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, gath ering fury, blue-white lightning flashing in the writhing locks of his hair as the mighty voice chimed. "You lack the right, Elua's childf

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 vanish ing 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 obe dient 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. "Wel come 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 wed lock, 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."

Something softened in Hyacinthe's face. "Is it? That is well, then."

"Then you will lead us?" The tseromarìs voice was hopeful.

"No." Hyacinthe shook his head, not without regret. "If the baro kumpai wish it, I will meet with them and lend my advice; do they heed it, I will give my protection to whosoever is chosen to rule. But Manoj cast me out, and it is too late for me to become his grandson in deed as well as name. I have become something else instead."

Kristof bowed his head, defeated. "What will you do, sea-kralis? Where will you go?"

Hyacinthe gazed across the ship without answering.

In all the commotion, I had nearly forgotten Sibeal; a slight figure, easily overlooked in the prow of the ship, her hands clasped tight in front of her. They stood for a very long time looking at one another, and the air was as motionless as if the wind itself held its breath, and the rest of us with it, aware of the sudden tension. Sibeal's eyes were wide and sombre, only a faint line between her brows betraying any anxiety. The muscles in Hyacinthe's throat moved as he swallowed, seeking his voice.

"Lady Sibeal." He crossed the deck to stand before her, and with a stiff bow, laid the case containing the pages of the Lost Book of Raziel on the deck between them. "Will you share the keeping of this burden with me?"