Some fifteen paces from the far end of the bridge, a pair of sentries carrying hand-axes barred the way to challenge us, blades poised over the ropes that anchored the bridge to pilings. I understood, then, why La Dolorosa need be but lightly garrisoned. Two strokes of their axes, and the bridge would be severed, sending us plunging into the roiling waters and the jagged rocks below. A sign, another countersign, different this time; my guards gave it in gasping voices and the sentries stepped aside.
It had grown dark as we crossed the bridge. One of the sentries fetched a torch from the guard hut beside the bridge and led us up the steep, rocky path to the fortress. Waves boomed and roared as they struck the rocks at the base of the isle, receding with a sound like a moan. I thought I felt the very stone beneath my feet shiver.
The walls of the fortress were thick blocks of granite, windowless save for the towers. Inside, the sound of the angry sea was muffled. I stood in an unadorned room, attended by my guards while the warden was fetched, and stared blankly at the walls, wondering where the rock had been quarried and how they'd gotten it onto the isle. It is strange, what grief does to one's mind.
The warden appeared with a pair of prison guards in tow, wiping his mouth; they'd fetched him from the dinner table. He was Serenissiman, in his late forties, with a grim face. He startled a little at seeing me, recovering quickly. "This is the one?"
"It is," one of my guards affirmed. Lifting a cord from about his neck, he produced a key and unlocked the manacles clamped about my wrists, careful not to meet my gaze.
"Garment," the warden said briefly. The slighter of the two prison guards darted forward grinning, shoving a bundle of grey wool into my unprotesting arms. He was cock-eyed, rapid gaze sliding this way and that, and I wondered if he had all his wits. "Put it on," the warden said to me. "Everything else, you leave."
I stood for a moment, puzzled. The warden waited implacably.
He meant now.
Well, I thought, I am D'Angeline, and Naamah's Servant. They will do as they will to me in this place, but I will not cringe with shame for their satisfaction. I unclasped the Doge's great collar of pearls from about my neck, handing it coolly to the warden, then turned to the wall and began undoing the buttons of my gown. I stepped out of my court slippers and slid the gown from my shoulders. It slipped to the floor to pool around my ankles, folds of apricot silk stiff with gold brocade, leaving me bare.
"Elua!" one of Benedicte's guards muttered, swallowing audibly.
Ignoring him, I unfolded the grey woolen dress and drew it over my head, only then turning to face them. With great care, I removed the gold filigree earrings I wore and unfastened the net of gold mesh from my hair.
"Here." I placed them in the warden's hand. "That is everything."
"Good." He nodded curtly to the prison guards. "Take her to her cell."
FORTY-TWO
My cell was a stony chamber only seven paces square.
It held a pallet of straw ticking, a low wooden stool and two buckets; one containing water and one empty, serving as a chamber pot. The door, set in a shallow egress, was brass-bound oak. There was a narrow window high on the opposite wall, barred with iron.
I thought it a kindness at first.
The dungeon of La Dolorosa lies below the fortress, a scant dozen prison cells. We passed along a corridor, and I felt the vast weight of the fortress pressing on me from above, a tremendous sense of mass and confinement. Faint sounds were audible through some few of the oaken doors; scratching and weeping, and from one, a rhythmic, ceaseless wailing. I tried not to think about why. All the cells were aligned along the cliff side of the fortress and those narrow windows, set an inch or two above ground level, looked out onto the grieving sea.
Each one has a window; I know that, now. Air and light, I thought, catching a glimpse by lantern when the prison guards brought me. Then they left, taking the lantern and locking the heavy door, leaving me in unrelieved blackness.
And I heard the sound.
It was the one I'd heard outside, the crashing sea, the sucking moan as the waves withdrew, over and over again, relentless. And in the swirling winds, a remorseless wail of sorrow. Outside, it was formidable.
Inside, it was maddening. I knew, then, why there were no windows in the fortress save those necessary for defense. La Dolorosa, the isle of sorrows, wrought by Asherat's grief for her slain son. I knew why the sailors whistled, passing it. I knew why the prisoners wept and wailed, hearing it endlessly, day in and out.
Mortals are not meant to bear the mourning of deities.
