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breath in a long whistle, and began the work of translating the story to Imriel. I sat thinking, watching flies circle the honey-pot.
    “It may be, my lady Yevuneh,” I said at length. “Though I am sorry to hear that the women of the Melehakim do not take up the sundered ends of the chain they let fall. But all knowledge is worth having, and these stories are new to me. Of Moishe’s Tablets and the Ark that held them, I have heard. What is this of which you speak, this Ark of Broken Tablets?”
    “It is written ... you know such things were recorded?” she asked me.
    I nodded, thinking of the volumes of text I had read, the hours spent at the Rebbe’s feet, learning Habiru lore. How could she know? Most of it had been written long after Melek al’Hakim fled his father’s land.
    “It is written that there were two sets of tablets. The first, that were broken, were written by Adonai’s own hand,” Yevuneh said softly. “The second, that Moishe chiseled himself-those preserved the law. But the first... ah! Those held the Name of God in every syllable.”
    The hair rose at the back of my neck. “And those are here.”
    “So it is said.” She spread her hands. “I have not seen them, myself. But that is the story for which you asked. And that is the sum of our useless wisdom. One day, perhaps, Adonai will send us a sign to make atonement. In a thousand years, it has not come.”
    There came a knock at the door; I daresay all of us startled. Yevuneh’s maidservant went to see who it was, and came to fetch her mistress. Presently Yevuneh returned, looking grave.
    “The Elders will see you.”

Seventy-Three
    OUR MEETING with the Sanhedrin of Elders was long and fruitless.
    I told the story well, or so I thought; Hyacinthe’s story, the story of the Master of the Straits, the misbegotten son of Rahab, the One God’s unrelenting curse, and why I came seeking the Sacred Name. Some of it needed no explanation. Rahab, they knew, and the Book of Raziel, from whence came his powers. But as for the rest...
    A thousand years and more, the Sabaeans had been closeted in the far south of Jebe-Barkal. Of my own country, of the schism between Terre d’Ange and Alba, they knew nothing, nor what it signified. Of blessed Elua himself, they knew nothing. And of his begetting-
    “You mean to say,” one of the Elders frowned, “this man, this Yeshua ben Yosef, was acknowledged the Mashiach and the Son of Adonai?”
    “Yes, my lord.” I gave him my best curtsy. “So it is said, by the Yeshuites; that is, by the descendants of the other Eleven Tribes. Even now, they undertake to follow Yeshua’s will in carving out a new homeland, far to the north even of my home. So many say, although not all believe.”
    “Adonai!” He breathed the word like a sacrament. “Is it truly so?”
    “We hid, Bilgah,” another of the Elders reminded him. “Until Adonai Himself despaired of the gifts He had given His people. How not? He presumed us lost. Might He not send the Mashiach to lead those who remained?”
    “Say it is not so!” Bilgah the Elder clutched his temples. “I would rather believe Adonai turned His face from us in anger than forgot us!”
    So it went, on and on. For Hyacinthe and his plight, they cared little. The news we had brought, a thousand years old, overshadowed aught else. For my own part, I will own, I was shaken. Could it be so, that the birth of Yeshua himself was owed to the folly of the Melehakim, who failed in upholding their Covenant? I do not know. I did not know then, nor ever did I. The politics of gods are beyond mortal ken. In the end, I could only cling to that which I did know; that I was D’Angeline, and a scion of Blessed Elua. And no matter how the story is told or who tells it, his begetting was a thing unforeseen, for mortal love-the love of Yeshua ben Yosef and the Magdalene-played a role in it. And that is a thing, I believe, no god may control.
    Love as thou wilt .
    So I waited, until the Elders of Saba paused in their quarrels, and made another deep curtsy, Joscelin bowing low beside me. “My lords,” I said softly. “You have heard my tale, and my plea. Know this. My friend who has taken this sacrifice upon himself grows older with each day that passes-aging, and undying. Now, he is young, still, if one may bear such power and retain youth. One day, he will not be; and one day, madness will come for him. You hold in your hands the key to his freedom. Will you not lend it to