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Previously, in the House of the Rose Series:

The vampires who call themselves djinni protect the mortals of the House of the Rose from Crusader and Saracen alike. When anti-heretic Crusaders massacre the city of Béziers in 1209, most of the Protectors perish trying to protect their charges. Cecilia, the Eldest Protector, survives but saves only the badly wounded Protector Menelaos, who spends the next forty years healing his memories and powers.

When King Louis of France leads a Crusade to Egypt in 1259, Menelaos, now called Dominic, discovers that young cousins Sir Michel and Sir Roland are the reincarnations of Menelaos's beloved wife Honoria and her twin brother, Marcus, who were killed in Béziers. Roland, who was Marcus, is persuaded to transfer his allegiance to the House of the Rose, agreeing to become a Protector. In this role, he finds some measure of success and contentment. But Michel flees in fear for his soul and vanishes into the protective anonymity of the order of the Knights Templar.

When Dominic receives false news of Michel's death, he begins an obsessive quest for Michel's new reincarnation, hoping to reunite with the soul he has loved for so many lifetimes. As the years pass, Dominic despairs and descends into near-madness, drinking the lifeblood of children in his futile search. When Cecilia learns that Michel is alive, she sets out to see if she can successfully recruit him for the House. When she arrives in the Flemish city of Ypres, she discovers that her oldest enemy, the banished soul of the goddess Inanna, has been reincarnated as Blanche, the daughter of Michel's sister Mathilde, who is also a reborn Protector. Cecilia becomes Mathilde's best friend, and arranges a marriage for young Blanche to remove her from contact with the others.

Dominic receives word of Michel's location and journeys in haste to Ypres. He kidnaps Michel, forcibly returning his past-life memories in an attempt to persuade Michel into consenting to become a vampire. In doing so, he discovers that Cecilia has been altering the memories that she returns to the other vampires, and is forced to transform Michel to save his life after inadvertantly triggering the deadly spell that Cecilia set to safeguard discovery of her meddling.

Cecilia covers up her misdeeds, but only by further crippling Dominic's powers and injuring Michel's memories as well. Later, Dominic and Michel make an uneasy truce while working to transform Michel's ailing sister Mathilde into a vampire. Dominic is still deeply in love with the soul that once belonged to his beloved wife Honoria. Michel, his ability to recall the memories of his past lives damaged by Cecilia's meddling, finds himself struggling to maintain his identity--and his sanity. Honoria, the identity from his immediate past life, proves particularly troublesome. She wants her husband Dominic back, and doesn't find being male in this incarnation an obstacle. Michel, who has been a good Catholic for most of his life, shrinks from the idea of a same-sex relationship. His situation is further complicated by the news that Cecilia's maidservant Tirgit, who was assigned to Michel as his concubine in the last days of his fertility after becoming a vampire, is pregnant with Michel's child. Michel is determined to formalize his relationship with Tirgit, and persuades her to accept the risky honor of becoming a vampire if their child proves to be another Apkallu reborn.

Mathilde takes on the duties of a Protector and accepts Dominic as her consort. Together, they travel to Constantinople for her formal appointing as a Protector, and so that Cecilia can return Mathilde's past-life memories. A disagreement between Mathilde and Cecilia over Cecilia's orders to cut off contact with Blanche ends with Cecilia placing a geas on Mathilde that inflicts blinding headaches whenever Mathilde thinks about her daughter.

Meanwhile, Roland, now known as Arjumand abd al-Warda, continues to serve as Protector of the House in Muslim lands. As the years pass, and he grows more confident and more mature, he begins to chafe against the many restrictions imposed by the kin of the House upon their Protectors. His dissatisfaction comes to climax when he is forced to transform the seeress Nadira into a vampire despite his deep reservations about her character. His fears prove well-founded when she suborns a newly-found Apkallu, a Mongol youth named Kobegun, and together, they injure and kill several of the kin before being captured and executed. Arjumand, his judgment vindicated, heads further towards open rebellion when he learns from his former lover Mathilde that he is Blanche's father, and that Blanche is the Cursed One. Unwilling now to unquestioningly believe the word of the kin, he vows to discover the truth about his daughter's banishment for himself.

Queen of Heaven begins just after the end of the events in Broken Gods and House of Memory.

Chapter One

Where you do not live but where my city is built, I myself am silenced (?). My city is ruined, my house is destroyed, my child has been taken captive.--"Enki and Ninma," c.1.1.2, (Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature)

Domo to Rhodon, Constantinople, Tuesday March 22, AD 1261:

"Farewell! Farewell!" called the people of the Constantinople House of the Rose to their departing guests. "May we meet again! Remember us!"

Arjumand was heartily glad to see the last of his fellow Apkallu: Mathilde, his cousin and former lover, marked by her mortal suffering; Dominic, who had won Mathilde's affection though he nurtured a hopeless passion for Michael, Mathilde's brother; and Cecilia, the lying bitch, who had almost killed him and now calmly gazed upon him with no visible sign of enmity. Arjumand watched the procession of horses, mules, baggage and handlers, trundle down the stone-faced street until they turned out of sight. If I'm lucky, I won't see them again for centuries.

If only his daughter Blanche had centuries to spare. Would he ever see her in person? He had only the briefest of glimpses from Mathilde's memories: The little face is fair and rosy-cheeked, blonde hair escaping from beneath her linen cap. Her blue gaze holds Cecilia captive, and the bright rose-colored aura flares as if in acknowledgment...It was not even Mathilde's memory, but Cecilia's, who had damned his daughter's soul for millennia, claiming that Inanna had committed terrible crimes against the House. How true those claims were, Arjumand had begun to doubt. But how could he disprove them? He was tied to Sharibet and to the House's traditions. Well, he would find a way, somehow.

Sharibet stopped holding his right hand the minute the guests vanished, and turned without a word to re-enter the house. Neither of them had spoken of where she'd spent the night before Mathilde's Appointing as a Protector of the House--in Cecilia's bed. It doesn't matter. It is the way of djinni.

Cecilia, damn her lying eyes, had decided to become the Protector of the Malaga House in the Moorish kingdom of Granada, all the way across the Middle Sea. Let her expend her spite against Castilian King Alfonso with his ambitions to conquer Granada. Let her conceal her eternally girlish features from behind a veil! Let her escape from the interest of the Templars, who had watched her in hopes she would lead them to their missing Knight-Brother Michael. For all these good reasons, the House would fabricate a tale of Cecilia le Byzantine's fatal illness on her journey back to Venice. Would that it were true, and not a convenient lie!

* * *

Two hours later, Sharibet called a meeting of the council of elders in the Red Solar, to discuss a report that had come in by pigeon. She was smiling. "Basil confirms the Mongols have indeed established a court in Persia."

As the elders exclaimed over this new opportunity, Arjumand yawned.

Sharibet's eyes narrowed as she mind-whispered to him. <A court means nobles. Nobles means perfume. We can go back.>

<I'm sure Leila wants to go,> he replied, referring to Basil's long-time consort.

Discussion amongst the elders was brisk, but soon decided. Theodoros, Master of the House in Constantinople, announced: "Elder Sister Leila is needed here to help reopen the houses that were closed during the Mongol invasion. Lord Arjumand can best help Elder Brother Basil to ensure the arrangements with the Mongols go well."

He did not want to travel to Persia, but in peacetime the elders ruled, and the djinni obeyed. When danger threatened, the djinni ruled. It was the way of the House. "When do I leave?"

"Next week will be soon enough," Theodoros replied.

Sharibet rose, smiling, and said to the assembled council. "To your tasks. We'll meet again tomorrow."

After murmurs of farewell, the room emptied. Sharibet lingered at the door as if about to speak, but he gave her no encouragement, and she departed, silently.

He wandered around the house, not-quite-accidentally finding himself in the workroom of Philomena, the Master's mother--and the official record-keeper. She was reading, sorting, and filing basketsful of reports.

He winked at her and she simpered, enjoying their flirtation, though she was old enough to be his great-grandmother. "Any news today?"

"Nothing of import, Lord," she said in a normal tone of voice, even as she casually unrolled a short scroll for him to read in a glance.

He skimmed the closely-written page, heart thudding. The only word which registered was consummation.

Oh, God. She's only eleven years old. God save her.

He closed his eyes, opened them. Shook his head. Bent to kiss Philomena's wrinkled cheek, told her how pretty she was, and wandered out again. He wound up in his own chamber without memory of how he got there. The letter occupied all his thoughts, all his emotions.

It began with a spatter of ink across the expensive paper.

To my right worshipful mother Lady Mathilde,

Most entirely beloved mother, in the most loving manner I recommend me unto your good motherhood, beseeching you daily and nightly of your maternal blessing, evermore desiring to hear of your welfare and prosperity, which I pray God to continue and increase to your heart's desire.

My right worshipful husband Evrard is in good health and does prosper, and we are now properly wed. This past spring I began my woman's courses, which we had not expected until I should have reached the age of fourteen or fifteen years, but my right worshipful mother-in-law, Madame, advised us that the time was right to consummate the marriage.

