The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. "What does it say?"

The priest pressed the medallion into my palm, folding my fingers over it. " 'Do no harm,'" he said simply. "It is the first thing we learn. It is our precept. And that is what it says here. 'Do no harm.'"

"Canis!" The word emerged in a hiss. The snare of intrigue tightened around me once more. Anger rising, I clenched my hand on the medallion. "So he is part of it. 'Do no harm?' What's that supposed to mean? I swear, in Elua's name, I am going to beat the truth out of him!" The clay disk cracked beneath the force of my grip, jagged edges biting into my palm. I glanced at it in disgust. "I'll crack him if I have to!"

"Perhaps his advice was not so poorly chosen," the priest said mildly.

His words brought me back to myself. "Forgive me," I muttered, shoving the broken medallion into the purse at my belt. "You're right, my lord priest. I did not mean to disturb your peace."

He gazed at me for a long moment, then sighed. "D'Angeline, I seldom offer counsel to those who do not ask it, for their ears are unwilling to hear. But this is a place of healing. Will you not seek it?"

"What do you mean?"

He reached out with one long finger, touching the center of my chest. "Not all wounds are of the flesh. You bear a wound deep inside you, and it festers. Will you hear my counsel? Stay. Pass this night in the temple, and let Asclepius guide you in your dreams. This is the favor I ask of you."

"Do you know who I am?" I asked him.

"Does it matter?" His eyes were as deep as wells, dark and fathomless.

"No." I thought about it. "I suppose not."

He nodded. "Then you will stay."

So it came to pass that I spent the night on the isle of Asclepius and slept in the temple, after arranging with one of the attendants to escort Anna home. In the wake of the rioting, they were understanding.

It was a strange experience. As darkness began to fall over the isle, the priest led me to a chamber within the temple. Although it was roofed, it was open on three sides. A warm summer breeze soughed through the painted columns. In the center, there was a stone bier that served as a bed. Unbuckling my sword-belt, I lay down upon it. On the ceiling, a faded fresco of Asclepius looked down upon me. The stone was hard and unyielding, and I felt certain I would be unable to sleep.

The priest closed my eyelids with a touch, light and sure. "Sleep."

There, he left me.

I opened my eyes, gazing at Asclepius on the ceiling until darkness swallowed his image. I felt odd, like a corpse laid out to await the funeral pyre. Asclepius, I remembered, was born of death; Apollo's son, torn from his dead mother's mortal womb. A strange way to beget a healer.

The bier was uncomfortable. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make my bones ache. Why on earth would the priest think one could sleep in such a manner? Beyond the columns, the night was full of noises. Small sounds; the sounds of the isle. Birds and animals, whirring insects. A chorus of cicadas. Night's predators and scavengers, stalking and scurrying. In Montrève, I wouldn't have noticed, but I'd been living in the city for a long time.

After a while, I gave up, sitting and swinging my legs over the edge of the bier. I walked to the edge of the chamber and leaned against one of the columns, peering out at the benighted isle. The moon was dark, but there were stars. If I craned my head, I could see them, high and distant behind scudding clouds.

"You are restless."

I startled at the sound of the priest's voice, reaching for the hilt of my sword. My fingers found only fabric, and I remembered I had disarmed. "Forgive me, my lord priest." I bowed. "I didn't hear you return. I tried to sleep. Is it forbidden to rise? I have not left the chamber."

He smiled into his beard. "Nothing is forbidden here."

"Good." I perched on the bier, squinting at him through the darkness. It was hard to make him out. "I don't wish to offend."

"Why are you restless?" he asked.

"You said I had a wound." I smiled wryly. "Lord priest, I have seen things, terrible things. I do not know how to unsee them. I am trying, very hard, to be good. And the harder I try, the more cruel I become." I shrugged. "Such is my birthright. Should I deny it? It seems it finds me no matter what I do."

The priest pointed at the fresco on the ceiling, lost in darkness. "From death comes life, and there is healing in it. Such is our mortal lot, those of us who strive. To wrest the good from the bad. Betimes, we succeed. Is it not enough?"

