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With my aid as translator, Tifari Amu spoke before the Sanhedrin of Elders, assuring them that he bore no ill-will for the misunderstanding, giving them cordial greetings on behalf of Ras Lijasu of Meroë, grandson of Queen Zanadakhete. The Sanhedrin heard him out, eyeing me all the while.
    And he spoke too, he and Bizan, to the Council of Women that Yevuneh had assembled, and that was a merrier affair, for Bizan flirted incorrigibly with the unwed women in terms that required little translation.
    Whatever else would transpire in the days to come, Saba would not be the same. The Covenant of Wisdom had been reclaimed, and it had given a measure of power back unto the hands of Sabaean women. I did not think they would hold it lightly. How they would balance this new-found will with the longstanding authority of the Sanhedrin, I did not know, but if there was to be trade with Jebe-Barkal, the Council of Women meant to share in the decision.
    “You say they are no enemies, these Jebeans?” Semira asked me, frowning.
    “I say Meroë has long forgotten its quarrel with Saba, mother,” I said carefully. “As for the rest, it is for your two countries to determine.”
    “It would be nice,” she mused, “to have needles made of this steel . Yes, that would be nice, indeed.”
    We had needles among our stores; I sent Imri running to rummage in my packs. Elua knows I had no use for them. I am as handy with a needle and thread as a camel, and mayhap less so. “My lady Semira,” I said, presenting three needles of varying sizes to her . “Pray, accept them with my gratitude.”
    “My!” She held them with wrinkled fingertips, turning them this way and that to catch the light. Fine-wrought steel winked. I had to blink to keep from seeing the Name of God refracted in the splinters of light. Semira tested the strength of one. “Well-made indeed. These will pierce strong cotton without bending. Thank you, child. This is a generous gift.”
    “No.” I shook my head. “It is naught, to what you have given us.”
    “And what is that?” The old woman gave a secretive smile. “A chance? We make our own chances, child. We had the wisdom to allow Adonai to speak for Himself. Pray we remember this lesson. You have given us a sign, in turn, and an omen.” She held up the needles. “Not swords to cleave, nor armor to turn a blade, nor plows to harrow, but a needle to stitch and bind. Let this mark the beginning of Saba’s return to the greater world.”
    “Elua grant it is so,” I murmured.
    “Elua.’” she said, and laughed. “We may speak more of this Elua one day, yes, and Yeshua ben Yosef, whom the Children of Yisra-el have named the Mashiach. For myself, I think this earth-born Elua who coaxes the angels from Adonai’s heaven sounds the more interesting of the two, but perhaps that is blasphemy. I do not know. Perhaps it is a question for my children’s children’s grandchildren to settle.” Semira nudged me. “Do us a kindness, child. If there is trade, if there be routes open to Saba in your lifetime, send us word of how the tale ends.”
    “The tale?” I asked, confused. “Forgive me, my lady ...”
    “The tale! Your tale, the boy on the island, cursed to live forever.”
    “Hyacinthe,” I said, taking a deep breath.
    “Even so. The Prince of Travellers!” Semira said, remembering. “I wept to hear it. It was a true story, was it not?”
    “Yes,” I said. “It was.”
    “And you have yet to face the angel Rahab?” she asked shrewdly.
    The Sacred Name surged against my tongue. I kept my mouth shut and nodded, afraid.
    “Ah, well.” She patted my cheek. “We will pray for you, and tell your story.”
    Although I had not expected him to, Hanoch ben Hadad came to his sister’s house before we departed. It was an uncomfortable meeting. We sat across from one another at Yevuneh’s table, and Joscelin positioned himself behind my chair, his bandaged hands resting lightly on his daggers. There was no more talk of his going unarmed in the city. Hanoch stared at me with bloodshot eyes. These last days had not been easy on him. I waited him out with a growing sense of pity.
    When he broke the silence, his voice was stiff. “I acted in accordance with our law.”
    I nodded. “That is understood, my lord captain.”
    “You had no right to do what you did.” Anger surged in him, and bewildered frustration. “No right!”
    “I know,” I said gently. “But I had great need.”
    He looked