The next letter strokes were a different color, as if the ink had dried.

Evrard assured me he was hale, afterward, but he made a great noise that sounded as if he suffered mortal pain. I also suffered greatly, though Madame assured me that this was only to be expected from my virgin state. Wherefore I beseech you of your motherly pity regarding my future marital duties, for I know not what to expect. Should there have been such a great pain? Am I condemned to suffer this every time, until I should get with child? Can you perhaps, out of your wisdom and healing arts, prescribe a cure for your suffering daughter? I have heard of a remedy compounded from sweet butter or goose grease, and if you know of this remedy, I humbly beg that you will send me the recipe, for the love you bear me.

A large ink blot marred the following section, where the handwriting changed from an awkward scrawl to carefully-lettered script:

Of the affairs of this estate I have some small news. The mares are all in foal, though my father-in-law, the right worshipful Sieur de Bressoux, resents mightily the stud fees paid to Grandpere Gerard. Madame has promised to teach me how to take the honeycomb from the beehives in my garden, though I have discovered that doing so destroys the entire hive, and this act must therefore be conducted prudently and only in the waning of summer. I wonder whether it would be possible to take only a portion of the comb without said destruction.

(The ink changed color again.) I beg you for the favor of a reply, and I pray that God keep you and your right worshipful husband Sir Dominic, and that your marriage brings you much of joy.

Please remember all the love I bear for you, my lady mother, and I pray you will keep me in your prayers for you are constantly in mine, with devout love and thanks to God for all your love and care for me. Written on the Monday before Candlemas by your daughter, Blanche.

How could he get her the services of a skilled midwife? It was clear that her husband's family was not taking the best care of her. Perhaps if he wrote to Matthias, the Master of the Liege House, and requested that they find someone for her...

They wouldn't help her. Whosoever aids the Cursed One shall share the same damnation. Let her be forgotten.

Oh, God. He was powerless to help her.

He shut his distress away in a disused cupboard of his mind, locking the door tight. Deliberately he forgot his care, lest Sharibet find out through their bond of blood. Went about his duties, planning for his journey to Persia.

He'd never been to Persia. It would be...interesting.

* * *

House of the Rose, London, Tuesday, March 22, AD 1261:

"Oh, thou art greedy, my little Sun-child," Tirgit said, stroking her son's silken cheek. Robert was nearly done nursing, his sucking growing slower as his eyes drooped and his body began to relax. Soon his mouth slipped away from her breast, and he fell soundly asleep.

Tirgit cherished the silence. Only a month old, her son already had a will--and a voice--of his own. Her son, the Apkallu.

It was great honor to become a djinn's concubine. Heaped up honor, to bear Lord Michael a living child. Honors beyond what she had ever imagined--or wanted--to earn a Crown of Service. Agony beyond bearing to imagine what her life would be from now until forever. Endless service to the House. Sacrifice. Death. If she even survived her Transformation, her soul laid utterly bare in a blood bond with her lord.

Lord Michael had been so happy, after the wrenching hours of her travail had passed. He had come to her, kissing her tenderly on the brow. "Oh, mine own sweetheart, you should see how he shines, like an angel, or the evening star! He is Utu, lately my cousin Robert, returned to us. Thank you for this precious gift." Joy radiated from him. "And now you, too, will be young forever, and immortal."

She had forced herself to smile at him, despite her sick apprehension. She had been born outside the House, and knew the brutality of such a life. She had seen for herself the dire shortage of Protectors, and was so grateful for the safety that he and the other djinni provided the House. She could refuse him nothing, no matter how much she feared the risks of Transformation.

And she was afraid, racked with terror to her marrow. Afraid to die, and leave her son motherless. Afraid of being reborn into a miserable existence far from her true family. Afraid to endure innumerable lifetimes before she was Found again.

But her worst fear was of Michael's reaction if he learned the secrets that she kept hidden. What if he turned his face from her? She could never return to the easy camaraderie of the House, either.

Not that she was entirely welcomed now. She didn't mean to cause conflict among the kin--indeed, she was always on her best behavior when she visited the London House, but Joan de la Rose had only infrequently had contact with djinni, and treated them with awed reverence. Tirgit's easy familiarity--gained from her upbringing in intimate contact with Lady Cecilia and Lord Dominic, Cecilia's consort--grated on the Mistress of the House. And Joan wasn't the only cousin who felt that way.

Joan and others suspected her of worming her way into the companionship of the Apkallu for ambition's sake. But it wasn't true. She loved them. Cecilia, whose cool beauty concealed vast loneliness; Michael, her lover and the father of her child, still suffering from agonizing nightmares; and Dominic, kind-hearted and irrevocably crippled from the terrible events that had occurred in Beziers over half a century ago...

Ah, she was damned already: one foot in each world and her heart fixed in neither. Tirgit rocked her Apkallu child in her arms, and wept a little.

She had just put Robert down in his cradle when she heard the chime of the dovecote bell. A messenger pigeon had arrived. She drew the coverlet over her son and hurried to the parlor, where the rest of the members of the House gathered to hear the news.

Tirgit hoped it was a green message, informing the London House that its members had arrived safely in Constantinople for Lady Mathilde's Raising and Naming. But the bit of parchment in Edmund's fingers was edged with a vermilion stripe like a streak of fresh blood. Fear pierced her heart like a crossbow bolt. Did the ship go down?

Good news never arrived in scarlet-marked packets.

The young pigeon-keeper's hands shook as he held the tiny document up to catch the light. His voice was clear as he read the message aloud. "Dated 2 Rabi' II, AH 659 (6th March, AD 1261) From Arshya, True Name Mul-Ban, Master of the Konia House, to all his kin: Elder Sister Nadira (True Name Nadira) and Lord Kobegun (True Name Dumuzi), condemned and executed yesterday for crimes against the House. They shall be Forgotten until the eighth generation. Details follow in a letter."

Everyone around her erupted in a shocked buzz of frustrated speculation. At the far end of the world from Konia, the letters might take weeks or months to arrive at their ultimate destinations, being handed off between captains of ships and leaders of caravans.

Tirgit was too relieved to join in the guessing game. Her loved ones were safe! Then the enormity of what had happened began to sink in. Nadira, a daughter of the House who had been Transformed--as Tirgit would be Transformed--had trespassed against the House. She wondered, just as her kin did: had Nadira's newly-acquired power overwhelmed her? Had Dumuzi suborned her? Why would she have harmed the kin?

Tirgit swallowed hard, fighting nausea. Stumbling, she made her way back to her room, seeking the comfort of her son's presence, her thoughts whirling in a maelstrom of anxiety. She had known that her Transformation would be risky. Mortal flesh frequently could not survive the stress of being remolded into divinity. But now she had another worry. Sharibet's seeress had served the House faithfully for many years...and yet, she had not survived her probation period. What if Tirgit followed in Nadira's footsteps?

She rushed over to the cradle. Robert was asleep, one corner of the coverlet clutched tight in his tiny pink fist. She stared down at her son, until the room's door was flung open and banged against the wall.

Robert winced in his sleep, but then stretched and relaxed again. Michael rushed in, his cloak sodden and boots spattered with mud. He must have come straight from Westminster when word reached him of a red message. "Tirgit? Are you ill?"

She tried to reply, but the words choked her. Instead, she opened her arms, and let him embrace her, feeling his steady warmth even through the layers of wet clothing that separated them. She hid her face in the damp folds of his cloak.

Wisely, he did not press her. Instead, he simply held her, stroking her back, until she was ready to speak.

"I'm afraid. What if I'm not strong enough to be a Protector?"

Michael reached down and stroked Robert's cheek with his fingertip, his expression affectionate as he gazed upon his son. "I have faith in you, Tirgit. I think you are strong enough to become a djinniah, and to be a good Protector. But do you truly wish to?" He gave her one of his rare, sweet smiles, and bent to brush her forehead with a kiss.

Held captive by the weight of his expectations, she nodded. Oh, he would never force her, but he would be so disappointed if she backed down now...

May he never find out about the depths of my deceit.

* * *

Venice, Thursday, July 7, 1261:

Mathilde saw Venice for the first time this life from the deck of the Rose of Famagusta. It had rained earlier, and now, toward the end of a golden afternoon, the Doge's palace, the Cathedral of Saint Mark, and the fine houses blurred against streamers of clouds connecting sea and sky. A hundred galleys like their own approached and departed, jockeying for favorable positions.

"It's beautiful," she told Dominic, her husband. Her consort.

His lips quirked with a small smile. "So are you."

She knew he was just flattering her. He was the handsome one. She loved his lips; the shape and fullness of them just perfect in her eyes, and framed so elegantly in the black spade of a beard; his black hair, with its dramatic band of white; his clever fingers; his wit...

She was a woman past her prime, with lines upon her face and a figure not much plumper than when she had been deathly ill as a mortal. She would never have first call upon his love, only upon his loyalty, and his desperation. He counted on her promise to heal him from the crippling injuries to his aura that gave him agonizing pain whenever he tried to join with another djinni in the act of love, and that left him less than fully competent in his duties as a Protector of the House. That had caused him, in the past, to commit dreadful acts to mitigate his pain.

