I said nothing of the encounter. There was nothing new in Barquiel L'Envers' enmity. Maslin was another matter, but I wasn't sure whether his animosity was born of his dislike of me, his feelings for Sidonie, or L'Envers' seditious lies. Either way, I found myself reluctant to speak of it. There was no merit in worrying Phèdre and Joscelin. I didn't want to talk to them about Sidonie, either. Although I couldn't say why, what lay between us seemed best left unspoken.
Anyway, it didn't matter.
On the following day, we left.
The rumor of my departure was already circulating, but we kept the timing of it quiet. I hadn't told anyone but Mavros, and no one else had spoken of it. We rode out from the City in a large party, attended by almost all of Montrève's retainers; even Eugenie and her niece. To all appearances, we might have been going on a household pleasure-jaunt, amply stocked with provisions. A league outside the City, we would part ways. Gilot and I would continue on toward Eisheth's Way and Marsilikos, and the others would return slowly to the City.
It wouldn't fool anyone, not for long. But it would buy us a little time.
As merry as our party looked, it felt like a funeral procession. I had put off thinking about this moment. I had known it would be hard. I hadn't reckoned on feeling like something inside me was breaking.
On one of the smaller country roads that connects to Eisheth's Way, we halted and said our farewells. Everyone there seemed impossibly dear to me. Eugenie was the first to weep, embracing me and turning away. I bid farewell to her, to Clory, to all our men-at-arms, to Hugues and Ti-Philippe.
Gilot said his own farewells, and when he was done, he led our mounts and pack-horses a way down the road. On Ti-Philippe's nod, the household withdrew in the opposite direction, leaving Phèdre and Joscelin and me alone.
I could scarce bear to look at them.
The sun stood high overhead. Our shadows pooled at our feet, mingling on the dusty road. The scent of lavender hung in the air. After all we had endured, it seemed impossible that we would part. There should have been words for it; torrents of words. But it was hard to breathe past the lump in my throat, and all words failed me.
"Imriel," Phèdre whispered.
I nodded and looked at her, seeing past her undimmed beauty and the mark of Kushiel's Dart; even the sorrow brimming in her eyes. I saw the profound compassion and courage. Love. I saw love in its truest, purest form.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
"Be well," she said. "Be happy. Come back safely to us one day."
Unable to speak, I nodded again, stepping into her embrace. I bowed my head against her shoulder. In that moment, I remembered only how many times she had held me when I awoke from nightmares, sweating and trembling, my throat raw from screaming. How many times I had taken comfort from her mere presence. In a part of me, I wished nothing had ever changed. But it had, and I could not undo it. The silent leap of desire lay between us, deep as a chasm. After a moment, Phèdre planted a kiss on my brow and let me go, turning away.
I looked at Joscelin, and knew there was nothing left to say. In a way, we had already said our farewells. He reached out his hand and we clasped forearms like men. It gave me strength to draw a shuddering breath and speak.
"I love you," I said to them. "I love you both so much."
If I stayed, I feared I would lose my resolve. And so I went. Behind me, I heard a small sound escape Phèdre; I heard the sound of Joscelin's vambraces creaking as he put his arm about her. It was she who had taught me to listen for such things. And he was doing what he had always done, being strong for us both when we needed him the most.
My steps dragged on the dusty road. Ahead of me was Gilot, sweating under the hot sun as he sat astride, holding two lead-lines and the Bastard's reins. I kept going though my heart felt like a stone in my breast.
"You're sure about this?" Gilot asked when I reached him.
I leaned my head against the Bastard's muscular neck, breathing in the odor of hot horseflesh. I could feel Phèdre's kiss on my brow like a blessing. "I'm sure," I mumbled through the Bastard's coarse mane.
"Let's go, then." His voice was firm.
I forced myself to mount, though my limbs felt heavy and reluctant. Gilot secured the lead-lines of the pack-horses and we set on our way, treading our shadows beneath us.
