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gilt-hinged door, the priestess of the Elect giving the double knock and announcing my name in the soft, slurring Caerdicci dialect they use in that city. It was the same room, filled with slanting sunlight and the soft splashing of an unseen fountain. The sound of the door closing, leaving us alone, was the same. Even the fragrance was the same; a little deeper, in summer, of water and sun-warmed marble and flowering shrubs, and the scent, the faint, musky spice I would have known anywhere, could have picked blindfolded out of a crowd, the unique fragrance of Melisande, who stood waiting.
    And the wave, the wave of emotion was the same, hatred and love and desire, cracking my heart to bits and grinding the fragments. Only this time, I saw the fear in her eyes. And this time, I knelt.

Twenty-Eight
    “TELL ME.”
    Melisande’s eyes closed, lids dusky with blue veins, shuttered against the pain. I have done such a thing myself. I have seen it in others. I had never seen it in Melisande. I had been right to come alone. Her lashes curled like ebony wave-crests. I am D’Angeline. I cannot fail to notice such things.
    “There was,” I said, searching for words, “no conspiracy.”
    Her eyes opened. “What, then?”
    I told her.
    What I had expected, I cannot say. She bore it; she bore it well. I do not think anyone who knew her less than I-and who that may be, I do not know-would have seen her flinch, would have seen the awful comprehension that filled the deep-blue wells of her eyes. It struck her hard. Any mortal enemy she could have outwitted, outplotted. Not this. Not random chance, and the shadow of Kushiel’s hand overhanging it.
    “He is alive?” It was the first thing she said, the first she was able to say, forced between clenched teeth.
    “I believe him to be so.” The marble floor was hard beneath my knees, the discomfort of it lending me focus. “The Menekhetan saw his value. He paid in hard coin. By that token, I believe Imriel lives.”
    Melisande took a step, two steps. One hand reached out, entangled in my hair, wrenching my head upright. My neck straining, I stared upward, meeting her blazing eyes. I felt my breath shallow in my lungs, my heart beating fast and hard. I should have withdrawn from her, pulled away. To save my life, I couldn’t do it. She had been my patron, once; the only one to whom I ever wholly surrendered. In a way I shuddered to acknowledge, Melisande’s very touch was imprinted on my soul, and I felt her pain as my own. “You are sure?” she asked softly, searching my face. “You are very, very sure of this tale, Phèdre nó Delaunay?”
    “The Carthaginians were put to torture,” I whispered. “My lady, I watched it. I asked the questions myself. I’m sorry. But I am very, very sure.”
    She let me go and turned away. Bereft of her grip, I wavered on my knees. I gazed at her back, heard her murmur a single word. “Kushiel.”
    “Yes.” My voice was hoarse, my throat thick with desire and compassion.
    Melisande’s head bowed. Whatever else one may say of her, she never lacked for courage. I knelt in silence, knowing what she knew. I have lived through the thetalos in the cavern of the Temenos. I know what it is to confront blood-guilt. Never for a child of my birth. That I will never know.
    “They will pay.” Her voice was flat, her hands fisted at her sides. “The Carthaginians, the ones who began it... they are dead men.”
    “My lady.” I cleared my throat, found my voice. “It is done. Their heads were adorning spikes in the Plaza del Rey ere we left Amílcar.”
    “So.” Her shoulders slumped; only a fraction. It was enough. I saw. Straightening, she crossed the room and opened the coffer, the same one that had held the Jebean scroll. “I promised you the name of a guide.”
    I rose to accept it, unfolding in the single, elegant motion I was taught in the Night Court. Our fingers brushed as she handed me a scrap of vellum. I glanced down to see an unfamiliar name, an address.
    “He hires out to guide caravans from Menekhet to Jebe-Barkal,” Melisande said without inflection. “I am assured that he knows where to find the descendents of Saba. I cannot swear it is true, but my information is good. There is only so much I can do, here.”
    “Thank you.” The words sounded stupid. I felt stupid. She gave a bitter smile.
    “You have done what I asked, Phèdre nó Delaunay. I was not wrong to choose you.” Her eyes searched my face again.