She had every intention of fulfilling her promise, but she worried that she would not have the skill. Even intensive consultations with Cecilia had not given her the confidence she needed. Her treatment plan was to infuse his aura with the life force from her aura. Yet her cravings for blood had not lessened with time. What if she couldn't heal him fully because she didn't have the strength? The only other remedy for mishaps to the aura was death; a return to the Underworld, and rebirth. And rebirth was always a gamble. If she could not heal him...

She would mourn.

As would her brother, Michael, and his pretty young mistress. Tirgit's feelings for Dominic were simple: she loved him like a father. Michael's feelings...were more complicated. The tangle of birth and rebirth had left two soul-bound lovers both as men. Dominic, a Hellene born in Pergamon and grown to manhood in the army of Alexander the Great, found no impediment to their union. Michael, born a Flemish Christian and grown to manhood in the celibate brotherhood of the Templar knights, did.

And if she discovered how to fully heal her consort? He would cleave to Michael, not to her.

Leaning her forehead on his shoulder, she thought, You know I will do the best I can for you, Ninshubur-who-was. For your sake, and my brother's. In healing him, she might find her own self-forgiveness.

If only she had acted more swiftly, during the chaos of their evacuation from Beziers. If only she had realized how badly he would be scarred by the deaths of the djinni he was irrevocably linked with, she wouldn't have screamed faint-heartedly at the sight of the crossbow bolt punching through his forehead. She would have helped him...

The past was done and gone. That life was over, but she was alive again, with the opportunity of righting one large wrong.

She forced herself out of her fruitless regrets. "Is that the doge's boat?" She admired the deep red gondola, as gilded as a bishop's chair, covered with glittering sea-horses.

"No, that's the House's, come to greet us."

The captain of the Famagusta stepped up to the rail beside them. "Lord Dominic. Lady Mathilde," he said, respectfully. "The Rose of Venice is signaling that we should stand to for boarding."

"I look forward to the meeting," she said to the captain, noticing that Dominic's eyebrow flared. With surprise? Distaste? He faced the other ship, his posture very upright, legs widespread, one arm akimbo, fist planted on his hip, the other gripping the rail for balance. Or battle?

The two vessels glided together gracefully. A man of the kin climbed over the railings to stand on the owner's deck of the Rose of Famagusta, a shorter, similar man at his back. This second man bore a covered ax.

"Lady Mathilde," the first man said, bowing, hands clasped at his waist. "I am Simon dalle Rose, called Simon Minor, True Name Hathor-hotep, Master of the Venice House. Remember me! It is good to meet again." He did not introduce the Man of the Ax.

She searched her memory for his earlier incarnations. His name meant 'Hathor is pleased' so she should have known him. An officious priest brings her a papyrus scroll to sign, a receipt for an offering of ten bushels of beans. She waves him away--she is healing a young mother who hopes to bear twins to term--but he insists. She shouts at him, but regrets it when she feels one twin die in the womb..."Simon Minor, I do remember you. It is good to meet again," she said with a forced smile. "I'm so happy to be here in Venice." Which was true. "I look forward to disembarking and meeting the rest of the people of your House."

"Well, as to that," he said, not looking at Dominic. "There is a matter I must make clear to you."

"And have you no greeting for your Protector, Lord Dominic?" she asked, new annoyance building.

"We have not yet accepted his return as Protector, Lady Mathilde. These are the conditions under which we will provisionally accept him: the House enjoins him to refrain from the buying and selling of slave children under the age of twelve years within the city for the duration of his stay within the Most Serene Republic of Venice. Any other commercial actions may be engaged upon, but this buying or selling, he shall not do."

Dominic bristled under her restraining hand.

Mathilde kept her voice calm. "May I buy or sell children, should I require domestic or kitchen slaves, or desire to dispose of them?"

"Lady Mathilde, no such prohibition applies to you, unless you desire to put such children to the same use he did," Simon Minor said, looking down his nose at her--a fair feat. In his fine shoes and velvet gown, he was still a head shorter than she was.

"What if I require human blood to complete his healing, as I have pledged to do?"

Simon Minor gulped. "Then you must go elsewhere to obtain it. We of the Venice house are not willing that you--either of you--should drink human blood while you reside here."

"Your action may leave crippled the Protector upon whom you rely," she said frankly. "On your head be this decision." To Dominic she said, "Does Genoa need a pair of Protectors?"

He shook his head, his mouth in a grim line. "We're posted here, my dear, until we're directed otherwise." His glance swept the Man of the Ax, and the frowning captain of the Famagusta.

Mathilde bared her teeth at all of them. "What a happy meeting this has been. When can we disembark?"

"When you have given your word you will abide by this, our covenant," said Simon Minor.

"I will abide," Mathilde said.

"I will abide," Dominic agreed. "Though I cannot promise I will have the strength to serve you fully."

"The strength you have is more than we need. So heard. So witnessed." As he finished this statement, he breathed deeply, relaxing from his stiff posture. "This is my brother, Marco, True Name Marcellinus."

Marco bowed, and said, "It is good to meet again. Remember me! And, er, welcome to Venice." He put the ax down behind his leg.

Simon Minor was giving the captain a brief instruction. He said to them, "We'll see you again at the House." He and his brother jumped back onto the gondola.

"Well, that was instructive," Mathilde said as the gaudy boat pulled away, oars flashing in unison.

"Yes. And deserved, I must admit," Dominic said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. His eyes followed the retreating gondola, except for one moment when they flicked to gauge her expression. "Did you think your welcome to Venice would be friendly?" His mouth tightened. "Just wait until we arrive at the House."

Chapter Two

To the most noble lady Mathilde at the House of the Rose in London:

Right worshipful and most loving and kind mother, I recommend me to you and beseech you of your blessing. Please it you to know that I have received no letters that come from you in over a year, and if I have by any means given you offense I beg your pardon most heartily and sincerely and desire most fervently to receive news of you once more. I pray that this humble missive finds you in good health and cheer, and that the affairs of your right worshipful husband do prosper also.

As I did write in my last letter, Lady de Bressoux, my good-mother whom I called Madame, succumbed to a fever and passed into God's keeping just after the Feast of St. Anne this past July. May our Lord have and keep her soul. She always took a most kind and tender care of me, and taught me much about the duties of a chatelaine, duties which have now fallen to me. As for my husband's younger brothers, they fell ill also but God be thanked, they are well-mended from their fevers, and now are thriving again.

Of my lord de Bressoux, who is my right worshipful father-in-law, I have grave tidings. He is much altered in mien since the passing of his good lady wife, and broods unrelentingly upon his losses, finding solace not in prayer but in wine or beer only, may God assoil and comfort him. Of late, he is over-critical of my good husband, accusing Evrard of being a bitter disappointment. I will avow that my husband has never had the temperament nor the bodily strength to become a knight, having suffered much from various childhood ailments which weakened his flesh, but I believe that it is grief that fuels my lord's words, and I advise my right worshipful husband to pay little heed, and rather to forgive his father's harshness with good Christian charity.

After much debate upon the matter, my lord has agreed to continue payment for Evrard to complete his schooling in Paris, though not without recrimination. Though I believe that his learning there will stand the affairs of our estate in good stead in all matters.

All of my lord de Bressoux's hopes of knightly accomplishments now rest upon Evrard's brother Henri, the second-oldest son, who is presently a squire in the household of the Sieur de Cheneux. My lord de Bressoux has expressed hopes of arranging a match between brother Henri and Genevieve de Micheroux, who is a gently-born maiden of a noble family in this district, and heiress to her father's estate. Genevieve is a pleasant and accomplished maiden, near unto an age with me, and I hope that we will become friends as well as sisters-in-law.

Of other tidings, I have discovered that I am with child. I pray you, most loving mother, to give your help in this, for I confess myself afraid. I know well that it is my duty to provide my well-beloved husband with children of his body, but I fear the great travail that lies ahead, the pain and blood of Mother Eve's great sin. I had hoped all sins forgiven by the intercession of our most merciful Lord, even those sins not committed by us but rather by our ancestress, but I will strive for humility and to submit to God's will though I understand it not. Nevertheless, I pray for your good comfort and hope that you will send me any advice as you feel right and worthy. Without the presence of Madame, may God keep her soul, I find myself dependent on the consideration and advice of the serving women, who mean well and offer advice on whether the sex of the babe can be determined from the shape of mine eyes, but no other helpful things.

Most worshipful mother, above all things, I desire your presence and your company to comfort me, and I beg you with all humbleness of spirit to come to me before my travail begins, which I expect shall be some time in December, before Christmastide.

My right worshipful husband and esteemed father-in-law send you their greetings and hearty welcome, and I pray that the Holy Trinity have you in governance, and recommend me to your husband the right worshipful Sir Dominic.

By your humble daughter Blanche, written on the Feast of St. Dionysios (Sunday, October 9, AD 1261)

* * *

Ca' dalle Rose, Venice, Monday, March 13, AD 1262:

Mathilde, snug in her sunny solar overlooking the busy Grand Canal with its passing galleys and gondolas, picked up the next letter in a neat stack, sorted by date, that the Mistress of the House had left for her.