"No," I said. "Not always."

He nodded, leaning on his staff. In the faint starlight, the serpent's coils entwined around the staff stirred, gleaming. It was not the priest who addressed me. My hands rose unbidden, fingers sliding over my open mouth. All over my body, my skin prickled with a sudden mix of terror and awe.

"My lord Asclepius!" I whispered.

"I am here, Imriel nó Montrève." His voice was gentle, blending with the sounds of the benighted isle. "Kushiel's scion, you have seen terrible things, and you have witnessed glorious mysteries given unto few. This I know. It is hard to be a pawn of the gods. Even in loving us in all their numinous might, they are careless of our mortality. And I think you have been wounded by a darker god than any you or I serve. Is it not so?"

"It is." Tears came to my eyes unbidden.

Asclepius stood, pondering. His serpent lifted its wedge-shaped head, its forked tongue flickering as it tasted the air. At length, Asclepius spoke. "It is not a wound I can heal," he said, and bitter despair flooded me. "So this is useless?" I spat.

"I did not say that." He bowed his head, and the serpent's tongue flickered at his ear. He straightened. "Child, listen. That power lies within you alone. Nothing can be changed without undoing what was done. Yet even a stunted tree reaches toward the sunlight. Let the wound heal. Bear the scar with pride."

"How?" I asked.

The serpent's eyes glittered. Asclepius smiled. "You will find a way."

I opened my mouth to protest that his words were cold comfort, meaningless and worthless. Or at least, so I thought I meant to do. Instead, I found myself waking with a jolt, opening my eyes.

Opening them onto dawn's rosy light.

Morning was dawning, and I was lying on my back on the stone bier, stiff and aching, staring at the fresco on the ceiling. Sleep. I'd been asleep. When had I fallen asleep? I sat up in a panic, rolling over the side of the bier and dropping to a crouch, scrambling for my sword-belt. It was there where I'd dropped it. I snatched it and backed away from the bier, buckling the belt around my waist, checking my weapons.

Everything was there. I was alone in the temple's open-walled chamber of dreams. Beyond the columns, poppies bloomed in red-orange profusion. The summer breeze carried the sound of birdsong and the scent of the Tiber.

Behind me, on the one solid wall, the door opened. I spun about, hand on my sword-hilt.

It was the bearded priest. "Did you dream?"

"I did." I looked hard at him. There was no staff, no serpent. Although his eyes were dark and deep, he was a mortal man, no more, with dusty sandals and robe with a fraying hem.

"Tell me," he said gravely.

I let go the hilt of my sword and sat on the edge of the bier, feeling the strange sense that we had already done this. "Asclepius came to me in a dream. He said he could not heal my wound, but that the power lay within me." My lips curved in a mocking smile. "I am a stunted tree, my lord priest, reaching toward sunlight."

He frowned. "Indeed."

"Indeed." I meant to say the word with irony, but somehow it came out otherwise. I gazed at the priest, and it came to me in a thunderclap that all that Asclepius had said was true. I had seen terrible things and I had seen glorious mysteries. Against all odds, Elua and his Companions had triumphed over Angra Mainyu in Daršanga and turned back a tide of darkness that threatened to encompass the world. Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds. Against the might of a furious and dispossessed nation resorting to the darkest magics of hatred and despite, Blessed Elua had hurled a D'Angeline courtesan, a lone swordsman, and a ten-year-old boy.

And we had won.

Eamonn was right; war was a hurtful subject, even for the victors. I had been the lure that brought Phèdre and Joscelin to Daršanga. A victim; the perfect victim, until Phèdre arrived. That had been many months; I would never be free of those wounds. The past could not be changed without altering the present. Cold comfort, yes; but it had awoken me from my torpor of self-pity. I could learn to bear the scars with pride; my own twisted pride. I slid from the bier, landing without a twinge from my injured ankle. I felt different; free from the bonds of fear and anger, lighter than I had felt for many weeks.

You will find a way.

I bowed to the priest. "May I see Gilot?"

He bowed in return. "Come with me, Prince Imriel."