Sight-blinded and sea-deafened, I knelt on the flagstone floor of my cell and groped my way toward the pallet. The woolen dress, too long, dragged behind me. Gaining the pallet, I curled into a ball, pressing my hands over my ears.
There I lay until the grey light of dawn seeped through the narrow window to find me, shuddering and sleepless.
So began the pattern of my time in La Dolorosa. By day, the sound was easier to bear. I could stand tiptoe on the wooden stool, clutching the bars and peering out the window to see that 'twas the sea, only the sea and wind that crashed and moaned so dolefully. By night, it took on the awful tone of endless, immortal grief that seemed to vibrate the very stone, penetrating my bones, forcing me to cover my ears and whimper until morning came.
Twice a day, a guard brought food, varying in quality and quantity alike. Sometimes it was nothing more than cold porridge or a mess of lentils; sometimes bread and hard sausage, and sometimes fish broth or a slab of mutton. Once, a plate of stewed greens. At first I did not eat, having resolved to die before I went mad in that place. If I could do naught else, at least I could do that much, laying my death at Melisande's feet.
It gave me a certain grim satisfaction to contemplate as I grew weaker. Kushiel had made a poor choice of me, but his dart would have one last cast against this too-gifted scion of his line. Melisande might sit the throne of Terre d'Ange after all, but she would live out her days in fear of their end. No passage for her to the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond, land of Elua and his Companions, but ten thousand years of torment, if Kusheline lore held true. So I thought, until the warden came to my cell.
He brought with him the largest of the prison guards, a hulking Serenissiman who was simple-minded and obedient - Tito, he was called. They came inside, closing the door behind them. Tito carried a steaming bowl and I could smell fish broth above the noisome odor of the too-seldom-emptied chamber pot.
"Tito," the warden said flatly. "Hold her and clamp her nose."
With a look that might have been sympathetic on his broad, homely face, the giant set down his bowl and knelt beside my pallet, from which I was too weak to rise. The warden dragged the stool over and sat down as Tito placed one massive hand on my chest and pinned me. With the other hand, he pinched my nostrils closed.
It went as one might expect, although I daresay I fought it harder than they anticipated. In the end, it was my body that betrayed me, gasping for air when I willed only death. The warden forced a tin ladle between my teeth, pouring broth into my mouth. Choking on it, I swallowed some, inhaling a good deal as well. Tito eased me to a sitting position as I coughed and gagged, a red haze swimming before my eyes and the blood beating in my ears so hard it drowned out the eternal wail of Asherat's sea, beating dire and hard, buffeting me like bronze-edged wings.
Well and so, I thought, hopelessly. It seems I am to live.
"My orders are to keep you alive." The warden's tone was as grey and obdurate as the fortress walls. He was well chosen for his job. "This will be done as many times as is needful, for as many days. Will you eat?"
"Yes," I said faintly.
The warden handed the bowl and ladle to Tito and departed. Cradling the bowl in one arm, the giant shifted me as carefully as a child with a new doll so I might sit propped against the wall. I coughed, my lungs burning from the broth I'd inhaled. He waited patiently until I was done, then held out the bowl in both hands.
It was the only kindness anyone had done me. "Thank you," I said gently, taking the bowl from him. In slow, painfill sips, I drank the remainder of the broth, giving back the empty bowl when I had finished.
I was young, and Kushiel's chosen; I regained strength quickly. As death receded from my grasp and the profound shock of horror and betrayal lessened, my wits began to function once more and I came slowly to acknowledge my situation.
If Tito was the best of the guards, despite his fearsome appearance, Malvio and Fabron were the worst. Malvio was the cock-eyed guard I had seen on my arrival, and he spoke seldom, but grinned all the while, his slippery gaze wandering all over me when it was his turn to bring food, waiting to ensure I ate. At first, he did nothing save look. On his third visit, he reached inside his breeches, fondling himself and grinning. And on the next, he loosened the drawstring of his breeches, drawing out his erect phallus, dark and engorged with blood, and showing it to me. I looked away as he stroked himself to a climax, knowing he was grinning. When he was done, he tucked himself away, waiting calmly for me to eat and hand him my empty plate.
And I did, fearing if the warden came again, it would be Malvio he brought.
Fabron, by contrast, spoke volumes, moving close enough so I could smell his breath as he told me in lewd detail exactly what and where and how he would do to me the many things that he thought about doing to me. While he was not particularly inventive, he never tired of describing the acts in which he would engage me.
