He looked around. Nothing remotely resembling a weapon in here, guards at all the iron-barred windows and beyond the locked door.

No one else will do it.

And then, belatedly, he remembered how he had gained admission to this isle, and something cried out within him, in his heart, and he wished that he were already gone from here, from Sarantium, for she was wrong. There was someone else who would do it.

He took out the blade and looked at it. At the ivory carving of Hildric of the Antae on the hilt. Fine work, it was.

He didn't know, he really didn't know, if he was being made into an instrument yet again, or was being offered, instead, a dark, particular gift, for services, and with affection, by an Empress who had declared herself in his debt. He didn't know Gisel well enough to judge. It could be either, or both. Or something else entirely.

He did know what the woman before him wanted. Needed. As he looked at her and about this room, he realized that he also knew what was proper, for her soul and his own. Gisel of the Antae, who had carried this blade hidden against her body, sailing here, might also have known, he thought.

Sometimes dying was not the worst thing that could happen. Sometimes it was release, a gift, an offering.

Amid all the turning gyres, all the plots and counterplots and images begetting images, Crispin made them come to a stop, and he accepted the burden of doing so.

He took the ivory handle off the blade, as Gisel had done. He laid the knife down on the table-top, hiltless, so slender it was almost invisible.

Amid the glorious springtime brightness of that room, that day, he said, "I must go. I am leaving you something."

"How kind. A small mosaic, to comfort me in the dark? Another gem-stone to shine for me, like the first you gave?"

He shook his head again. There was a pain in his chest now.

"No," he said. "Not those." And perhaps something in the difficulty with which he spoke alerted her. Even the newly blind began to learn how to listen. She lifted her head a little.

"Where is it?" Styliane asked, very softly.

"The table," he said. He closed his eyes briefly. Towards me, near the far side. Be careful."

Be careful.

He watched her rise, come forward, reach her hands towards the table edge to find it, then move both palms haltingly across-still learning how to do this. He saw when she found the blade, which was sharp and sleek as death could sometimes be.

"Ah," she said. And became very still.

He said nothing.

"You will be blamed for this, of course."

"I am sailing in the morning."

"It would be courteous of me to wait until then, wouldn't it?"

He said nothing to this, either.

"I'm not sure," said Styliane softly, "if I have the patience, you know. They… might search and find it?"

"They might," he said.

She was silent a long time. Then he saw her smile. She said, "I suppose this means you did love me, a little."

He was afraid he would weep.

"I suppose it does," he said quietly.

"How very unexpected," said Styliane Daleina.

He fought for control. Said nothing.

"I wish," she said, "I'd been able to find her. One thing left unfinished. I shouldn't tell you that, I know. Do you think she's dead?"

The heart could cry. "If not, I think she will be, most likely, when she learns… you are."

That gave her pause. "Ah. I can understand that. So this gift you offer kills us both."

A truth. In the way they seemed to see things here.

"I suppose it might," Crispin said. He was looking at her, seeing her now, and as she was before, in the palace, in his room, in her own, her mouth finding his. Whatever else I do…

She had warned him, more than once.

She said, "Poor man. All you wanted to do here was leave your dead behind and make a mosaic overhead."

"I was… overly ambitious," he said. And heard her laugh, in delight, for the last time.

"Thank you for that," she said. For wit. There was a silence. She lifted the sliver of the blade, her fingers as slim, almost as long. "And thank you for this, and for… other things, once." She stood very straight, unbending, no concessions to… anything at all. "A safe journey home, Rhodian."

He was being dismissed, and not even by name at the end. He knew suddenly that she was not going to be able to wait. Her need was a hunger.

He looked at her, in the brightness she'd elected to offer here that all might see clearly where she could not, the way a host forbidden drink by his physician might order forth the very best wine he had for his friends.

"And you, my lady," he said. "A safe journey home to the light."

He knocked on the door. They opened it for him and let him out. He left the room, the glade, the woods, the stony, stony beach, the isle.

In the morning he left Sarantium, on the tide at dawn, when hues and shades of colour were just coming back into the world at the end of the god's long voyage through the dark.

The sun rose behind them, filtered by a line of low clouds. As he stood at the stern of the ship upon which Plautus Bonosus, in kindness amid his own sorrow, had offered him passage, Crispin, with the handful of other passengers, looked back upon the City. Eye of the world, they called it. Glory of Jad's creation.

He saw the bustle and brilliance of the deep, sheltered harbour, the iron pillars that held the chains that could be dropped across the entrance in time of war. He watched small boats cut across their wake, ferries to Deapolis, morning fishermen setting out, others coming back from a night's harvesting on the waves, sails of many colours.

He caught a glimpse, far off, of the triple walls themselves, where they curved down to the water. Saranios himself had drawn the line for these when first he came. He saw the glint of this muted early sunlight on rooftops everywhere, watching the City climb up from the sea, chapel and sanctuary domes, patrician homes, guild-house roofs bronzed in ostentatious display. He saw the vast bulk of the Hippodrome where men raced horses.

And then, as they swept from a south-west course more towards the west, clearing the harbour, reaching the swells of the open sea where their own white sails billowed, Crispin saw the Imperial Precinct gardens and playing fields and palaces, and they filled his sight, all of his gaze, as he was carried past them and away.

West they went, on a dawn wind and tide, the mariners calling to each other, orders shouted in the brightening, the zest of something beginning. A long journey. He looked back still, as did the other passengers, all of them caught, held at the stern rail as if in a spell. But at the end, as they drew farther and farther off, Crispin was looking at one thing only, and the very last thing he saw, far distant, almost on the horizon but gleaming above all else, was Artibasos's dome.

Then the rising sun finally burst above those low clouds east, appearing right behind the distant City, dazzlingly bright, and he had to shield his eyes, avert his gaze, and when he looked back again, blinking, Sarantium was gone, it had left him, and there was only the sea.