Kushiel's Chosen

of violence surrounded the prisoners, who fought with bared teeth and stolen weapons when they had them; bare hands and demented fury when they did not, giving ground Slowly. For all their superior numbers and armor, 'twas no easy task for the guards, encumbered with torches as they were; and darkness favored the prisoners with their night-accustomed eyes.
    Still, it could not last. As more and more guards came, the prisoners retreated further. Tito's massive figure appeared, crashing into the melee. Eschewing his spear, he carried a torch the size of a beam, swinging it in mighty arcs, trailing flames and roaring so loudly I could hear it above the wind. I should run, I knew; retrace my steps around the fortress, dare the other side and see if the bridge was perchance unguarded.
    Indeed, one of the prisoners wielded a hand-axe, mayhap wrested from the sentries. It was the Pleader, whom I knew by his shoulder-length hair. He was not pleading now, but grimacing, chopping wildly at the pair of guards who forced him back, step by step, toward the edge of the cliff.
    I couldn't run. I had freed them; I had led them to this end. As with Remy and Fortun, I could not look away. I watched through my tears as the Pleader swung his axe, panting, unable to get beyond the reach of the guards' spears.
    And saw, by wavering torchlight, a hand reach over the edge of the cliff behind him.
    It was hard to make out the figure that followed, heaving itself up and rolling, dark-clad and hooded, coming up into a fighter's crouch. It didn't matter. I knew. Before the twin blades of steel flashed up before him, before he spun, taking out one guard with deadly grace, before the second grasped ineffectually at him, succeeding only in tearing the hood loose to reveal wheat-blond hair shining in the flickering light; I knew.
    Something in my heart gave way; a wall of despair and loneliness built long ago, on a rainy night in Montrève, when he came in from the garden. And in its place came joy and relief, and-ah, Elua!-love.
    Caught between laughter and tears, I stepped away from the shadow of the fortress, into the torchlight that washed the stony ground. He dispatched the second guard, shoving the gaping Pleader toward the steep path to the bridge. In the melee between us, guards began to turn, realizing they faced a new menace from behind.
    As he made his sweeping Cassiline bow, I cried out his name with all my strength, pitching my voice to carry as best I could above the wind and sea.
    "Joscelin!"
    Whether he heard me or not, I never knew; but he saw me as he straightened. Across the distance, two-score guards and prisoners fighting between us, our eyes met.
    That was when I felt the point of a spear press into my spine.

FORTY-SEVEN
    "Don't move, lady," a voice whispered in Caerdicci at my ear.
    It was no voice I knew.
    I stood rooted and felt my arm taken, spinning me roughly; Malvio, who never spoke. He grinned at me, and his slippery gaze looked quite mad. With a shortened grip on his spear, he circled around me, placing himself between me and rescue. I moved cautiously, turning to face him. I could hear the sounds of battle still, but they seemed suddenly very far away.
    My world had shrunk to the two of us.
    "Go," Malvio said, seldom-used voice sounding almost friendly. He jabbed the spear toward me, and I retreated a step. He continued to grin. "Go."
    I took another step backward.
    There was nothing behind me but twenty yards of rocky ground and the cliff's edge. I knew, it had been my view for endless days. And beyond the cliff-nothing. It was the farthest point, overhanging the angry sea.
    "Go." Malvio jabbed the spear again, cheerfully. I stood Without moving and he did it again, hard enough to pierce the coarse wool of my dress and prick the flesh beneath. "Go!"
    I took another step, sharp-edged rock beneath my bare feet. Over Malvio's shoulder, I could see the melee broadening, Joscelin penned behind a thicket of spears, dodging and twisting. It might have been different, if he'd had his sword; it would have lessened the difference in reach. But no, he had crawled the underside of the hanging bridge. The weight of his sword would have been too great.
    He had come to rescue me with nothing but his daggers. And he could do it, too, given time and aided by chaos.
    The prisoners were providing the chaos. I needed to buy time.
    "Whatever you want," I said steadily to Malvio, "I will do."
    It gave him pause. Then he shook his head,