She slit open the oilcloth covering using a penknife, once again feeling her inadequacy as a djinniah. Dominic used his hand of air to perform such routine tasks, but she found the use of her powers difficult.

The world stood still as she read the cover note: Dearest Mathilde, I send you greetings from the court of the Mongols at Tabriz in Persia and regret the delay in forwarding this well-traveled letter to you. Matthias de la Rose in Liege reports that Blanche survived and is presently in good health. Her son, unfortunately, was stillborn. I regret to pass along ill news, but I thought you would want to know. By my hand on Christmas Eve AD 1261, Arjumand abd al-Warda, once known to you as your cousin Roland D'Agincourt.

Blanche was alive. Alive. The pain in her heart was as sharp as if she had used her knife to cut it out. Her pity for her daughter's sorrow was more grievous. Would she have been able to save her grandson's life if she had been there even though Blanche was the Cursed One?

Mathilde bent her head as pain bloomed above her right eye. In a moment, it had engulfed her, and she sat rigid, gingerly supporting a head like a ringing anvil in her quivering hands. Her head!

<Mathilde!>

Dominic's mental shout only added to her agony.

<Damn. I'm halfway across the city! I'll be there soon.>

She wanted to tell him no, to let him finish his important tasks whereever he was bound. But it hurt too much. And then she was comforted to know that he was coming to her. In the meantime she applied the universal remedy for ills suffered by djinni: a jar of blood. It held the pain at bay. She nursed another jar until the liquid within grew too solid to drink. Feeling almost as nauseated by the smell as by the torture within her skull, she endured somehow until Dominic came at last, bursting through the door, concern writ large upon his handsome features.

"My dear, what is wrong?"

She took his hand and placed its back against her forehead. Its coolness eased the burning. "Hurts," was all she could say aloud. Even sharing thoughts with him was too much effort.

"Hold your aura back," he warned.

She struggled to comply with his command, knowing from bitter experience what would occur if her aura mingled with his while their thoughts were linked.

His hand of air passed through her forehead, feeling for the source of her trouble. "I can find nothing physical. No knot, nor clot of blood, nor bruising. There may be bleeding, but I cannot tell how much, if any. I'm sorry. I can see nothing wrong."

But her head hurt. There was one thing he could do for her. "Speak to me the Word of Sleep," she whispered. "Rouse me in six or eight hours, and let us see how I feel."

He kissed her cheek, his lips hot as fire against her skin, echoing the fire burning within. She heard his voice, and felt his aura--the undamaged sector--pass through her again. The pain fell away into the darkness with her.

* * *

She woke with sorrow for a nameless grandson who never breathed. She remembered how hard it was to breathe, when she had suffered from consumption. She had feared to die, but never that she would be cut off from...acid tears leaked from under tight-closed eyelids.

After a long time of not-thinking, she gathered her courage and sat up, in her own bed. Dominic must have moved her. Her head had almost stopped hurting. She fished with a tenuous hand of air for her bronze mirror, from the shelf above the bed, and almost dropped it. It seemed so heavy. When she could hold it in her actual hand, she examined her reflection. There was no apparent change, nothing but an accentuation of the lines she had earned by years of life.

She passed a diagnostic hand of air through her head. Just as Dominic had reported, she found nothing damaged there.

Where had that pain come from? The last thing she'd been thinking about...the bloom of pain was so intense that she dropped the mirror and fell face-first into her pillows, clutching her forehead and whimpering.

An eternity later, the sound of running feet thundered through the broken shards of her consciousness. <Mathilde!> whispered Dominic, as concerned as a husband whose wife was giving birth.

Birth was painful. Was she giving birth from her forehead, like Zeus in the tales men had told--and gotten wrong--about her siblings? Would a new Athena burst forth, a stillborn goddess, never breathing? She pleaded for the baby to come forth, or die. This cross-wise state might kill both child and mother together. She might welcome such a death, if this pain did not end soon.

"Whatever you did, you did it again," said Dominic. "...same remedy." The fine-grained nothingness of his aura passed through her again, and then she was nothing herself.

* * *

This time, when she awoke, she deliberately thought of Venice in this day and age, and of its changes in the sweep of time. The city was lively, filled with beautiful houses and colorful boats! She loved her fireplace and chimney, when the weather grew chilly. Venice was warmer than Ypres, but the winter was damp and cold. And there were marvels in the cathedral of San Marco, stolen treasures from looted Constantinople.

Heartened by the ease of pain, she dared to rise again.

Dominic sat sleeping in a hard wooden chair alongside her bed, his brow furrowed even at rest. He had learned the skills of a physician, as the whole of the House did, but it was not his specialty. He was best at making sure all elements worked in harmony to accomplish the plans another decided.

She missed her brother, Ea, fiercely. He had the same limitless curiosity as...she elided the name of the one who had been Forgotten, and concentrated on Michael himself, his skills and eccentricities in this life and those before. He was a father now, and she wondered whether he was an indulgent parent or a strict one. Had becoming a Protector allowed him to at last pursue his interests, his vast curiosities, or was his time occupied fully by the requirements of the kin? How tame he seemed now, in this violent and ignorant age!

But then, most ages were violent and ignorant. And families strove ever to survive them, and produce more family.

She lay back, panting, on her pillow. She was fine, fine, as long as she did not try to think of...someone.

Rage simmered, but she couldn't touch it.

There was a trick she knew, of not-thinking. Of closing a thought away so that, while not forgotten, it was not actually available, either. She performed this trick, and performed it again, putting walls of not-thinking between herself and the thought which caused her so much pain. Presently, she was able to breathe again, and to think everyday thoughts without running into...into something that hurt.

She didn't want to sleep. She had too much to think about...soft veils of impenetrable silk wrapped around an unacceptable thought, and she found a distant pleasure in contemplating the pattern of roses and peacocks frescoed onto the ceiling plaster and winding around the great wooden beams.

Dominic stirred. "Are you feeling better?" His smile was tentative, awaiting her yea or nay.

"Better," she said, her voice as hoarse as if she'd been screaming. She couldn't remember. Perhaps she had been.

"I'm glad," he said, smiling definitely. Without needing to be asked, he handed her a freshly sealed jar. She broke the seal and drank deeply of lamb's blood. Faintly she smelled the lamb itself, roasting in the kitchen.

Warmth and strength spread through her. "I'm sorry to trouble you."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know." And she didn't, really, since she'd hidden that thought away.

"I saw your daughter's letters," he said, trying to reestablish some sort of normalcy.

Her daughter...thoughts skittered around and under walls that weren't there, bouncing and diverting into long-lost labyrinths.

"I regret the loss of her child. But she'll no doubt do better when she's older."

Yes. There was something there that made her sad.

"I saw that she begs you to visit her. I'm certain that Master Simon would allow it, if you wish. He has no reason to refuse you."

No! Panic threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn't do that! There was something terribly dangerous about that! If only she could remember...something...but there was some good reason why she couldn't remember...

"Mathilde? Don't you want to go?" He was frowning now, clearly puzzled by her reaction.

"No," she said, the word rasping in her throat. "No, she has her own life to live, and it doesn't include us."

"She could--"

"No," she said again, wondering faintly why she was so adamant. There was some reason...

"She's better off with her new family. I'm not certain I could conceal that I've--what I've become," her mouth said for her. That sounded perfectly reasonable. Maybe she could even make herself believe it.

"As you wish." Dominic frowned, but he didn't press her. "Do you wish anything else?"

"More sleep," she said. She would sleep.

She closed her eyes, weary and sick at heart. Something she dare not think...or reveal, even to herself...Keeping secrets was like keeping a nest of breeding scorpions. She just hoped her barriers worked against nightmares.

She willed her body to work harder on banishing the last of the headache, and fell into sleep. There was something she was not supposed to remember when she woke up...

* * *

Ca' dalle Rose, Venice, Feast of St. Longinus (Thursday, March 16) AD 1262:

Dominic studied his consort, an uncomfortable mixture of emotions plaguing him: worry, dissatisfaction, friendship, lust, and stifling gratitude. He needed her so badly. How could she sleep for such a long time? What could strike down an Apkallu? Was her illness communicable to others?

She was pale. Should he try to wake her now? Or let her sleep longer?

He didn't like his own hesitance. Surely he could make such a small decision! He worried at these thoughts as he stared at her slumbering form, enthralled at the beauty she had regained in her time as a djinniah. Her face had a stillness to it that reminded him of the appalling funereal sculptures so beloved in this semi-barbaric age. Down her pillow streamed golden hair, painfully similar to Michael's--

She made only a small movement, but it reassured him that she was still alive. He crossed the distance from the door to the bed in a few strides. He took one limp hand, brought it to his cheek, and cupped her face with his free hand. <Mathilde.>

"Mmmm?"

