Kushiel's Chosen

Cassiel's dagger, with which Elua made reply to the messengers of the One God; Cassiel's Servant, touchstone of my dart-riven heart. Pondering such mysteries, I fell at last into a fretful sleep and awoke at dawn to the beginning of the endgame.



SIXTY-SEVEN



Morning broke chill and misty; the tribute ship was fog-wraithed in the harbor. I stood shivering on the wharf as the great trunk was loaded, and supplies for our journey. Zabèla had made me a gift of a heavy woolen cloak, dark-brown and hooded, and I set aside the Kore's blue mantle in its favor. It closed with a silver brooch, shaped like the falcon of Epidauro.



The self-same shape adorned the garb in which Kazan Atrabiades and six of his men were attired, rendered bold in black against their new crimson surcoats, which they wore over light mail. I knew all six by name; they were the young ones, the daring ones, who had come to sit at Glaukos' lessons and teach me Illyrian: Epafras, Volos, Oltukh, shy Ushak with the jug-ears, and the brothers Stajeo and Tormos, still competing. Tormos would go, for he had secured rank as Kazan's second-in-command, and his brother would not let him go alone.



Missing was Lukin, whose quick smile had reminded me of Hyacinthe; he was gone, slain by Serenissimans. I tried not to think on it. Others had come to see us off, gathering in the misty dawn. One was Glaukos, who took me into his embrace, eyes damp with tears.



"Ah, now, my lady," he whispered. "I'd go with you if I dared, but this is a young man's task. I'd only slow you down, I fear."



"I'd order Kazan to put you ashore if you even thought to try it, Glaukos." Remembering his many kindnesses, my own eyes feared, and I sniffled indecorously. "Go home to Dobrek, and your pretty wife, and if you think of me, say a prayer to whatever god will hear you."



He laid his hands on my shoulders. "You've shown me wonders, you have, such as even an old Tiberium slave might believe, and you've made Kazan Atrabiades a nobleman despite himself. I'll not forget you soon, child."



"Thank you." I hugged him swiftly, kissing his grizzled cheek. "Thank you for everything."



And then it was time to board the ship under the command of Pjètri Kolcei, the Ban's middle son, who would oversee the tribute mission. He was young, only a few years older than me, with the air of a seasoned warrior. After seeing us all aboard, he made a formal farewell to his parents, who sat mounted alongside the wharf amid a cordon of the Ban's Guard. Crossing the gangplank, he gave the order to cast off.



It was strange, after so long on Kazan's pirate ship, to be aboard a proper vessel with square sails, broad decks and bunks in the hold. I stood gripping the railing as the ship moved slowly away from the shore and gazed back at the harbor. The Ban and his wife sat on their horses unmoving, watching us go as the early morning sun slanted through the mist.



"Your mother did not come?" I said to Kazan, finding him beside me.



"No." He shook his head. Droplets of moisture clung to his hair like gems. "I said good-bye at our house, I. My old boyhood home, eh?" he said, answering me in Caerdicci out of habit. "She says to me, she; Kazan, come home soon, come home twice a hero."



"Blessed Elua grant it may be so," I murmured.



Once we had cleared the harbor, Pjètri Kolcei gave the order to hoist sail and we were away, moving steadily and surely across the surging blue sea. Some twenty sailors manned the ship, neat-handed and competent. The Ban's hand-picked embassy numbered twenty as well, under Pjètri's leadership; and seven of those were Kazan and his men. When we were underway, the Ban's middle son made his way across the deck to join us.



Pjètri had his father's dark complexion, but the broad, slanting cheekbones and grey-blue eyes of his mother; he wore his hair in a topknot, and had long, pointed mustaches like Kazan. I wondered if it was in emulation, or if 'twas a style set by the Ban's Guard. I never did learn which was true.



"Phèdre nó Delaunay," he said, greeting me with a sweeping bow. "Kazan Atrabiades. You come late to join this mission. I was awake into the small hours of the night, briefed by mother and father alike."



"I am grateful for your aid," I said formally. "On behalf of Terre d'Ange, I thank you."



He smiled, and there was somewhat of his father's tight shrewdness in it, and somewhat of a warrior's grin. "I have my orders. If aught goes awry, my men are to throw down their weapons," he said to Kazan, "and yours to make shift to hold them hostage, that we may claim you overcame us, by treachery and surprise. Such is the lot of a middle son, whose honor may be cast aside at need. But if all goes as planned..." His grin blossomed fully into a warrior's ferocity. "The Serenissimans will pay a heavy toll for the tribute they exact!"



