This was no poet's tale.

Eamonn had to sidle sideways down the winding stair, and even at that, Gilot's head and his trailing legs scraped the walls. And then there were the dead. One Valpetran, two Luccan. I had to move them all before Eamonn could pass with his burden.

Dead flesh, heavy and inert. Blind, staring eyes.

I took the Luccans first, hoisting one at a time over my shoulder and carrying them down the stairs. Dead limbs dangled and thumped against me and I could feel the slow seep of blood from their wounds soaking my shirt. It was hard work; harder than hauling stumps at Montrève and infinitely more horrible. I laid each down in the square with care. They were someone's son, someone's brother, someone's beloved. Already there was wailing in the city.

By the time I got to the Valpetran, I was exhausted. I had to strip his armor in order to move him. Beneath his helmet, he had an ordinary face. I hated him anyway. For a moment, I was tempted to grab his ankles and haul him down feet first. Let his skull crack as it bounced down the stair; what did it matter? He was dead.

Remember this.

I imagined Phèdre's expression, sighed, and hoisted the Valpetran's corpse.

Eamonn followed carrying Gilot. It was easier work than hauling the dead, but he had the physical strength to do it with a tender effortlessness I couldn't have mustered. Gilot hadn't uttered a word of protest. By that alone, I knew how badly he was hurt.

"Guard!" I caught at the nearest crimson gambeson. "I need a litter."

He jerked his head toward the northwest corner of the square, where a dozen wounded men lay groaning. "Wait your turn."

I swore at him.

"Imri." Gilot's breathing was shallow and thick, and blood bubbled over his lower lip. "Just put me on a damn horse, will you? I'll make it."

In the end, we did. Eamonn and I eased him atop the Bastard. We walked on either side and held him upright, while Brigitta took Eamonn's horse and raced ahead to the Tadeii villa to beg them to send for a chirurgeon.

Outside the walls of Lucca, Valpetra's army was settling in for a long siege. In the gatehouse, Gallus Tadius was rallying the city guard's defenses. So I assumed, at any rate. What had become of Gaetano Correggio and his daughter, I couldn't say. At the moment, I didn't care about any of them.

The Bastard was as good as gold. He picked his way with care, placing each hoof delicately. I swear, he knew.

"Remember that spotted horse, Imri?" Gilot coughed. "The one at the fair, the day we heard about your mother. What was his name?"

"The Salmon," I said softly. "I remember. You were going to save your wages."

"Never was any good at that." He bent his head, stroking the Bastard's neck. A few drops of blood fell from his chin, blending into the Bastard's speckled hide. "Take care of this one, will you?"

"Don't talk like that!" I said in alarm.

Gilot smiled, and winced. "Talk to you any way I please, today."

"Why not?" Eamonn said equably. "You always do."

It made us all laugh, and then Gilot coughed again and more blood came. We walked the rest of the way in silence, and Claudia Fulvia met us at the gate of the Tadeii villa with a handful of retainers, all of them armed and watchful. She looked tired and worried, but strong. Elua help me, I was glad to see her in a way I hadn't known existed. The courage of women is different from the courage of men; deeper and more enduring. A vast weariness crashed over me, and all I wanted was to sink to my knees and lose myself in her embrace.

"The chirurgeon is coming," she said. "Let's get him inside."

Eamonn carried Gilot into the villa. Without the presence of Gallus Tadius, the atmosphere was quiet and hushed. We made Gilot as comfortable as possible in one of the guest chambers, and settled in to await the chirurgeon.

There was nothing else to be done.

Chapter Fifty-One

So began the siege of Lucca.

It seemed like a fever-dream. From the moment we had spotted the smoke outside the walls, nothing had felt quite real. A single day had passed and the world had gone mad. It was, though. It was all horribly real.

The Luccan chirurgeon who examined Gilot shook his head. "Pray to Asclepius and Far-Sighted Apollo," he said simply. "There is nothing I can do."

I wanted to pray; I wanted to curse. I wanted to feel hope or fury. Anything to stem the awful tide of sorrow that threatened to swallow me. But there was nothing, only grief.

Gilot died in the small hours of the night.

