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The frailty of Daršanga’s ravages had concealed a wiry strength and he had, Elua be thanked, a strong constitution. While the rest of us coughed, itched, ached and stung, beset by flies and agues and thorns, Imri remained hale. The worst injury he took was a fierce sunburn from riding bareheaded in the clear morning hours, his sodden burnoose hung from his saddle to dry.
    I may say, once again, that without Tifari Amu and the others, we would have been hopelessly lost a dozen times over, wandering the highlands to catch sight of the river where it cut, deep and rushing, through gorges. Despite my best efforts to protect it, Raj Lijasu’s map got soaked in the omnipresent rains, the ink running until the markings were blurred and unreadable. In the mountains, Tifari took the lead; in the plains, it was Bizan. And the bearers-Nkuku, Yedo, Bomani and Najja-contributed in no small part.
    In this manner did we make our way north across Jebe-Barkal, mile by weary mile. We saw no other human life, which was as well, for our passage-tokens from Meroë were battered and mud-caked and wholly unrecognizable. We saw lions, at a distance, and my heart leapt at the sight. It was in the early morning, across the rain-washed plains, sun-gilded steam rising in the dawning heat of day. They’d made a kill, or found one-lions, Bizan told us, were nothing loathe to scavenge-and surrounded it, five females and a single male.
    “Look,” he said, pointing across the broad expanse of the river.
    We drew our mounts to watch them worry an antelope’s carcass, safe on the far side of the Tabara. I marked the awesome power of them, how muscles surged beneath their tawny hides. The syllables of the Name of God tolled within my mind, enumerating them in every part. One of the females lifted her bloodstained muzzle, gazing at us. The male padded to the river’s edge, pacing back and forth, shaking his massive mane.
    No wonder, I thought, meeting his golden stare across the waters. Ah, Elua, no wonder so many have seen the face of god in such a beast!
    “They are lazy,” Nkuku offered, grinning. “In his heart of hearts, he is glad we are on the other side of the river. It is the women who do the work, yes?”
    After that, the rains began again and we spoke no more, trudging through the endless mud and clambering once more into the green mountains, following the river’s gorge. Tifari’s mount contracted thrush, a disease of the vulnerable frog of the hoof, and we were laid up a day while Najja brewed a foul poultice of roots he swore would draw out the infection. Our tents leaked, the blood-flies came in clouds and tempers grew surly. What else is there to say? It was a miserable journey.
    And like all journeys, it had an end.
    I failed to recognize the spreading eucalyptus trees as we descended from the highlands onto another expanse of plains. It was afternoon, and raining, clouds piled in thunderheads as far as the eye could see. We made camp that night and dined on strips of half-smoked gazelle meat from a kill two days old.
    And on the morrow, we reached a place where a solidly built village of mud huts stood alongside the swollen Tabara River.
    “Debeho,” said Tifari Amu, smiling faintly.
    It goes without saying that our welcome was a joyous one. It was a damp one, to be sure; no place is immune from the rains in Jebe-Barkal. But the village turned out as if we were its own. Shoanete herself came out to meet us, hobbling on her sticks. And Kaneka! She looked like a veritable queen, with water streaming down her Akkadian finery. I flung both arms around her, glad of her tall strength, glad beyond words to see her.
    “Ah, little one.” Her voice rumbled in her chest, and she held me off to look at me. “You found it, didn’t you?”
    “Yes.” I wanted to laugh and cry at once. “I did.”
    “Well.” Her teeth gleamed in a smile as one hand rose to clasp the leather pouch at her throat. “My dice always speak true. I knew you were special. You will have stories to tell my grandmother, yes? I have a vested interest in such matters, now.”
    “We have stories, Fedabin.” I gripped her forearms, smiling. “Oh, yes, you may be sure of it! We have stories.”
    And we told them, all that day and night, while the folk of Debeho feasted us and the rains drummed on the tight-woven thatch of their central hall, an unwalled building plastered with sun-baked mud. Beneath the roof, it was nearly dry. While communal dishes of