Kushiel's Chosen

blotting out the rain, a hinged jaw lowering and extending.
    May the kríavbhog swallow my soul if I lie ...
    Half-blinded by tears and lashing rain, I struggled across the pitching deck to the stern of the ship; an oar broken loose of its lock nearly knocked me overboard, before I made it. I clung to the mizzenmast, sodden hair plastered across my cheek by the wind, scarce able to hear my own voice shouting above the din. "Turn back, name of Elua, turn back! Can't you see it's killing him!" In the sudden glare of lightning, I saw the steersman staring at me open-mouthed, eyes showing the whites all around, and I realized I'd been shouting in D'Angeline. Groping for the Illyrian words, I drew a deep breath and loosed it with all my might. "Turn back!"
    A sharp, double-clap of thunder echoed my words. With terror writ on his face, the steersman yanked hard on the rudder-bar, and the ship heeled, her prow swinging to the south and her sail coming around with a vengeance. Men cried out, staggering, grabbing for support; two I saw were lost, thrown overboard at the sharp turn. I had time only to spare a fleeting prayer that they might yet swim to safe harbor, and then the northerly wind bore down upon us and our sails snapped taut and we were running, running before the wind.
    I sank to my knees at the base of the mizzenmast and wept.
    Would we have reached Epidauro that day if I had not spoken? I cannot say. I chose in the space of a heartbeat, and once the decision was made and the deed done, it could not be undone. And yet, if I had it to make again, I would choose the same, though the throne of Terre d'Ange hung in the balance. Too many have died, who aided me. In that terrible, storm-ridden moment, I could not knowingly choose to condemn Kazan Atrabiades to his death. I never understood, until then, how Joscelin could have chosen to remain at my side in Skaldia, when he had a chance to escape and warn the nation of Selig's plan. I understand it better now.
    So it was that we fled before the storm, and that journey is grim beyond telling. I did not think any mere force of nature could be more dire than the wrath of the Master of the Straits. I was wrong. That craft and crew survived is a testament to the skill of the Illyrian sailors; never again will I smile to hear one boast of his seamanship. Night and day, the wind howled at our backs, harrowing us ever southward. More than once, I thought our ship would surely crack in two as it plunged into a trough; more than once, I thought we would capsize when a towering wall of green water broke like thunder over the ship, setting the decks awash. Half our stores were spoiled by salt water, and one precious cask of fresh water was cracked and leaking. Glaukos could do naught for the wounded but pray.
    As for Kazan, he was like a man caught in a waking dream, open-eyed and insensible. It was all I could do to keep him in the forecastle out of the way, while his sailors fought for our survival. He would look at me when I spoke to him with no sign of understanding.
    There was no question of pursuit by the Serenissiman war-galleys. Even if they had had the will to follow, they could not have; no oarsmen could have outlasted that gale. Sodden and bone-weary, I could do naught but wonder and pray, hoping that they had turned back rather than risk confrontation with the whole of the Epidauran navy.
    Pekhlo, Kazan's second-in-command aboard the ship, was one of the men I'd seen thrown overboard when we fled. With Kazan useless, it was Tormos who took command, and he found steel in his soul on that fateful day, for as grim as it got, he never faltered. It was his decision to ride out the crest of the storm, although I daresay if he'd known how long it would last or how far it would drive us, he might have tried to make landfall. But once we had turned, we never had a chance; the winds chivvied us away from the coastline and into the raging seas. Three times he sought to make for land; three times, the storm blew us back.
    How long did it last? Six days, mayhap seven. I lost count. Of our position on the face of the earth, I had no notion. I am no navigator, to reckon my place by the stars; even if I were, there were no stars to be seen during that terrible flight. Only waves and more waves, and the vast, wrath-filled skies, until at last the storm blew itself out and subsided into meekness, leaving us dazed and exhausted, clinging to our half-crippled ship floating on the bosom of