I looked behind me only once. They were still standing there, Phèdre and Joscelin, growing small in the distance. She looked small beneath his arm. He raised one hand in salute, vambrace glinting. I raised my hand in reply, and turned my gaze forward.
Ah, Elua! It hurt to leave them.
I wiped my eyes, scrubbing my tearstained cheeks. And then I drew a deep breath, tasting the air as a free man. "Gilot?"
"Aye, highness?" he asked.
"I'm done with weeping," I said. "I'm sick unto death of my own tears. No more, do you hear me?"
"I do." He smiled wryly. "Tell the truth, I've had enough of my own."
"Good." I straightened in the saddle. "And no more your highness or my prince, either. Call me what you will in front of others, but not that. I'm not going to Tiberium as a Prince of the Blood or a member of House Courcel."
Gilot eyed me sidelong. "No? How do you want to be called?"
"Imriel," I said. "Imriel nó Montrève."
He nodded. "As you wish."
We made good time to Marsilikos, arriving a day and a half before the Tiberian merchant ship was due to depart. Gilot and I made our way to the quais, booking our passage with the ship's captain. He was an affable Tiberian fellow, glad to have our company and our gold, happy to recommend an inn where we might abide for a night.
Gilot was disgruntled.
"Surely the Lady of Marsilikos would receive you!" he complained, fussing at the threadbare blankets that covered his pallet. "My Lady Phèdre counts her as a friend. Do you mean to live as a peasant, Imri?"
I reclined on my own pallet, thin and lumpy, folding my arms beneath my head. Our rented room had one small window. Through it, I could glimpse the Dome of the Lady high atop its hill, overlooking the harbor, gilded and glorious, impervious to the knowledge of our presence. I smiled to myself.
"Mayhap," I said to Gilot. "Or near enough as makes no difference."
He scowled at me. "Why?"
I closed my eyes. "Because that's how I was raised, Gilot. As a peasant. As an orphan taken in by Brother Selbert of the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, taught to herd goats for a living. And I wonder, betimes, who that boy might have grown up to be." I opened my eyes. "Does that trouble you?"
"No." His scowl deepened. "I'm the fourth son of a poor manor. It's why I sought service in her ladyship's household; that, and her reputation. But why hold yourself cheap? You don't need to compromise, Imri."
I sighed. "Let me do this in my own way, Gilot. If you don't like it, you needn't come."
He snorted. "Oh, I'm coming! Make no mistake. If you want to be the only peasant in Tiberium with a bodyguard, so be it."
I grinned at him. "Well, mayhap not a peasant, exactly."
Our ship sailed on the morrow. We presented ourselves at the quai. Our mounts and pack-horses were ushered belowdecks, our belongings stowed. I made my way to the prow of the ship, cheering alongside the sailors as we hoisted anchor. The rowers bent to their oars and stroked. The ship turned slowly in the harbor of Marsilikos, green-blue waves breaking along her prow. Its sails began to fill and belly, and we picked up speed as we went.
Gilot shivered. "I've never left Terre d'Ange."
We passed Eisheth's Isle, narrow and barren. A few fishermen watched us go. I touched Gilot's arm. "I know," I said. "It's all right. Believe me, I have gone farther than this. I promise you, all is well."
It was a good journey, though a strange one. Gilot retired to our tiny cabin, where he spent most of his time. It wasn't that he was seasick—not like Joscelin—but the sight of all that open water made him uneasy. For the most part, I stayed abovedeck. It all came back to me; how to stand, how to walk. I helped where I was able, and tried not to make a nuisance of myself otherwise. I leaned in the prow and watched the dolphins that toyed in our wake, leaping and smiling their enigmatic smiles.
I remembered Fadil Chouma pointing them out to me.
I remembered the fountain in Elua's Square.
But mostly, blessedly, I forgot. Aboard the ship, I was only Imriel, a paying passenger who was less trouble than not. I gazed out at the four quarters of the world, bounded only by water and more water, and felt giddy with freedom. In the wind's salt spray, I felt scoured clean of my own dark desires. I diced with sailors and scrambled in the rigging when they dared me. I perched, swaying, in the crow's nest athwart the mainmast, hollering at the sight of land.
