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cool depths, plunging my whole head into the waters and drinking my fill, until my parched throat was slaked at last and my belly filled with water, as much water as it could hold.
    “No, lady.” Mek Timmur held me back, grasping my camel’s reins and shaking his head, looking sorrowful. “It is illusion. Only illusion.”
    I didn’t believe him, not at first. After another hour’s march, when the shimmering lake remained at the self-same distance, I began to believe. And then he adjusted our course, moving slightly to the east, and the “lake” faded, giving way to barren rock. Then, I believed.
    Onward and onward. Our water-skins ran dry, and we had to breach one of the casks, huddling around to share it out among us, lest a drop be spilled. At night, my mouth was so dry I could hardly chew the strips of dried meat. Our camels plodded through deep sand and scree, staggering on the loose pebbles. How long had it been? A week, Kaneka had estimated. It felt like far longer. Despite the best care of the guides-and they were good, if the stories I’ve heard were any indication-one of the camels foundered, wallowing on the desert floor. Imriel, angry and bitter, would have wept if he’d had the moisture for tears.
    And slowly, slowly, the signs of life reemerged.
    First were a few stunted mimosa trees, ragged shrubs struggling for life. We hailed them with shouts of joy. On the next to last day, we saw a pair of gazelles, startling and unlikely, bounding southward at our approach.
    On the last day, I could smell the river.
    One would not suppose, being odorless, that the scent of water could travel so far. In an arid land, believe me, it does. My lord Delaunay trained me to use my nose no less than any other sense, and it was I who scented it first, the sweet, life-giving presence of moisture carried on the air.
    We had regained the Nahar.
    It was different, far different, from the broad, gracious expanse on which we had sailed upon our feluccas. Here it was younger and swifter, nearer to its source, and there were fewer settlements upon its banks, which were not nearly so lush.
    Still, it was water, and life.
    We had crossed the desert.

Sixty-Seven
    FROM THE banks of the Nahar, it was another several days’ journey to Meroë, which lay at the juncture of two Great Rivers-the Nahar, which we had travelled, and the Tabara, which led further south. After the forced march across the desert, this leg of the journey was nearly leisurely. Day in and day out, we drank our fill of water. I never thought it would seem such a luxury.
    There were villages along the way, albeit small and struggling. Here we traded for flat-bread and milk, augmenting our diet. And there was game, at last. Mek Timmur and the others hunted, bringing in gazelle, which we ate half-cooked and bloody. ’Twas not to my taste, to be sure. And yet it was better than one might expect. Deprivation is a sharp sauce for hunger.
    With our schedule returned to something resembling normalcy, Joscelin resumed the practice of his Cassiline exercises-morning and night, tireless and diligent. It may be that I saw only what I desired, but I thought he was regaining a measure of his old fluid grace. Of a surety, ’twas meaningless without an opponent; and yet the forms were there.
    So we made our way to Meroë, and with each mile that passed, Kaneka and Safiya’s excitement grew. Their long homecoming was at last becoming a reality.
    We had to cross the river to reach the city, a dubious crossing on a vast, swaying bridge that hung suspended over the rapids. I will own, I was nervous, as our camels strung out in a long line, proceeding one after the other, Mek Timmur going first to argue the tariff on the far side. Nonetheless, the crossing was made without incident.
    We had reached Meroë, the capital city of Jebe-Barkal.
    As the desert has its own harsh beauty, Meroë has its splendor. Bordered on either side by broad, rushing rivers, it is nearly an island unto itself, afforded natural protection and ready irrigation. On the outskirts of the city lie the royal cemeteries, looming pyramids of reddish mud-brick that challenge the brilliant blue skies, awing the weary traveller. Inside was the city proper, a busy and bustling place, with temples raised to the many gods of Menekhet and indeed, as Safiya told us, to other gods native to Jebe-Barkal, such as lion-headed Apamedek and Kharkos the Hunter, who wielded two bows in his four arms.
    At the heart of