"Helena," I said. "She wished to thank me."

"Oh, indeed." Claudia gave me a wry smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. There was a complex mixture of worry and affection in her expression. "Have a care with her, Imriel. After what the poor girl's been through, she's not quite in her right mind."

"I know." I gazed at her, thinking that a man might look at her face for a long, long time without ever growing weary of it. I hoped Deccus Fulvius felt the same way. "Don't worry, I know how she feels. Better than I'd like to."

"I remember." Claudia touched my left hip, close to where the Kereyit Tatar mark was seared onto my buttock. She wasn't smiling anymore, and her eyes were grave. "Something like a slave-brand, wasn't it?"

Ah, Elua! I wished we could have known one another like this before. It could all have been so different between us without the games, without the invisible force of the Unseen Guild in play. There would still have been Deccus, but, well… it would have been different. There might have been love alongside the passion. Love, wild and dangerous, the sort that believed every risk worth taking, destroying reputations and shattering lives. Mayhap we had been capable of that, Claudia and I. And mayhap it was better that we hadn't tried… but I would never know.

You will find it and lose it, again and again.

"Yes," I said belatedly, easing her hand from my hip. "Something like it."

All too soon, dusk was falling and it was time for Eamonn and me to report to the town square. Gallus Tadius made a brief, distracted appearance before dispatching us on our rounds. It was the first time I'd seen him since dawn. If he'd slept in the past day, it wasn't at the Tadeii villa. I wondered if Eamonn was right.

"He's up to something," Eamonn said. "They're building something atop the gatehouse."

"A ballista?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It's meant to lob things at Valpetra's men."

"Huh." I thought about it. "What's Valpetra doing?"

"Nothing that I've heard." Eamonn grinned at me. "Nothing to interfere with my wedding, I hope! Do you know, Deccus Fulvius has offered to take my place tomorrow night and ride patrol with you so that Gallus Tadius doesn't put up a fuss."

A twinge of guilt caught me. "That's a kind offer."

"Aye." Eamonn gave me one of his sidelong looks. "You're not… ?"

I thought about Claudia touching my hip earlier today; Claudia stroking my hand beside Gilot's deathbed; Claudia in the theatre, caressing my swelling groin beneath the blanket; Claudia in her husband's salon, her tongue probing my mouth; Claudia by lamplight in the bedchamber, and the taste of her on my lips; Claudia in the painter's atelier, her white limbs spread and languid, all her naked abundance glowing in the sunlight.

"No," I said. "We're not."

"Good," Eamonn said simply.

It was an uneventful night, which was fine with me. The only surprise in the whole affair was that Gallus Tadius had ordered the sluice gates that Canis had dismantled left unrepaired. On the heels of a dry summer, the river was running low, so it made no difference. Still, it was odd. An extra sentry was posted atop the wall there, and a quartet of foot-soldiers lounged in the shadows. We all exchanged what gossip we'd overheard, but none of it came to aught.

"So how is Canis?" Eamonn asked when we were out of earshot.

"Silent," I said. "And mysterious."

He laughed. "Well, that ought to suit you."

We talked of a great many other things as we rode together that night. Mostly, I asked questions, which Eamonn answered freely. I hadn't realized, until that night, how remiss I'd been in his interests. I'd been too wrapped up in my own concerns. It came as a surprise to me to learn that he planned to travel to Skaldia with Brigitta to meet her family, assuming they both survived this siege. He hoped to coax them into blessing their union, and giving Brigitta leave to travel to Alba with him and make a home there.

"Why not?" he asked pragmatically. "I know there's a history of enmity. But we're all barbarians alike, aren't we?"

"You?" I said. "Never."

"I am, though, Imri. We both are." He rode without comment for a while. "Please don't take this amiss," he said eventually. "Because I know you don't think like most D'Angelines. But Brigitta and I understand one another. History is a lottery of sorts. We come from people who hunger for what they were denied, through whatever accident of birth or geography. They've known it longer in Skaldia. In Alba and Eire, the Dalriada are only beginning to realize it. The Master of the Straits kept us in isolation for a long, long time."

