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me, Phèdre; what would you have me do? I did not make the curse.”
    I looked away, shaking my head. I would never, so long as I lived, understand her. “Nor did you make the slave-traders, my lady. And yet they have taken your son.”
    “Yes.” The word dropped like a stone from her lips. I looked back at her, seeing her pale and steady. “Do not mistake me. I played a game and lost, and Kushiel has called the reckoning. Would you have me say it?” The awful knowledge was still emblazoned in her. “I will. I was a fool. I never believed Kushiel would exact his payment in innocent blood.”
    “No?” There were tears in my eyes; I blinked them away, laughing mirthlessly. “Oh, my lady, your games have always ended in the blood of innocents!”
    Melisande stood very still, watching me, and what she thought, I could not have said to save my life. With terrifying gentleness, she took my shoulders, lowered her head and kissed me; softly, fleeting. A brush of lips, no more. It was enough. “You have always offered yours willingly, Phèdre. And that, my dear, is the difference.”
    When all was said and done, she knew me far, far too well.
    I swayed on my feet, stung to the heart by the piercing sweetness of her kiss, understanding, at last, why Benedicte de la Courcel had been willing to commit high treason for her, why so many others had done the same.
    Melisande smiled, faint and rueful, her eyes filled with infinite regret. “I have only done what I was born to do. If the gods did not want it, they should not have made me. It seems they repent of their error, since they have made you instead. You have your myth and your guide, Phèdre nó Delaunay. Go to Iskandria, and see my son loosed from the snare of Kushiel’s vengeance. You have served your warning. I will heed it, and abide in this place. The stakes have grown too high. I am afraid of losing.”
    “My lady.” I bowed my head, carrying the weight of her sorrow, her kiss lingering on my lips. I wanted to cry, still, and knew not why. “My lady, I swear to you, he will be found.”
    As she had at the beginning, Melisande Shahrizai closed her beautiful eyes. “Blessed Elua grant it may be so,” she whispered, and it was the truest prayer I ever heard her utter. And then her eyes opened, and she spoke a single word. “Go.”
    I went.

Twenty-Nine
    JOSCELIN WAS waiting in the Temple.
    He raised his head as I entered, and the sight of him was like a star in a dark place. I walked straight into his arms and felt them enfold me, walling out the world. Priestesses and their attendants paused, staring, as I leaned my brow against his chest. He held me close, resting his cheek against my hair.
    “It is done, then?” I heard him murmur.
    I freed myself reluctantly, taking his hands. “It is done. Thank you.” I took a breath. “I have the name of a guide, and an address in Iskandria. We should see Master Brenin’s man at the Banco Tribune regarding the notes of promise, and book our passage. It would be ... it would be wise to see Ricciardo Stregazza, too. I trust him to see the guard doubled on Melisande’s confinement.”
    Joscelin raised his eyebrows. “You think she may flee?”
    “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “It is in her heart to take matters into her own hands. I think I have convinced her otherwise, but I am not fool enough to trust her word in it.”
    “Then we will see it done,” Joscelin said calmly.
    We did.
    It is a long sea-journey, from La Serenissima to Iskandria; the longest I have ever taken. Moreover, we were unable to book passage on short notice for a vessel with capacity for our horses, and must needs leave them in Ricciardo’s care. This he offered graciously, and while I was sorry to leave them behind, I knew they would be well tended at his estate of Villa Gaudio on the Serenissiman mainland. It was pleasant to visit with Ricciardo’s wife Allegra, with whom I had enjoyed a regular correspondence these ten years’ past.
    Most astonishing were their offspring, Sabrina and Lucio, whom I remembered as mere children. The former was a serious young woman of seventeen years, the latter a tall, ebullient lad of fifteen who chattered incessantly about which noblemen’s club he would join when he came of age, reckoning the merits of each on his fingers.
    “You’ve none of your own, then?” Allegra watched my amazement with gentle amusement. “They do grow up, you know.”
    “So I see,” I replied. “It’s