Kushiel's Dart

over the waters. "One night, I give you. When the sun stands overhead tomorrow, you will answer, or die."

SEVENTY-SEVEN
    Gildas led us to the tower, which spiraled skyward from its perch on a lower crag, down another series of broad marble steps at the far side of the temple, then along a wide, paved path.
    We followed silently, all of us lost in our own thoughts, the setting sun throwing our shadows black and elongated before us. It lit the tower like flame, drenching the grey walls with gold, shining unexpected on oriel windows of colored glass, rare and wondrous. The uppermost chamber of the tower was ringed all around with them, and two other tiers, staggered with the plain.
    A pretty sight; it would have surprised me, if my capacity for surprise wasn't flattened. We entered the reception hall, and found a neat company of servants turned out to await us, ordinary men and women-islefolk, I guessed them-clad in simple linens.
    "Thy shipmates are well-tended, thy horses stabled," Gildas said to us, and the stilted formality of his courtesies seemed sincere. "No harm will come to thee in this place. By thy leave, we offer the Master's hospitality. Warm baths, dry clothes, wine and supper."
    "And the rest of my folk?" Drustan asked when I had translated for him. "Does this ... this priest stand surety for their safety?"
    I asked in D'Angeline. Gildas bowed, grey robes swishing, remaining grey, unlike his Master's. "First Sister lies . . . thence," he said, pointing in a southerly direction. "Some three leagues. She is rich in kine and fowl and cider, and thy folk have been brought safe to her shore. Do thou no harm here, and they shall be well. On my head, I swear it."
    With that, Drustan had to be content, and Quintilius Rousse as well, whose sailors were with the Cruithne host.
    "Will the Master of the Straits dine with us?" I asked Gildas. He shook his head.
    "Nay, my lady. Each other's company, will you share."
    "You serve him." I eyed his robes, at odds with the simple clothing the patiently waiting servants wore. "Are you his priest?"
    He hesitated at that. " 'Tis true we fill the bronze bowl with seawater, Tilian and I; once at sunrise, once at sundown. And betimes we may speak as his voice, when it is needful. Thus are we privileged to serve. But we cannot break the geis who are born to the Three Sisters."
    I remembered the bronze bowl on its tripod, shallow, but vast. Twice a day, they must descend those interminable steps down to the sea, returning with it brimming; thrice, today, because of us. No wonder he'd not gotten winded. "The binding upon him, it may not be broken by one born to the isles?"
    Another pause, then Gildas inclined his head a fraction. "As thou sayest. Wilt honor us by accepting our hospitality?"
    "Yes," I said, since there seemed little point in declining; and, "Thank you," for he had handed me unwitting the key to the riddle; although he took it as thanks for the hospitality, as I meant him to do.
    So, I thought. That is that.
    How it fell out with the others, I cannot say, but I was led up the winding stair to a sumptuous chamber. Three house servants were my guides, a young woman, and two of middle age, quiet and demure. I do not suppose there was much gaiety involved in serving the Master of the Straits.
    The rooms were gorgeously appointed, and I, raised in the Night Court, do not say such things idly. The bed itself was a marvel, ebony posts carved in fantastic forms, the coverlet of velvet, tasseled in gold. The bath was of solid marble, and the ewers in which they carried heated water were silver.
    "From whence does this come?" I asked curiously, undoing my brooch and setting aside my salt-stained cloak. The youngest maid, undoing my stays, caught sight of my marque and suppressed a gasp.
    "From the bounty of the sea's floor," one of the older women murmured, pouring steaming water into the bath.
    Shipwrecks, I thought, shedding my clothes.
    They whispered in awe.
    I realized, then, what was different; peasant-stock, these islefolk, so one doesn't expect too much . . . D'Angeline, they spoke, but if the blood of Elua and his Companions flowed in their veins, it was nowhere evident in their features. No, they were purely mortal, earth-born and bred, with none of the odd outcroppings of gift or beauty that marked even the lowest-born of
    D'Angeline peasantry. Elua had loved shepherdesses and fishing-lads alike, he'd not scrupled at peerage, that was a human construct. But Elua and