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were expected.
    “Welcome, travellers!” It was a young female acolyte who met us in the courtyard, fresh-faced and pretty. She made a formal bow, hands in the sleeves of her short brown robe. My weary mare lowered her head and blew a soft equine snort. “Ah, poor thing.” The acolyte stepped forward, laying consoling hands on my mount’s lathered neck.
    “Sister priestess,” I said. “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and this is my consort, Joscelin Verreuil. Might we speak with Brother Selbert?”
    The acolyte, who had lain her cheek alongside my mare’s, glanced up with a start. “Oh! Oh yes, of course.” She smiled. “He is expecting you, I think. At least he is expecting someone . If you will dismount, I will see to your horses, and he will meet you in the sanctuary proper ... oh! And the mules, of course. You have brought us ... what have you brought? Lentils, I think, and salted anchovies, ah! Thank you, thank you, my lady.”
    I watched her move among the animals and explore the mules’ panniers as I dismounted. There was an old scar at her temple, a dented crescent, faded with age. “Is there someplace where we may wash the dust of our journey from our faces, Sister?”
    “Oh!” She startled again, and laughed. “He has told me, again and again, and still I forget. ‘Liliane, offer them water!’” Her eyes were as wide and guileless as a child’s, and I understood, then, that she was a touch simple. “Yes, my lady, there is a cistern, there,” she said, pointing. “And I am not a priestess yet. Only Liliane.”
    “Thank you, Liliane.”
    “You are welcome!” She beamed at us both, then added carefully, “And I will take good care of them, I promise. Your horses and the mules.”
    I didn’t doubt it, for as she set off blithely across the courtyard toward the stables, our mounts and pack-animals fell in behind her unbidden, a string of tall beasts following nose-to-tail behind the barefoot young woman in rough-spun robes.
    Joscelin blinked. “Now there,” he said, “is one truly touched by Blessed Elua.”
    The water in the cistern was bracingly cold and refreshing. We both drank deep from the dipper, then splashed it over our hands and faces. It was a narrow, arched passageway that led to the Sanctuary of Elua, cool and dark, opening onto the splendid vista we had glimpsed from above.
    No longer small with distance, the statue of Blessed Elua stood alone in the field, tall and towering beneath the immense blue sky. His arms were outstretched, and bright poppies lapped at his granite feet. Stooping, I unfastened the buckles on my fine riding boots and unrolled my stockings. The soil was dry and crumbling beneath my bare feet.
    “We have nothing to offer,” I murmured to Joscelin.
    He placed his own boots in the rack at the entryway. “We have ourselves.”
    There is a stillness that comes upon one in sacred places. Hand in hand, we crossed the field of wild poppies, crushing sweet grass and pale green leaves beneath our tread. Elua smiled in welcome as we entered his long shadow, a smile as sweet and guileless as his acolyte’s. His left palm, extended in offering, bore the deep gash of Cassiel’s dagger. It had been his answer to the One God’s arch-herald, who bade him take his place in Heaven. Elua had smiled then, too, and borrowed Cassiel’s dagger. Scoring his palm, he let his blood fall in scarlet drops, and anemones blossomed where it fell. My grandfather’s Heaven is bloodless: and I am not. Let him offer a better place, where we may love and sing and grow as we are wont, where our children and our children’s children may join us, and I will go . I knelt at the base of the statue with a wordless prayer, my skirts spilling in billows over the twining foliage, the petals of crimson satin with their velvet-black stamens, vivid as the mote in my eye. Bowing my head, I pressed my lips against the sun-warmed granite of Blessed Elua’s feet.
    “Phèdre nó Delaunay.”
    It was a man’s voice that spoke my name, gentle as a breeze. Rising, I turned and saw him, Elua’s priest, clad in blue robes the color of the summer sky, with the handsome, austere features of Siovale. His eyes, like the leaves of the poppies, were a pale silvery-green, and his light brown hair fell down his back in a single cabled braid.
    “Brother Selbert,” I acknowledged him.
    “Yes.” He smiled. “I have been expecting you.”
    From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin rise