Kushiel's Chosen

grinning, and gave me another jab. I took another step. "No," he said. "It's too late. You belong to Asherat now."
    Behind me the sea-surge was growing louder, and I could feel a change in the way the ground shuddered beneath my naked soles. A deeper tremor, a hollow vibration. We were on the overhang. How far to the edge? Twenty feet? Ten? The wind battered me, whipping my already-matted hair into worse tangles, flattening my dress against my legs.
    It was getting darker, further away from the torchlit battle. I could scarce make out his face. "Malvio," I said. "Do not do this thing. I swear to you, it is not the will of Asherat. Her followers have betrayed her, who put me here."
    "You were put here to die," he said agreeably, jabbing.
    "No." I took a quick step backward, then darted sideways, seeking to get around him. But he was quick, for a Caerdicci, and he had a spear. He brought it sweeping about to bar my way, maneuvering behind it. A distant flicker of torchlight slid across his grinning face, his off-kilter gaze.
    "Go," he said, jabbing.
    I went, as slowly as I dared. Beyond us, I saw that the numbers of the guards had thinned, but they were organized now, and an armored figure with a full-length shield paced the outskirts, shouting inaudible orders.
    The warden, I thought. He had formed the remaining guards in two lines, back to back; one held the prisoners at bay, and the other, Joscelin. Two men stood back from the fighting, holding torches aloft-one was hulking Tito. I saw the warden flash his shield at the tower, and movement in a darkened window. An archer, armed with a crossbow.
    La Dolorosa would have been easier to defend with proper ramparts and arrow-slits, muertrieres such as Troyes-le-Mont had sported. But they would all have been mad as Malvio if they'd manned it thusly, listening to the winds hour upon hour. It was bad enough for the sentries at the bridge. I took another step backward, watching the bowman.
    It was too dark to see and too far; I couldn't see when he began shooting, slow pauses between reloading. One of the prisoners staggered, grey hair swirling, and then two broke away, and the line of guards holding them at bay began to crumble as the prisoners retreated out of bowshot.
    "Go," Malvio repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time.
    I took a step and stopped. The wind tugged at me and the sea boomed and wailed, almost beneath my very feet, from the sound of it. I was almost on the edge. And this was the overhang, a deep curve bitten out beneath it. I knew, I'd seen it aboard the Darielle on that fateful trip, while the sailors whistled past the black isle. I would find no ledge here such as Joscelin had done, to crouch concealed beyond the lip of the cliff.
    No rocks below, only sea. It was small consolation.
    I was not ready to die.
    Malvio jabbed the spear at me. In the darkness, I stood unmoving. He jabbed again, and this time I caught the haft with both hands, below where the lashings bound the spearhead, wrenching it hard, up and away from me. It took him by surprise; I daresay he hadn't expected it. Face-to-face atop the high cliff, we struggled, two pairs of hands locked tight on the spear.
    My grip on the smooth-worn wood was slipping. Grinning wildly, Malvio twisted the spear, using his superior height and strength to lever it out of my hands. He would have it, in another few seconds. Knowing myself lost, I cried out desperately in the direction of the battle. "Joscelin! It's Benedicte, Benedicte and Melisande! Benedicte is the traitor!"
    We were too near the edge, too near the booming sea. Even I could hear my own words were lost, torn from my lips by the keening wind. Malvio rotated the spear further and jerked. I made one last, frantic grab, nails scraping the leather thongs; and then he had it, bringing the butt end up in a sweeping arc, slamming into my chin.
    My jaw closed with an audible click and a burst of pain filled my head. I wasn't aware I'd fallen until I felt the sharp rocks beneath my palms. On hands and knees, I blinked against the starburst of pain, trading it for Kushiel's red haze. Bright, so bright! Streaks like flame blurred my vision, and through the dank locks of hair hanging over my eyes, I saw Malvio, still grinning, step forward, raising the spear point-downward, positioning himself over my fallen form.
    "No!"
    A deep Caerdicci voice, bellowing rage; not Joscelin, no. Another fiery streak etched the night and a thud sounded, wood on