Dust and rubble spoke; dust and rubble fell silent, returning to its component parts. My fingertips slipped on the corners of the lid, causing the priest's grip to falter. The lid fell with a lurching crash, solid gold. So what? Gold would not free Hyacinthe from his isle, and I did not need to be told that I had spent my one and only chance. I bowed my head and tasted the bitter fruit of failure. The voice between the cher ubim had remained silent, but the Luvakh Shabab had spoken. Adonai had answered. He would not speak twice. Knowledge had failed me, and it was bitter, bitter indeed.

I should be glad, I thought, that I had tongue left to taste defeat.

I took a deep breath and raised my head to confront my failure.

On the far side of the Ark, his face framed betwixt the silent cher ubim, the priest of Aaron's line was smiling. Neither young nor old, he was smiling; smiling, he who had aided me in raising the Kapporeth to no avail. I stared dumbly at him, uncomprehending. A man, a mortal man, with an unruly beard and kind eyes, radiant with joy. Why? His smiling teeth were strong and white, framing the cavern of his shriveled tongue. Such compassion, in his dark gaze; and such joy, such unbear able joy. I wanted to ask why, but fear stopped my mouth. It hurt too much to hope, now.

Silence filled the Holiest of Holies. No stir, no echo, no whisper of sound.

Even the flames stood silent and motionless in the golden lamp- stands.

And in the deafening silence . . .

Tongueless and unvoiced, the priest spoke the unpronounceable

Name of God.

"________________!"

How does one endure a sound not meant for mortal ears to bear? It burst within the confines of my skull like thunder over the mountains, rolling and brazen, setting off clamorous echoes. A word, one word, seared upon my memory. It burned in me like strong wine, like the first taste of joie I had known as a child, like Melisande's touch. I knew it all, then, saw my course mapped, from the moment I had glimpsed Anafiel Delaunay, all down the winding path that had led me here— here, to a humble temple on a hidden isle, surrounded by a goddess' grief. Who could have charted this course? The myriad branchings of my fate were foreordained and unknowable. Along dark paths, they had led me here. Here. I understood it all, and grasped at last the whole of the pattern. I gasped for air, feeling my chest like to crack open, stream ing flames. The Sacred Name! I was too small to contain it. My knees gave way beneath me and I sank to the earthen floor, curling my body around the space it hollowed within me.

The Name of God.

The Name of God.

Oh, Hyacinthe!

How long I laid upon the floor, I cannot say. I would have laid there forever, I think, if the priest had not roused me. His hands were gentle, insistent, shaking my shoulders. His eyes were kind. I could smell the dusty soil of the temple floor, and the pall of incense. I could smell the peppers he'd had for dinner. I was alive, gravid with the Sacred Name. My body felt strange to me as the priest helped me to my feet. All the space in my mind was taken up by the Name. It swelled the cords of my throat, and I had to clench my teeth to keep from speaking it.

It would have destroyed me had I not found a place within myself where naught but love abided, simple and unencumbered. Only then had the priest, in his wisdom, opened the door. I marveled at the sym metry of the pattern. If I had not brought Imri out of the darkness of Daršanga, this brightness would never have come to pass. Truly, love was a wondrous force, now that I perceived the complexities of its workings.

Everything in the temple seemed distinct, objects standing out bright against the darkness. I had trouble gauging distances. I touched a lamp-stand, marveling at the smoothness of gold. Freed from stasis, the flame in its bowl danced like a little animal, flickering saffron. I put my fingers close to it, feeling its warmth burn. I would have touched it too, if the priest had not put his hand on my wrist, drawing me away and shaking his head gently. He pointed toward the distant door in inquiry. Was I ready to leave?

I nodded my head, not daring to speak. The Name was insistent on my tongue.

He led me into the outer circle, and there I sat upon a marble bench to don my shoes. I felt the cool surface of the marble, the tiny veins and flaws. I gazed at my bare feet, slender and white, engrained with dirt from the temple floor. So many delicate bones, articulated joints! All of that, all for the purpose of treading the earth. I put on my shoes with reluctance, and the priest had to help me with the buckles, for I could not cease marveling at their complexity. I gazed wondering at his deft fingers, at the cords of blue silk that secured his head-piece against the coarse black of his tight-curled hair. "Holy to Adonai." Such con trasts of color, of texture!

At the temple door, he paused and took my upturned face in his hands. I closed my eyes as he kissed my brow, knowing it for kinship, for blessing, for forgiveness. This was not my place, and Adonai was not my God. All of this, I knew.

It was a grave trust I had been given.

I prayed I would be worthy of it.