"What would it be worth to you?" I asked him once, tilting my head back to gaze at him. "My freedom? For that, I would do all you ask, and more."
At that, he blustered, then turned pale and fled, grabbing my half-eaten supper tray.
If I were a heroine in a romantic epic, no doubt, it would have been different; I'd have lured him with flirtation and subtle half-promises, duping him into aiding me in escaping. Alas, in reality, not even lowly prison guards are stupid enough to risk certain discovery for the promise of lascivious pleasure. In truth, there was nothing alluring about my plight. It was high summer and the heat was oppressive, rendering the stench of an unemptied chamber pot nigh unbearable. The coarse woolen dress itched like fury and grew rank with sweat, dragging hem and trailing sleeves growing frayed and filthy. I took it off when I dared, scrambling to don it when I heard a key turn in the lock.
It stank, 1 stank and my cell stank. Nights brought utter blackness and reduced the world to the crash and moan of Asherat's awful grief. Days brought tedium and misery that made madness seem almost welcome.
Such was my existence.
It was some weeks later when Tito entered my cell with arms laden. I watched curiously as he set down a brimming bucket of fresh water and a bundle of cloth. Reaching into his pockets, he drew forth two hard-boiled eggs and an apple, a rare feast. "Eat," he said, handing them to me, and then, procuring somewhat from another pocket, "Wash."
It was a worn ball of soap, smelling harshly of lye, and I daresay I have never accepted a patron-gift with as much grateful reverence as I did that lint-stippled ball. Tito averted his head and picked up my chamber bucket with one hand, holding it carefully away from him as he left my cell.
Ignoring the food, I stripped off my loathsome dress and knelt on the floor before the bucket of water. The soap was gritty and produced little lather. It stung as I scrubbed myself assiduously. It felt wonderful. I washed even my hair when I had scrubbed every inch of skin, bending over the bucket to dunk my entire head. The water was none too clean by then, but I didn't care; 'twas cleaner than I. When I had done, I investigated the cloth bundle and found it was a clean dress, of the same crude-spun grey wool.
Tito returned with the chamber bucket well scoured, and another smaller bucket of fresh drinking water. I sat curled on my pallet and finished my apple, reveling in the luxury of being clean for the first time in weeks.
"Thank you," I said as he gathered up the discarded dress, the scrap of soap, the eggshells. "For all of this." To my surprise, he gave me a look of grave misgiving, shaking his massive head and departing.
It wasn't long until I learned why.
Wearing my clean dress, I was standing on the stool at the window, working one hand through the iron bars to toss crumbs from a heel of bread I'd saved to the gulls that skirled around the isle. All it took was one to discover it for half a dozen to descend, squalling and fighting with raucous cries on the ground outside my window, fierce beaks stabbing. It was somewhat unnerving, viewed at eye level, but it relieved my tedium and their squabbling drowned out the sound of the sea.
It also hid the sound of my door unlocking.
"Phèdre, what on earth are you doing?"
It was Melisande's voice, rich and amused, sounding for all the world as though she'd encountered me in the City or at court, and not imprisoned half-underground in a forsaken dungeon by her own decree. My heart gave a jolt. Pulse racing, I turned slowly to face her.
In the dim grey light of my cell, Melisande shone like a jewel. No veil concealed her features, her flawless ivory skin, generous mouth and her eyes, her eyes that were the deep blue of sapphires. Her hair hung loose as I remembered it, rippling in blue-black waves. Her beauty was dizzying.
"Feeding the gulls," I replied foolishly.
Melisande smiled. "And will you make one your especial pet, and train him to carry messages, warning Ysandre and saving the nation?"
I stayed where I was, standing on my stool, back to the window. Whether it looked ridiculous or no, it gave me the advantage of height and kept me as far from her as possible. "You have won," I said in an even tone. "Do me the courtesy of not mocking me further, my lady. What do you want?"
"To see you," Melisande said calmly. "To offer you a choice. You have seen, I think, what your future holds; squalor, boredom and madness. And that is the least of it. While I remain in La Serenissima, you are protected, Phèdre. The warden is ordered to see you come to no harm and his guards do not molest you. When I am gone..." she shrugged, "... it will be worse."