Another time—a day ago—I would have startled at his address. Today I merely accepted it. He knew; so be it. I had been a fool to imagine I could flee my own self. I followed him through the door and into the temple proper, to the injured ward where Gilot was housed, the long line of cots in an airy space. He struggled to sit when he saw me, pushing himself upright with his one good hand, a grin breaking over his face.

"Imri!" he called, then coughed and winced. "How was it?"

I drew up a stool and sat at his bedside, taking his left hand in mine. "Fine," I said honestly. "It was fine. I learned somewhat of value." I paused. "Gilot, listen. I'm going to stay in Tiberium for a little while. Long enough to attend Lucius' wedding in Lucca. And after that, I think we should go home."

His hand tightened on mine. "You mean it?"

I nodded. "I do."

A flicker of distress crossed Gilot's features. He glanced at his splinted right hand. "Oh, Imri! What about Anna and Belinda? What if—"

"Listen." I squeezed his good hand. "Gilot, if you want to stay here for their sake, no one will begrudge you, least of all me. I'll speak to Denise Fleurais. I've no doubt the ambassadress can find a use for a man of your talents. And if you wish to return to Terre d'Ange and bring Anna and her daughter with you…" I shook my head. "Name of Elua, Gilot! I've two holdings I've no use for. I'd as soon appoint you my liaison to deal with them. You've a knack for it, you learned enough at Montrève."

He looked steadily at me, his eyes as faithful as a hound's. "What of you?"

I made myself smile. "It doesn't matter."

"Why?" he asked. "What of you, Imri? What will you do?"

"I'll marry Dorelei." It felt odd to say the words aloud. I hadn't even known I'd decided until I spoke them. I freed my hand from his gently. "Gilot, I will take example from your loyalty. I'm doing no good here, not even for myself. After Lucius is wed, I'll take my leave of Tiberium. I'll do what the Queen wants, plight my troth to Dorelei mab Breidaia and go to Alba. I'll be a good D'Angeline Prince of the Blood and do my best to foster peace and harmony betwixt our nations." I laughed softly. "The stunted tree will seek sunlight."

Gilot sighed. "You promise? Because I'm mortally weary of worrying over you."

"I do," I said solemnly. "Only let me see Lucius wed first. It's only a few weeks hence, and you're not fit to travel. I have been a poor friend to him, and he deserves better."

"And then we go home?" he asked in a hopeful voice. "Because I think… I think if Anna is willing, I would like that. I would like it very much."

I nodded. "And then we go home. I promise."

Chapter Forty-Six

Upon returning to the insula, I discovered Canis was gone. Not absent; gone. The only trace of his presence that remained was a faint circle on the dusty street where his barrel had stood. I stared at it for a moment, then went to speak to Master Ambrosius.

The incense-maker was in good spirits. He had been more kindly disposed toward me since learning that I had kept his shop from being burned. "Smell this, young sir!" he greeted me, waving a bowl beneath my nose. "What think you?"

I sniffed. "Interesting."

" 'Tis camphor and crushed cardamom seeds from Bhodistan." He beamed. "Do you reckon D'Angelines would find it pleasing?"

"I do, yes." I smelled it again. The mixture was pungent and spicy, but not displeasing. "It's a proud scent, I think. I would offer it to Azza. Master Ambrosius, have you seen Canis?"

"The beggar?" He shook his head. "No, he was gone when I opened the shop this morning, and his filthy barrel with him. And good riddance. Begging your pardon," he added. "You seemed fond of him."

"So I thought." I touched my purse, feeling the broken pieces of the clay medallion mingling with my coins. The incense-maker's eyes brightened. I thought for a moment. "Master Ambrosius, I'd like to make offerings to Blessed Elua and his Companions. Mayhap you might help me choose?"

He was more than eager. Together, we debated gravely over a dozen different incenses. He told me the components of each one and asked me which I thought suitable for each deity in turn, nodding at my comments. I made my selections, and he measured careful scoops into burlap pouches. Remembering Master Piero's lesson, I understood better why the incense-maker had shown little regard for the University's students in general, and me in particular. This was the first coin I'd spent in his shop.