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spicy stews passed with spongy bread for the dipping, we ate with our fingers and told of the Melehakim, and what had passed in the land of Saba. And old Shoanete listened and nodded her head in approval, watching from the corner of her yellowed eye as Tifari Amu sat modestly beside her tall granddaughter. I made much of his bravery. Kaneka snorted, appearing to be unimpressed, but I saw how she eyed him consideringly.
    Love as thou wilt , I whispered, the Name of God throbbing on my tongue.
    Imriel resumed old friendships with ease, greeting his playmates in the village. He was half-clad like the rest of them before the night was over, stripped to his breeches and spatchcocked in color, with his face and arms tanned by the sun-although he’d peeled like a snake while he healed, his sunburn had faded-and his torso milk-white. They darted in and out of the unwalled structure, splashing one another, playing some children’s game of tag with the veils of water dripping from the eaves, the older taunting the younger, boys baiting the girls. And it was good-ah, Elua, it was good!-to see Imriel de la Courcel at child’s play, shouting with laughter like any other boy his age.
    “Would that it could remain thus,” Joscelin murmured to me.
    “I know,” I said, leaning into his arm to kiss him. “I know, love.”
    Kaneka leaned over, hearing us. “He looks well, the boy,” she said shrewdly. “Your company suits him, little one. Who would have thought it, when he spat in your face? I myself had wagered he would not withstand the next round of the Mahrkagir’s attention.”
    “You never told me that, Fedabin,” I said, stiffening.
    She laughed and patted my cheek. “Do not be so quick to anger! Who could have guessed what you were, in Daršanga? The omens were there, but I had lost the will to read them.” She felt at Joscelin’s arm, then, openly admiring. “And you, lord Joscelin. A leopard among wolves. You have healed well.”
    “Well enough, my lady Kaneka.” He smiled quietly. “Not as before, but well enough to serve.”
    “Then he serves you well enough, little one?” Kaneka nudged me, lest her meaning be lost. D’Angelines are more subtle in our banter. Her grandmother Shoanete cackled with laughter, leaning over her sticks. “You have no complaints?”
    I flushed a bright red. “No complaints, Fedabin.”
    “Good.” Kaneka settled back onto her stool, nodding to herself. “Good. It is well done, then. The story may end happily after all. It is important, for such a tale.”
    “There is hope,” I said. “For us. Where there is life, there is hope. But the others-they paid the price of our hope. Of our lives.”
    “Drucilla,” Kaneka murmured. “Jolanta, Nazneen, Erich, Rushad ... yes, and others, so many others. Do not fear, little one. I have not forgotten. I will tell their stories too, and their sacrifices will be remembered. The zenana of Daršanga will live in my stories, in all its desperate courage. And it may be, as Amon-Re wills, that their tales will ensure such a thing may never come to pass in Jebe-Barkal. But it is important, little one, that hope endures. For when it fails-thus are the gates of despair opened, and one such as Lord Death enters the world. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Yes, Fedabin. I understand.”
    We spent several days in Debeho, and I was as loathe to leave then as I had been before. It may sound foolish, but there are few places I have been happier. What appeared to be mud and squalor to the untrained eye was a community rich in kindness, possessed of a wealth of knowledge. They treated us generously, giving unstintingly of what they had, and we left Debeho with clean, dry garments, our tents patched and oiled, our stores replenished with unperishable goods and our mounts well tended.
    And in all these exchanges, I beheld the Name of God, writ in unknowable letters.
    “It is the last parting,” Kaneka said, embracing me before we left. “I knew you would return. Ah, take care, take care, little one! I will miss you.”
    “And I, you.” I smiled at her. “Be well, Kaneka.” I glanced toward our caravan, where Tifari Amu watched our farewell with a hunter’s tender patience. “And if any of our number do return, I pray you treat them gently.”
    Kaneka laughed. “Will you never be done meddling?”
    “Probably not,” I admitted.
    “Ah, well.” She eyed Tifari sidelong, considering. “If the Ras’