With that, the priest released me and opened the temple door. Sun light streamed across the threshold, and the Name surged within me at the sight of so much brightness, ringing in my head with clarion tones.

I shut my teeth hard on it and stepped into the dazzling light. The sky, so blue! And the bushes! Never had I seen such green. I could see every leaf, sharp-edged; I could sense their roots, rustling in the dry soil.

And the people; oh, Elua, the people.

Joscelin, wild-eyed, leapt to his feet. All I could do was stare at him, dumbstruck. Every line, every plane of him was writ in an alphabet of flesh and bone, spelling out love. How had I never seen it? And Imriel, at his side—a tangled knot of fear and need, achingly vulnerable. It made my heart ache to look upon him.

"Do you have it?" Joscelin asked, half-dreading my answer. "Did you succeed?"

I nodded, the Name of God lodged in the throat like a stone.

"Can you . . . can you speak?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," I whispered.

In three swift strides, Joscelin reached me and swept me into a crushing embrace, raining kisses on my face. I clung to him, then kissed him hard, to make sure I still could. Fear left him in a shudder when I let him go. I knelt, then, and opened my arms to Imriel. He flung himself in them and caught me about the neck in a choke-hold, burying his face against my neck.

"I was scared, Phèdre. I didn't know what would happen."

"Neither did I, Imri," I murmured. "Neither did I."

"What happens now?" It was Joscelin who spoke, and it was the Sabaeans he addressed, a hard edge to his voice. I straightened beside him.

They had put off their helmets and laid their shields aside during the long wait—and it must have been long, for the sun, I perceived, was nigh overhead. Hanoch ben Hadad looked at me with a mix of awe and disbelief.

"You have beheld the Sacred Name?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"How do we know this is so?"

I had no answer. I merely gazed at him, while the Name of God echoed like thunder in my thoughts, welling up to fill my mouth until I dared not utter a word. Across the clearing, the priest of Aaron's line stood in the temple doorway watching gravely, gems flashing across his gold-plated breast, gold at his brow, bare feet on the earthen floor.

"Hanoch," one of the soldiers said, trembling. "Hanoch, there is a brightness upon her face. I am afraid. Ask no more.”

"Why?" The Sabaean captain's voice rose in a rage. "After so long, why you?"

And that, too, I could not answer. Had I dared, I might have said that it was no curse, no wrath of god that had bound them for centuries, but only fear and guilt. The priest knew it. How many others before him had known? But no one had dared to ask the voiceless. And I— this was not my place, and Adonai was not my God. I could not answer for Him to the Sabaeans. They must ask Him themselves. What was entrusted to me served only one purpose. Aught else would be a trans gression.

"Lady." It was a young soldier who stepped forward, his bronze helmet under his arm, his eyes soft and wondering. "I am Eshkol ben Avidan, and I am not afraid. I am sorry we sought to detain you. If you will it, we will take you to Tisaar. And there, I think, you may go free, although it is not my place to assure it."

"Eshkol!" ben Hadad hissed. "It is insubordination you speak!"

"No, captain," the soldier said politely. "It is, I think, wisdom."

In the temple doorway, the priest smiled.

"Yes, my lord soldier," I said, swallowing against the insistent pres sure of the Name. "If you will take us, we will go."

SEVENTY-EIGHT

IT WAS a long journey back to Tisaar, and a strange one. I sat silent for most of it, learning how to breathe and think with the awesome presence of the Name of God crowding my mind. Except for Hanoch ben Hadad, who remained sullen and uncertain, the Sabaeans rowed with a good will, trading off in teams, jesting in hushed tones as men will who have witnessed events beyond understanding. Even the soldier Imriel had wounded bore no ill will over it.The courage of Eshkol ben Avidan had sparked them, and I heard in their voices and saw in their faces the dawn of wonder, of hope. Seeds had been sown here this day, which would bear fruit long after we were gone. Whose tool, I wondered, was I? For so long, I had focused upon my singular quest: To free Hyacinthe.

Now, here, an entire people, whose isolation had lasted longer than the Master of the Straits himself had lived. Whose purpose had I served? Mayhap I was only a small lever in Adonai's plan, serving to set something vast in motion as his slow attention returned to the neglected Tribe of Dân. I could not say.

In the end, it did not matter.

We had what we'd come for.

What transpired after we left Saba was between the Sabaeans themselves and Adonai, the One God, their Lord of Hosts. As for us ... I shuddered.

I'd never really thought ahead, beyond this point. What remained for us, aside from the dire repercussions of Joscelin and I having taken Imriel de la Courcel with us in defiance of the Queen's will, through myriad dangers to a land that was half-fable even in distant Jebe- Barkal . . .