"Your highness!" A gasp, and the sound of a dish rattling.

I turned, dagger in hand, to see Eugenie's niece Clory. She held a tray with a bowl of steaming broth. A bit had slopped over the sides. "Go away, Clory."

She looked terrified. "Eugenie said…"

I raised my voice. "Go away, Clory!"

She set down the tray on a nightstand and fled. I finished cutting off every last damned Shahrizai braid on my head, then sank down on the edge of my bed and put my face in my hands. I wanted to cry. I wanted to curse and rail against the gods.

I wanted the last day of my life back.

I wanted to be someone else.

Since none of it would do any good, I didn't. I picked up the bowl of broth Clory had brought and drank it down, then hurled the empty bowl onto the floor. It shattered in a spray of crockery shards. Dashing the back of my hand over my lips, I got up and went to do the only sensible thing I could think of.

"Imri!" Gilot leapt to his feet as I strode through the salon. "Where are you going?"

"Out," I said briefly.

"I'm going with you." Although his eyes were red-rimmed with weariness, his face was set and stubborn. He had good instincts, Gilot, waiting here for me.

I shrugged. "Suit yourself."

At the stable, Benoit looked at us with surprise, but he made no comment, saddling the Bastard and Gilot's mount and opening the gates for us. We rode out into the City of Elua. Gilot glanced at me. "Where are we bound, highness?"

"How many wineshops and inns does the City hold?" I asked him.

"Dozens," he said. "Why?"

"Because," I said grimly. "I mean to get blind, stinking drunk."

I met my goal that day.

I don't know how many places we visited. Some of them, like the Cockerel, I knew. But I found no respite there, or anywhere. We downed tankards of ale, jars of wine, and moved on to the next place, from Night's Doorstep to the heart of the City proper. Or at least I did; Gilot accompanied me, keeping a sober head. At some point he managed to get some food in me, though it didn't help. Yet as much as I drank, it wasn't enough to fill the abyss.

I couldn't escape from myself.

"That's the trick," I said drunkenly to Gilot. By that time, the sun had long since set. "To make of the self a vessel where the self is not. That's how she did it, you know." I hiccouphed. "Phèdre, I mean."

He moved my winecup out of reach. "Did what?"

I wagged my finger at him, then lurched over the table to retrieve it. "Got the Name of God." I refilled my cup, wine spilling over the rim. "She holds it in her head, you know."

"Yes, I know." Gilot sighed. "Are you ready to go home yet?"

"No!" I hunched over my winecup and glared at him. "You don't… you don't understand. We were there, at the temple. Kapporeth. I stabbed one of Hanoch's men, right there on the threshhold. She was ready to give her life for me, Gilot! And I repay it like this?"

"If you want to repay it, go home and face her," he said patiently.

I drained my cup and inverted the jar over it. A single drop of wine clung the the lip. I shook my ill-shorn head. "No," I said. "Not yet."

We ended at a disreputable tavern along the AvilineRiver. It was a rough place; truly rough, not one such as the City's gentry frequent for a thrill of the forbidden. They served only ale, no wine. Broad-shouldered boatmen hunched over their tankards. I liked it because no one knew who I was, or cared.

I picked a fight with one of the boatmen.

I don't remember what it was about. Nothing, like as not; I didn't even know the man. But I managed to insult him to the point where he hauled me off my stool, grasping the front of my doublet and threatening me with a ham-sized fist. There was a surge in the tavern as Gilot sought to come to my defense and went down under a pile of the boatman's comrades, thrashing and cursing.

"Apologize, lordling," the boatman rumbled.

I hung in his grip, laughing. "For what?" I asked. "Tell me, have you a sister? I wouldn't mind giving her a tumble if she'd let me close my eyes."

The front door opened and the whole tavern went inexplicably silent.

My assailant turned his head. Lolling in his grip, I followed his gaze.

Joscelin leaned in the doorway, the hilt of his longsword protruding over his shoulder.

"See that?" I gave a bleary grin, secure in his sudden presence. "I want to be able to do that. Just show up, and have everyone go dead quiet. Why can't I do that?"

Joscelin nodded at the boatman. "Go ahead. I reckon you owe him one."

