"And I?" Krista stood by the door of the little reading room, well away from the window. The young woman had bound her hair back in a tight braid, then wrapped it with a leather thong. Her tunic and cloak and kilt were a deep forest green that verged to black. The weathered brown leather of her girdle was almost invisible against the material. Like the Duchess, her cloak was hooded, though when pulled up, Krista' s left her entire face in shadow. Long sleeves covered her arms and two long knives and a short sword were slung at her side from a Legion-style baldric. "Where will I be?"

The Duchess sighed, holding out her hand. Chains of pearls accented her arm, gleaming in the lamplight. Krista stepped up and took her hand. "You will be upon your way to the port at Ostia by a fast horse, my dear. A galley, the Paris, is waiting for you there. The captain is one of my couriers. He will take you to Cumae, within hours of the mountain and the villa. You will be ahead of Thyatis and her men by at least two days."

Anastasia pressed a wallet of tooled leather into Krista's hand. It was heavy and clinked as the younger woman hefted it.

"Coin enough," smiled the Duchess. "You can get whatever you need: horses, gladiators, slaves, weapons. Cumae caters to the estates of the rich. It has a sophisticated market." Anastasia paused, her lips pursed. "Are you sure of this?" The Duchess leaned forward a little, closing the space between her and the girl. "You need not put yourself at risk."

Krista laughed, a sharpbitter sound. "While the handsome Prince lives, neither you nor I are safe. If we can kill him, then we can rest easy. My lady, please listen and understand me: I must kill him." The dark-haired girl clenched her fist hard, turning her knuckles white. "I must."

Anastasia opened her mouth, ready to press her servant for why and how but then relented. Something had transpired between the two, something more than the business of men and women. She could see the closely held determination that sustained Krista. Things were fragile enough already without provoking more trouble. She let it go. It did not matter how the beautiful Prince died.

"Very well," said the Duchess. "Do you need anything else?" Krista's mouth thinned into a sharp line. She shook her head. "I have what I need already," Krista said, tucking the wallet away. "Goodbye."

Anastasia inclined her head and let her fingers slip out of Krista's hand. "Good luck."

Without another word, the young woman slipped out the door and took the stairs to the lower floor two and three at a time. When she was gone, the Duchess sat at her desk, her heart heavy, and sighed. The day was only beginning. She flipped open the first briefing booklet and blinked, trying to clear her eyes.

The Red Palace, Petra, Nabatea

Sunlight slanted across a table top of mottled travertine. The light brought out the whorls of cream and rust that penetrated the rock, mixing with a flux of darker red material. Mohammed's hands were pressed on the table, flat on the smooth cold surface. A pale green porcelain jug of water stood nearby and an arrangement of fresh-cut flowers held in a copper vase cast a shadow over his fingers. The gardens of the palace, watered by their own spring and culvert, were a wonder to behold. On this day, in the late morning, the scent of thousands of blossoms flooded the air, drifting through the high, arched windows on a light breeze.

Mohammed stood at the side of the table, his eyes staring blankly out the window over the rooftops of the city. His whole body, save for his hands, was trembling. The distant sounds of mules clattering through the streets of the city or the cries of hawkers in the market of Trajan went unheard. Sweat beaded his brow and ran in thin rivulets down the side of his neck. The thin cream-colored cotton shirt that he wore was damp with moisture and clung to the hard muscles of his shoulder and back. Tendrils of pure white striped his thick black beard. An almost inaudible hum trembled in the air.

The power released him and the Quryash gasped softly, suddenly breathing again, seeing again. He staggered a little and groped for a chair.

"Lord Mohammed, I would speak with you." The voice was harsh and brittle, sounding very old for the youthful woman who strode into the room. She stopped, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the Arab chieftain slumping wearily in the wicker chair. "Are you ill?"

Mohammed looked up, his eyebrows bristling. The Palmyrene woman stood, arms akimbo, her legs firmly planted, staring down at him with piercing dark eyes. She was dressed in severe dark colors, a tunic of black cotton over the rippling metal of a scaled iron corselet. Desert robes draped her shoulders, though they bunched at her left shoulder where the hilt of a saber jutted up. She wore Roman-style riding boots and still maintained the thick leather belt of a legion-naire.

"Lady Zoe" Mohammed acknowledged. "Are you ready?"

Zoe's face remained impassive, though one eyebrow hinted at a quirk. "My men and I have been ready for weeks. Yours also- we have sufficient camels and horses for the cavalry. Every wagon within leagues has been confiscated. The water barrels are full, the quartermaster satisfied by the count of wheaten cakes and rashers of bacon. We waste our time in these endless drills and maneuvers so dear to your puppy of a general. Even the weather has refrained from becoming too hot. Yet we wait for your command."

"We have waited," Mohammed said in a soft voice. "We have waited for word to come to me."

"Has it come?" Zoee stepped to the edge of the table, her back stiff with anger. Her impatience was legendary among the Sahaba. Jalal was fond of saying that she would flay the khamshin for its sloth in crossing the land.

"Are you ready?" countered Mohammed, rising himself. The strain and weariness of the listening did not take long to pass. He felt certainty and surety of purpose flood his limbs with strength. "I do not speak of your men, or your cousin, I speak of you."

Zoee sneered, her expression filled with bile. Her hair had become lank and spilled from the crown of her head in a tangled mess. Mohammed knew from his spies that she spent long hours closeted in the tomb she shared with the withered corpse of her aunt. The dead Queen had been placed in a catafalque of marble, dredged out of one of the old tombs. When she was not there, she prowled the canyons and ravines that riddled the hills around the city, poking into tombs and crevices. Odd smells and sounds often emanated from the grave-houses of the Petrans. Some of Mohammed's men had reported seeing shapes in the twilight, things like men, but smaller, creeping among the crumbling statues and tombs. Much evil had been done here. Mohammed could feel it like heat radiating off the lava fields of the An'Nafud.

"I am ready," she snapped, her mouth turned down in a grimace. "Are you?"

"Word has come," said Mohammed, bowing his head. "The power that moves the tide and lets sunlight fall has spoken from the clear air. We will leave as soon as the heat of the day begins to fade."

Zoe grinned, showing yellowed teeth. Her eyes lit up. "Praise the gods! I will inform Khalid and Odenathus immediately!" She turned to stride from the room, but Mohammed halted her with a touch on her arm. Under his fingetip, her skin was like ice.

"No," he said. "You and I will go, alone. Camels will be waiting for us under the eaves of the Jebel al'Harun."

Zoee turned, her brow furrowed with confusion. Mohammed almost laughed aloud to see her so vexed. The young woman was filled with enormous impatience. Every sinew of her lithe young body strained to release rage and hate and pain in a frenzy of violence. In the palace, she was the bane of the servants. When she was in a black mood, vases and pots would crack and shatter as she passed. Marble floor tiles had been known to warp and splinter where she walked. Those men and women in the royal enclosure who were sensitive to such things had long ago been sent away. The fury that boiled and curdled in the Palmyrene Queen was dangerous when coupled with the power within her.