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not? In the end, it was like all mysteries: Unknowable. I would worry about that, I thought, in Jebe-Barkal.
    “So?” Joscelin asked when I returned home. “What has the Rebbe to say?”
    “Little enough,” I said. “Less than I expected, though more than I might have feared. He says we must go and see for ourselves.”
    He nodded, accepting my words, his mouth twisting wryly. “Well enough, then. Melisande Shahrizai was right in one thing, at least. The scholar’s art has taken you as far as it may. We will see what answers Jebe-Barkal holds.”
    It seemed soon, too soon, to be leaving the City of Elua once more when we had only scarce returned, but my business was settled and my affairs in order, my farewells said anew. We dined that night in the garden, a quiet meal, Joscelin and Ti-Philippe and I, amid a profound air of melancholy. Young Hugues sat some distance away, playing a sad, sweet tune on his flute. He was a better musician than poet, and the soft, piping notes rose plaintively in the twilight, born on the lingering scent of sun-warmed herbs.
    Eugenie served us herself, as she had before, and if her expression was reserved, there were volumes of reproach in her eyes. I was torn in myself as I had never known, at once longing to stay, yearning to be gone.
    “Let me go with you.” Ti-Philippe came out with it at last, slamming his wineglass down on the table. Red wine slopped over the edge, staining the immaculate linen. His eyes glistened with emotion in the fairy-light of the torches. “Please, my lady. It’s a dark road, the Tsingano said so himself, and already it has taken a branching you could not have guessed. Who can say what lies ahead? Can you truly afford to turn away aid freely given? Even a Cassiline can use someone to watch his back.”
    The sound of Hugues’ flute halted. Joscelin regarded me without speaking, by which I knew he did not disagree.
    I looked at Ti-Philippe’s face, open and earnest. Of all of Phèdre’s Boys, he had always been the most easy in his manner, the one least capable of hiding aught he thought or felt. He’d sworn his loyalty to me on a whim, a jest, so long ago-and yet he’d kept it, and proved it a hundred times over. I thought of his comrades, of Remy and Fortun, and how they had died. It had taken a half-dozen of Benedicte’s men to bring down Remy, who had sung so sweetly and died cursing. And Fortun, ah! My steady Fortun, who had almost made the door, a dagger to his kidneys and another to his heart.
    These things I thought, and gazed at Ti-Philippe in the torchlight until his face wavered, and I saw him pale and dead, his throat gaping in a scarlet grin.
    “No.” The word came out harsher than I had intended. I shuddered, blinking, “No.” I said it again, with gentle firmness. “This road is not for you, Chevalier.”
    What he heard in my voice, I cannot say, but it was enough. Ti-Philippe bowed his head, unruly hair shadowing his brow. His hand closed hard around the wineglass, white at the knuckles. “So be it,” he said roughly. “My lady, I will keep your hearth until you return. But know that in my heart, I ride at your side.”
    On the marble bench where he played his flute, Hugues burst into tears.
    So it was decided.
    That night I slept, and dreamed again-the nightmare, the same I’d had before. It was the same to nearly every detail. Once again I stood in the prow of a ship, one of the swift Illyrian ships with its canted sail, my heart breaking as the stony shore of the island receded and Hyacinthe’s boyish voice cried out across the widening gulf, “Phèdre, Phèdre!” It was his voice, alive in memory, the same that had greeted me in merriment, that had dared me to steal sweets in the crowded marketplace of Night’s Doorstep, that had shouted warning when the Dowayne’s men came to fetch me back to Cereus House, tinged now with terror and loneliness.
    But the boy, the boy who wept on the shore and stretched out his arms in a futile plea, had skin the hue of new ivory and hair that fell in a blue-black shimmer, and his features were not those of Hyacinthe.
    “I am coming,” I murmured in desperate petition, thick-tongued and half awake at the greying of dawn, “I am coming.” And then I woke and knew myself in my own bed, with Joscelin asleep beside me, peaceful in repose. While I am safe, no dreams trouble his sleep. I give him nightmares enough waking. I lay awake and stared at the ceiling, wondering to which