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his blade at a defiant Imriel, “the price for the blood you have spilled on the temple’s doorstep is death.”
    It was like a dream, a terrible dream.
    As in a dream, I felt here and not here, myself and not myself. Unthinking, I rose from my knees and pushed Imriel behind me, gazing up at the Sabaean captain. “I brought him here,” I said, and it sounded to my ears as if a stranger had spoken. “I am responsible.” I could hear the din of Joscelin’s renewed efforts to break free of the soldiers who surrounded him. It seemed very far away. In all my musings on love, there was one I had not numbered. I had not reckoned on Imriel. There was no god’s prompting here; only love, simple and unadorned. I understood, too late, what it meant to put the self aside. Still, there was one way left, and it was a way that ever stands open. It would not gain me the Name of God, but it would gain Imriel’s life. “If the price is death, I will pay it.”
    For a moment, he bowed his head, then straightened and raised his sword. “You are the author of this blasphemy, and it is a dire transgression you have committed here. Better you should die and be shriven of it. I will accept the bargain.”
    I watched sunlight glint along the blade. “And you will spare the boy?”
    Hanoch ben Hadad paused, then nodded. “In Adonai’s mercy, I will.”
    So, I thought, this is how it ends. Hyacinthe, forgive me. I tried my best.
    “Phèdre, no !”
    “ Phèdre !”
    The first shout was Joscelin’s, raw with anguish, searing my heart.
    Almost, almost it was enough to sway me from my purpose. It was the second call that did it, Imriel’s voice; not terrified, but taut and urgent. Behind me, I heard the clatter of a sword dropping as he grabbed my elbow with one hand, fingers digging into my flesh as he pointed past me at the temple door.
    It was open.
    The priest of Aaron’s line stood in the doorway, silent and watching, with bare feet and a white linen robe trimmed in blue and scarlet and purple, shimmering with gold thread. Hanoch ben Hadad put up his sword, taking two uncertain steps backward, his face blank with confusion. In the silence that followed, all fighting ceased. A few yards away, Joscelin abandoned the scene of battle, walking past the stunned soldiers to join us. We looked at one another, he and I.
    “All right, then,” he said simply. “Go ask him, Phèdre.”
    I let out a shuddering breath. “I will.”
    No one else moved as I approached the priest. He was neither young nor old, but somewhere in between, his closed mouth smiling amid an unruly black beard. A mortal man, no more and no less, a frail vessel to ward such unearthly power and bear the unbroken lineage of the One God’s anger. His eyes were dark, like all Sabaeans, and the early heat brought a faint sheen of perspiration to his mahogany skin.
    “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d’Ange,” I said to him in Habiru, “and I seek to know the Name of God.”
    The priest smiled a little more and mouthed a word. There , he mouthed, pointing into the shadowy interior of the temple. In the cavity of his mouth I saw the truth of Sabaean legend, the stump of a tongue withered like a drought-stricken root. My skin prickled with nerves, and something else. I turned to face Hanoch ben Hadad.
    “My lord captain,” I said. “Will you gainsay my passage?”
    He had fallen to his knees; all the Sabaeans had, arms discarded, bowing and rocking with murmured prayers. Only Joscelin and Imriel remained standing, watching me. Joscelin’s daggers were sheathed and he held Imri close to him with one arm.
    “Well,” I said to them in D’Angeline, conscious of my own tongue and how it worked in tandem with my lips, shaping words, giving voice to my utterance. If these were to be my last words, I wished they were less banal. “I had better go, then.”
    Joscelin cleared his throat. “I suppose ... I suppose you’d better.”
    “Yes.” I nodded like an idiot. “In case I can’t tell you afterward ... well. I love you.”
    “I know,” he said. “I love you.”
    “And you,” I said to Imriel. “And you.”
    He gave a rough nod, not trusting his voice.
    “Well, then,” I addressed the priest. “Let us go.”
    And the priest of Aaron’s line smiled and bowed low, indicating the way. I stepped across the threshold of the temple into the dark interior. I heard the door close behind us, blotting out the morning sun. I stood in darkness