Kushiel's Chosen

when her shores were breached, the Kritians retreated to the mountains and fought with ferocity and cunning, luring Tiberian troops to their doom. So the island was never conquered, and when the Tiberian empire crumbled, the Kritians reclaimed their shores.
    We came at length to the gates of the Palace, and here the Archon's guards mounted a shrewder watch, Our driver conversed with the leader of the squadron, and I presented Pasiphae's letter. He examined the seal, sun glancing off the steel of his bowed helmet, then gave a courteous nod.
    "You are welcome, by order of the Kore of the Temenos.
    Please dismount from the oxcart, and I will send word to the Archon."
    Obeying, we waited, ushered within the gate. Our driver touched his own brow in farewell and set about turning the oxcart, making his slow way back through the city. I occupied my time in studying the Palace of Phaistos, which was far grander than that of the Temenos. It climbed the low hill in terraced layers, red-columned porticoes looking out at the city sloping down to the sea. Presently, a Palace attendant came to greet us, a distinguished Kritian of middle years, with a chain of office about his neck and a white tunic worked with embroidery at the edges. He bowed, addressing us in Hellene.
    "Phèdre nó Delaunay of Terre d'Ange, Kazan Atrabiades of Epidauro, I will conduct you and your men into the presence of the Archon."
    I translated briefly to Kazan and the Illyrians, and we followed the attendant across the courtyard and mounted the wide staircase, passing beneath a great alabaster archway to enter.
    It is a lively place, the Palace of Phaistos. We passed fine Kritian lords and ladies, travelling on foot and in servant-borne palanquins, bound to and from the city's market; they chattered amongst themselves, laughing and gesturing. They dress for the heat in Phaistos, and I saw Spiridon and Gavril stretch their eyes to see noblewomen in linen so fine it showed the contours of the bodies beneath, nothing so modest as Illyrian attire. It made me smile.
    The attendant led us to the Upper East Wing of the Palace, and paused outside a doorway. I could hear odd sounds coming from within, grunting and thudding. Kazan looked inquiringly at me and I shrugged. The attendant cleared his throat and knocked three times, then opened the door.
    It led not into a room but onto a small, open-air courtyard with a sandy floor. There was a well at the rear of the yard, and it was set about on all sides with benches and date palms in massive clay pots. Kritian nobles sat on the benches, attended by servants with parasols, eating and drinking and conversing while they watched a wrestling match. Some half a dozen other wrestlers stood watching, laying odds and wagers.
    We stood discreetly to one side and waited. I gazed at the seated nobles, trying to guess which one was the Archon while the match played out. The contestants were both naked and oiled, hair bound in clubs. One had the advantage of height and reach, but the smaller man was quick, slipping out of his hold time and again. The spectators oohed and aahed , exclaiming over each near throw and escape. Kazan stared, frowning in perplexity; the other two Illyrians looked uncomfortably at the scene. They will strip to swim, but not much else, and even that, not in the presence of women.
    In time, the wrestlers closed in a grapple, legs braced, hands locked on each other's upper arms. I watched their feet scuffle for purchase and advantage in the deep sand as each sought to unbalance the other. The smaller man feinted left, seeking to hook his opponent's ankle; but he was ready for it and threw a hip-check, using the leverage of his long arms to throw the other. Down went the smaller contestant, landing with a resonant thump. The audience sighed and the winner stepped back and bowed deeply; when the loser bounded to his feet grinning, they all applauded, and I realized he was the Archon.
    He came over to us as he was, mother-naked with the Seal of Minos strung on a cord about his neck, skin gleaming with oil save for a few patches of sand.
    "I am Demetrios Asterius," he said cheerfully, "the Archon of Phaistos. I hear that Pasiphae has sent you to me. Has anyone ever told you that your hair shines like stars caught in a net of the night sky?"
    I flushed, kneeling in the sun-warmed sand. "My lord Archon, pray accept my greeting. I am Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève, of Terre d'Ange."
    "Mother Dia, I