Kushiel's Chosen

choice.
    The ceremony of investiture was about to begin.

SEVENTY-FOUR
    As most ceremonies do, this one began with an invocation.
    Raising both hands to the effigy of Asherat-of-the-Sea, the Priestess of the Crown uttered a prayer beseeching the goddess to lend her blessing to this day's proceedings, while her Elect came forward with offerings; gleaming ceremonial vessels, gilded baskets of fruits and grains, brown eggs in a silver bowl, a jewel-bedecked wine chalice, all of which were set upon the altar.
    I was glad there was to be no blood sacrifice.
    A difficult thing, to choose the perfect moment. I considered seizing upon the Priestess of the Crown's invocation, which would have been apt; and yet. It lacked drama. Better it should come at the crux of the matter, when those assembled already watched with bated breath. I wished I could see their faces rather than the backs of their heads. Once the invocation and the offerings were given, the Priestess of the Crown and the Elect turned toward the crowd, but 'twas not their expressions I wished to see.
    In the litany that followed, the Priestess of the Crown cited the ancient history of La Serenissima and the role of the Doge within it, enumerating his duties, which were given voice in a call-and-response style by the six Elect. It was a pleasant enough ceremony, if one were not watching it from a hiding place, aquiver with tension. I strained my ears to listen to the noise of the crowd in the Campo Grande, faintly audible at times. It had not reached a breaking point.
    No, I thought; nor will it, not until Marco Stregazza wears the Dogal Seal upon his finger. He'll take no risk of having his investiture disrupted. It must be a done thing, before chaos is loosed. Even from above, I could read as much from his posture, at once relaxed and eager. I wondered if Allegra Stregazza had gotten my message, and if her husband Ricciardo had responded by rallying the Scholae.
    It went on for a considerable time, this ceremony, until my attention nearly began to wander. I caught myself, worrying; if I were distracted, how much more so were Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, and Kazan and his Illyrians hidden behind the door, who were not trained to attend on tedium? And then the Priestess of the Crown addressed herself to the Doge-elect, and my focus sharpened.
    "Marco Plautius Stregazza," she intoned, giving him his full name. "You have heard here enumerated the sacred charges given unto he who would give himself unto the hand of Asherat-of-the-Sea and take up the throne of the Doge of La Serenissima. By the will of the people, the vote of the Consiglio Maggiore and the consent of the Temple of Asherat, you have been so appointed. Is it your will to make this vow?"
    "It is," Marco Stregazza said firmly, stepping forward.
    "Do you swear on pain of death to execute these charges faithfully?"
    "I do."
    She bound him, then, in a long and complicated oath which I failed to commit to memory and which Marco repeated letter-perfect, and then summoned him to the altar to anoint his brow with chrism, which I watched in an agony of indecision. Should it be now? It must be done before the sacrament was complete.
    "Your Grace," the Priestess of the Crown said to Cesare Stregazza, not quite inclining her head. "Before Asherat-of-the-Sea, the appointed hour has come. It is time for the Dogal Seal to pass to another." I watched his crimson-capped head bow in defeat, his crabbed hands rise from the arms of the chair as his trembling fingers rumbled at the massive gold seal.
    Now. Yes.
    The moment was now.
    Easing backward, I rose to my knees, the very breath shivering in my lungs, rehearsing the Caerdicci words, the pitch and intonation, in my mind. Asherat, I thought, glancing at the image of the goddess, for this you saved me; lend me now your aid. Elua's child I am, Kushiel's Chosen and Naamah's Servant, but you plucked me from the depths of the sea and raised me upon your bosom that I might be here today. If it is your will, then use me now!
    In memory I heard once more the mourning, maddening dirge of the winds of La Dolorosa, the sound I had endured through countless days, numberless black nights in my tiny cell, the grieving of a goddess bereft. Loss, endless loss; Asherat's grief for her slain son Eshmun commingling with my own. Joscelin's face by wavering flames, despairing; a torch, falling like a star. Kazan's brother, dying at the end of Kazan's sword. The cavern of the Temenos, the