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Asherat-of-the-Sea with its gilded domes. We disembarked at the bustling Campo Grande, where no one looked strangely at three D’Angelines in Jebean attire. I listened to the merchants’ cries as they hawked their wares in a babble of competing tongues, understanding more than I ever had before. In front of the Temple, the eunuchs stood impassive with their ceremonial spears. They had chosen to be unmanned, or so it was said. I thought of Rushad and Erich the Skaldi, and wondered how Uru-Azag was faring in the city of Nineveh.
    “Well?” Joscelin laid a hand on my shoulder. Imriel stuck close by his side, unmoved by the marvels of the marketplace of the Campo Grande. The shadow of fear was back in his eyes. “Are you ready?”
    “You’re sure?” I asked Imri.
    He nodded slowly despite his fear, his jaw setting with a familiar stubbornness.
    “Yes,” I said to Joscelin. “We’re ready.”

Eighty-Seven
    “ IMRIEL .”
    One word, nothing more; half-breathed, a plea, an involuntary prayer. If I could, I would have stopped my ears against the depths of emotion in it-pain, sorrow, remorse and a relief so keen it made my heart ache. I couldn’t bear to look at her.
    Imriel stood still and tense within her chambers, his face bloodless beneath its tan. “Mother.”
    Melisande glanced swiftly at me, and I had to look at her. “He knows,” I said. “Ysandre’s men told him. One of them lost a brother at Troyes-le-Mont.”
    The knowledge was bitter to her. I watched her absorb it like a blow, the smooth eyelids flickering. Why was it that nothing on earth seemed to mar her beauty? Time had only burnished it; grief only deepened it. “I am sorry,” she said to Imriel. “Believe me when I tell you I am so very sorry for what you have endured.”
    “Why?” He took a step forward, quivering with rage and tears. “ Why ?”
    It was the question, the child’s eternal question, directed at last to one who had much for which to answer. Melisande bore it unflinching. “Oh, Imriel,” she said softly. “So many reasons, and so few. Would you know them all? It would be a long time in the telling.”
    “People died because of you!” he spat.
    “Yes.” Her voice was steady. “And people have died because of Ysandre de la Courcel, and because of Phèdre nó Delaunay, too. Messire Verreuil here has dispatched a good many of them himself. Do you despise them because of it?”
    “No.” Imriel sounded uncertain. Joscelin shot a concerned look at me, and I shook my head imperceptibly. “That’s different.”
    “It’s different because you know their story, their side of the story.” Melisande’s face was impossibly calm. “You don’t know mine. You have asked. Will you hear it?”
    We were standing, all of us, at odd angles to one another, awkward and formal. Winter sunlight filled the marbled chambers and a pair of charcoal braziers provided warmth. In the background, the unseen fountain splashed. Imriel turned to me, tears in his eyes.
    “I don’t want to know,” he said in Jeb’ez. “I shouldn’t have asked. Do I have to listen?”
    “No.” I shook my head. “The choice is yours.”
    “Is it true?”
    I regarded Melisande, whose gaze had sharpened upon hearing her son address me in an unfamiliar tongue. “Yes,” I said to Imriel in D’Angeline. “It is true. Every story has two sides, even your mother’s.”
    Joscelin shifted, but offered no comment.
    Imriel stared at his mother.
    There was no escaping the resemblance between them, nor ever would be. The shape of his chin, he’d got from his father, and the straight line of his brows. Everything else was hers-the elegant bones of his face, the clear brow, the generous, sensual mouth, the blue-black hair that fell in ripples rather than curls. And the eyes, Elua, the eyes!
    “No,” he said finally, his voice harsh. “I know enough. I don’t want to hear more.”
    Melisande inclined her head. “It is as you wish, Imriel. Remember it is there.”
    He turned back to me. “Can we go, now?”
    “Yes,” I said. “If it’s what you want.”
    He nodded, his face sick and pleading.
    “Then go with Joscelin,” I said gently. “You can make an offering to Asherat-of-the-Sea, who once saved my life. I will stay a moment, and speak with your mother.”
    They went, Imriel placing his hand trustingly in Joscelin’s, Joscelin gave me a dour warning glance as they went, but never spoke a word. And Melisande watched them go, and I felt