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highlander guide wished to return, he would not be unwelcome in Debeho. Does that satisfy you, little one?”
    “Yes,” I said, grinning. “It does.”
    We left quickly, then, before the rains could begin, before the sorrow could take root. It is hard, always saying farewell. What stories would Kaneka tell as she grew old? I might never know, for Debeho was far away, and Kaneka’s stories would likely never be written, but only passed from mouth to ear.
    Mayhap, one day, they would filter to Terre d’Ange, carried on some travelling poet’s lips, woven of truth and imagination, as fabulous as a Mendacant’s cloak, romances and adventures and tragedies stitched through with a gleaming strand of hope, reminding listeners to love truly, to honor the dead, to uphold the covenant of wisdom and to never, even in darkest hours, surrender to despair.
    I hoped it might be so.

Eighty-One
    WE JOURNEYED to Meroë.
    The balance of the journey does not bear telling, for it was uneventful, unless incessant rain may be considered an event. Tifari Amu was glad of heart, for I had related Kaneka’s words to him, and he pushed the pace as much as he dared. Nonetheless, it was a wet and arduous trek, and I would be happy when it had ended.
    “Remember that,” Joscelin commented, wringing out his rain-soaked chamma , “when we are in the desert.”
    By the time we reached Meroë, the rains had begun to ease. All along the flooded banks of the river, village farmers measured the waters and watched, waiting for their retreat. Once the waters had receded, they would plant cotton and millet. The sun shone brightly, longer each day, and the drenched earth steamed.
    Meroë.
    The city seemed almost like an old friend, after our long journey. Everything I saw-the mighty burial pyramids, the traders’ caravans with their long strings of camels, the inner walls of the royal palace, the embroidered capes of the soldiers, even the oliphaunts, whose platter-sized feet lifted from the mud with great sucking sounds-appeared familiar and welcome. Tifari Amu escorted us to the very hotel in which we had first stayed, and bartered with the hotel-keeper to give us the finest suite of rooms.
    “Rest here,” he said, “and avail yourself of all amenities. I must report to Ras Lijasu, but he will doubtless wish to see you on the morrow.”
    It was strange, after so long in company, to part; yet another farewell! Tifari and Bizan, we would likely see again, but not the bearers, who would take the Ras’ payment and return to their families. I kissed them all in parting, overwhelmed with emotion. Joscelin withdrew the much-shortened chain of trader’s coin he wore beneath his chamma and gave a gold link to each.
    “It is not much,” he apologized in his faltering Jeb’ez, “but only for thanks.”
    The quietest of the bearers, Bomani, tried to give it back. “It is not necessary, lord,” he said. “The Ras has paid us. And you have far to go.”
    “It is necessary,” Joscelin said firmly.
    “I will keep mine,” Nkuku said, clapping Joscelin on the back, “and remember the man who would dance with the rhinoceros! No wonder I fell into the thorns!”
    There were a good many more jests before we parted-Nkuku had some sly advice for me having to do with snakes and bathing-pools-but in time, they left. And each one made a point of bidding Imriel farewell, treating him as a near-equal.
    Well, and why not, I thought; he has earned it.
    Our rooms were spacious and pleasant and dry . I cannot convey what luxury that was, to one who had not spent countless days waterlogged and sodden. For the first time in my life, I was almost loathe to visit the baths, reveling in the absence of water against my skin. After I did, I was glad of it, and gladder still to be wrapped in a thick cotton robe, clean and blessedly dry.
    Most of our clothing, alas, was ruined, save for the peasant garb we had been given in Debeho. The Lugal’s gifts; the celadon riding-attire that Favrielle nó Eglantine had designed; the rose-silk gown with the crystal beading-all spoiled, the fabric rotted with moisture. I beheld it with dismay.
    “It’s only clothing,” Joscelin said, shrugging. “You hold the Name of God, Phèdre. Does it matter what you wear?”
    A sharp retort was forming on my tongue when a knock came at the door, proving to be a considerable train of servants sent on behalf of Ras Lijasu, who had received word of our return. And they brought with them