Kushiel's Chosen

horizon. Mist hovered over the sea, where the air was still cooler than the water. But the sun would rise, I thought, and warm the air, enough to burn off the mist, whether the clouds cleared or not.
    And it would grow hot.
    Clinging to my makeshift float, I licked my dry, salty lips. Beset with the terrors of drowning or being devoured by some monster of the deep, wracked with the pain of my injuries, I'd not given thought to thirst.
    But once I had thought it...
    My tongue felt swollen, my throat and lungs raw with the seawater I'd breathed. I'd feared the blind horrors of night, but it was day that was more likely to kill me. One can go a long while without food; I knew, I'd done it. Not water. And I had none.
    I didn't pray, then, when the full, deadly irony of it struck me. I had been deceived, betrayed and imprisoned; I had escaped death too many times, and left too many dead behind me. To think, over and over again, so this is how it ends-it was too much.
    I laughed, I think, or made some noise that was meant to be laughter. A harsh sound, like the calling of crows. I didn't know I was making it until I strained to catch another sound, faint and distant, that carried over the water, and found myself wishing irritably for the ratcheting noise to cease. It did, when I realized it was me.
    And in the silence that followed, I heard another sound, faint but drawing nearer; a steady rush of water moving along a wooden hull, the rustle and snap of sails catching the breeze.
    From my vantage point a scant foot above the waves, the nearest ship emerged from the mists like a great bird, skimming low over the sea. One, two, three... there were six of them in all, canted sails bellied full of wind like white wings, oars locked and untouched.
    Heaving myself as far as I could above the surface of the water, struggling against the knotted fabric that tied me to the log, I pried one rigid arm loose and waved it in the air, shouting. "Here! Here! Name of Elua, help me!"
    My voice scarce sounded human, and the effort of raising it threatened to tear my swollen throat. Two of the ships passed, disappearing swiftly in the lingering mists, and I bobbed futilely in the water. For a moment, I was sure they had not heard, had not seen, thought me as much an apparition as they seemed. Tears stung my eyes, and I thought stupidly, there is more of my body's moisture gone, well and good, I will die that much the faster if I weep.
    And then a voice shouted an order in no language I knew, and one of the ships heeled, spinning quicker than I would have thought possible. The triangular Sail luffed loose against the mast, spilling wind, then, with coordinating shouts, a rope snapped tight and the prow swung my way. Another order, crisp and commanding, and out came the oars.
    In the middle of the ocean, I clung to Tito's torch and trod water, gazing up at the ship as it came alongside me. The rowers rested on their oars, faces peering over the side in amazement. "Sa ështa?" one exclaimed, making a superstitious gesture. "Në Vila!"
    Another man appeared behind them, leaning forward to look down at me; and a fiercer figure, I have seldom seen. His long, black hair was caught back in a topknot, and long, drooping mustaches framed his white grin, which revealed one missing tooth on the upper left side.
    "Djo," he said decisively. "Ështa D'Angeline."
    And with that, he threw me a rope.

FORTY-NINE
    In the space of a few heartbeats, my unexpected rescuers had me aboard the ship, hauling in the rope I grasped and unceremoniously heaving me on deck. Unsteady and nerveless, I could do no more than kneel in a shuddering heap, dripping saltwater onto the planking.
    The crew muttered in their unfamiliar tongue, while their topknotted captain-so I guessed him to be-ignored me, shouting out another series of commands. They obeyed with alacrity, springing into action. Once more, the sail flapped loose from the long yard and the vessel lurched, spinning. My stomach clenched at the suddenness of it. The oarsmen set to with a good dozen strokes, then the ropes were tightened and the sail swelled taut. They put up their oars and locked them.
    In the prow, a shirtless youth leaned over the water and waved a crimson pennant, gesturing to the other five ships that idled at close range, sails slack. One by one, with remarkable coordination, they followed our lead.
    And then we were off, following an eastward course over the misty sea.
    With difficulty, I raised