"Escaping prisoners, near the sea." He gazed up at the night sky, scudding clouds veiling the stars. "I did not think, when you told me. I thought, then, a riot in the harbor, maybe, such as may sweep bystanders into its path. But I think you were one of the prisoners, yes? There is only one Serenissiman prison I know on the sea, where the currents run strange and deadly. It is a place all sailors know, a place to avoid." He glanced back at me. "No one has ever escaped from the black isle. Who are you, to do such a thing?"

"I had help, my lord." There was no point in denying it. "A rescuer."

Kazan stirred. "Then there is a force in Serenissima, loyal to you?"

"No." I shook my head. "It was my companion, Joscelin."

He looked at me without speaking for a moment. "One man?" he asked eventually. "One man assailed the black isle on your behalf?" I nodded. Kazan gave a short laugh. "Then he is mad, I think, or too much in love with you."

"No." I rubbed my eyes, itching with tiredness. "I don't know. A little of both, maybe."

"You look different when you speak of him."

I made no reply. There was too much to say, and too little, and the thought of Joscelin was more than I could bear. In the absence of words, beyond the sound of waves and creaking rigging, came the distant sound of a drumbeat, steady and relentless.

Somewhere behind us across the dark seas, the Serenissiman war-galleys pursued, chasing our faint, flitting lights.

Kazan gazed across the waters. "So it will be Epidauro, then," he said softly. "Just know ..." He switched to Caerdicci, the language we had always shared between us. "... I didn't think they would kill you, eh? Remember me kindly, you." He touched my hair, and gave me a faint smile. "Marjopf was right, yes? Bad luck, after all. But I will think of you, when I die. It would please Daroslav, that I knew one such as you, before the end."

For that, too, I had no words; I watched him go, consulting with his men, lending a word here or there, giving them hope.

A roiling dawn broke in the east, purple clouds shot through with ragged streaks of orange, beating the waves into bronze. The winds picked up, errant and fitful, gusts from the north driving us sideways and setting peaks of white foam atop the wave crests. Our pursuers were behind us still, and if they began at last to flag, so too did our progress slow.

A half a league behind us, no more, did they follow. If the winds had favored us, we might have done it; Kazan's ships could have scattered in one of the many archipelagos, disappearing in minutes. It had ever been their plan for evading pursuit, and a successful one; but the pursuit had never been so well-planned, so dogged. In the past, Kazan Atrabiades had struck as an opportunist. This time, the opportunity had been Marco Stregazza's, and he had taken it to its fullest.

We made for Epidauro.

Kazan spoke briefly to his crew. "You know what we face, all of you, behind and before. Let my mother's curse claim me then; 'tis long enough overdue. If the Ban may profit from it, 'tis worthwhile in the end. Pekhlo, tell Ni-kanor I bequeath command to him when I am dead. I ask only that he leave the house to Marjopí, and see that she is given a proper loom, an upright loom like the D'Angelines use." He raised his voice, shouting the order. "All sails out for Epidauro!"

They did not cheer, then, but merely obeyed. I made my way to Glaukos' side, to see if I could be of assistance to him. He was working in the dark hold, where the injured had been secured, and his normally cheerful face was set and lined.

"All the gods be thanked," he muttered, "that he's set aside his damned superstition long enough to save our hides. Did you talk him into it, my lady?"

"A little." I caught his satchel as it threatened to overturn as the ship lurched sharply. "He thinks he's going to die, Glaukos."

"I know." He steadied himself against the inner wall of the ship, then bent over to check a dressing, sniffing to see if the wound had gone bad. The sailor, half-conscious, murmured in pain.

"Do you believe it?"

"Ah, now ..." Glaukos glanced at me. "I don't know, my lady. Do you ask me do I think the kríavbhog will take him, well, no, I think no such thing. Tis Illyrian superstition, that, and naught else; tales to frighten children. But when a man sets himself to die, I have seen it, how his spirit may go out like a blown candle flame. Kazan, he's more life in him than any ten men. But still... I don't know."

At that, the ship heeled sharply again, rendering talk a wasted effort. I helped him as best I could, and when I could do no more, I went back above deck. The morning's clouds had thickened, and rainsqualls threatened here and there, moving across the surface of the sea as if of their own volition. The Serenissiman galleys had drawn closer.

And ahead of us lay Epidauro.

FIFTY-SEVEN

i he city of Epidauro has stood for a long time, as Illyrians reckon history; always it has been populated, although it was the Tiberians who build the first fortifications there. Once an island, it is linked to the mainland by the causeway, and defended on three sides by water and sturdy walls all around.

We bore down upon it like so many leaves driven hither and thither before the wind, Kazan's sailors scrambling frantically with each new tack. And all the while behind us came the relentless drumbeat, the banked oars of the Serenissiman war-galleys churning double lines of foam.