<Mathilde, it's time to wake.>

She groaned. <Head hurts.>

It hurt him to see her so weak. He snatched a jar of blood, opened it and held it up to her lips, raising her body to meet it. <Drink up. You must regain your strength.>

<No.> She pushed the jar away. <Smells bad.>

<Drink it anyway. It's infused with medicine.>

She stopped resisting, and he emptied the jar into her mouth as fast as she could swallow. He gave her another, as well, murmuring encouragement. When she protested drinking a third, he let her down, gently, and finished it himself. He took a damp cloth and washed her face, remembering the bittersweet moments when Michael had given him a bath at the temple of Alexander, so many years ago. Similar feelings of helplessness now made him want to ensure that Mathilde returned to the bloom of health.

<Tell me what's wrong with you.>

<Just tired...>

<Mathilde, you've been sleeping for days. That's not 'just tired.' What should I do to help you?>

<Let me...how many days?> Alarm filtered through their connection as she struggled to open her eyes. <Help me.>

Based on the image she sent to him, he washed her eyelids clean of crusted sleep with the cloth. She blinked hard, showing red-veined, bleary eyes. <Help me up.>

He raised her into a sitting position, her back against the wall, supported by pillows.

<Water!>

He got her a cup.

She drank that, too, and moaned, when done. "What army marched through my mouth?"

He smiled, but didn't answer. "Do you know what's plaguing you?"

"Can't remember." She rubbed her forehead with a pale, shaking hand.

Shocked, he thought of the possibilities. Poison. Trauma. Brain hemorrhage. Aura degeneration. Coercion. Self-inflicted amnesia.

He remembered his own trauma:...the crossbow bolt punches through his unprotected forehead. There is no pain, but he can't blink. He can't lift his arm to test the damage. He can't see his aura. He can't feel anything anymore. The houses tilt around him and the sun-bright sky, oddly divided, fills his vision...

To his Seer's eyes, her aura looked as it always did. Passing his hand of air through her head, he checked again for damage. Nothing. Sniffing, and not delicately, he could detect no odor that would indicate poison. That left only coercion. Or amnesia.

Nothing else would affect her memory. But what sort of coercion would Mathilde be under? Who would have set it? Or what would she want so violently to forget?

What had she been doing, when he had first heard her call for help?

He searched his memory: the fallen letter, open to a childish signature...Most worshipful mother, above all things, I desire your presence and your company to comfort me, and I beg you with all humbleness of spirit to come to me before my travail begins...

A letter from her daughter, whom she had not written since Constantinople. Whom she had not mentioned since then. Whom she never discussed, since she had revealed the girl was one of the Forgotten of the House, who had not yet served out her generations of penance.

Self-amnesia, then. He sympathized with the impulse.

"But you feel better now? The headache has gone?" he asked heartily, gauging the depth of her wince. "Rise now, and take a bath. You have duties, and Simon and Cosima grow anxious at the sight of a bedridden Apkallu."

She groaned, but threw back the coverlet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Like a sleepwalker, she submitted to his tyranny of washing and dressing, and by the time he was done, she was fully awake and ready to work again.

But before he left her to her stack of correspondence, while she was dressing in a clean shift and gown, he went through all the envelopes and scrolls, looking for any other missives to extract. There were none in this pile.

He kissed her clean, damp hair at her forehead, took his leave, and went to have a word with Cosima, the Mistress of the House. No more letters from Blanche for Mathilde! He would take those missives himself, so that his consort would not be troubled by word from one she clearly desired to forget.

She might be angry with him, or feel betrayed, if she discovered what he had done, but he could bear this for her, to protect her. She did so much for him.

* * *

Tuesday, September 12, 1262:

Mathilde was working alone in the pungency of the stillroom of the Venice House, putting packets of herbs together for the use of the kin while traveling. The bark of oak and horse chestnut for diarrhea. Hops, balm, centaury, and chamomile for a tisane against seasickness. Olibanum and stavesacre, crushed and mixed with barrow's grease, for a poultice against lice. Agaricus and wormseed, powdered and mixed with syrup of roses for worms. Grape leaves and cumin leaves, to stop bleeding...

Preparing medicines was not part of her regular duties, but she found the simple actions soothing to a spirit too often overset by the many restrictions of her daily life as a Protector. For many years she had been a merchant femme sole, legal owner of her own business; a respected purveyor of fine furs to noble and commoner alike; responsible to no man but the head of her guild. Now she found her life trammeled from morning to midnight with rules for this, rules for that, and restrictions to her freedom that often made her long to return to the madness of Sekhmet. She knew exactly where she'd start the razing of this house of tyrants...

A knocking at the door, just louder than the pounding of her pestle into the hard marble mortar, jolted her from her bloody daydreaming.

"Enter."

Cosima, the Mistress of the House, came timidly through the doorway, towing her twelve-year-old daughter, Simonetta, by the hand.

Mathilde knew Cosima better, now, and didn't believe her submissive demeanor for a moment. If there was one thing Cosima was going to get, it was her own way.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Mathilde gathered her temper--but admitted to herself that it might just be worth a meeting with the Man of the Ax to finally be rid of this tormenting shrew. She bit her tongue, and put down the pestle, placing her palms on the work table. The bits of dried leaves and seeds scattered there dug into her skin. "Yes?"

"Lady Mathilde, I'm sorry to bother you--"

Mathilde gritted her teeth. What a liar! "Mistress Cosima," she cut her short. "You know this is my meditation time, when I compose my mind and heart to perform my duties. What is so important that you choose to disturb me now?"

"Lady," Cosima picked up the thread of her grievance without missing a stitch. "My daughter, Simonetta, is much disturbed in her mind. Go on, dear," she said to the girl, a plain but lively child, usually full of mischief, but never the malice her mother kept carefully hidden. "Tell her what makes you fear to sleep at night."

"Lady Mathilde," the girl began properly. "I just--I worry for Lord Dominic. I know you work with him every day to heal him from some grievous wound--though he never wears a bandage we can see, even in the bath--but why does he scream so much? Every day!"

Mathilde glared at Cosima, showing all the dislike and contempt she felt. What a despicable ploy, dragging her daughter here to make her own resentful point.

"Your mother has told you that I'm healing him," she began. The girl did not deserve her wrath. She was an innocent pawn, a child not yet Raised and Named, and unmarried, though the same age as Blanche. A searing headache added to her woes. She tried to rub away the pain with trembling fingers, but the ache persisted. What had she been saying? "It's kind of you to show such care. The treatments are painful--"

"Why?"

"It's not polite to interrupt your elders, " Mathilde corrected her, when it became obvious that Cosima wouldn't. "If you would like your questions answered, you must be patient and listen to them, yes?"

Simonetta, not entirely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling through this interchange, glanced anxiously between her mother and Mathilde. "I beg your pardon, lady."

"Pardoned, dear. The treatments are painful because I'm not allowed--" Mathilde let most of her frustrations out in that one snarled word--"to use the medicines that would be most effective. As to why this is, you must ask your parents, and see if you can get a better answer from them than I can."

At the wounded-puppy look in Simonetta's eyes, she relented enough to try to soothe her. "Some treatments are painful, like digging out a splinter, or putting salve on a burn. Some hurts take longer to heal, and may not be visible--like the aching bones your great-grandmother Ginevra had, before she passed away last year. It is kind of you to care. I am doing all I can for him."

"It's just--so much screaming. I like Lord Dominic," Simonetta admitted in a rush, carefully not looking at her mother's disapproving face. "I hope he's not suffering too much."

"I'm sorry that you've been disturbed," Mathilde added somewhat stiffly. Mother of God, what she would give to have her own house again, but Venetian real estate was so expensive--

A bright and welcome thought occurred to her.

She was rich in her own right. Her business in Ypres was flourishing under the direction of her former apprentice. There was no reason why she couldn't go back to it, expanding her customer base to all the ports the Venetians served, buy a house in Venice, and take Dominic and herself out of this poisonous atmosphere.

She smiled at Simonetta, causing Cosima to widen her eyes in surprise, then narrow them in suspicion. "What are you--?"

"Simonetta, you're a clever girl," said Mathilde, ignoring Cosima's impertinent question, as she would soon be able to avoid her uncomfortable presence. "You've just helped me plan a new and much better treatment."

The girl knew better than to ask anything else at this point, raising Mathilde's estimation of her even more. "Thank you, Lady Mathilde," she said, curtseying.

"You're welcome, my dear. And I thank you. Cosima, you may go now."

Cosima gave, rather than a curtsey, a short kick to the floor, and towed her daughter to the door. Once beyond it, Mathilde heard clearly Simonetta's plaintive question, "Mama, why are you angry with me? I did just what you asked--"

<Dominic,> Mathilde sent to her husband, who was in the middle of a meeting in the Rialto. <I've just had the most wonderful idea...>

* * *

Ca' d'Albrizzi, Venice, Feast of the Epiphany (Saturday, January 6) AD 1263:

Rippling light from the canal outside the window dappled the ceiling of Mathilde's rented house on the Beccarie canal, moving in time to the agony that gnawed at Dominic's aura. His throat felt hot, swollen from screams barely dampened by a gag, and reflexively he tried to curl away from the source of pain. The tightening prickle of rope around his right wrist reminded him that he was tied down. He could not escape from the burning wave sweeping across his body like a splash of vitreous spirits. He groaned, and tried vainly to curl up in a ball, to shield himself. The sexual arousal that kept him open and vulnerable retreated, leaving him wilted and sore.