Jos—

I only got out the first syllable of his name before the boatman's fist smashed into my face. Drunk as I was, I felt it, a starburst opening behind my eyes. It hurt. It hurt a lot, more than anything had hurt me since Daršanga. I gaped, bloody-mouthed, hanging in the boatman's grip and seeing his fist cocked for a second blow, the sinews in his arm taut and swelling.

"I said one."

Joscelin's gauntleted right hand caught the boatman's fist. His other hovered over the hilt of his left-hand dagger. The boatman nodded, ceding to good sense, thrusting me toward him.

"Take him," he said in disgust.

I staggered into Joscelin's arms. "Thank you," I slurred.

He held me up effortlessly, gesturing toward the back of the tavern. "Gilot."

The horde parted, letting him rise. Gilot bounded to his feet, hand on his sword-hilt, fury in his face, abating as he took in the scene. Joscelin jerked his head toward the door.

"Go on," he said quietly. "You've earned your rest."

With a profound sigh, Gilot departed.

Holding me up with one arm, Joscelin fumbled in his purse, tossing a few silver ducats on the bar. "Apologies," he said.

The innkeeper nodded. "No trouble, my lord."

Outside, Joscelin let go of me. I squinted at him, seeing three wavering figures, and concentrated hard on standing upright. The ground seemed to be moving under my feet and my knees felt watery. Mercifully, after the first burst of pain, it had faded. My face felt hot and numb, a wet warmth trickling over my chin. Joscelin regarded me with folded arms.

"Lose any teeth?" he asked.

I spat out a mouthful of blood and probed with my tongue. "Don't think so," I said thickly. "Loosened a couple."

He nodded. "Don't fuss with them." There was a street lad standing by, holding the Bastard and Joscelin's horse. He paid him and took the reins. "Come on." He started walking, leading both horses. They followed docilely. After a moment, I stumbled after them.

We walked for a long time. It was late and the City was quiet. After a while, I began to feel more sick than drunk. I had to pause a few times to vomit, heaving the contents of my stomach on the cobbled streets until I felt empty as a scraped gourd.

At Elua's Square, Joscelin tied up the horses and let me rest. I dunked my head into the cool waters of the dolphin fountain, scrubbing my battered face and swilling my mouth, then cupped my hands and drank deeply. It was the best water I ever tasted.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Yes." My face was beginning to ache and stiffen and my swollen lips made talking difficult, but I was beginning to sober. "A little." I sat down on the stone bench where I had waited for my nonexistent conspirator to contact me.

Joscelin sat down beside me.

"Did Phèdre tell you?" I asked him.

He didn't answer at once, gazing at the stars. They were dense tonight, bright against the black sky. "I can't look at the stars without thinking of that night," he mused. "Searching for Kapporeth." He looked at me. "She said she suspected you'd come face-to-face with your heritage."

"I went to Valerian House," I said. "And I—" I looked away.

"And then you went home," he finished.

He knew.

I felt sick in a way that had naught to do with rotgut ale. Sick at heart, sick with guilt and shame. I said nothing, swallowing tears, trying to act like a man.

"Imri, love." The gentleness in Joscelin's voice nearly undid me. "You are what you are. We cannot choose the gifts the gods bequeath to us, only what we do with them. Believe me, no one knows it better than Phèdre." He smiled a little, stroking my shorn locks. "Though I may run a close second."

I did cry, then; hot tears, bitter and silent. They leaked beneath my lids and dampened my cheeks, salt-stinging on my split lips. Joscelin let me, offering no words of false comfort, only wordless solace. At last they ran their course, and there, on a bench in Elua's Square, I gathered my resolve and made a choice.

"I'm leaving," I said. "I'm going to Tiberium."

"Are you sure?" He searched my face with shadowed eyes. "We can find a way through this, Imri. We've faced worse together."

"I'm sure." I thought about what else awaited me in the City of Elua. The Queen and Cruarch urging me toward Dorelei, with her sweet child's laugh and Alban innocence. My young royal cousin Sidonie and the banked heat between us. Knowledge of Valerian House, where a beautiful adept proclaimed herself taken with me. All of those things added up to a disaster. I rubbed away tears with the heel of my hand. "I can't stay."