I shook my head. "Not a-purpose. The curse—"

"I know." Eamonn leaned over to touch my arm. "Dagda Mor! I don't mean to blame you. You, of all people; you and Phèdre and Joscelin…" His voice trailed off. "And yet," he mused, "when all is said and done, we are still subject to the Master of the Straits."

I summoned a memory of Hyacinthe; Hyacinthe, whom Phèdre had named her one true friend. Didikani; a Tsingano half-breed, with a worn, beautiful face, black curls, and color-shifting eyes filled with lost knowledge won through the long, lonely years of his forced apprenticeship. I remembered how he had walked on the waves, clutching his folio of pages. The lost Book of Raziel. Speaking the charm that held him aloft on their surface.

Held Phèdre aloft.

And she had summoned Rahab and banished him, speaking the Name of God.

"A different Master," I said softly. "A better Master. The Straits are open, Eamonn, and he protects both our shores, Alba and Terre d'Ange alike; aye, even from the ambition of the Skaldi, who would raid your shores if they could. Should he put aside his knowledge? Banish it from human understanding? Do you say it is ill done?"

"No!" Eamonn hesitated, then repeated it. "No."

"Good," I said. "Because Elua knows, it was hard-won."

"I know." He put out his hand, and I clasped it. "I know it was, Imri. I just want you to understand, that's all."

I nodded. "And I am trying."

Come dawn, we were relieved of duty and made our way back to the villa. Once more, I stumbled to my chamber and threw myself down on my bed, where I slept the sleep of pure exhaustion.

I dreamed, though.

In my dreams, I held the two halves of Gallus Tadius' broken death-mask and sought to join them together. It seemed to me that all would be right if only I could make it whole. The siege would be lifted and Lucius restored to himself. Everyone would be happy and free. I couldn't do it, though. The wax was old and brittle, crumbling beneath my hands. The harder I tried, the faster it crumbled. And I knew, somehow, that there was a charm that would make it stop, that would make time run backward in its course until the mask was whole and Gilot was alive again and everything was right in the world, only I didn't know the words, the right words. It was somewhat I'd known a long time ago, a very long time ago, but I had lost it. Because I was too careless, because I was bad.

I woke myself mumbling.

"Imriel!" Eamonn's voice boomed in the bedchamber. I opened my eyes and squinted at him. He was standing before the window, sunlight making a fiery halo of his red-gold hair. "Wake up! I'm getting married today."

Chapter Fifty-Four

For a ceremony thrown together in haste, it was a touching affair.

Nothing was quite as it ought to be, of course; there simply wasn't time. It didn't matter, though. The bride was Skaldi, the groom was Dalriadan. Neither had family to stand for them, and neither cared aught for proper Caerdicci customs. It was the exchange of vows, spoken and witnessed, that mattered.

It took place in the atrium. By all rights, there should have been a procession from the bride's household to the groom. Since that wasn't feasible, the groom's "household" was established in the far end of the atrium. A young priest from the temple of Jupiter was in attendance—not the flamen dialis himself, but a priest nonetheless—and an altar had been set up there.

Flames danced in the gilded offering bowl that sat atop the altar, fueled by bundles of juniper twigs tied with red wool and laid carefully across a charcoal base. Beyond the atrium, a banquet table awaited in the dining room, laden with food and brimming jugs of wine. The Lady Beatrice had elected to ignore Gallus Tadius' proscriptions for the occasion.

"Do we know where Gallus is?" I whispered to Eamonn, who looked resplendent in a toga of fine-combed white wool with a crimson border, his gold tore around his neck. I was standing at his side, along with Deccus Fulvius and a bewildered-looking Publius Tadius. Something inside him had cracked the day his son struck him across the face, and what will remained, the siege had broken. I was surprised he was there.

Eamonn shook his head. "Up to his plans, I imagine."

"Does he know about this?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"Excuse me." Publius leaned forward and peered at Eamonn. "Who are you again?"

I bowed to him. "My lord Publius, this is Prince Eamonn mac Grainne of the Dalriada, who has fought bravely for Lucca. He is grateful beyond words that you have extended the hospitality of the Tadeii to him on his wedding day."