"Do you want me to stop?" The voice was low, feminine.

For a frightening moment he thought it was Sharibet, mocking him again, but then some coherent thought returned. It's Mathilde. My consort. Michael's sister. She's healing me. The throbbing in his head threatened to swallow his thoughts but he forced a single word through their bond. <No.>

She sighed, cool breath ghosting over his belly as she gathered her determination and his pain lessened by degrees. Then came a soft brush of fingertips against his hip, moving lower as he tensed with mingled dread and anticipation...moist warmth surrounded his phallus, delicately lapping at him.

The tide of pleasure began to return, buoying him up with poisonous languor, opening him, until he arched against the restraints, moaning at the caresses that inflamed yet did not satisfy him.

This was the pleasure that preceded the pain, that must precede the pain, for him to be healed.

When his soul and his aura lay open and vulnerable once more, each of his senses straining for completion, the brilliant blue-green sweep of her aura wings embraced him. In another instant, the agony began again, her light invading every wound in his own aura, filling the ragged patches with corrosive strength.

He screamed despite his firmest resolve. He didn't want the neighbors to hear him, and he didn't want Mathilde to stop, not when he had sworn that he would find a way to be healed, find a way to be worthy of Honoria--now reborn as Michael--once more. He tried to clamp his jaws shut, but he was hampered by the gag. The sound poured out of him like vomit.

The burning sweep of Mathilde's healing faltered. "I can't do this any more," he heard her say distantly.

<Please...don't,> he begged, around the iron scourge of pain. <Don't stop. Not now. I can bear it. I'm sorry I screamed. I'm sorry-->

"I hate this! Hurting you when I'm not even certain that--" A feather-light touch swept across his aching brow, combing through the sweaty strands of his hair. "I hate being so...so diminished! Forgive me."

<No--no, please. I'll do better. I'll do anything-->

Her fingers wrapped firmly around his aching phallus, and with a few firm strokes, gave him an empty release. He shuddered, gasping, nearly weeping as his shields fell back into place, sealing him off from the touch that hurt him. That was healing him, one minute fraction at a time. That was bringing him closer to Honoria...Mathilde must continue!

But she wouldn't, despite his pleading. She removed the gag first, then one by one, she released the ropes around wrists and ankles, leaving him stranded on the vast expanse of their bed like a shipwrecked sailor on a desolate shore. He felt the warm softness of her body press against his side. "Sleep, husband."

He felt the softest touch of her aura, dragging him down. Her arm was across his waist, anchoring him as he drifted away, unable to face what her refusal to help him meant.

* * *

He awoke some time later. The light of the short winter afternoon still played in watery patterns across the walls and ceilings, so he hadn't slept long. He was alone in the bed, and the worst of the aches had passed.

He sat up creakily, feeling every hour of his sixteen centuries, and saw that Mathilde had not abandoned him. She sat in one of the ivory-inlaid Byzantine chairs near the window, reading from a thick bundle of parchment pages.

"How do you feel now?" Her tone was apologetic, her expression a now-familiar mixture of concern and guilt.

"Better. Well enough." He longed to ask her whether she meant to discontinue his treatments altogether, but a cautious probe revealed her mental shields up and tightly sealed. He decided to wait.

"A courier arrived from London. There's a letter from Michael."

Michael had written? He restrained the urge to leap out of the bed, weakened as he was, and snatch the parchment from her hand.

"Tirgit's Transformation is scheduled for the spring equinox," Mathilde continued. "Michael says she's asked for you." She frowned. "I must say it's rather impertinent for her to demand your presence, even if she is to be elevated to djinniah. You spoiled her, Dominic, and gave that poor girl the wrong idea about her place in the world..."

Dominic lay back, hand over his eyes, torn between the customs of the House and his own feelings. It was true that he had raised her like his daughter. What if he never saw her again? The initial Transformation from mortal to djinni was a risky event. And even if she survived, Tirgit would be bedridden for months while her body and her spirit slowly adapted to the vast changes that had been wrought in her. He thought of Tirgit: trusting, impudent, her blue-green eyes alight with mischief more often than not. His starved heart filled at the thought that she needed him.

But should he really go and foment another scandal in the House? She was Michael's concubine, and would be his consort, if she survived the Transformation. You haven't seen Michael in eighteen months, whispered the voice of temptation.

Mathilde's next words took him by surprise. "But I think you should go."

He wanted to, oh, how he wanted..."What about us?" he asked, harshly. "I thought we were making progress. I want--" He didn't want to abandon the venture he had embarked upon with Mathilde. Going back now, still a failure...

"I can't. Not--not for a little while."

He felt bone-deep weariness and disgust at her own defeat trickling through their link, despite her shielding. For the first time he became aware of exactly how much it cost her to inflict pain in the guise of healing.

"Ah." Though his joints ached with the aftermath of her treatment, he rose from the bed, and put his arms around her shoulders. "Then, I'll be back by midsummer." And perhaps you can bear to help me again.

Chapter Three

For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.--Book of Job, 3:25-26

Westminster, England, February, 1263:

Tirgit opened the door to Michael's rented house as he set his foot wearily on the shallow stoop. She greeted him with an ecstatic embrace before he fully came inside. "Lord, guess what?" she begged, dancing up and down on her toes as if she were a child again, and not a woman grown, a wife and a mother.

He had hoped to find some peace at home. He had spent all day in attendance on King Henry, who was frantic due to news received from the Marches, where Welsh leader Llywelyn ap Gruffudd had begun a revolt. Worse news had come in that former friends of Prince Edward, convicted last year of mismanagement of the Prince's financial affairs, had joined the uprising.

Tirgit's brilliant smile, and the most probable reason for it, left him even wearier.

"You received word from Dominic, then? He's coming for your Transformation?"

Her smile faltered at his unenthused guess. She nodded, but worry made her look even younger, and somehow frail.

He's coming!

It was more difficult to dampen Honoria's pleased response in his mind, so Michael simply ignored her, with great effort. Dominic's visit would cause inevitable disruption of the calm, happy life he had built for himself here in England.

He put his arm around Tirgit's shoulders and steered her inside, out of the cold wind that was blowing raindrops through the open door. Inside, the house was dim, and smelled of smoke, but it was warm. "Is my sister coming, also?"

"I'm sorry, lord, no. But she did write to you," Tirgit whispered.

He damned himself for ruining her simple pleasure. "Not your fault, sweetheart." He dropped a kiss on the dark braids crowning her head. Inside, she preferred to go without a veil or wimple, and her hair carried the light scent of rosewater. "The Venice House probably didn't want to be left without both of its Protectors."

She seemed unconvinced, and cautious of saying anything to upset him further.

"Did we get any other correspondence? Anything from Liege?" He was hoping for another report on his niece Blanche, courtesy of the Master of the Liege House. Michael dared not correspond with her directly, because the Templars kept watch over his known relatives in hopes of tracking down their missing Preceptor. Blanche's situation was troubling: she had been declared 'of the House but Forgotten'--although what her crime had been, no one would tell him, and his own unreliable memory refused to supply an answer.

Tirgit shook her head, looking stricken, and it was a relief to see the parlor door open. Bess de la Rose emerged, with young Robert clinging to her hand.

"Papa!" Robert detached himself from the maidservant's hand, and launched himself unsteadily at Michael. Halfway across the tiled distance separating them, he lost his balance and fell over.

Tirgit gasped softly at the audible thump, but Robert picked himself up with a grin and flung himself forward again, running on short legs to clutch at Michael's knee.

"Wet!" he declared, as Michael reached down and swung his chubby body up and around. He squealed in delight. "Again, Papa! Again!" he commanded, and Michael complied, unable refuse a command from his son.

His son...Even now, the thought made Michael stop in amazement and a gratitude so intense it squeezed his chest with almost physical pain.

At two years old, Robert's features were beginning to emerge from the generic sweetness of infancy. He had inherited Michael's sea-blue eyes, but his thick thatch of hair was Tirgit's--black Saracen hair--and Michael expected that his son would become a Protector who might easily walk in both the Christian and Muslim worlds. Certainly, his mother spoke to him in Arabic, and sang the songs she remembered from her own fractured childhood, while Michael and the people of the House spoke to Robert in English and French.

He loved his son. And as for Tirgit, his wife and Robert's mother, perhaps it was not the same intensity of passion that had marked Honoria's relationship with Menelaos, but he did love her. She was intelligent, loyal, and affectionate. He liked her smile, and her impertinent teasing when he found himself sinking too deeply into melancholy reverie. And she was a warm and enthusiastic bedmate. Who could want for more?

And yet Michael did, or his other selves did....Menelaos's quick smile glimmers in a shadowed, muslin-draped room that smells of roses, then he puts his lute aside. "Now that you're awake, I can think of a better diversion than music..."

He pushed aside the memory with the same strength of will that he used in denying the memories of his last conversation with Dominic, when he--no, when Honoria--had mourned their lost life together, and given Dominic his quest for healing.