I was with him. I never left his side, except once when Eamonn spelled me so I might change out of my blood-stiffened clothing and bathe. I did so hurriedly, leaving swirls of translucent red in the clear water of the baths. I didn't know how I'd gotten so much blood on me. Carrying the dead, I reckoned. I didn't even have a scratch. It seemed wrong.

Scrubbed clean, I knelt at Gilot's bedside. He slept, mostly. The chirurgeon had given him a tincture of opium. From time to time, I rose to tend the lamps. As long as I wiped the blood from his mouth, Gilot looked peaceful in repose. He's so beautiful, Anna had said. I thought of Anna and her young daughter Belinda, awaiting his return from Lucius' wedding, and I wanted to weep.

He woke before the end and smiled to see me kneeling there. "Are you keeping Blessed Elua's vigil for me?" he asked thickly.

I took his stiff, broken hand. "I suppose I am."

Gilot laughed, or tried to. I let go his hand to dip a cloth in the basin beside me and dab his lips. "Elua! Do you remember when you took sick? Phèdre was so mad at Joscelin. I'd never seen her angry."

"No," I murmured. "It doesn't happen often."

"Will you tell her?" He groped for my hand. "Tell them both I tried."

"I'll tell them." I swallowed. "I'll tell them how you were a hero. How you saved the city, saved everyone. You were clever, so clever." I scrubbed my eyes with my free hand. "All knowledge is worth having. I'll tell them."

"Clever." Gilot smiled. "Who would have thought." He squeezed my hand. "Anna?"

I nodded. "I promise."

"Good." He sighed. "Good."

After that, he didn't speak. It was a long time before I realized that the silence I heard was the absence of his labored breathing. The peace that had settled over his features was a lasting one. His hand was growing cool in mine. I let it go for the last time and leaned my brow against the edge of his bed.

"Imriel?"

I lifted my head. Claudia was in the doorway, clad in a nightrobe.

"Is he… ?"

I nodded, wordless.

She opened her arms and I went to her. There was no guilt in it, not now; not even desire. Only a mortal, human need for contact. For a long moment, we stood in the doorway, holding one another. At length, Claudia shuddered and sighed. Her breath, warm and alive, stirred my hair.

"I'm sorry, Imriel."

I released her. "Thank you."

"I'll tell the chamberlain," she said quietly. "If it's acceptable to you, your friend will be given a place of rest in the Tadeii mausoleum, at least for now."

"Do we have a choice?" I asked.

Claudia shook her head. "At the moment, no."

A harsh laugh burst from me. "So much for the Unseen Guild!"

"Imriel." She touched my cheek. "The Guild can't control every vagary of human ambition. Right now, I'm trapped here as surely as you are. Be patient."

"Patient!" The anger came, then. "Name of Elua! It's a bit late for patience, isn't it? Surely it's too late for Gilot!" I drew a sharp breath. "I want out of here, Claudia. Out of Lucca. I want to take Gilot and go home. That's all he wanted, to go home to Terre d'Ange. I promised him we'd go home. Let him at least be buried there. It's all I ask."

"Well, mayhap you should have thought of it before you decided to play the hero!" Claudia said tartly. "Imriel…" She sighed and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry. I will do what I can. But understand, I don't control the Guild. They may move to aid us or they may not, depending on their interests. And when all is said and done, the Guild is not terribly interested in Lucca." Her wide mouth curled. "I'm only a journeyman. I'm expendable. It's another reason why I was allowed to approach you in the first place."

I shivered. "Cold folk."

"Yes," she said simply. "It might have been different if…"

"If I had sworn loyalty?" I asked.

"Mayhap." Claudia shrugged. "You were a prize they valued. Or if you hadn't severed the Duke of Valpetra's hand." She smiled ruefully. "It would have been a lot easier to negotiate safe passage for you and your friends if you hadn't."

I thought about the look in Helena's eyes. "He deserved it."

"I know." She took my sword-hand and stroked it, and a frisson of desire ran through me. In the presence of Gilot's cooling body, it felt at once wrong and right. There was a strangeness in it. Death breeds desire; and yet, should it not? I knew what happened if it didn't. Death breeding death, the threefold-path. Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds. One building on another. "I heard what you did."

"Gilot died a hero," I said hoarsely.

