Kushiel's Chosen

hard for him to make out.
    "This uncle of yours, he is rich, he?" he asked when Glaukos had finished.
    "He has ships," I said. "Enough to stand surety for the loan. And he will verify the authenticity of the letter, for only he and I know of his offer to send aid."
    "Good." He nodded his head briskly. "It is well thought, eh?" He said something to Nikanor in Illyrian, then grinned and clapped my shoulder. "Three weeks, no less! You will see, you, how a true sailor flies!"
    The men laughed and made comments I could not understand; for once, I could have cared less. No one had recognized my "uncle" as the Royal Admiral of Terre d'Ange. I daresay any D'Angeline would have done so, for Quintilius is a Caerdicci name, and unusual among us. But it is common in Caerdicca Unitas, and raised no brows among the Illyrians.
    He will know, I thought, sealing the letter with wax and blowing on it. He will remember; he must! He had promised me: If you've need of aid, Phèdre nó Delaunay, know this. Do you but send word to the Lady ofMarsilikos or myself, I will come. I will come with ships; and I will come in force. I only hoped he would understand from my words that 'twas La Serenissima I meant him to assail, and not the Illyrians. Well and so; I had written as plainly as I dared, under the circumstances. The wax having cooled, I slid the letter into an oilskin pouch and gave it to Nikanor, who accepted it with great ceremony, tying it to his belt.
    It was not yet noon when the ship set sail. I went, because I could not bear not to see it, and because it was a grand occasion in the village of Dobrek. An old priest hobbled down to the harbor, offering prayers in Illyrian, libations of wine and-to my squeamish dismay-a rooster. Bindhus, they prayed to, who is Lord of the Seas, and Yarovit, who is their Sacred Warrior; I had not known, until then, that the Illyrians had aught but nature-spirits and ghosts and curse-creatures in their pantheon, but they do.
    Kazan Atrabiades gave the call to hoist anchor from the shore and Nikanor echoed it aboard the ship, drawing his sword and raising it to flash in the bright sunlight. The sailors set to at the oars, and the ship moved slowly away from the harbor; once in the middle of the bay, they scrambled to raise sail. It luffed and flapped and bellied full, and then they had caught it, angling steadily toward the hidden egress.
    And there, I thought, standing on the sun-warmed sands and watching the vessel dwindle in the distance, goes the hope of an entire nation, in the hands of a pack of unlettered Illyrian pirates intent only on booty.
    Still and all, 'twas done, and I could do no more. For the first time in days-weeks, mayhap months-the terrible burden of urgency was lifted, leaving me weak with relief. Now, when no one threatened me, I found myself shaking. Tears blurred my vision and I fought to keep from blinking, staring out at Nikanor's receding sails.
    "Ah, now, don't fear, my lady," Glaukos said kindly, seeing my distress. "They're good men to a lad, they'll be back before you know it, and 'twill all be resolved, you'll see." He patted my hand awkwardly, and I shook my head, wordless, tears streaming down my face. "Ah, now, now, don't cry, child ... do you want me to take you back to Kazan's house, eh?"
    "Yes, please," I whispered; I dared trust my voice no further.
    Elua be thanked, he did just that-for once started, my tears flowed unceasing. All that time in La Dolorosa, I had not wept. From the moment Benedicte had ordered the deaths of Remy and Fortun, despair had turned my heart to stone. Not until I saw Joscelin had the stone cracked and I begun to feel. But hope had been snatched away too soon, and despair returned as my familiar companion.
    And now hope, frail hope, undid me again, and hard on its heels came the great, rushing wave of grief I'd walled out for so long. Glaukos got me somehow to Kazan's house; I could scarce see by then, putting one foot before the other. I heard his voice murmuring to Marjopí as I lay on my bed, curled in a ball and wracked with silent, shuddering sobs.
    It is enough, I think, to say that I lived it all over again that day, the terrible, endless moment in Benedicte's hall, where I watched my chevaliers cut down out of hand, overwhelmed and brutally slain before my eyes. Remy, cursing, holding them all at bay for a few seconds, then going down like a hunted stag. And Fortun, coming so close, his reaching hand leaving a bloody trail on the