Kushiel's Chosen

in the process.
    How long I slept, I cannot say. I awoke, once, and heard nothing but the thrumming music, the distant buzz of cicadas. It reminded me of being a child in Delaunay's household, and waking in my bed to hear the murmur of conversation coming from the faraway courtyard when he entertained into the small hours of the night. Taking comfort in the memory, I wrapped my mantle around me against the night chill and slid back into sleep.
    It was the sound of my own blood beating that awoke me, a rustling sound, but near, not far; a soft, insistent tide that beat in my ears.
    I knew that sound.
    I opened my eyes to see the mountainside awash in a red haze, motionless Kritians, torches and all. With a sure sense of dread, I waited, but it was not Kushiel's voice that spoke.
    Instead there came a cry, a great, wordless cry of horror, emanating from the mouth of the cavern. A ripple ran through the Kritians, and somewhere above me, an initiate drew in her breath sharply. Then the Kore raised one hand in a gesture of forbidding, and they fell still. The cry sounded again, ragged with terror; and again, and again.
    Blessed Elua, I thought, is there to be no end to it! Tears stung my eyes, and I bit my lip to keep silent. I had heard cries like this before, in the endless nights of La Dolorosa, where the grieving sea-surge stripped away prisoners' sanity bit by bit. And I had seen, too, the results of that torment, the pitiable, half-human wretches I had released from confinement.
    I could not live through it again.
    Moving silently, I wrapped my dark mantle more tightly around me, drawing a fold over my head to shadow my face. I had been sorry to be at the end of the procession as we mounted the trail, but now I welcomed the luck that had placed me on the very outskirts of those gathered, for it enabled me to slip back into the darkness and circle around the watchers' perimeter.
    It was not so easy as it sounds, for I needs must move silently in complete darkness, over treacherous and unfamiliar terrain. With grim determination, I timed my movements in accordance with Kazan's hoarse cries, working my way toward the mouth of the cavern. All the while, I wrestled with my conscience over the fitness of my actions. I trusted Pasiphae instinctively, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was power in this place, and she was rightfully invested in that power in her role as the Kore. But even so, there had been power in La Dolorosa, the awful power of Asherat's immortal grief, and it was human error that made it a place of horror.
    The Kritians tell a different tale of my namesake's end; who is to say which is true?
    For what had Kushiel compelled me if not for this?
    I had no answers, save the one I had given Pasiphae earlier; I was D'Angeline, and could only follow the allegiance of my mortal heart. My actions had brought Kazan to this place. I could not bear to stand idly by and listen while it drove him mad.
    There was a narrow gap that led to the left-hand side of the cavern's mouth. The Hierophant stood before it, some five paces forward. From the darkness outside the uneven ring of torchlight, I sat on my heels and surveyed my course. If I could get there, I could pass behind him easily enough, but there were two initiates between us, and no safe way of passing them.
    Kushiel, I prayed silently, I have gone where you bid me, and never refused you. If it is truly your will that I do this thing, lend me your aid.
    No answer but silence; and then Kazan cried out again, naked fear in his voice. A sudden breeze sprang up from the sea, and the nearest initiate's torch guttered out. The other picked his way cautiously to his side, and they turned their backs for a moment, huddling against the wind to ignite the extinguished torch.
    Well, I thought; that's clear enough.
    I slipped like a shadow past the initiates, behind the Hierophant's unmoving figure, and into the mouth of the cavern beyond the range of torchlight.
    It was black inside the cavern, lightless, impenetrable black, and once inside, I realized it was deeper than I had guessed. Kazan gave another fearful cry, the sound coming from beyond and a bit below, for the cavern floor slanted.
    I put out both hands before me and moved blindly toward the sound. I could hear his breathing, now, hoarse and ragged, stirring echoes in the blackness.
    Was it too late, even now? It might as well be, I thought, despairing. How many others lay slain or destroyed in my