Once the rope was untied, he shoved the skiff free of the bank, feet squelching in the mud. I held my breath as he climbed over the side, the sound of one oar scraping in its lock carrying over the quiet waters. The skiff rocked as Joscelin settled into the oarsman's seat, facing the stern of the vessel where I sat, taking my bearings against the night sky. There was the Eagle of Dân, ascendant in the tenth degree. I raised my arm and sighted along it. Our departure was timely. Joscelin dipped the oars, splashing quietly, maneuvering us away from the bank. Imriel knelt in the prow.
"There," he whispered, spotting the Wheel low on the western horizon.
I aligned my pointing finger with the smallest spoke. "That way."
The oars dipped, and the skiff glided forward. Again, and again, and again. On the shore, Tisaar fell away behind us. When we were well into the open water, I turned to glance over my left shoulder, seeking the constellation of Moishe's Rod. There it was, with the ser pent's dangling tail disappearing beneath my line of sight.
"We're on course," I whispered. "Go!"
Joscelin wasted no words, only nodded and began to row.
Swish, dip, pull; swish, dip, pull. Over and over, the sounds a litany unto themselves. How long? Five hours, Nemuel had estimated, marking time by the progress of the stars. By the sound of it, theirs had been a larger vessel, and heavier; but Nemuel had had six oarsmen, two for every oar, trading off in shifts of three.
We had only the three of us.
Truly, the lake was vast. By the first hour, we were altogether out of sight of land, at least insofar as I could see by starlight, which did not avail for distance. There were islands, from time to time, to the north and south of us. We passed them by, and returned to open water. The slow heavens revolved around us. I kept Moishe's Rod behind my left shoulder, my arm upraised and pointing ever westward. Imriel was a shadow in the prow. So bright, the stars! Their light pinned a silvery cap on Joscelin's fair hair, tied in a cabled braid. I could make out the ragged curve of his maimed ear.
And I could hear his breathing grow audible in the second hour.
Swish, dip, pull; a rhythm grown erratic. By the beginning of the third hour, as I gauged it, the skiff moved in steady jerks rather than a smooth glide, drifting ever southward. "Left," I whispered to Joscelin, over and over, correcting our course. "Left!"
He paused between strokes, breathing hard. "My arm," he mur mured, apologetic. "It's not as strong as the right, not yet."
Somewhere in the third hour, we traded. It was an awkward ma neuver, switching seats in the middle of the lake, hampered by darkness. I showed him our lodestone, the smallest spoke of the Wheel, and how to point the course, keeping Moishe's Rod over his left shoulder. I could see the broken blisters on his palms as he pointed our course.
And then I took my turn at the oars.
It was hard, as hard as anything I have known. At first the well- worn wood seemed silken to the touch, smooth and harmless. I pushed the handles forward, dipping the oars and bracing my legs, and pulled hard against the resistance of the water. The skiff surged forward. Again, and again, and again, until I began to feel the muscles of my shoulders burn with the effort. "Left," Joscelin corrected me, "Left. . . too far! Right, Phèdre, pull right," until I felt the grain of that silken-smooth wood, rubbing and rubbing my sweat-damp palms. It stung like fury. I thought as I rowed about all that Joscelin had done on my behalf—to protect and serve—and the sheer physical effort of it, the toll I had never reckoned.
If it were only pain ... if it were only that, I could endure it. I rowed through the pain, feeling blisters rise and break, the pain so acute it brought on Kushiel's crimson haze. It set my nerves to sing on edge and, for a time, gave me strength. Yet even that waned, and my muscles grew dull with fatigue.
Swish, dip, pull.
The blades of the oars skittered over the surface of the water. The Lake of Tears, they named it; Isis' grief. Why was it always the goddesses who mourned? Dip. I willed the oars deeper, pulling hard. My arms trembled. Pull. The water seemed as thick as honey, the skiff moving in slow staggers.
"Phèdre. Phèdre!"
I leaned on the oars and stared blearily at Joscelin's face, only exhaustion altering my vision. His expression was fraught with concern.
"Enough," he said softly. "Let me."
"I can row." Imriel turned around in the prow, his face gleaming in the starlight. "For a while, anyway. Let me try."
And so we traded places again, and I resumed mine in the stern, Joscelin going to the prow. Water sloshed along the sides of the rocking skiff. Imriel settled himself in the oarsman's seat, his face grave and unchildish as he took up the cue of my pointing arm. I thought he would spend his strength in a rush, but he started slow and steady, getting the feel of the oars, more patient than any boy his age had a right to be. In the prow, Joscelin tore strips of fabric from the hem of his shirt, binding his raw hands.