"And the middle son rises in the eyes of the Zim Sokali!" Kazan agreed with bloodthirsty good cheer. "Yarovit's grace upon your sword, Pjètri Kolcei. Did you train under Gjergi Hamza?" he added, eyeing the aforementioned weapon.



I left them to compare notes on the merits of the Ban's swordmasters, perambulating the deck and taking simple pleasure in the sun's rising warmth, the bright rays burning off the mists as we gained the open seas. The Illyrian sailors startled to see me, hands moving in quick warding gestures; I had nearly forgotten how Kazan's men had received me at first. Now one of them trailed behind me, a self-appointed guard. It was Ushak, his prominent ears concealed beneath a conical steel helm. He turned scarlet whenever I glanced back at him, until I laughed aloud and paused to wait for him, giving him my arm which he took, blushing.



"It is a fair day," I mused in Illyrian. "Is it not, Ushak?"



"Y-yes." He was as red as a boiled lobster, and stammering with it. "Every day is f-fair, when it is graced with the sight of you!" he said all in a rush.



"Is it?" I halted, gazing at him. "Is that why you came, Ushak?"



His throat worked convulsively. "It is ... it is one reason, my lady," he said stiffly. "I think... we do not have such things on Dobrek, such things as you. To die in your name ... it, it w-would be an honor!"



"To live would be a better one," I said gently. "I am D'Angeline and Naamah's Servant, yes, but beauty is not worth dying for."



He shook his head, blushing and swallowing fiercely. "Not... not that alone, my lady. You, you were kind to us, you learned our tongue, you laughed at our jests ... even, even mine." He swallowed again and added helplessly, "You were kind."



I thought on it, searching the empty blue skies. "Is the world so cruel, then, that that is all that is required to move a man to risk his life? Kindness?"



"Yes." Trembling and gulping, Ushak stood his ground, holding manfully to my arm. "Sometimes ... y-yes, my lady," he finished firmly.



Ah, Elua! I bowed my head, overwhelmed by nameless emotion. I understood Kazan, and the debt he perceived; I understood the Ban and his kin, weighing merit against risk. Even those of Kazan's men who had been my shipmates, I understood better; we had forged a bond, we had, during that dreadful flight, and the terrors of the Temenos. But this ... this came straight from the heart.



Love as thou wilt.



They are fools, who reckon Elua a soft god, fit only for the worship of starry-eyed lovers. Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. It is as inexorable as the tides, and life and death alike follow in its wake.



I spent much time in contemplation during that journey, for there was naught else to be done and I wished to make my peace as best I might with Blessed Elua and his Companions before entering La Serenissima. Our plan was a simple one, insofar as it went. When we drew nigh unto the harbor, I would conceal myself within the trunk. If the harbor guards' search penetrated my hiding place ... well and so, it would go no further. If it did not, the tribute ship would continue up the Great Canal to make anchor at the residence of Janàri Rossatos, who was the Illyrian Ambassador to La Serenissima, and thence plot our next move.



It was my hope that the presentation of tribute-gifts to the newly elected Doge would take place before the ceremony of investiture, for it might afford an opportunity for Kazan and his men to get a message to Ysandre. We didn't know, though; not even Pjètri was certain of the protocol, and the exact date of the arrival of the D'Angeline progressus regalis was unknown.



I wished I knew what Melisande was planning.



For of a surety, no matter whose hand bore the dagger or the vial of poison, no matter whose mouth uttered the order, the mind that conceived it was hers ... although there would be no trail easily traced to her doorstep. Of that, I was equally sure. And Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza were canny, too; neither of them would risk showing their hands openly when it came to the death of a sitting monarch.



An accident, then? It would have to be very, very well orchestrated-and a sure thing. A greased step, an overturned gondola; plausible, but uncertain. No, Melisande's plan would have to be foolproof. Which meant... what?



It would be easy enough to do it in the Little Court. Poison, an assassin ... Ysandre's guards will be relaxed, not looking for treachery in Prince Benedicte's court. It was possible; but no, it would reek overmuch of suspicion. Gaining the throne was one thing; Melisande's ability to hold it-for surely she looked to long outlive Benedicte and establish her son as heir-depended on the D'Angeline people's acceptance of her blamelessness. Ysandre de la Courcel would not die under that roof.