"Yes," she said. "He did."

I caught her fingers in mine. "Come with me."

In my guest chamber, we coupled. I daresay there is another word for it; a better word. Lovemaking; yes, there was love in it, or at least tenderness. But it was a form of grieving, too. And mercy, and redemption… I do not know how to speak of it. In the adjacent chamber, Gilot lay dead and cold. A life, two lives, would be darkened by that sorrow. And I made love to Claudia, because we were alive and warm. No games, no frills. I fell into her and lost myself. Her voice beckoned me onward, plummeting deeper into her core.

This, too, is sacred.

Afterward, I wept.

Tears; bitter tears. All the villa was asleep, Gilot was dead, and I wept onto Claudia Fulvia's shoulder, hot tears trickling over her skin. She held me and whispered words of comfort, and I was grateful for it.

"We have to be strong," she murmured at length. "All of us."

"I know." I rose and splashed my face in the washbasin, then dressed. "Tell the chamberlain to make arrangements. I'll speak to Eamonn and Brigitta." I looked at Claudia, tousled and weary, and lovely despite it. "Thank you."

She summoned a tired smile. "I told you it was never just the Guild."

Claudia left, and I went to tell Eamonn and Brigitta. He was in a deep, exhausted sleep, but Brigitta was awake, reading by lamplight, her brow furrowed in concentration. She glanced up as I entered the chamber, and saw by my expression what news I bore.

"He has died?" she asked in her Skaldic accent.

"Yes," I said.

Brigitta closed her book. "I am sorry. He died bravely." She paused. "Shall I wake Eamonn?"

I wanted to say yes, but Gilot was gone, and waking Eamonn wouldn't bring him back. There was no reason for it except that I didn't want to be alone with my grief. "No," I said. "Let him sleep and tell him when he wakes."

"Yes," she said. "I will."

I left her stroking Eamonn's hair as he slept. She understood her fortune; another woman's beloved had died while hers yet lived. I daresay Brigitta would have endured it better. My heart ached at the thought of having to tell Anna, who had already loved and lost one man.

Since I had nowhere else to go, I returned to Gilot's chamber.

For the rest of the night, I kept Elua's vigil for him, kneeling on the marble floor. We were alone here, the two of us. We were strangers in Lucca. Eamonn and Brigitta had one another, Claudia had Deccus Fulvius, Lucius… well, Lucius had Gallus Tadius. Gilot was the only one who had come for me. And now he was gone.

I'd known him since I was thirteen years old. He'd been my present age when he joined Phèdre's service; eighteen and eager to make his name. He was the first to treat me as an equal—the only one. I smiled, remembering. At the time, I'd envied him the age of majority. Now Gilot at eighteen seemed younger, far younger, than I felt.

Elua, but I must have been a plague to him!

He'd endured it, though. My moody adolescence, my feckless young manhood. Endured it in good spirits, without complaint. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He'd grumbled incessantly for most of the time in Tiberium. It was fair, though. I'd given him cause, time and again.

I'd give anything to see him roll his eyes in disgust once more.

It was a piece of irony that Gilot had never known the truth about the danger I faced in Tiberium, the attempts on my life. And yet here in Lucca, where I thought I'd be safe, he'd done his duty to the utmost. He'd saved me, saved us all. And now he was dead.

I wished I hadn't let him go to the gatehouse.

I hadn't thought he'd stay. Or at least… No. I hadn't thought. That was the truth of it. Until Valpetra's men charged the gatehouse, I'd forgotten about Gilot. I'd been swept up in the fervor of the moment. I was responsible for him. I knew he was wounded. I should have seen to it that he was safely behind the lines. He wouldn't have liked it, but he would have gone if I'd ordered him on pain of dismissal.

Mayhap.

And yet if he had, the drawbridge would never have been raised. Valpetra's gambit might have succeeded, and many others might have died. I realized, that night, that I would never know. Gilot might have obeyed me; or not. He was loyal, but he was proud, too. He was Phèdre's man and sworn to protect me. Of a surety, he'd have been dead set against my mad charge to free Helena. After five years, he knew me well enough to guess what I was about. I'd never opened my heart to him the way I had to Eamonn. But he'd been my companion, day in and day out, for a long time.