"Look," he said, pointing across the broad expanse of the river.
We drew our mounts to watch them worry an antelope's carcass, safe on the far side of the Tabara. I marked the awesome power of them, how muscles surged beneath their tawny hides. The syllables of the Name of God tolled within my mind, enumerating them in every part. One of the females lifted her bloodstained muzzle, gazing at us. The male padded to the river's edge, pacing back and forth, shaking his massive mane.
No wonder, I thought, meeting his golden stare across the waters. Ah, Elua, no wonder so many have seen the face of god in such a beast!
"They are lazy," Nkuku offered, grinning. "In his heart of hearts, he is glad we are on the other side of the river. It is the women who do the work, yes?"
After that, the rains began again and we spoke no more, trudging through the endless mud and clambering once more into the green mountains, following the river's gorge. Tifari's mount contracted thrush, a disease of the vulnerable frog of the hoof, and we were laid up a day while Najja brewed a foul poultice of roots he swore would draw out the infection. Our tents leaked, the blood-flies came in clouds and tem pers grew surly. What else is there to say? It was a miserable journey.
And like all journeys, it had an end.
I failed to recognize the spreading eucalyptus trees as we descended from the highlands onto another expanse of plains. It was afternoon, and raining, clouds piled in thunderheads as far as the eye could see. We made camp that night and dined on strips of half-smoked gazelle meat from a kill two days old.
And on the morrow, we reached a place where a solidly built village of mud huts stood alongside the swollen Tabara River.
"Debeho," said Tifari Amu, smiling faintly.
It goes without saying that our welcome was a joyous one.
It was a damp one, to be sure; no place is immune from the rains in Jebe-Barkal. But the village turned out as if we were its own. Shoanete herself came out to meet us, hobbling on her sticks. And Kaneka! She looked like a veritable queen, with water streaming down her Ak kadian finery. I flung both arms around her, glad of her tall strength, glad beyond words to see her.
"Ah, little one." Her voice rumbled in her chest, and she held me off to look at me. "You found it, didn't you?"
"Yes." I wanted to laugh and cry at once. "I did."
"Well." Her teeth gleamed in a smile as one hand rose to clasp the leather pouch at her throat. "My dice always speak true. I knew you were special. You will have stories to tell my grandmother, yes? I have a vested interest in such matters, now."
"We have stories, Fedabin." I gripped her forearms, smiling. "Oh, yes, you may be sure of it! We have stories."
And we told them, all that day and night, while the folk of Debeho feasted us and the rains drummed on the tight-woven thatch of their central hall, an unwalled building plastered with sun-baked mud. Be neath the roof, it was nearly dry. While communal dishes of spicy stews passed with spongy bread for the dipping, we ate with our fingers and told of the Melehakim, and what had passed in the land of Saba. And old Shoanete listened and nodded her head in approval, watching from the corner of her yellowed eye as Tifari Amu sat modestly beside her tall granddaughter. I made much of his bravery. Kaneka snorted, appearing to be unimpressed, but I saw how she eyed him consideringly.
Love as thou wilt, I whispered, the Name of God throbbing on my tongue.
Imriel resumed old friendships with ease, greeting his playmates in the village. He was half-clad like the rest of them before the night was over, stripped to his breeches and spatchcocked in color, with his face and arms tanned by the sun—although he'd peeled like a snake while he healed, his sunburn had faded—and his torso milk-white. They darted in and out of the unwalled structure, splashing one another, playing some children's game of tag with the veils of water dripping from the eaves, the older taunting the younger, boys baiting the girls. And it was good—ah, Elua, it was good!—to see Imriel de la Courcel at child's play, shouting with laughter like any other boy his age.
"Would that it could remain thus," Joscelin murmured to me.
"I know," I said, leaning into his arm to kiss him. "I know, love."
Kaneka leaned over, hearing us. "He looks well, the boy," she said shrewdly. "Your company suits him, little one. Who would have thought it, when he spat in your face? I myself had wagered he would not withstand the next round of the Mahrkagir's attention."
"You never told me that, Fedabin," I said, stiffening.
She laughed and patted my cheek. "Do not be so quick to anger! Who could have guessed what you were, in Daršanga? The omens were there, but I had lost the will to read them." She felt at Joscelin's arm, then, openly admiring. "And you, lord Joscelin. A leopard among wolves. You have healed well."
"Well enough, my lady Kaneka." He smiled quietly. "Not as before, but well enough to serve."
