Kushiel's Chosen

and dry-eyed in the small hours of the night. Of his mother's pain, I could only begin to guess. Some little I learned in those moments, that she was a widow bereft of her beloved younger son, waking from the first madness of grief to realize her elder son was lost to her too, condemned by her own wrathful curse. When the tale of the Serenissiman war-galleys and Kazan's battle with the kríavbhog came to her ears, she thought him dead and wept anew, grieving thrice for the two sons born to her.
    Well, I thought, if I have done naught else, this at least is done and done well.
    "Lady Njësa," Czibor said gently to Kazan's mother, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm as a gesture of respect. "I beg of you, forgive me, but my orders are to conduct your son directly unto the Ban's presence."
    "Yes, of course." She smiled through her tears, grasping his arms one last time as if to assure herself of his solidity.
    "So tall, my son! I had forgotten how tall. Marjopí has cared well for you. Does she live, yet? Is she well? I would tell her, if I could, that I repent my harsh words."
    "You will tell her yourself, Mother, for she is well and hale in Dobrek, and I will send for her myself." Disengaging himself, Kazan bent to kiss her cheek. "Only I must see the Ban first," he added softly, "and there are debts I must honor before I set matters aright in our household."
    Czibor set his helm back on his head. "Come. The Zim Sokali is waiting."

SIXTY-SIX
    bokal Fortress sits at the heart of the city of Epidauro, steep-walled and massive, a structure built to be defended in a city walled for defense. Once, I daresay, it may have been a gracious haven for the Illyrian folk, with gates standing open and pennants fluttering from every peak. Now it had an air of grim defiance, proud and resolute, its walls stripped of adornment and gates bolted tight, cautiously opened at Czibor's password.
    One could see, from atop the lower terrace of the fortress, why Epidauro alone had not fallen to La Serenissima. An enormous gate flanked by towers defended the narrow causeway from the mainland, and all the rest was bordered by water. Even the mighty Serenissiman navy would be hard-pressed to find a weakness assaulting Epidauro from the sea, met all around with those faceless grey walls manned by the Ban's Guard with archers, trebuchets and ballistae.
    "Ah," Kazan sighed, gazing over the city. "Home!"
    I did not say what was in my mind; that the charming village of Dobrek was more pleasant by far. I saw with a stranger's eyes. To Illyrians bred and born, walled Epidauro housed the soul of the land, the clenched fist raised in defiance at the oppressor. This I saw most of all reflected in Kazan's hungry gaze, but I saw it too in the faces of the others, his island-born companions who had never seen a city before Phaistos.
    Well and so, I would not expect them to ache with longing for the gilded fields of Terre d'Ange, ancient olive groves and vineyards, and the lavender in bloom filling the air with fragrance. Even thinking on it made my heart contract painfully in my breast. If naught else, I knew what it was to be an exile. We shared that much.
    Once inside the fortress, Kazan's men were taken into the good-natured custody of the Ban's Guard, to be fed and housed.
    Only Kazan and I were conducted into the Ban's presence, and I felt nervous and ill at ease, conscious of my unwashed state and my salt-stained attire. For his part, Kazan was in confident high spirits, secure in his welcome.
    The Ban received us not in state, but in his study, a generous room strewn about with official papers and petitions. A small fire burned in the hearth, dispelling the autumn chill, and two elderly hounds dozed in front of it on a threadbare rug. Czibor stood at attention until the Ban looked at him.
    "Zim Sokali," he announced. "I bring you Kazan Atrabiades, once of Epidauro, and..." His voice trailed off helplessly; he had not bothered to learn my name.
    "Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d'Ange," the Ban said in a deep voice, his considering gaze resting upon me. He sat without moving in his chair by the fire. "Her name is known to me."
    He spoke Caerdicci. I knelt to him, bowing my head. "My lord, I speak Illyrian, if it please you," I said humbly. "I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you."
    "Yes." He spoke thoughtfully, the Ban; he was a thickset man of some fifty years, black hair and beard still untouched by grey. His features were