Kushiel's Chosen

supposed to rest. Go speak to Tormos and the others; they're waiting to hear news of you."
    "I am in your debt, now." He sat on the edge of my bed and looked serious, speaking in Illyrian. "I would not have survived it without you, Phèdre. When I would not leave, you held onto my hand and spoke to me, telling me you would not leave me, that you would stay and we would endure it together and live to greet the day."
    "I did?" I stared wearily at him; I had no recollection of having said such things.
    "You did." Unexpectedly, he grinned again, showing the gap in his teeth. "And I followed the thread of your voice like Theseú in the labyrinth! Only ...," he sobered, "... only the Kore opened the door for me at the end, and you were left in darkness. Why, I do not know."
    "I do," I said softly. "Kazan, I was trespassing there."
    "Maybe." He thought about it and shuddered. "Still, I would have died."
    "You didn't. And I didn't. Now go and talk to your men." I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the pillows. Through the veils of approaching sleep, I could hear Kazan threatening the initiate with vile consequences if any harm came to me, and her indignant insistence that he leave. Neither one understood a word the other was saying, which would have made me smile, if I could, but I was too far away, and presently I heard no more.
    All that day and through the night I slept, waking to the light of a new day. The world seemed bright in my eyes, new-washed and clean, all the colors more vivid than I remembered them. Though I was as weak still as a day-old kitten, I felt peaceful and calm. Not long after I had broken my fast, a second initiate came-for I had been watched and tended in shifts while I slept-bearing a summons to see the Kore.
    New clothing had been laid out for me, rather finer than before; a gown of saffron with a crimson mantle. I took my care with dressing, settling the mantle about my shoulders, and went to answer Pasiphae's summons.
    She received me in the throne room, waving me to a stool when I would have knelt. "Sit." Once I had done so, she regarded me for a moment without speaking. "I do not know what to make of you, Phèdre nó Delaunay. I have consulted the records, and they do not speak of such a thing, that one should profane the mystery of the thetalos and emerge intact. No auguries speak; the house snakes take their milk and bask content; Mother Dia is not wroth, and Zagreus is silent. And yet I think you have not escaped unscathed."
    "No," I said. "I would not say so."
    "Tell me what transpired."
    I told her willingly enough, speaking from the small, still core at my center. When I had done, she nodded gravely. "Yes. That is the nature of it, to confront the worst of one's inner self unveiled. It grieves me that I cannot absolve you of these things, and yet..." She shook her head. "The gods keep their silence. It may not be. What you have seen, you carry with you."
    "I know," I said softly. "I understand, my lady; truly, I do."
    Pasiphae looked at me with compassion. "Understand this, then. It is the darkest truth that is revealed in the cavern of the thetalos; the truths we seek to hide from ourselves. That does not mean it is the whole truth, Phèdre."
    "No." I considered my answer. "I know that, too. My lady, I saw things in that cavern I would undo, if I could; acts of pride and selfishness I shudder to think on. But others ... who can say? Many have died for my choices; many have not. The Goddess looks out from the past and counts the dead, but she does not number our living."
    "Oh ..." Pasiphae's lips curved in a faint smile, "... she does, you may be sure of it. But that tally is never given to us to know. Still and all, it is clear to me that some god's hand is on you in this matter, and I will not intervene, nor gainsay what is done. When you are able to travel, I will give you the aid I promised-a letter of conduct to the Archon of Phaistos, and conveyance to the city. It is only an hour's ride."
    "To the wide harbor and the company of men," I mused aloud. "Thank you, my lady Kore."
    "It is nothing." Her thoughtful gaze rested on me. "Kazan Atrabiades has made a dedication-offering of gold, as is fitting, and Oeneus has seen to it that his ship has been rendered seaworthy. But you ... you have brought a mystery for me to ponder, and that is worth more than gold. I am grateful for it, Phèdre nó Delaunay. It does not always come to pass during the lifetime of those who serve as the