Kushiel's Chosen

keep my demons at bay. For the worst of it was, despite everything, despite the manipulation and betrayal, imprisonment and abuse, near-drowning and living as a hostage, despite all the horrors of the thetalos and the terrible knowledge it had given me, ah, Elua, despite it all, I longed for her still. I could not help it, any more than I could erase the prick of Kushiel's Dart from my eye, and the more I struggled against it in the shuddering depths of my soul, the more I yearned in my heart for Joscelin's presence. As gloriously, splendidly, intractably single-minded as he was, loving him was like grasping a knife, a clean white blaze of pain that kept me anchored to myself.
    Cassiel's dagger, with which Elua made reply to the messengers of the One God; Cassiel's Servant, touchstone of my dart-riven heart. Pondering such mysteries, I fell at last into a fretful sleep and awoke at dawn to the beginning of the endgame.

SIXTY-SEVEN
    Morning broke chill and misty; the tribute ship was fog-wraithed in the harbor. I stood shivering on the wharf as the great trunk was loaded, and supplies for our journey. Zabèla had made me a gift of a heavy woolen cloak, dark-brown and hooded, and I set aside the Kore's blue mantle in its favor. It closed with a silver brooch, shaped like the falcon of Epidauro.
    The self-same shape adorned the garb in which Kazan Atrabiades and six of his men were attired, rendered bold in black against their new crimson surcoats, which they wore over light mail. I knew all six by name; they were the young ones, the daring ones, who had come to sit at Glaukos' lessons and teach me Illyrian: Epafras, Volos, Oltukh, shy Ushak with the jug-ears, and the brothers Stajeo and Tormos, still competing. Tormos would go, for he had secured rank as Kazan's second-in-command, and his brother would not let him go alone.
    Missing was Lukin, whose quick smile had reminded me of Hyacinthe; he was gone, slain by Serenissimans. I tried not to think on it. Others had come to see us off, gathering in the misty dawn. One was Glaukos, who took me into his embrace, eyes damp with tears.
    "Ah, now, my lady," he whispered. "I'd go with you if I dared, but this is a young man's task. I'd only slow you down, I fear."
    "I'd order Kazan to put you ashore if you even thought to try it, Glaukos." Remembering his many kindnesses, my own eyes feared, and I sniffled indecorously. "Go home to Dobrek, and your pretty wife, and if you think of me, say a prayer to whatever god will hear you."
    He laid his hands on my shoulders. "You've shown me wonders, you have, such as even an old Tiberium slave might believe, and you've made Kazan Atrabiades a nobleman despite himself. I'll not forget you soon, child."
    "Thank you." I hugged him swiftly, kissing his grizzled cheek. "Thank you for everything."
    And then it was time to board the ship under the command of Pjètri Kolcei, the Ban's middle son, who would oversee the tribute mission. He was young, only a few years older than me, with the air of a seasoned warrior. After seeing us all aboard, he made a formal farewell to his parents, who sat mounted alongside the wharf amid a cordon of the Ban's Guard. Crossing the gangplank, he gave the order to cast off.
    It was strange, after so long on Kazan's pirate ship, to be aboard a proper vessel with square sails, broad decks and bunks in the hold. I stood gripping the railing as the ship moved slowly away from the shore and gazed back at the harbor. The Ban and his wife sat on their horses unmoving, watching us go as the early morning sun slanted through the mist.
    "Your mother did not come?" I said to Kazan, finding him beside me.
    "No." He shook his head. Droplets of moisture clung to his hair like gems. "I said good-bye at our house, I. My old boyhood home, eh?" he said, answering me in Caerdicci out of habit. "She says to me, she; Kazan, come home soon, come home twice a hero."
    "Blessed Elua grant it may be so," I murmured.
    Once we had cleared the harbor, Pjètri Kolcei gave the order to hoist sail and we were away, moving steadily and surely across the surging blue sea. Some twenty sailors manned the ship, neat-handed and competent. The Ban's hand-picked embassy numbered twenty as well, under Pjètri's leadership; and seven of those were Kazan and his men. When we were underway, the Ban's middle son made his way across the deck to join us.
    Pjètri had his father's dark complexion, but the broad, slanting cheekbones and grey-blue eyes of his