It came too soon.
"Ostia!" one of my shipmates shouted, crowding into the narrow space beside me. He flung his arm out like a spear, pointing straight and true. "Ostia!"
I clambered down from the rigging, sobering. As we neared the lighthouse, Gilot emerged from belowdecks, staring at the shore. "So," he said. "That's where we're bound."
I clapped my hand on his shoulder. "It's a start," I said. " 'Tis the gateway to Tiberium."
It was a massive, bustling port. Once we disembarked, we had to wait for the horses and our gear to be unloaded. Gilot stared around at a loss, having never been away from native soil. The quais were crowded with folk from different nations—Caerdicci of every ilk, Illyrians, Carthaginians, Aragonians, Menekhetans, Jebeans, and Umaiyyati. Here and there, one saw a D'Angeline face, but not many. A babble of languages and dialects filled the air.
I caught Gilot gaping at a crew of dark-skinned sailors aboard a Jebean ship, busily unloading cargo. "Don't stare," I said, nudging him. "You look provincial."
He shut his mouth with an audible click. "I am provincial, Imri!"
One of the sailors pointed at us, grinning. I daresay we looked like a fine pair of idiots, standing around open-mouthed in the midst of all that activity. I laughed and waved to him, calling out, "Selam!" He mimed surprise at my greeting him in Jeb'ez, then gave a cheerful wave in reply and went about his business.
At length our horses and baggage were unloaded. The Bastard was nearly as unnerved as Gilot, spooking in all directions, threatening to wreak havoc on the quai. After I got him calmed, I hired a porter to lead us to the river wharf.
The wharf was as crowded as the quai. Barges docked beneath the shadow of a guard tower, their captains shouting for business. Throngs of merchants and porters clogged the wharf, dotted with vendors selling food cooked over open-air braziers. Realizing our bellies were rumbling, we paused at one to purchase meat pies wrapped in pastry.
"Name of Elua!" Gilot swallowed with difficulty. "What's in this thing?"
I chewed reflectively. The taste was strange, peppery and pungent, with an underlying saltiness. "I don't know," I said. "I'll ask."
The vendor beamed when I asked him in Caerdicci. "You like it? Only good things, young D'Angeline lord! Minced meat and peppercorns, pine kernels and garum." He chuckled. "The garum is a family recipe, a secret. That's what makes my pies the best."
"Garum?" I asked. Without divulging his family's secret, he told me the essence of what it contained. I nodded my thanks. "Fish paste and herbs," I said to Gilot. "Fermented in the sun for several weeks."
He gagged.
I grinned and took another bite. "Better get used to it. It seems the Tiberians are very proud of their garum."
Once we had eaten, we set about booking passage up the TiberRiver. On our porter's advice, I spoke to several barge-captains. I remembered how Kaneka had haggled with the caravan drivers at Majibara, and took her example to heart. When all was said and done, I struck a decent bargain. Along with a few other passengers, we loaded our mounts, our baggage, and ourselves aboard a shallow-bottomed barge. At the tiller, the captain gave the command, and the oarsmen struck out.
We began to glide up the wide, flat expanse of the TiberRiver.
The other passengers were a family of Menekhetan merchants, slight and dark, ferrying a cargo of linens. I listened to them speak amongst themselves, catching a word here and there. I wondered if the Tiber disappointed them after the great river of the Nahar.
"You seem different here," Gilot observed.
"Do I?" I smiled. "I feel different. I feel… free." We glided beneath the arch of a massive bridge. I pointed out a carving on one of its supporting columns. Although it was worn, one could still discern the doubled features of a deity, looking at once north and south. "Do you see that, Gilot? Janus, god of bridges and doorways, of crossroads. I'll warrant it was already old when Blessed Elua first trod the earth."
Gilot shuddered. "I'll take my gods with one face, thank you!"