Kushiel's Chosen

with a pair of prison guards in tow, wiping his mouth; they'd fetched him from the dinner table. He was Serenissiman, in his late forties, with a grim face. He startled a little at seeing me, recovering quickly. "This is the one?"
    "It is," one of my guards affirmed. Lifting a cord from about his neck, he produced a key and unlocked the manacles clamped about my wrists, careful not to meet my gaze.
    "Garment," the warden said briefly. The slighter of the two prison guards darted forward grinning, shoving a bundle of grey wool into my unprotesting arms. He was cock-eyed, rapid gaze sliding this way and that, and I wondered if he had all his wits. "Put it on," the warden said to me. "Everything else, you leave."
    I stood for a moment, puzzled. The warden waited implacably.
    He meant now.
    Well, I thought, I am D'Angeline, and Naamah's Servant. They will do as they will to me in this place, but I will not cringe with shame for their satisfaction. I unclasped the Doge's great collar of pearls from about my neck, handing it coolly to the warden, then turned to the wall and began undoing the buttons of my gown. I stepped out of my court slippers and slid the gown from my shoulders. It slipped to the floor to pool around my ankles, folds of apricot silk stiff with gold brocade, leaving me bare.
    "Elua!" one of Benedicte's guards muttered, swallowing audibly.
    Ignoring him, I unfolded the grey woolen dress and drew it over my head, only then turning to face them. With great care, I removed the gold filigree earrings I wore and unfastened the net of gold mesh from my hair.
    "Here." I placed them in the warden's hand. "That is everything."
    "Good." He nodded curtly to the prison guards. "Take her to her cell."

FORTY-TWO
    My cell was a stony chamber only seven paces square.
    It held a pallet of straw ticking, a low wooden stool and two buckets; one containing water and one empty, serving as a chamber pot. The door, set in a shallow egress, was brass-bound oak. There was a narrow window high on the opposite wall, barred with iron.
    I thought it a kindness at first.
    The dungeon of La Dolorosa lies below the fortress, a scant dozen prison cells. We passed along a corridor, and I felt the vast weight of the fortress pressing on me from above, a tremendous sense of mass and confinement. Faint sounds were audible through some few of the oaken doors; scratching and weeping, and from one, a rhythmic, ceaseless wailing. I tried not to think about why. All the cells were aligned along the cliff side of the fortress and those narrow windows, set an inch or two above ground level, looked out onto the grieving sea.
    Each one has a window; I know that, now. Air and light, I thought, catching a glimpse by lantern when the prison guards brought me. Then they left, taking the lantern and locking the heavy door, leaving me in unrelieved blackness.
    And I heard the sound.
    It was the one I'd heard outside, the crashing sea, the sucking moan as the waves withdrew, over and over again, relentless. And in the swirling winds, a remorseless wail of sorrow. Outside, it was formidable.
    Inside, it was maddening. I knew, then, why there were no windows in the fortress save those necessary for defense. La Dolorosa, the isle of sorrows, wrought by Asherat's grief for her slain son. I knew why the sailors whistled, passing it. I knew why the prisoners wept and wailed, hearing it endlessly, day in and out.
    Mortals are not meant to bear the mourning of deities.
    Sight-blinded and sea-deafened, I knelt on the flagstone floor of my cell and groped my way toward the pallet. The woolen dress, too long, dragged behind me. Gaining the pallet, I curled into a ball, pressing my hands over my ears.
    There I lay until the grey light of dawn seeped through the narrow window to find me, shuddering and sleepless.
    So began the pattern of my time in La Dolorosa. By day, the sound was easier to bear. I could stand tiptoe on the wooden stool, clutching the bars and peering out the window to see that 'twas the sea, only the sea and wind that crashed and moaned so dolefully. By night, it took on the awful tone of endless, immortal grief that seemed to vibrate the very stone, penetrating my bones, forcing me to cover my ears and whimper until morning came.
    Twice a day, a guard brought food, varying in quality and quantity alike. Sometimes it was nothing more than cold porridge or a mess of lentils; sometimes bread and hard sausage, and sometimes fish broth or a slab of