Had he succeeded yet? Was he coming to London alone because Mathilde had healed him?

God, let it be so! Honoria prayed.

No, Michael must not anticipate a future that could never be. A life apart. That's what he had built here. He had a wife. A son. It was enough. It had to be enough.

Michael lifted his son to his shoulders, and followed Tirgit up the stairs.

After the candles were extinguished, he made love to his wife, showing her with lips, and tongue, and hands, and hands of air, just how precious she was to him.

She fell asleep nearly at once, curled up against him, her breathing deep and even. Michael lay awake, listening to the rain beating against the shutters. Their lovemaking, enthusiastic as it was, never fully satisfied him. Nothing short of a full joining with another djinn ever would.

No one but our beloved, whispered Honoria's voice in his mind.

Finally, sleep came, but brought with it the horrors of another lifetime.

On the night of Honoria's first wedding, at eleven years of age, she clings to her new sister-in-law's waist, face buried in her lap, as a switch descends mercilessly on her bare back, her buttocks, and the back of her legs, leaving stripes that burn worse than nettles. Her skin is on fire, and it takes every ounce of strength she has not to scream. She won't give her tormentor the satisfaction. She won't. "I'm going to whip the devils out of you, Honoria," her new husband, Thiudabold, pants, as he wields the switch. "I promised your father I'd cleanse you of your foul sorcery." Honoria dares to look over her shoulder, and sees him, gray-haired and red-faced, as he raises his arm for another blow. To her horror, she sees that he's also aroused, his tunic tented where his phallus presses against thin cloth.

Another blow...two...three..."Fredegunda, attend our guests," he barks, and Honoria tries--and fails--to hold onto the other woman, her only protection. Then Fredegunda is gone. Thiudabold barely lets the door close behind his sister before he shoves Honoria down. Half on and half-off the mattress, the wooden bedframe digging into her back, he forces her legs apart. Hands drag against her buttocks, the sensation nearly unbearable against the newly-inflicted injuries, and then she is invaded by something blunt and much too large, that stretches, and tears, and hurts. She tries to wriggle away, but his hand upon her flat chest holds her immobile. She can only weep as she burns with the agonizing humiliation of his assault. Marcus, save me, she prays, having abandoned her pleas to a deaf, uncaring God. Help me, brother! Help me!

Then the scene shifts. It's a half-year later, and she's on her back, in the dark, stinking room of Glaukos, their new owner, who is pumping vigorously inside her, grunting and gasping and pulling her hair. "Don't worry, sister," she hears Marcus say. He's sitting against the stained wall, in a ragged tunic, forehead resting on bare, skinny knees drawn up to his chest. "Lord Menelaos will come for us." "No," she tells him. "He can't. We haven't met him yet." Marcus shakes his head. "Then you'll have to save us, sister..." She tries to kill Glaukos the rapist with a sword of light, just as she killed Thiudabold, but Glaukos laughs as the weapon passes harmlessly through his balding head. He batters her, inside and out, with his man's weapon. Marcus looks up, his eye-sockets empty, his cheeks stained with trails of blood. "Where's honest metal to do your work? Sister, did you think you could save me by using only magic?"

A sword! She needs a sword. She reaches out her arm, frantically groping around the pallet. She has a sword, she knows she has one. The Draper-Brother assigned her one, and the Templars assign punishments for any lost equipment. But her hands encounter only the hard-packed dirt of the floor. Glaukos's fat fingers dig into her shoulders. "You little whore! You were supposed to be a virgin, and your brother, too. Now I'll never get my money's worth!"

"NO!" Michael came awake, his throat vibrating from the force of his shout.

"Lord? Lord! Please wake up!" Tirgit's expression, in the light cast by his aura, was frightened.

He groaned hoarsely. His racing heart started to calm. "Just the same old dream, Tirgit."

"It's been months since you were troubled by it." She arranged herself against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his waist, comforting him. "I thought you were free of it."

"I thought so, too."

"Would you like...?" She bared her scarred forearm, offering the sweet comfort of her blood.

He shook his head. "No, no. Go back to sleep, mine own sweetheart."

She clutched him tight, then soon enough, her breathing slowed, and her arm lay heavy and limp across his torso. But Michael stayed awake, searching futilely through his disordered memories of Honoria's lifetime. There was something about that sword of light, something important. Something he ought to be able to remember.

But as always, coherent memory eluded him, and he was left only with the fractured images of nightmares.

* * *

London, March 15, 1263:

Tirgit watched Robert play gleefully with a set of carved wooden blocks. He sat in a square of weak sunlight coming through a glass-paned window, trying very hard to smash a green block to splinters by using a red one as a hammer. He giggled at each hollow reverberation.

Since they were in the parlor of the House of the Rose in London, a thick, green and tan Egyptian carpet cushioned the worst of the racket, but Tirgit felt each crack as a blow to her heart. This was the last time she would sit with him alone as his mortal mother. It was her last chance to simply be Tirgit, one of the kin of the House of the Rose, and not Elder Sister Theodora, djinniah and Protector.

She shivered. Perhaps she should have stayed at the house she shared with Lord Michel--no, Sir Michael de Murat, she reminded herself to call him. But Michael had left early that morning to go hunting with Prince Edward, who was newly-returned from his failed attempt to contain the Welsh rebellion. The prince, once more in conflict with his parents, was aggressively courting the loyalty of foreign knights. A royal invitation was a compelling reason to miss the arrival of the visitors come to witness her Transformation, and Tirgit suspected that Michael had been relieved to find himself thusly called away.

She knew he had his own secrets, as she kept hers.

So after some thought, she had decided to travel down-river to the House in London with Robert and the maid, Bess, to be on hand to greet the visitors. But tensions in the House were also running high.

The life of the djinni should be left to the Apkallu, to those who have the strength to bear it. She had heard that opinion over and over since the news of Nadira and Kobegun's evil deeds had reached England's shores two years ago. And she had seen in the kin's eyes the unspoken thought: If Nadira, born to the House, and raised in Mother Sharibet's own household, could fail so badly, what hope was there for Tirgit, born outside the House, to succeed as a djinniah? For many Crown of Service djinni had been made in the past, and most of them had been Forgotten for the crime of acting according to a djinn's nature--drinking blood, and taking life against the will of the House.

In fact, the one person she was most eagerly awaiting, Lord Dominic, was himself under suspicion for terrible acts in Venice three winters ago, almost stepping over the line of causing harm to the House.

Terror, her never-distant companion, nibbled her bones. Would she have the strength to resist such a powerful desire, one that even Lord Dominic, kind, efficient, considerate Lord Dominic, nearly succumbed to? She didn't know. But of one thing she was certain: if her djinn nature ever led her to endanger her son, or any other child--she would run to, not wait for, the Man of the Ax.

Tirgit stooped to give Robert a quick and fervent kiss, then sat back down as she heard the sound of feet pounding up the stairs. Was this sour Joan--or her representative--coming to reprimand her for Robert's playful noise?

There was a preemptory knock at the parlor door, and then it opened. Tirgit braced herself for the expected recrimination, and felt her chest tighten as she recognized one of the children who served as lookouts on the House's quay.

"Cousin Tirgit!" panted the girl, who was perhaps eight years old and flushed from running. "The ship is coming!"

* * *

A few minutes later, she left a protesting Robert behind in the warmth of the parlor, his wooden blocks forgotten as he wailed and struggled in Bess's capable embrace. She hurried down the stairs and then stood shivering on the quay alongside the other kin, watching the fat-bellied cog approach slowly, its Rose banner snapping smartly in the rain-spattered breeze.

Tirgit pulled her squirrel-lined cloak more securely around her shoulders and strained to catch a glimpse of the passengers on the deck, looking for a tall figure, his black hair blazed by a single streak of white.

It wasn't until the ship had moored alongside the wooden dock that stretched out from the quay, and the gangplank lowered, that she saw him. Gravely handsome, unmarked by the passage of the years since she first met him, he wore his customary sober grays and blues, the silver pommel of a sword gleaming beneath his cloak.

She heard her kin let out their collective breaths. Like the others, she folded her hands at her waist in the millennia-old gesture of respect for their Protectors.

"Lord Dominic, it is good to meet again!" they murmured in unison, Tirgit echoing them dutifully.

Her head bent in respect, she watched from beneath lowered lashes as Geoffrey and Joan stepped forward to greet Lord Dominic, their expressions politely anxious. He spoke briefly to them, and a gust of wind blinded Tirgit with a spray of cold rain. She blinked to clear her vision, and saw Dominic approaching her.

Her heart began to beat wildly as she stood waiting, her chin tucked in and her hands clasped at her waist by sheer force of will.

He stopped in front of her. His face lit with a joyous smile. "Tirgit, child! You're looking well, and more beautiful than ever." He spread his arms, and she forgot her vow to be restrained and deferential, to observe the etiquette of the House. She leaped into his embrace. "Lord, I've missed you," she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here."

His arms held her as tightly as she held onto him, and he placed a kiss on the crown of her head. "I have missed you, too."

