Kushiel's Chosen (51 page)

Nearly.

And the deeper game she played? I didn't know. By the • end of my day of grace, I was no wiser. I stared out the window, brooding, while the rays of the setting sun bloodied the waters. I wished that Hyacinthe were here with me now, to speak the
dromonde
for me. Not that he would; he never would, for me. Out of fear, at first. His mother foretold that I would rue the day I learned the answer I sought, the riddle of Delaunay. She was right, for 'twas the day he died. Af terward, Hyacinthe said he could not see, for the path of my life held too many crossroads. Truly, I stood at a dire one now. still, I wished he were with me. My one true friend, I used to call him. Even Joscelin, bound by his vow, had not proved so true.

Only love had bound Hyacinthe and me.

And then he left me.

The worst of it ... I did not like to think.

I thanked Tito as he took my tray, closing the door behind him. It was hard to make out shapes by now. I fumbled my way to my drinking bucket, rationing the water I consumed to save a little for washing my face. The hair at the back of my head was stiff with matted blood, but I didn't have enough water to cleanse it. I dampened my fingers enough to part it, touching the wound gingerly. It had clotted over cleanly, I thought, beginning to heal. More of Kushiel's questionable mercy, keeping me hale to endure fresh tor ments.

Mayhap I never would, until I died.

I do not think I lack for courage, although admittedly, it is my own kind. I am no warrior, to face naked steel on the battlefield, but it is true, what I considered earlier; I have faced dire fates before. If I feared, if I prayed and pleaded it might be otherwise, still, I went. Into the Skaldic winter, into the teeth of the Straits, into the hands of Waldemar Selig. I was not a coward.

But this fate I could not face.

I had chosen.

It was better than this.

When I was done, I felt at peace for the first time since I had beheld Melisande, and despite the maddening wail of Asherat's grief, despite the cries and howls of the other pris oners riding the night winds, I laid my head down on my pallet and slept soundly.

It was the sound of shouting that awakened me.

I came awake in an instant, heart pounding, gathering myself to crouch on my pallet. No wind or sea, this, nor prisoner's madness; no. The sound echoed in my memory, recalling others like it. Men, shouting; reports and urgent orders. I'd heard it last in Southfort, among the Unforgiven, when Captain Tarren d'Eltoine sent riders north to seek out the guardsmen of Troyes-le-Mont. It was the sound of a garrison, only a garrison roused. A torch flame streaked the darkness outside my narrow window, a voice called out in Caerdicci.

And through the heavy door of my cell, I heard quick footsteps in the corridor, the sound of keys jangling, doors opened and slammed.

"Please." I didn't have to feign a tremor in my voice. "If you'll only tell me, I'll... I'll let you, I swear it. I won't say a word."

Fear and obedience were strongly ingrained in him; even then, he paused before taking two swift steps into my cell, closing the door and setting down the lantern. Lit from below, his face was eerily shadowed. "Let me see, then," Fa bron said hoarsely. "Make it fast."

Holding his gaze, I slid the overlarge woolen gown from my left shoulder. The neckline dipped low, laying bare one breast. He made a guttural sound and stepped forward, reaching for me.

It is not in my nature to be violent. I have killed one man, in self-defense, and I begged him not to force my hand. Harald the Beardless, he was called; a thane in Gunter's steading. He was kind to me, and gave me his cloak. But he rode out after me, for the honor of his steading, and would have slain Joscelin and dragged me back to Selig.

One does what one must.

Returning to Fabron's unconscious form, I fumbled beneath him and found the ring of keys on his belt. There was a bruise already visible on his temple, but his breathing was steady. I took the keys and the lantern. It took me several tries to find the right key for my cell; then I did, and the door opened onto the dark corridor.

I emerged, carefully locking the door behind me, and Fabron inside.

The corridor was silent and empty, the lantern casting wild shadows on the stone walls as it trembled in my unsteady hand.

Twelve doors of brass-bound oak, all locked in a row.

Empty.

Cursing softly under my breath, I fought with the jangling iron ring, seeking the key for the fifth door. At last I found it; it fit, the door opened.

I knew from the stench that this one was inhabited.

What I saw in that cell, I do not like to remember. A man's figure or somewhat like it, crouching at the wall be neath his window, scrabbling at the stones with long, curved nails. He turned toward the light with a whimper, throwing up one forearm to shield his eyes, showing his teeth in a grimace. His hair was greying, snarled and matted with long years' neglect. I took a step back from the doorway, holding the lantern high to illuminate my face and show I was no guard.

"I don't know," I said. Whatever he sought to ask, I had no answer. "All I can offer is a chance. Take it or not, and Blessed Elua keep you."

Swallowing hard against the horror of it, I hurried to the next cell and the next, fear and bile rising in my throat. I set them all free that night, my prison mates, Asherat's cap tive mourners. Nearly every cell was as bad as the first. Some I knew by sight. The Banger stood before his window, pounding his bruise-blackened forehead against the bars— that was the sound I'd heard for nights on end. The Pleader had been there the shortest time, next to me. He stood upright, blinking wide-eyed at the light. A youngish man, not thirty years old; his hair had grown only to his shoulders. "Please?" he asked tentatively. "I swear, 'twas not my dagger, I swear it, my lord! Only let me go, and I'll prove it, I'll bring you the man who did it. Please, my lord? Please?"

"You are free to choose," I murmured, sick, repeating my litany. Six times I had said it already; eight times before I was done. All along the corridor, the brass-bound cell doors stood open and ajar, dark, gaping mouths emitting the reek of ordure and foulness and the rhythmic surge of grieving sea, pierced with distant shouting. Somewhere, above, I could hear the sound of running steps.

But the corridor stood empty, save for me; and quiet. All their' voices had fallen silent.