrin of Elders, assuring them that he bore no ill-will for the misunderstanding, giving them cordial greetings on behalf of Ras Lijasu of Meroë, grandson of Queen Zanadakhete. The Sanhedrin heard him out, eyeing me all the while.

And he spoke too, he and Bizan, to the Council of Women that Yevuneh had assembled, and that was a merrier affair, for Bizan flirted incorrigibly with the unwed women in terms that required little trans lation.

Whatever else would transpire in the days to come, Saba would not be the same. The Covenant of Wisdom had been reclaimed, and it had given a measure of power back unto the hands of Sabaean women. I did not think they would hold it lightly. How they would balance this new-found will with the longstanding authority of the Sanhedrin, I did not know, but if there was to be trade with Jebe-Barkal, the Council of Women meant to share in the decision.

"You say they are no enemies, these Jebeans?" Semira asked me, frowning.

"I say Meroë has long forgotten its quarrel with Saba, mother," I said carefully. "As for the rest, it is for your two countries to determine."

"It would be nice," she mused, "to have needles made of this steel. Yes, that would be nice, indeed."

We had needles among our stores; I sent Imri running to rummage in my packs. Elua knows I had no use for them. I am as handy with a needle and thread as a camel, and mayhap less so. "My lady Semira," I said, presenting three needles of varying sizes to her. "Pray, accept them with my gratitude."

"My!" She held them with wrinkled fingertips, turning them this way and that to catch the light. Fine-wrought steel winked. I had to blink to keep from seeing the Name of God refracted in the splinters of light. Semira tested the strength of one. "Well-made indeed. These will pierce strong cotton without bending. Thank you, child. This is a generous gift."

"No." I shook my head. "It is naught, to what you have given us."

"And what is that?" The old woman gave a secretive smile. "A chance? We make our own chances, child. We had the wisdom to allow Adonai to speak for Himself. Pray we remember this lesson. You have given us a sign, in turn, and an omen." She held up the needles. "Not swords to cleave, nor armor to turn a blade, nor plows to harrow, but a needle to stitch and bind. Let this mark the beginning of Saba's return to the greater world."

"Elua grant it is so," I murmured.

"Elua.'" she said, and laughed. "We may speak more of this Elua one day, yes, and Yeshua ben Yosef, whom the Children of Yisra-el have named the Mashiach. For myself, I think this earth-born Elua who coaxes the angels from Adonai's heaven sounds the more interesting of the two, but perhaps that is blasphemy. I do not know. Perhaps it is a question for my children's children's grandchildren to settle." Semira nudged me. "Do us a kindness, child. If there is trade, if there be routes open to Saba in your lifetime, send us word of how the tale ends."

"The tale?" I asked, confused. "Forgive me, my lady . . ."

"The tale! Your tale, the boy on the island, cursed to live forever."

"Hyacinthe," I said, taking a deep breath.

"Even so. The Prince of Travellers!" Semira said, remembering. "I wept to hear it. It was a true story, was it not?"

"Yes," I said. "It was."

"And you have yet to face the angel Rahab?" she asked shrewdly.

The Sacred Name surged against my tongue. I kept my mouth shut and nodded, afraid.

"Ah, well." She patted my cheek. "We will pray for you, and tell your story."

Although I had not expected him to, Hanoch ben Hadad came to his sister's house before we departed. It was an uncomfortable meeting. We sat across from one another at Yevuneh's table, and Joscelin posi tioned himself behind my chair, his bandaged hands resting lightly on his daggers. There was no more talk of his going unarmed in the city. Hanoch stared at me with bloodshot eyes. These last days had not been easy on him. I waited him out with a growing sense of pity.

When he broke the silence, his voice was stiff. "I acted in accor dance with our law."

I nodded. "That is understood, my lord captain."

"You had no right to do what you did." Anger surged in him, and bewildered frustration. "No right!"

"I know," I said gently. "But I had great need."