"Oh, indeed!" Eamonn agreed.

Publius blinked at me. "Who are you?"

"Imriel," I said.

Deccus Fulvius clapped a hand on Publius' shoulder. "Let's have a quick cup of wine, old friend," he murmured, steering him toward the banquet table. "I'll explain it all again."

At the other end of the atrium, the doors opened to admit Brigitta, escorted by Claudia and the Lady Beatrice. Deccus and Publius hurried back, wiping their mouths. Brigitta was clad in white, too; a long white gown, with a gold cingulum tied around the waist in an elaborate knot. It made me think, briefly, of the sacred girdles the Magi had worn in Daršanga; the ones the bone-priests had used to strangle their loved ones.

I pushed the thought away, determined not to taint Eamonn's wedding day with my own dark memories.

Brigitta looked lovely. Her golden hair was arranged in an elaborate coif, adorned by a wreath of myrtle. Her cheeks glowed pink, and her blue eyes shone. Eamonn straightened at the sight of her, his tunic straining across his broad shoulders.

There was awkwardness with the ceremony itself; and how not? But in the end, none of it mattered. All together, we managed to get them before the altar. And there, each in turn, Brigitta and Eamonn spilled incense into the offering bowl and held their hands above the flame and declared their willing consent to this union. There was some business with a bronze scale and a distaff that went wholly amiss; I had to repress a laugh at the dubious gaze Brigitta cast toward the latter.

The young priest was perspiring. "Iuppiter, Iuno atque, dii me omnes testes vos testor mihi, " he said in formal tones, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "I call the gods to witness. In their presence, in good faith, make now your vows."

Eamonn took Brigitta's hand. "Upon my life and by my honor," he said solemnly, "I pledge myself to you, for as long as I live."

Her blush deepened and her Caerdicci dwindled. "So do I."

Once it was evident that nothing more was forthcoming, the priest beckoned for a winejug and a chalice. He filled the chalice, and indicated that they should both pour an offering to the gods, and then drink from the nuptial cup. When it was done, he heaved a sigh.

"By the gods immortal," he pronounced, "you are joined together in matrimony."

We all cheered, and Eamonn swept Brigitta into his arms and carried her over the threshold of the atrium toward the banquet. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him in a rare moment of unreserved joy. My eyes stung with an odd mixture of affection, envy, and grief. And strangely, the person I missed most in that moment was Lucius. He would have understood.

After the ceremony, it was all revelry.

There was a hectic gaiety in feasting during a time of siege, in defying orders. I ate and drank deep of all that was placed before me, making a concerted effort to thrust aside any feelings of ill will, to take joy in the happiness of my friends. And in others, too. Claudia and Deccus shared a couch, the apparent picture of wedded contentment. The Lady Beatrice was happy, and I could not begrudge her that. Even Publius Tadius seemed pleased in a befuddled manner, if only because his winecup was steadily refilled, the poor man.

I kept my dire thoughts at bay and raised my cup in a toast. "To Eamonn and Brigitta!" I called, and then slipped into D'Angeline. "May Blessed Elua hold and keep you in his hand, and may his Companions grant you mercy and kindness."

Amid the general acclaim, a shadow darkened the doorway.

"What in the name of Hades is this ?" a voice grated.

I got unsteadily to my feet. "Lucius…"

"Lucius be damned!" he roared. His gaze scoured the dining room, the picked-over banquet table. "Did I not give orders? What is this? This excess, this folly! Do you not understand that we are under siege? This is treason!"

The Lady Beatrice emitted a faint sound and fanned herself anxiously. Her husband stared blankly at his empty lap. No one else moved, although Claudia watched me.

"Lucius." I approached him. The sockets of his eyes were bruised hollows, his eyes burning like embers. They were mistrustful, and yet there was something within them I knew. Without thinking, I took his face in my hands. It felt stiff and hard. The skin was taut over the bones of his face, the scowling lines on it were engraved cruel and deep. And yet, unlike my dream, it didn't crumble under my touch. "It's a wedding. Eamonn and Brigitta's wedding."