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formally received as such by the Lugalin herself.
    “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève.” Color stood out on Valère L’Envers cheeks as she sat like a gilded effigy on the throne in her private audience hall, and I could not say if she was pleased to see me or not. “My lord Trente, Messire Cassiline.” The jewel-bedecked headdress dipped, and her voice changed. “Prince Imriel de la Courcel.”
    We all made obeisance. Imriel bowed stiffly, wary. “Your highness.”
    In the cloistered hall, I saw him anew-saw what Valère saw, the gemlike beauty, the blue-black hair of House Shahrizai, his eyes the color of sapphires, the hue of twilight. His mother’s face, carved in miniature.
    Her mouth twisted as she regarded me. “So again, despite all odds, you return alive, Comtesse. It seems I will not have to undertake the grievous task of composing notice of your death to my cousin Ysandre after all.”
    “It seems,” I said, “that you will not, my lady. We are grateful for your hospitality.”
    “Yes.” Valère contemplated us. “I have arranged for you and Messire Joscelin to share quarters, Comtesse. I trust it will not displease you. As far as the Akkadian nobility is concerned, you may as well be considered wed. And the prince shall be housed in adjoining quarters. I am told you have grown ... close.”
    Truly, we were back in the world, and all the politics that it entailed. I remembered the genuine kindness she had shown me before we left; Valère L’Envers, I feared, had liked me a good deal better when she thought I was dead. I made a graceful curtsy, wondering if she’d already written my eulogy in these months gone by. “My lady is too gracious.”
    She waved a disinterested hand. “It is the least I can do. My lord Sinaddan is eager for your report, once you are rested. My lord Trente, quarters have been prepared also for you. My lords, my lady... be welcome in Nineveh.”
    And with that, we were dismissed and escorted to our quarters. I was bone-weary, too tired to think it through. With Joscelin and Imriel, I followed the attendant eunuch to our appointed quarters, luxuriant and generous. There was a single door dividing our rooms from Imriel’s. The last I saw as I laid my head upon soft cushions on a down pallet was Joscelin silhouetted by lamplight, standing in the dividing doorway and asking a question. As I sank into dreams, Imriel’s voice followed me, giving an answer ...
    ... and then I slept, and knew no more.
    In the morning, Valère’s personal physician, an Eisandine chirurgeon who had travelled with her into virtual exile in Khebbel-im-Akkad, came to examine us. After so long, it was a relief to surrender to his expertise. With careful fingers, he unwrapped the bindings on Joscelin’s arm, examining the set of the bone and grunting.
    It was something of a shock to see how the muscles had dwindled with disuse, the skin pallid and sloughing. At the chirurgeon’s bidding, Joscelin moved his arm, clenched his left hand into a fist. The chirurgeon merely grunted, bathing the injured limb with care and letting it dry before he reapplied bindings of clean white cotton, splinting them in place. Drucilla’s shawl, he cast away in disdain, replacing it with an elegant sling of brocaded cloth.
    “Will he regain the use of his arm?” I asked.
    “Like as not, though he’ll favor it all of his days.” The chirurgeon shrugged. “It’s well set, barbarian work or no.”
    I gathered Drucilla’s shawl, travel-stained and creased into greasy folds, to my breast. Barbarian work. “I set it myself, my lord chirurgeon,” I said. “Under the direction of a physician of Tiberium.”
    “You did well enough.” He beckoned. “Come, then, and let me have a look.”
    Joscelin left the room when the Eisandine chirurgeon examined me. For all his brusqueness, his touch was gentle and impersonal. He kept his head bowed, and made no comment until it was done.
    “I saw worse, among the others,” he said, washing his hands in a basin. “Her majesty sent me last night. Wouldn’t have thought so, if I understood aright what you’ve undergone. Comfrey, and oil of lavender-I’ll have my assistant make a salve. But you’re healing anew, where they’ve scarred. Your tissues ... Kushiel’s gift?”
    “Yes.” Sitting up, I smoothed my skirts over my knees. “If you want to call it that.”
    He nodded, an unexpected compassion in his grey eyes. “I’ve heard. I’ll give you a