Swish, dip, pull; swish, dip, pull.
He did well, did Imriel de la Courcel. He husbanded his strength, rowing at an even pace for longer than I would have reckoned. But the skiff was ideal for carrying two men, no more, and it was heavy work.
I cannot say how long he lasted, before his strength gave out. Between the two of us, I reckon we covered two hours.
Joscelin took over.
Less than an hour to go, by Nemuel's account; but we had not travelled so swiftly. Joscelin resumed his seat, and set to steadily, hauling on the oars. "Left," I murmured as his right arm outdrew its mate, "Left!" He gritted his teeth and adjusted, pulling ever harder. The im provised bandages around his hands darkened with blood. I thought about Kapporeth and wondered if we would reach it in time, and what would happen if we did. Who was I to seek the Name of God? Make of the self a vessel where there is no self, Eleazar had said, in perfect love. Love, I had known; but what is perfection? My lord Delaunay I had loved with a grateful heart, and Hyacinthe with youthful joy and adult sorrow. I had loved Joscelin and loved him still, with a depth and passion that words could not compass. Elua help me, I had loved Melisande Shahrizai, and there was a part of me which ever would.
And in all of these, there was myself, bound inextricably into the coils of love—by gratitude, by friendship, by guilt, by passion, by the fatal flaw of Kushiel's Dart. How could one put such a thing as the self aside? I knew only one path, the path I had found in the darkest hours in Daršanga. I did not think it led to the Name of God, and in my heart, I was afraid.
"Phèdre," Imriel called from the prow, pointing. "Dawn is coming."
So it was, the western horizon turning a leaden grey, the spokes of the Wheel paling against it. And in the rising light, I saw a hummock of land to the north of us.
"Look," I murmured. "Do you think?"
Joscelin rested the oars and stared. "Kapporeth?" he said dully. "It could be. It means we're off course. But with my arm . . ."
"It could be." I shuddered. "I don't know. I don't know! Morit was guessing, at best. Let's make for it."
We did, Joscelin rowing with grim determination, the small isle emerging lush and green with the rising sun, exuberant with birdlife; fish eagles and kites and horn-billed ibis. The shores were thick with waving ferns, tall fronds untrodden by human foot. Our skiff edged along them, Imriel standing balanced in the prow, looking for signs of inhabitation.
"Nothing," he reported, gazing inland. "No path, no landing sign . . ." He looked back at me and turned pale. "Name of Elua!"
I turned to look.
It was a ship, of course; what else would it be? Looming in the distance, becoming visible in the dawn. I could barely make out twin banks of oars, four sets rising and falling. Someone had betrayed us, someone's faith had faltered, Hanoch ben Hadad's suspicions had been upheld . . . who knew? It didn't matter. It only mattered that they were coming for us.
"We can hide!" Imriel said, wild-eyed. "Go ashore, and hide! It's all overgrown, they won't find us!"
"No," I muttered. "It's not Kapporeth." Joscelin put up the oars with his bloodstained hands and watched me quietly, waiting. "Elua!" I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, thinking and praying. "It's not Kapporeth," I repeated, dropping my hands. "I was wrong, I shouldn't have doubted. We were on course, only slow. Joscelin, can you row?"
"Yes." The red stains spread on his bandages as he regarded me. "Phèdre, the stars have faded."
I stared at the brightening sky. It was true; the stars we had followed all night were paling, lost in the light of the rising sun. The Wheel was fading, its spokes already lost; Moishe's Rod grew invisible. I closed my eyes again, feeling for the direction we had faced. My near-brother Alcuin had been good with maps. I never had, not like him. But Anafìel Delaunay had trained both our memories.
Mine would have to do.
"That way," I said, pointing, not daring to open my eyes.
Swish, dip, pull.
We had to round the nameless island. I felt our course shifting, the skiff moving, and adjusted my arm accordingly. I dared not look, dared not lose the lodestone of my memory; not until I felt the open breezes blow, and our course align with my pointing arm. Then, I opened my eyes.
We were in open water and the skiff leapt forward with each pull of Joscelin's arms, drawing toward an unseen destination, a blur on the horizon. Swish, dip, pull. The rags tied round his hands were crimson with blood, blood smeared on the oar-handles.
It was a blur on the horizon. It was land.
"Go!" I shouted. "Go, go, go!"
Joscelin's face was blind and unseeing with concentration, his arms moving with relentless precision. I saw the muscles in his shoulders surge, his legs bracing and flexing. The skiff flew over the waters like a swallow on the wing. In the prow, Imriel knelt and looked backward, past Joscelin, past me, charting the progress of our pursuers. I saw the alarm reflected in his face. I did not turn to see why.