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of the women of Tisaar to know it, and hide no longer from the Will of God, who has forgotten you these long centuries!”
    It gave Hanoch pause. His dark eyelids flickered, and his men glanced uneasily at one another. “Nonetheless,” he said, then, resolve firming. He pointed with the tip of his sword toward the closed door of the temple at our backs. “Therein lies the Holiest of Holies, and the way is barred to you. I am content. Adonai’s silence speaks. You will return with us to Tisaar, and face judgement.”
    Joscelin crossed his forearms and bowed, steel flashing in the rising sun. His daggers rode at his hips, his sword-hilt over his shoulder. Cassiline discipline held immaculate. No one watching would guess the ragged state of his hands, his bone-deep exhaustion. “My lord captain,” he said in Habiru. “Do not do this thing. I am loathe to shed blood in this place. Let my lady Phèdre at least seek audience with the priest of Aaron’s line.”
    Hanoch ben Hadad hesitated again, then shook his head. “No,” he said, gesturing with his sword, and the line of Sabaean soldiery advanced a step, raising hide shields studded with ancient bronze. “I am sorry, D’Angeline. You are a valiant warrior, if your battle with the Shamsun tells any tale. But the way is barred to you. Adonai’s will is clear.”
    I stole a glance over my shoulder. The temple doors remained adamantly closed.
    “As you say,” Joscelin said gently, and his daggers sang free of their sheaths, crossed before him and shining like a star, blood trickling down the insides of his wrists. “Nonetheless. I have sworn a vow.”
    “Not to Adonai,” replied the Sabaean captain. “Not to the Lord of Hosts, my friend.”
    “No.” Joscelin smiled, and in the rising light of dawn, his eyes were the blue of summer skies over the fields of Terre d’Ange. “To his once-faithful servant Cassiel, whose memory is more true than God’s. And I ... I protect and serve.”
    Hanoch ben Hadad shook his bronze-helmed head. “It will be your death, D’Angeline.”
    “So be it.” At the sealed mouth of the temple, birds sang, the sun-warmed foliage released its green scent, and Joscelin Verreuil settled into a defensive stance, sounding almost careless. “It is the death I have spent a lifetime earning.”
    Something like regret crossed Hanoch ben Hadad’s face before he raised his shield and set his sword, its worn bronze honed to a killing edge. “Take them!”
    Spreading their line to flank Joscelin, the Sabaeans advanced at his command.
    So close; so close ! I felt the presence of a great mystery hovering near, almost within the grasp of my reaching fingers. Almost. I turned, flinging myself recklessly against the temple door, pounding with my blistered hands to no avail. “Please,” I begged; in Habiru, in D’Angeline, in what tongue I could not say. “Name of mercy, let me but ask !” But the door remained closed and locked, and no answer was forthcoming. In the background, I heard the terrible clash of battle as Joscelin engaged ben Hadad’s men. I had no more gambits to play. It hurt, to come so near and fail. Elua, but it hurt! I sank to my knees, disbelieving my own failure.
    “Lady.” A hand closed on my shoulder and a Sabaean soldier showed me the sword held loose in his grip. “This is sacred ground and no place for violence. It is over. You will come with us.”
    “No,” I whispered. “Please, no.”
    And Imriel de la Courcel screamed.
    It was the sound that had rent the night in the zenana , in the plains of Drujan, in Yevuneh’s house; the sound of terror, pure and unadulterated, shrill and piercing and unbearable to the ear, bone-chilling and awful. His face was white as bleached linen, his pupils black and dilated. Moving with unexpected speed, he put himself between us, wrenched the sword from the startled soldier’s grasp and slashed fiercely at him with a two-handed grip. “ Leave her alone !”
    “Adonai!” The soldier took a step back, clutching his thigh where the tip of Imriel’s blade had grazed it. Others paused and stared, exchanging glances. Joscelin stood motionless, frozen in the ring of space his sword had cleared, his face a study in horror.
    Hanoch ben Hadad grimaced. “Hold him at bay,” he ordered the men surrounding Joscelin. He strode toward us, sunlight glinting off the worn, deadly edge of his bronze sword, and anger was like a storm on his face. “Boy,” he said grimly, pointing