Kushiel's Chosen

mutton. Once, a plate of stewed greens. At first I did not eat, having resolved to die before I went mad in that place. If I could do naught else, at least I could do that much, laying my death at Melisande's feet.
    It gave me a certain grim satisfaction to contemplate as I grew weaker. Kushiel had made a poor choice of me, but his dart would have one last cast against this too-gifted scion of his line. Melisande might sit the throne of Terre d'Ange after all, but she would live out her days in fear of their end. No passage for her to the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond, land of Elua and his Companions, but ten thousand years of torment, if Kusheline lore held true. So I thought, until the warden came to my cell.
    He brought with him the largest of the prison guards, a hulking Serenissiman who was simple-minded and obedient - Tito, he was called. They came inside, closing the door behind them. Tito carried a steaming bowl and I could smell fish broth above the noisome odor of the too-seldom-emptied chamber pot.
    "Tito," the warden said flatly. "Hold her and clamp her nose."
    With a look that might have been sympathetic on his broad, homely face, the giant set down his bowl and knelt beside my pallet, from which I was too weak to rise. The warden dragged the stool over and sat down as Tito placed one massive hand on my chest and pinned me. With the other hand, he pinched my nostrils closed.
    It went as one might expect, although I daresay I fought it harder than they anticipated. In the end, it was my body that betrayed me, gasping for air when I willed only death. The warden forced a tin ladle between my teeth, pouring broth into my mouth. Choking on it, I swallowed some, inhaling a good deal as well. Tito eased me to a sitting position as I coughed and gagged, a red haze swimming before my eyes and the blood beating in my ears so hard it drowned out the eternal wail of Asherat's sea, beating dire and hard, buffeting me like bronze-edged wings.
    Well and so, I thought, hopelessly. It seems I am to live.
    "My orders are to keep you alive." The warden's tone was as grey and obdurate as the fortress walls. He was well chosen for his job. "This will be done as many times as is needful, for as many days. Will you eat?"
    "Yes," I said faintly.
    The warden handed the bowl and ladle to Tito and departed. Cradling the bowl in one arm, the giant shifted me as carefully as a child with a new doll so I might sit propped against the wall. I coughed, my lungs burning from the broth I'd inhaled. He waited patiently until I was done, then held out the bowl in both hands.
    It was the only kindness anyone had done me. "Thank you," I said gently, taking the bowl from him. In slow, painfill sips, I drank the remainder of the broth, giving back the empty bowl when I had finished.
    I was young, and Kushiel's chosen; I regained strength quickly. As death receded from my grasp and the profound shock of horror and betrayal lessened, my wits began to function once more and I came slowly to acknowledge my situation.
    If Tito was the best of the guards, despite his fearsome appearance, Malvio and Fabron were the worst. Malvio was the cock-eyed guard I had seen on my arrival, and he spoke seldom, but grinned all the while, his slippery gaze wandering all over me when it was his turn to bring food, waiting to ensure I ate. At first, he did nothing save look. On his third visit, he reached inside his breeches, fondling himself and grinning. And on the next, he loosened the drawstring of his breeches, drawing out his erect phallus, dark and engorged with blood, and showing it to me. I looked away as he stroked himself to a climax, knowing he was grinning. When he was done, he tucked himself away, waiting calmly for me to eat and hand him my empty plate.
    And I did, fearing if the warden came again, it would be Malvio he brought.
    Fabron, by contrast, spoke volumes, moving close enough so I could smell his breath as he told me in lewd detail exactly what and where and how he would do to me the many things that he thought about doing to me. While he was not particularly inventive, he never tired of describing the acts in which he would engage me.
    "What would it be worth to you?" I asked him once, tilting my head back to gaze at him. "My freedom? For that, I would do all you ask, and more."
    At that, he blustered, then turned pale and fled, grabbing my half-eaten supper tray.
    If I were a heroine in a romantic epic, no doubt, it would have been