The quietest of the bearers, Bomani, tried to give it back. "It is not necessary, lord," he said. "The Ras has paid us. And you have far to
go."
"It is necessary," Joscelin said firmly.
"I will keep mine," Nkuku said, clapping Joscelin on the back, "and remember the man who would dance with the rhinoceros! No wonder I fell into the thorns!"
There were a good many more jests before we parted—Nkuku had some sly advice for me having to do with snakes and bathing-pools— but in time, they left. And each one made a point of bidding Imriel farewell, treating him as a near-equal.
Well, and why not, I thought; he has earned it.
Our rooms were spacious and pleasant and dry. I cannot convey what luxury that was, to one who had not spent countless days waterlogged and sodden. For the first time in my life, I was almost loathe to visit the baths, reveling in the absence of water against my skin. After I did, I was glad of it, and gladder still to be wrapped in a thick cotton robe, clean and blessedly dry.
Most of our clothing, alas, was ruined, save for the peasant garb we had been given in Debeho. The Lugal's gifts; the celadon riding- attire that Favrielle nó Eglantine had designed; the rose-silk gown with the crystal beading—all spoiled, the fabric rotted with moisture. I beheld it with dismay.
"It's only clothing," Joscelin said, shrugging. "You hold the Name of God, Phèdre. Does it matter what you wear?"
A sharp retort was forming on my tongue when a knock came at the door, proving to be a considerable train of servants sent on behalf of Ras Lijasu, who had received word of our return. And they brought with them an array of gifts—sweetmeats, scented oils, sundry fruits, and bolts of fine cloth, with a deferential tailor to take our measure ments.
"Yes," I answered him when they had gone. "In Meroë, it matters."
We dined well that night and slept in a proper bed in clean, dry sheets that had been scented with orange-blossom, with a solid roof over our heads to keep out the rains when they began, falling as re lentlessly over the city as they had the plains and mountains.
And I slept like the dead until Imriel's nightmare roused me.
It was different, this time; not the inhuman, rending screams of before, but a choked, fearful moaning. "I'll go," I murmured to Joscelin, clambering out of our bed and struggling into my bathing-robe. I made my way to the smaller room we'd allotted Imriel, stumbling over a footstool in the dark. Faint starlight filtered through the unshuttered windows. He was thrashing, entwined in the bedclothes. I perched on the edge of his pallet, keeping my voice gentle. "Imri. Imri, it's all right. It's just a nightmare."
He awoke when I touched him, breathing hard and rubbing his face. "I was dreaming."
"I know." I smoothed his tangled hair and settled myself, tucking one leg beneath me. "Daršanga?"
He nodded. "From before."
I tugged the sheets loose where they'd enwrapped him. "Before what?"
"Before you came." His face was ghostly in the starlight.
"Ah." I got the sheets unwound. Imriel's gaze was fixed on me, his eyes dark as holes in his pallid face. "It's over, you know. It will never happen again."
"I know." He swallowed. "He did things to me."
My hands stilled. "The Mahrkagir."
Imri nodded.
"Do you want to tell me?"
He nodded again, his expression rigid with fear.
"All right," I said gently, my heart an agony within me. "Tell me."
He did.
And I listened as he told me, stroking his brow when his voice faltered, closing my eyes in pain when he continued. If the Mahrkagir had spared him the worst, still, he had been ingenious in his torments, and there are sins against the spirit more dire than those against the flesh. Many of the punishments he described, I have known at the hands of other patrons, and called it pleasure — but ah, Elua! It was Imriel it happened to; Imri! A boy, a child of ten, enslaved, and terrified. So I listened, while silent tears stung my eyes. All I feared in a child of my own blood, every pain and humiliation I knew I could bear to endure, but not to behold — it had already befallen him.
At last, he finished.
"Imriel." I cupped his face in my hands, and he watched me fear fully. "It's not your fault, do you understand? None of it. What the Mahrkagir did to you was done against your will. It is a grave wrong, and you were not to blame."
"But he did worse things to others." He looked sick. "Because of me. He told me so."
"No." I shook my head. "He lied, Imri; ill words. He said it only to hurt you."
"There were things he made me do." His voice was faint. "He said if I didn't. . ." He swallowed. "He made me plead for their lives. He promised to spare them, even though he didn't. And I did. I did what he told me."
"And lived," I said fiercely. "Never be ashamed of that! Kaneka is right, where there is life, there is hope. You were right, to survive. You did right, Imri. You tried to protect others. It's not your fault he lied. The Mahrkagir did wrong. And he has paid the price of it."
"You killed him." It was not a question, not quite.