"I wish you would," Joscelin said simply.

"I know." I smiled at him though it made my face ache. "It's not that the City is too small, or Montrève, or even Terre d'Ange. It's me. I need to grow. I need to find out who I am. And I can't do it here. Not without hurting the people I love."

He nodded. "So be it, then. We'll begin making arrangements on the morrow."

We both rose. On impulse, I embraced him, flinging both arms around his neck and hugging him hard. Joscelin returned my embrace, his vambraced arms firm around me. For the last time, I stood in the charmed circle of his protection, knowing nothing bad could happen to me while he was there.

For the space of a few heartbeats, it was true.

But I wasn't a child anymore, and he couldn't protect me from myself. He was wise enough not to try, and I knew it.

"I'll miss you," I whispered. "So much!"

"So will I," he murmured. "So will I, love."

His arms tightened, and then he released me. In the shadowy starlight, I saw, for the first time I remembered, the gleam of tears in Joscelin's eyes.

He shook his head, dispelling them.

"Come," he said. "Let's go home."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

On the morrow, I had to face Phèdre.

I put it off as long as I could. Joscelin and I had arrived in the small hours of the night, with most of the household sleeping, only a bleary-eyed Hugues to greet us. I took to my bed and slept, too; the sleep of the dead, or nearly so.

But eventually, I had to rise.

Hunger drove me from my chamber. My belly, purged of all it had contained for the past day, rumbled ominously. When I heard Eugenie ring the bell for luncheon, I stumbled downstairs on wobbly legs.

"Good day," I mumbled, taking my seat at the table. Phèdre stared at me in mild shock. The surge of remembered desire, the way her pulse had leapt beneath my thumb, struck me anew. My empty stomach roiled. "What?" I asked, defensive. "What is it?"

"Your hair," she said. "And your mouths Joscelin coughed.

I licked my split lips and winced. "I deserved it. And the hair…" I felt at the multitude of ragged, severed stumps of braids that dotted my scalp, half-unraveled. "I was angry," I said lamely.

"I know." Her voice softened. "Will you at least let me trim it?"

It would be a test of sorts. The thing lay between us, acknowledged but unspoken. I nodded and began to fill my plate.

Afterward, I bathed, soaking in a tub of heated water and fragrant oils. I felt better for it. And when I had done, Phèdre attended to my hair.

I sat on a footstool, wrapped in a dressing gown, hunkering low.

Every muscle in my body was strung taut. Phèdre undid the tangled remnants of my Shahrizai braids, teasing them out with an ivory comb. She had a deft touch. How not? She had been trained as an adept of the Night Court. And yet this time there was somewhat impersonal in it, somewhat that quelled desire. I had heard rumors that adepts of all the Thirteen Houses were so trained. It was one of the Night Court's untold secrets. Mayhap it was true. I only know I was grateful for it. "Hold still, love," Phèdre murmured.

I felt the cold kiss of steel shears against my cheek. "I trust you," I said, closing my eyes. "I always will. Always."

The shears moved in a steady flurry, snipping and slicing. I hugged myself and sat unmoving, bits of hair flying. It took a while. When the flurry had ended, Phèdre laughed, soft and low, a sound filled with quiet regret.

"Look," she said, directing me to the mirror. "A proper Tiberian gentleman."

I looked. My hair lay in a loose, shining cap, cut high enough to bare my ears, breaking over my brow in waves. I met her eyes in the mirror. It was easier that way.

"I'm sorry!" I said. "Ah, Elua! I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." Phèdre's hands rested on my shoulders, her touch cool and light. Looking into the mirror, she matched my gaze. "We are what we are, Imriel. Blessed Elua has his reasons." "I pray he does," I whispered.

"He does." She turned me loose. "Go and make your plans." I met with her factor first; my factor, now. As I had reached the age of majority, I had the right to draw upon the proceeds of my estates. Jacques Brenin arranged for a transfer of funds, giving me a note that would allow me to make a claim on one of Tiberium's foremost banks. And then I faced the Queen and gave her my decision. It was the first time I had met with her alone, with only the two of us present. Ysandre was wroth.