"Then he serves you well enough, little one?" Kaneka nudged me, lest her meaning be lost. D'Angelines are more subtle in our banter. Her grandmother Shoanete cackled with laughter, leaning over her sticks. "You have no complaints?"
I flushed a bright red. "No complaints, Fedabin."
"Good." Kaneka settled back onto her stool, nodding to herself.
"Good. It is well done, then. The story may end happily after all. It is important, for such a tale."
"There is hope," I said. "For us. Where there is life, there is hope. But the others—they paid the price of our hope. Of our lives."
"Drucilla," Kaneka murmured. "Jolanta, Nazneen, Erich, Rushad . . . yes, and others, so many others. Do not fear, little one. I have not forgotten. I will tell their stories too, and their sacrifices will be remem bered. The zenana of Daršanga will live in my stories, in all its desperate courage. And it may be, as Amon-Re wills, that their tales will ensure such a thing may never come to pass in Jebe-Barkal. But it is important, little one, that hope endures. For when it fails—thus are the gates of despair opened, and one such as Lord Death enters the world. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said, meeting her eyes. "Yes, Fedabin. I understand."
We spent several days in Debeho, and I was as loathe to leave then as I had been before. It may sound foolish, but there are few places I have been happier. What appeared to be mud and squalor to the un trained eye was a community rich in kindness, possessed of a wealth of knowledge. They treated us generously, giving unstintingly of what they had, and we left Debeho with clean, dry garments, our tents patched and oiled, our stores replenished with unperishable goods and our mounts well tended.
And in all these exchanges, I beheld the Name of God, writ in unknowable letters.
"It is the last parting," Kaneka said, embracing me before we left. "I knew you would return. Ah, take care, take care, little one! I will miss you."
"And I, you." I smiled at her. "Be well, Kaneka." I glanced toward our caravan, where Tifari Amu watched our farewell with a hunter's tender patience. "And if any of our number do return, I pray you treat them gently."
Kaneka laughed. "Will you never be done meddling?"
"Probably not," I admitted.
"Ah, well." She eyed Tifari sidelong, considering. "If the Ras' high-lander guide wished to return, he would not be unwelcome in Debeho. Does that satisfy you, little one?"
"Yes," I said, grinning. "It does."
We left quickly, then, before the rains could begin, before the sor row could take root. It is hard, always saying farewell. What stories would Kaneka tell as she grew old? I might never know, for Debeho was far away, and Kaneka's stories would likely never be written, but only passed from mouth to ear.
Mayhap, one day, they would filter to Terre d'Ange, carried on some travelling poet's lips, woven of truth and imagination, as fabulous as a Mendacant's cloak, romances and adventures and tragedies stitched through with a gleaming strand of hope, reminding listeners to love truly, to honor the dead, to uphold the covenant of wisdom and to never, even in darkest hours, surrender to despair.
I hoped it might be so.
EIGHTY-ONE
WE JOURNEYED to Meroë.The balance of the journey does not bear telling, for it was un eventful, unless incessant rain may be considered an event. Tifari Amu was glad of heart, for I had related Kanaka's words to him, and he pushed the pace as much as he dared. Nonetheless, it was a wet and arduous trek, and I would be happy when it had ended.
"Remember that," Joscelin commented, wringing out his rain- soaked chamma, "when we are in the desert."
By the time we reached Meroë, the rains had begun to ease. All along the flooded banks of the river, village farmers measured the waters and watched, waiting for their retreat. Once the waters had receded, they would plant cotton and millet. The sun shone brightly, longer each day, and the drenched earth steamed.
Meroë.
The city seemed almost like an old friend, after our long journey. Everything I saw—the mighty burial pyramids, the traders' caravans with their long strings of camels, the inner walls of the royal palace, the embroidered capes of the soldiers, even the oliphaunts, whose platter-sized feet lifted from the mud with great sucking sounds—ap peared familiar and welcome. Tifari Amu escorted us to the very hotel in which we had first stayed, and bartered with the hotel-keeper to give us the finest suite of rooms.
"Rest here," he said, "and avail yourself of all amenities. I must report to Ras Lijasu, but he will doubtless wish to see you on the morrow."
It was strange, after so long in company, to part; yet another farewell! Tifari and Bizan, we would likely see again, but not the bearers, who would take the Ras' payment and return to their families. I kissed them all in parting, overwhelmed with emotion. Joscelin withdrew the much-shortened chain of trader's coin he wore beneath his chamma and gave a gold link to each.
"It is not much," he apologized in his faltering Jeb'ez, "but only for thanks."