"Yes." I nodded. "Blessed Elua set his life in my hand, and I took it. He is dead, Imri. No one will ever hurt you like that again."
"Do you promise it?"
I looked into his haunted eyes and thought about Anafiel Delaunay's vow, that he had sworn to Prince Rolande so many years ago, about Joscelin's vow, and how it had shaped his life; impossible vows, warping the fates of all around them. And I thought about Imriel de la Courcel, who hated for anyone to see him cry, for whom the night held such terrors. In the broad light of day, he would never ask such a thing. "I do," I said, kissing his damp brow. "I promise it."
Imriel sighed and I felt some of the fear leave him. I held him close.
"Imri," I said to him. He lifted his head sleepily from my breast to gaze at me with his mother's eyes. "Imri, if you hadn't acted as you did, on Kapporeth, things would have gone very differently. I want you to know that."
He smiled. It was his own smile. "I didn't want them to hurt you."
"So I gathered." I raised my eyebrows. "Mind, if you ever try the like again, I'll have Joscelin sit on you." It made him laugh. I kissed him again. "It was well done, love. It was a greater gift than I have ever received, and one I pray is never repeated. Now go to sleep, will you? We have to meet the Ras on the morrow."
He did sleep, soon enough, his breathing growing slow and even, his limbs going lax. I lay awake for a long time, gazing into the darkness and thinking. I meant to leave Imriel's bed for my own, but at some point, I passed unknowing from wakefulness into sleep, for the next thing I knew, it was morning and Joscelin was shaking me, Imriel standing behind him, wide-awake and grinning, no trace of the night's fears reflected in his expression.
"Phèdre," Joscelin said, looking amused. "You might want to get up. The tailor is back."
So it was that we were arrayed in Jebean finery when we were summoned back to the royal court of Meroë. For Joscelin and Imriel, that meant breeches and chamma of snow-white linen, short cloaks thrown over the top. Joscelin was impatient at it, finding it binding. I had no sympathy for him, for the manner of gown for Jebean women was a tight-wrapped dress worn off the shoulder and secured in place with gold pins, broad bands of color woven in intricate patterns at the borders.
Ras Lijasu, however, approved.
"Ah, lady!" he said, clapping his hands and beaming with delight. "What a pleasure, to see you arrayed in the manner of our people! Nathifa, does she not look lovely?"
"Yes, brother." The Ras' sister smiled at us. She looked much like him, with the same flawless ebony skin and round cheeks, only more solemn.
"My lord is generous," I said, curtsying.
"Oh, it is nothing, nothing. Muni, where are those gifts? Where have you got to?" The Ras looked around. "There you are! You shuffle like an old man, Muni. Come, let me have them." With great ceremony, he bowed and presented a sandalwood coffer to me, opening the lid to show it held six ivory bracelets and six gold, each worked with depic tions of the flora and fauna of Jebe-Barkal. "These are from Grand mother, a token of her appreciation. Queen Zanadakhete has heard the report of my men, and she is pleased."
"They are very beautiful, my lord. Thank you," I said.
"Well, put them on! Nathifa, help her, would you? That is not just any ivory, dream-spirit. It is carved from the tusks of Old Mlima, the oliphaunt who bore my great-great-grandfather to war against the Tigrati insurrection. Muni, stop dawdling. Where is ... ah yes, there." The Ras lifted a startling object from the cushion his grinning attendant proffered: a great collar made entire from a lion's mane. This he draped about Joscelin's shoulders, standing on his toes to reach. "There!" He beheld it with satisfaction. "A fit token for a mighty warrior. Tifari Amu told me how you stood against the Shamsun, and I have heard other stories come out of Khebbel-im-Akkad with you."
I looked at Joscelin and tried not to laugh as he executed a solemn Cassiline bow, his face framed in tawny fur.
"Very nice!" The Ras applauded. "Very good. And for the young lord . . ." He produced a belt and dagger-sheath worked with tooled gold. "Rhinoceros hide, my little man! It will never wear or rot. And see," he added, stretching out the length of the belt, "there is room to grow." He nodded approvingly as Imriel buckled it in place. "You will use that for many years, I think. Well, good, that's done! Come, sup with us, and tell us of Saba."
And we did, seated on cushions around low tables, dining on mor sels of spiced chicken, melon and rolled balls of millet flavored with lemon and sesame, with honey-mead and citron-water in abundance. The servants were deft without being particularly deferential, and I had the impression everyone in the royal palace was quite fond of their young ruler. For all his chatter, Ras Lijasu listened attentively, and when he interrupted, his questions were perceptive.