It was hard to let him go, but she made herself.

Happiness blossomed when he did not release her. She did not want to relinquish the contact, either, no matter how Joan--or any of the others--glared at her. Dominic took her arm in his, and proceeded with her toward the House. He stopped frequently to exchange greetings with the kin and to meet the maids and lads who had arrived since he was last in London.

Everything would be all right. He was here. With Lord Dominic's help, she would overcome the ordeal of her Transformation.

* * *

Later, after supper had been served, and the children--Robert among them--put to bed, Joan and Geoffrey finally withdrew, somewhat grudgingly, from the parlor.

Dusk had fallen, and candles lent the paneled chamber a cozy intimacy as Dominic and Tirgit awaited Michael's arrival. A hundred questions about her impending Transformation clamored in her mind, but where she had been too embarrassed to ask Michael, she now found that she couldn't ask Dominic, either.

She refilled the goblets of hippocras, a highly spiced wine favored by the English, and handed one to Dominic.

He gave thanks with a smile and took a sip. "Has Michael been treating you well?"

She blushed, unsure of how much to say to Dominic, who had been married for centuries to Michael's previous incarnation. Would she be wounding Dominic's heart to expound on her good fortune in sharing Michael's bed? And what would her husband think, if he knew that she was discussing his virtues as a lover?

It seemed safer to change the subject. "I've been very happy, even if it does rain all the time here in London. And I'm so grateful you came all the way from Venice to witness my Transformation."

"I was glad to be invited. But what of you, child? Are you certain that you wish to do this?"

She cradled the goblet in her hands, warming the cool metal between her palms. "I want to protect those I love. My son, most of all. But I'm greensick with nerves," she admitted. "What if I can't--control..."

"Ah." Comprehension permeated the quiet breath of that syllable. His expression became blank in a way that she recognized. He was concealing some deep emotion, but whether sorrow, disappointment, or rage, she couldn't tell.

The taste of cinnamon and cloves in her mouth grew oversweet as the seconds drew out. Dominic did not speak, his gaze turned downwards to the cool patterns on the carpet. At last, unable to bear it, she threw herself out of her chair, and prostrated herself at his feet. "Forgive me, lord! I was insolent!" She would gladly have borne any of the brutal whippings inflicted on her in the days of her slavery, if only it meant an end to this interminable silence.

"Tirgit, don't!"

She felt hands on her shoulders, raising her up.

She dared to glance at him. He seemed solemn, but not angry. With a sigh, she wriggled around, so that she was sitting at his feet, leaning against his knee. "I'm sorry. I'm worried, that's all."

His hand dropped to her head, warm and heavy, resting on the braid that she wore pinned in a coil. "Have you spoken to Michael about your concerns?"

She rested her cheek against his thigh. The Venetian robe that covered his legs was a little damp from the rain, and it smelled of salt and smoke under the musky scent of wool. "No."

"Why not?" She felt his fingers stroke over her hair, brushing lightly against the top of her ear. It was a familiar sensation, one that brought back a hundred nights spent at caravanserais along the Silk Road. After a long day of walking or riding, there would be a dish of spiced mutton and rice for her, and sometimes a wonderful hot bath. Afterwards, Dominic would sit by her pallet and tell her a story, stroking her hair until she fell asleep, untroubled by the nightmares that had plagued her in the slave-dealers' pens.

Dominic's fingertips were resting against her neck now, and she wondered if he could feel her pounding pulse as she spoke. "You know if I said anything at all, he would try to forbid me to go through with the Transformation. And I do want it! I just..."

His hand moved lower, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I would be more concerned if you felt no reservations about this, Tirgit. It is a decision that holds enormous consequences."

She released a breath. "But when I heard about Nadira...and after what happened to you in Venice, I started to think that maybe..."

"You're nothing like Nadira, as I have cause to know." Dominic stopped. "Her Transformation was a mistake. Did you know that Arjumand wrote to me about you? He contacts me so rarely." He gave a short chuckle. "He tried to convince Sharibet that Nadira was unsuitable to be a Protector, but he was overruled. He hoped that Michael or I would examine your fitness before proceeding with the Transformation."

"And if you found me unfit?"

He did not reply, and the possibilities flashed in Tirgit's mind. They could refuse to Transform her, though denying her Crown would rouse the kin to outrage. Much easier, if she never awoke. Everyone knew Transformation was risky.

"I see," she said, finally. "Do you think I should withdraw my consent?"

"No," Dominic said with sincerity. "The House needs you, and...Michael needs you. But the choice is yours alone. That is one of the reasons I traveled here: to be certain of your intent."

"Only one of the reasons?" She lifted her head.

It might have been a trick of the candles, but he looked suddenly ancient. His forced smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mathilde needed a respite from her efforts to heal me."

"And so she drove you out?" Anger replaced the fear that resided in Tirgit's chest. "How could she--"

"Peace, peace, little one!" Dominic's smile was genuine. "Mathilde did no such thing. I agreed that perhaps removing myself from her presence for a while would ease her sense of failure. She tries so hard..."

"There's no cure for your injury, lord?" Tirgit asked, softly. "But I thought--Lady Cecilia once told me that you were healing. That your powers were nearly what they once were."

"Cecilia's healing..." He shook his head. "It was the blood that restored me, Tirgit. I didn't know it at the time--"

"Well if it is blood you need, lord, take mine!" She pushed back the sleeve of her gown, baring her forearm and the inside of her elbow, patterned with small scars, old and white, pink, and the newest scabbed. "Please, lord, drink."

For a moment, she thought he might refuse. "Your generosity humbles me, Tirgit," he said, cupping her elbow. He stooped, and she felt the warmth of his mouth against the inside of her wrist, followed by the familiar sting of razor-sharp teeth making a tiny cut.

"I want to help you," she whispered. "I would do anything for you--anything." She concentrated on happy memories, just as Cecilia had taught her:...he lifts her finger to his mouth and bites, then says, "Dearest one, it is good to meet again, for I remember you. I know your True Name."...a hawk flies high over sharp, snowcapped peaks...she strides back and forth across the tiled floor, exclaiming at everything, until she notices the echoes her voice brings forth. All at once she stands still and begins a poignant love-song, quietly at first, then louder and louder, pausing at the ends of verses to listen to the reverberations from the stark walls...

His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed a single mouthful of her blood. His gray eyes went black, and his face suddenly flushed. A shuddering sigh escaped him as he lifted his head, licking stained lips. An invisible pressure clamped firmly over the wound he had made, a smear of blood very red against her pale skin.

"How is it," he asked softly, when his eyes had cleared to gray again, "that you and Mathilde see something worth saving in this ruin I've become since Beziers?"

He removed his hand of air, and Tirgit shook down her sleeve to cover the new mark. "You've changed from the Ninshubur I first knew when I joined the House," she said slowly, searching for the right words. "But I've changed from that Lal-hamun who served the goddess Ninharsag, too. Time alters everything save the bonds we share together. In this life, I've only known you as you, Lord Dominic, my savior, my..." Her cheeks grew hot, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "...father."

To her shock, Dominic laughed bitterly.

Still on her knees, she stared at him, uncomprehending. Had she insulted him by speaking her most secret feelings aloud?

"Little fool," he said, exasperated affection underlaid with something darker, angrier. "Do you know why I purchased you that day in Tashkent?"

"You recognized me..." Tirgit's voice trailed off uncertainly at his grimace.

"After I tasted your blood."

She nodded, apprehension returning like a coiling serpent.

"I couldn't see auras, then. I had no idea who you were," he continued, cruelly. "All I wanted was a young slave with healthy blood. I wanted to drink you dry so that I could do my duty as a consort and fuck Cecilia in 'the way of djinni.'" Irony frosted his tone.

"But you spared me." Tirgit clenched her fists in her lap. Her thoughts were a maelstrom of denial and grief and anger, and yet...and yet...

"Because you are a daughter of the House." Dominic's expression closed again. "Many others...were not."

Sick understanding twisted in her belly. "Was that what happened with the...children in Venice? But Cecilia and I had left already. You weren't...joining with..."

"I was searching for Honoria's next incarnation, though I was blind. If you hadn't written to me from Ypres about Michael...Even though the Venice House forbade me to buy slaves in their city, I'd probably be doing it in Ragusa, or Athens, or somewhere. The blood of innocents returned my Seer's eyes, but my aura is not yet whole again, and nothing Mathilde has done has healed it. Only the blood of mortals is effective."

A tiny thread of sorrow wound through her constant fear. He trusted her enough to share this awful secret. But would Michael offer her a similar forgiveness? If only I can keep Cecilia's instructions private. I don't want to live with my thoughts and memories naked and exposed, the way my flesh was on the auction-block.

"I'm so sorry, lord," she murmured, raising herself and hugging his knees. "I thought that if you could find yourself unable to control your desires, what chance did I have? You give me hope, that when I awaken as a djinniah, I will feel things--want things--and yet I will be able to restrain myself from acting upon them."

Dominic shook his head, disbelievingly, but she sensed his self-hatred draining away. "Foolish little Tirgit, and yet so wise."

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