Then, where?



A public place, I thought. A public place, where the eyes of all La Serenissima can see that Prince Benedicte and his lovely wife, as well as the new Doge, played no hand in the death of the Queen of Terre d'Ange.



Melisande would conceive of something that brilliant, I was sure. The only problem was, I still couldn't guess what.



Thus far did I get in my speculation, and no further. There were too many unknown variables, not least of which was the fact that, for all I knew, Ysandre's entourage had arrived and the deed was already done. When my thoughts began to chase themselves in circles, I let be and spent time with Kazan's men, listening to them swap tales with the Ban's Guard and improving my skill at dice. It had begun to rain on the second day at sea; naught to slow our progress, but a cold, relentless drizzle that chilled one to the bone and drove every hand not on duty below decks. Dank and close as it was, it was better than shivering in the open air.



On the fourth day, the weather cleared and, by late afternoon, we passed La Dolorosa.



I went to stand at the railing and watch as soon as I heard the sighting called; the Wailing Rock, they call it in Illyrian. Pjètri Kolcei ordered the ship's captain to steer a wide berth around it. None of the Illyrians would even look in the direction of the black isle. Whistling tunelessly as the sailors aboard the Darielle had done, they stared fixedly ahead or eastward, fingering amulets and making warding gestures in the direction they dared not look.



I looked; I had to.



And there it stood, much the same, crags of black basalt rearing skyward, waves crashing at its foot. The fortress where I had been held captive was still nestled atop the isle, stony and silent. I could hear, now that I knew to listen for it, the mournful, maddening winds playing over the crags.



Not until we had almost passed it did I see that the bridge, the hempen bridge that spanned the deadly drop betwixt mainland and isle, hung loose and dangling against La Dolorosa's cliffs. It twisted in the wind, wooden planks being slowly battered to splinters by the rock. On the mainland, the watchtower maintained a hollow vigil. La Dolorosa was abandoned.



Someone had cut the bridge.



Joscelin, ï thought, my heart pounding madly in my breast.



"Phèdre." It was Kazan's voice. He touched my arm, breaking my reverie. "It is time."



SIXTY- EIGHT



In the hold of the Illyrian ship, lamplight played over the contents of the Ban's tribute-gift, glinting on masses of gold and amber. Two of Pjètri's men glanced at their leader for permission; he gave the nod to proceed. Working quickly, they emptied the trunk of its spoils, a heady pile of treasure. A layer of marten skins followed, soft, lustrous pelts mounded on the cabin floor.



The false bottom of the trunk lay bare.



Pjètri Kolcei knelt, drawing his dagger and working it alongside the seam. It was a tight fit; the Ban's carpenters had wrought well. Wiggling the blade, he pried upward. The false bottom gave way, raising a hairsbreadth. He reached under it, wedging his fingernails into a narrow groove and lifting with a grimace. It came, though, and he lifted the false bottom clean away from the tiny ridge that supported it.



It was a small space left betwixt the true bottom and the false. It was a very small space.



I gazed at it, drawing a deep breath. Solid and dark and heavy, the trunk was, carved of cypress wood and bound in silver. There were air holes, yes, bored into the centers of the elaborate floral pattern that adorned the base; holes so small no light pierced them. I had not reckoned, until then, how much I feared confinement in that space.



"There is no time, Lady Phèdre," the Ban's middle son said quietly. "The Spear of Bellonus has been sighted. We must make ready for arrival."



I nodded once and took another deep breath - it seemed I could not get enough air into my lungs-and glanced around at Kazan and his men, their faces all at once seeming very familiar and dear. And then, lest my nerve fail me, I climbed into the trunk and forced myself into that terribly, terribly small space, knees drawn tight into my belly, chin tucked, squeezed on all sides by the trunk's walls.



"Now," Pjètri ordered. "Do it quickly!"



Epafras and Oltukh set the false bottom back in place, and that was the last glimpse I had of light and life; their worried faces, quickly obliterated by a solid width of wood. And then the false bottom was pressing down on me and I was in darkness. My shoulders and hips were crushed against it; I shifted, trying to move, but there was no space. It was tight and airless. I heard the soft sound of marten skins being piled atop the false bottom, and fought down a wave of panic. Not airless, no; it only seemed that way. Here, in utter blackness, I could see the air holes; there was one close to my left eye, admitting a faint hint of lamplight.