Kushiel's Chosen (65 page)

It was bright morning when it happened, the sun dazzling silver on the water. I made my way to Tormos' side with exaggerated caution, unused to the bobbing steadiness of our craft. He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, weary beyond words.

"Tormos," I said. My voice cracked on his name; I had lost it shouting above the pounding sea. I cleared my throat, addressing him in Illyrian. "Where are we, do you know?"

Asherat-of-the-Sea, I thought, loved dolphins.

Tormos frowned, shoving sailors out of his way. He had understood the urgency, if not the words. We all jostled for position then, gazing across the waters while our torn sails flapped mildly in the calm breeze.

There, on the horizon, lay a smudge of darkness.

Land.

We cheered, and we wept, and we set our sails for land. The rudder-bar had snapped and the rudder itself split in two under the dreadful force we had endured; still, we limped over the surface of the water, and the island before us loomed larger and larger. No Dobrek, this isle; no, it was vaster, its size deceptively diminished by distance. The nearer we got, the larger it grew, and what had seemed hills at its center became mountains, forest-shrouded and gilded in the bright sunlight.

I saw Glaukos' face, the moment he recognized it. He drew a sharp breath, and awe came over his features. He was Tiberian by rearing and Illyrian by choice, but his blood was Hellene, and what he knew, he had learnt at his mother's knee.

I measured our course in my head and thought, it may be so. Pure south had we been driven, down the coast of Illyria, of mainland Hellas. Had we truly come so far, that we had reached the isle of the House of Minos? I remembered Delaunay's study, maps spread on the table, awash in late afternoon sunlight. In truth, mayhap we had.

Deep-blue water gave way to sapphire, and our breeze died entirely. Undeterred, Tormos ordered the Illyrians to oars, and they pulled to a ragged beat as he stamped out the rhythm. Faltering yet game, ragged sails flapping emptily, we slid through the waters, until they grew shallower and turned to aquamarine.

We had entered the horns of the harbor.

Light-headed as I was, it took me a moment to realize that the sound I heard was mightier than the oarsmen's beat, echoing across the water. There is no mistaking that beat, once one hears it. It is measured to the pace of the mortal heart and it is measured out in bronze, eldest tool of the earth that ever humankind shaped to serve its need. I did not see, until we were well and truly betwixt them, the caves that riddled the horns of the harbor, layer upon stony layer, rising above us.

Salt-stained and aching and unsteady on my legs, I waited with the others, standing on the beach and gazing at steps carved into the living rock, easing down toward the sea.

'Twould be a party of guards would meet us, I thought; one expects such a thing, landing uninvited in a foreign harbor. Instead, there came a single man, unarmed, escorted by a retinue of seven youths and seven maidens. He was of middle years, dark and bearded, with a diadem of ribbons bound around his curly hair, wearing rich robes encrusted two hand-spans deep with embroidery. One of the youths held a parasol above his head, and tasseled pearls hung from its spokes, glimmering in the sun.

"I am Kazan Atrabiades of Epidauro," he announced in Illyrian. "I come bearing blood-guilt for the death of my brother."

I glanced at Glaukos, who opened and closed his mouth helplessly, shocked speechless. "My lord Hierophant," I said in Hellene, pushing my damp, salt-stiffened hair back from my face and wracking my brain for the proper words. "I speak Illyrian, a little. So does this man, Glaukos of Tiber-ium," I added, nodding at him. "And my lord Atrabiades speaks Caerdicci, as well. We have had a dire journey, my lord, and it is a tale long in the telling. If you will offer us your hospitality, we can recompense you in gold."

'Twas true, too, for ragged though we were, we had in our hold half the remaining ransom; seven thousand five hundred D'Angeline ducats in gold. The Hierophant looked at me with his unblinking gaze, the way a hawk will, or a wolf, then turned to Kazan and addressed him in Caerdicci. His words came a bit more haltingly, but no less resonant. "You understand, then, where you have come?"

"Yes, son of Minos." Kazan bowed his head. "I under stand, I."

"Phaedra." The Hierophant drew out the word, tasting it in his mouth. "Ah. You bear..."

"... an ill-luck name," I finished for him wearily. "Yes, my lord, I know the history of your house, and the origins of my namesake. Well and so, Kazan Atrabiades has come for atonement; the rest of us are parched and hungry and tired to the bone, and there are wounded aboard the ship. Will you offer us your hospitality or no?"

My blood scalded my cheeks, and I bit my tongue on a tart reply. There was a hasty conference among the sailors as to what to do regarding the ship, and the Hierophant dispatched the maiden lole with instructions to bring the Illyrian-speaking Mezentius and a handful of fisherfolk from the village to aid in removing the injured men and hauling our damaged vessel ashore. I left Tormos and Glaukos in charge, with assurances that they would be lodged in the initiates' quarters and well tended to. For all his regained lucidity, Kazan showed no interest in the fate of his ship and crew.

Despairing, I gave up. The youth with the parasol glanced at me sidelong, still smiling.

So we came to the Palace of the Temenos, low and splendid by the sea, at the base of the inland mountains. It is one of the oldest palaces on the island, and one of the smallest, for all its brightly-colored splendor. A village nestled at its foot, tiny whitewashed buildings gleaming in the sun; it was thence that our escort of children ran, laughing and shouting.

The Palace itself was wholly unguarded, which seemed strange to me, for I had not yet taken the measure of the place. We passed beneath a broad gate with a crescent of horns mounted above it, and entered the Palace proper. 'Twas a different world within; winding arcades of the squat columns the Kritians dearly love, their rounded, tapering figures painted bright red and blue, with gilded capitals.