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would not give it now, not to this errant servant of the One God who had brought so much pain to someone I loved.
    “Rahab, by the binding of your own curse, I summon you here!”
    Brilliance erupted from the sea, gouts of water spewing into the sky, falling in shining cascades to shape a form so magnificent it made me want to weep, vaster and more noble than anything dreamt by mortal flesh. The Face of the Waters shaped by the Master of the Straits was but a pale echo of this form, which towered above the cliffs. Sunlight gleamed on its translucent shoulders as it inclined its massive head, sea-green locks falling about its face like rivers.
    Not his true form, not yet.
    I swallowed hard. “Rahab. In the Name of God, I summon you here.”
    And the world ... shifted .
    It is said that among a hundred artists who saw them living, not a one captured the beauty of Blessed Elua and his Companions. I did not know, before, how such a thing could be. I have known the Scions of Elua. I spent the earliest part of my life in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, where they have bred for beauty for a thousand generations. I understood it, now.
    The angel Rahab manifested on the waters.
    His beauty was like a sword unsheathed, bright as sun-struck steel and twice as hard. It hurt to behold him. Every bone, every articulated joint, was shaped with terrible purpose. The span of his brow held all the grace of the moon’s curve rising above the sea’s horizon. In the hollows of his eyes were the shadows of grottos no human gaze would ever behold. Whether he was fair or dark, I could not say, for his flesh shone with a brilliance that owed nothing to our limited understanding of light, and his hair was at once like tarnished water, like kelp, like the corona of an eclipsed sun.
    “ You have summoned me .”
    The words rang like silver chimes, piercing the innermost membranes of my ears. If a voice could sound like the dazzle of sunlight on the waters, on all the waters of the world, refracting and multiplying a thousandfold, Rahab’s did.
    If Hyacinthe had not stood behind me, I would have fled for dry land.
    “Rahab.” I licked my lips, tasting salt and fear. “I bid you to relinquish your curse.”
    Slow and inevitable, his head rose like the evening star ascending through twilight, chin raised in defiance. The shape of his lips was cruel and remorseless, formed by the dying utterance of every sailor ever drowned at sea. And his eyes-ah, Elua! They were white as bone, and yet they saw , and saw and saw. When the One God ordered the seas to part for Moishe, when the whale swallowed Yehonah, those eyes were already ancient. In those eyes, Blessed Elua was a babe-in-arms.
    “ My curse .”
    On the waters, of the waters, the angel Rahab extended his arms. Manacles encircled his wrists, a heavy chain running betwixt them, wrought of granite, it seemed, or more; something more adamant than stone, more dense than any substance mortal hands might wield, each link forged and sealed by the divine alphabet. Rippling and shifting, Rahab’s immortal flesh shone against those bonds, the only constraint to his power, confining him to the sea and the One God’s will. He held out his hands toward me, showing his chains, the cruel mouth shaping words that rang with beauty.
    “ For as long as G-d’s punishment endures, so does my curse. I have sworn it .”
    The water grew soft under my feet, and I floundered again, sputtering. The waves rose once more, tall and raging, and seawater filled my mouth, salt as blood and more bitter. I lost my footing, and a great swell swamped me, turning me over until I could not say which way was up and it seemed the ocean would have me, hauling at the waterlogged folds of my gown with a tremendous force. Struggle though I would, the water’s pull was stronger. My lungs burned, and I could not catch my breath.
    As if from a great distance, I heard a voice cry my name, high and clear and urgent. “Phèdre! Phèdre!”
    Imriel.
    Young and unbroken, his voice carried over the waters, as it had carried over the battle in the Mahrkagir’s festal hall, over the thunderous clamor of the rhinoceros’ charge, outside the doors of the temple. And I knew, then, which way lay life, and love. I found my feet in the sinking waters, and heard Hyacinthe, repeating the charm like a curse, filled with all the fury and defiance of the lost years of his life.
    I stood with an effort, dripping.
    “On pain of