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from the bank. Imriel knelt in the prow.
    “There,” he whispered, spotting the Wheel low on the western horizon.
    I aligned my pointing finger with the smallest spoke. “That way.”
    The oars dipped, and the skiff glided forward. Again, and again, and again. On the shore, Tisaar fell away behind us. When we were well into the open water, I turned to glance over my left shoulder, seeking the constellation of Moishe’s Rod. There it was, with the serpent’s dangling tail disappearing beneath my line of sight.
    “We’re on course,” I whispered. “Go!”
    Joscelin wasted no words, only nodded and began to row.
    Swish, dip, pull; swish, dip, pull. Over and over, the sounds a litany unto themselves. How long? Five hours, Nemuel had estimated, marking time by the progress of the stars. By the sound of it, theirs had been a larger vessel, and heavier; but Nemuel had had six oarsmen, two for every oar, trading off in shifts of three.
    We had only the three of us.
    Truly, the lake was vast. By the first hour, we were altogether out of sight of land, at least insofar as I could see by starlight, which did not avail for distance. There were islands, from time to time, to the north and south of us. We passed them by, and returned to open water. The slow heavens revolved around us. I kept Moishe’s Rod behind my left shoulder, my arm upraised and pointing ever westward. Imriel was a shadow in the prow. So bright, the stars! Their light pinned a silvery cap on Joscelin’s fair hair, tied in a cabled braid. I could make out the ragged curve of his maimed ear.
    And I could hear his breathing grow audible in the second hour. Swish, dip, pull; a rhythm grown erratic. By the beginning of the third hour, as I gauged it, the skiff moved in steady jerks rather than a smooth glide, drifting ever southward. “Left,” I whispered to Joscelin, over and over, correcting our course. “Left!”
    He paused between strokes, breathing hard. “My arm,” he murmured, apologetic. “It’s not as strong as the right, not yet.”
    Somewhere in the third hour, we traded. It was an awkward maneuver, switching seats in the middle of the lake, hampered by darkness. I showed him our lodestone, the smallest spoke of the Wheel, and how to point the course, keeping Moishe’s Rod over his left shoulder. I could see the broken blisters on his palms as he pointed our course.
    And then I took my turn at the oars.
    It was hard, as hard as anything I have known. At first the well-worn wood seemed silken to the touch, smooth and harmless. I pushed the handles forward, dipping the oars and bracing my legs, and pulled hard against the resistance of the water. The skiff surged forward. Again, and again, and again, until I began to feel the muscles of my shoulders burn with the effort. “Left,” Joscelin corrected me, “Left ... too far! Right, Phèdre, pull right,” until I felt the grain of that silken-smooth wood, rubbing and rubbing my sweat-damp palms. It stung like fury. I thought as I rowed about all that Joscelin had done on my behalf- to protect and serve -and the sheer physical effort of it, the toll I had never reckoned.
    If it were only pain ... if it were only that, I could endure it. I rowed through the pain, feeling blisters rise and break, the pain so acute it brought on Kushiel’s crimson haze. It set my nerves to sing on edge and, for a time, gave me strength. Yet even that waned, and my muscles grew dull with fatigue.
    Swish, dip, pull.
    The blades of the oars skittered over the surface of the water. The Lake of Tears, they named it; Isis’ grief. Why was it always the goddesses who mourned? Dip . I willed the oars deeper, pulling hard. My arms trembled. Pull . The water seemed as thick as honey, the skiff moving in slow staggers.
    “Phèdre. Phèdre!”
    I leaned on the oars and stared blearily at Joscelin’s face, only exhaustion altering my vision. His expression was fraught with concern.
    “Enough,” he said softly. “ Let me.”
    “I can row.” Imriel turned around in the prow, his face gleaming in the starlight. “For a while, anyway. Let me try.”
    And so we traded places again, and I resumed mine in the stern, Joscelin going to the prow. Water sloshed along the sides of the rocking skiff. Imriel settled himself in the oarsman’s seat, his face grave and unchildish as he took up the cue of my pointing arm. I thought he would spend his strength in a rush, but he started slow and steady, getting the feel of the