He looked away, and there were tears in his eyes. "Do you know how many years we have wasted? How long we have needlessly hid den?"

"Yes." I swallowed. "Hanoch ..."

Hanoch shook his head. "Adonai's mercy is revealed to us, yet I ... I have set myself against His will because of you," he said. "I do not understand."

To that, I had no answer, or none he would hear. "I am sorry."

After a moment he rose, issuing a rigid bow. His bronze armor gleamed softly in Yevuneh's lamplit kitchen. "May your journey be swift and your gods protect you," he said tonelessly. "You spoke the truth, lady. I will be glad to see you go."

"Name of Elua!" Joscelin muttered when he had left. "If that was an apology, it was sorely lacking."

"No." Remembering the pattern I had seen in the temple, I knew of a surety that if Hanoch had not sought to prevent us, if I had not been so filled with fear on Imriel's behalf, that I would never have found the place within myself where the self was not. Even in their mercy, gods can be cruel. Hanoch had done what he believed right; no more, no less. "Ah, poor man! He has cause to be bitter."

"I'd spare him more sympathy if I'd not seen his sword at your throat," Joscelin said dryly, taking a seat at the table. "But he's right about one thing. It's time we were gone."

Thus passed our final days in Tisaar, the city beside the Lake of Tears in fabled Saba. On the morrow, the Council of Women gathered at the gates of the city to bid us farewell. Gifts of parting were exchanged on both sides and Yevuneh gathered Imriel in one last embrace, weeping openly. He returned her embrace without fear, pressing his cheek against hers, and despite the sorrow of parting, I was gladdened to see it.

Then it was done, and we turned our faces toward home. We passed through the gate, and in a short time, the city of Tisaar lay behind us. If not for the incessant thunder in my head, our departure was little changed from our arrival, save that it was Eshkol ben Avidan and a company of men who escorted us to the Great Falls, and they were as pleasant as Hanoch had been surly. It seemed a miracle that we were all together, and no lives had been lost.

For my part, I was struggling still to learn to live with the Name of God.

Betimes it was quiescent, a slumbering seed lodged in my brain, and I could nearly forget I carried it. And then something would set it off—the fecund odor of soil, a bird on the wing, or the Falls; Blessed Elua, the Falls.' And then it would fill me like the sound of trumpets and I would be lost in reverie, staring, witnessing life as if it were created anew on the instant, over and over. When we reached the Great Falls, I stood on the verge of the opposite cliff gazing down into the roaring, mist-wreathed abyss for ages, watching tons of water moving without cease, seeing the Name written in patterns on the boiling foam.

"Phèdre."

It was Imriel who drew me back, and I saw in his twilight-blue eyes that he was afraid. And then I tried harder to keep the Name from filling me wholly, but it was not easy.

A half-day's ride past the Falls, we said farewell to Eshkol and his men. He wept upon leaving us, too. I watched the tears fill his eyes and overflow his lower lids, trickling like drops of rain on his mahogany cheeks, whispering the Name of God in the path they traced. "You have given me a dream," he said. "I am not sure of what, but it is a dream. I never had one before."

"You will know," I said, certain. It was written in the geometry of his bones, the sharp jut of his cheeks and his eloquent hands. It sounded in his voice, and the passion that threaded it. "Whatever Saba is to become, you will help shape it with courage and wisdom."

"I pray it is so," he said, bowing. "Adonai guide you."

"And you," I said, watching them go. "And you."

Mile by slow mile, we began retracing our steps.

It took me sometimes in the highlands, atop the vast mountain peaks where the green carpet of forest spread below us. I watched hawks and buzzards circling over the valleys and grew dizzy at their grace, the gyres etched by their sharp-tilting wings. If the Jebeans had thought I was god-touched before, they were sure of it now; half-mad and blessed with it, but apt to endanger myself. I wasn't, I don't think. I cannot be sure. Semira had spoken truly; it was a mighty thing to bear.