There can be no doubt that our approach was spotted by the harbor ward-towers, for the response was swift. At such a distance that they resembled child's toys, we saw them; ships of the Illyrian navy, mustering in the harbor, their square sails dyed scarlet with the black insignia of the Ban's bird of prey on them.

Let them take us into custody, I thought; it matters naught, so long as we do not die at the hands of the Serenissimans. If this Ban of Illyria has half a wit to his name, he will hear me out and accept the promise of Ysandre's favor. I will plead clemency for Kazan and his men on behalf of Terre d'Ange; whatever they have done in the past, La Serenissima has no claim in this matter. Let the Serenissimans blockade the Caerdicci point as they will, there are other routes, though they may take longer. They cannot cover the whole of the Caerdicci coast. Surely, we may find a way to win through, and if I cannot reach Marsilikos, still I may intercept Ysandre in her progressus.

So I told myself, and fed the guttering spark of hope that remained to me, while the sullen sky muttered with thunder and the walls of Epidauro grew nearer.

The men grew heartened at the sight of the massing Illyrian naval force, offering cries of thanks and praise in voices that cracked with weariness. One of the ships caught a rare good gust of wind, coursing ahead with its triangular sail at a stiff angle; Nikanor's ship, I thought, and Someone cheered as they surged into the forefront. Behind us, the war-galleys faltered, commanders questioning the wisdom of pursuing their quarry into the arms of the sole undefeated seat of a vassal nation.

And in the prow of the ship stood Kazan Atrabiades, his face ghost-white.

My skin prickled all over with awful presentiment.

I had managed to forget, until then, the full truth of the waking vision I had seen aboard this ship; attributed it to fear and shadows, cast by a half-dreaming mind tainted by remembered blood-guilt. What had happened to Kazan's brother was a dreadful thing, and reason enough for nightmares. They had ceased, since I'd drawn the story out of him. And as for what I had seen myself, I had been more than half delirious, plucked from the sea after an ordeal that would have driven many a warrior to madness.

But I knew better.

Blessed Elua, I prayed, salt-spray stinging my eyes to tears, spare him! Please, please, let us come safe to land. Naamah, have a care for your Servant, who has served you well and faithfully! If he is a patron, let it be said he has not stinted the offering; men died that he might save my life. My lord Kushiel, ah! You have set your hand upon me and cast me forth; if you would not see me perish now, then offer me your protection. And I prayed, too, to Asherat-of-the-Sea, to whom I owed a debt of honor; my lady, if you would see it kept, bear this ship upon your bosom, and do not let it fail!

Though the clouds gathered overhead and spat rain upon us, though lightning flickered in the sky's dark underbelly, I felt my prayers heard, a waiting presence enfolded around me. Thus it may be, a voice spoke in my heart. But he is not ours.

Rain beat down in sheets, and the sailors cursed, grappling with lines whipping slick and wind-torn. A flash of lightning brightened the skies, and I saw all three of the other ships leaping ahead of us now, gaining entrance to the harbor, sails stark white against the leaden grey. And in the dark eye-blinding aftermath, a hoarse cry.

I did not see it until the lightning flashed again: Kazan, still standing, enwrapped in the coils of the kríavbhog. From ankles to chest its serpentine tail entwined him; its sinuous neck rose above his head, veined wings outspread and beating at the glowering air. Eyes glittered like rubies in its wedge-shaped head and the mouth opened in a hiss, triple-forked tongue flickering at his face. He fought hopelessly against it, sword-arm still free, making no dent in those preternatural scales.

What the others saw that day, I do not know; it is not a thing of which they will speak. I know what I saw. It is enough.

The northerly gusts of wind that had plagued us all day struck once more, slamming a rain-driven fist into the side of the ship. The sailors shouted with helpless rage and fought the pitching waves, fought the wind, fought the lines.

And Kazan Atrabiades fought the kríavbhog.

It was too much, too vast and strong, growing larger with each inch we struggled forward toward the harbor of Epidauro. I did not know, until I heard the rattle in my throat, that I was sobbing. Its head reared over him, blotting out the rain, a hinged jaw lowering and extending.

May the kríavbhog swallow my soul if I lie ...

Half-blinded by tears and lashing rain, I struggled across the pitching deck to the stern of the ship; an oar broken loose of its lock nearly knocked me overboard, before I made it. I clung to the mizzenmast, sodden hair plastered across my cheek by the wind, scarce able to hear my own voice shouting above the din. "Turn back, name of Elua, turn back! Can't you see it's killing him!" In the sudden glare of lightning, I saw the steersman staring at me open-mouthed, eyes showing the whites all around, and I realized I'd been shouting in D'Angeline. Groping for the Illyrian words, I drew a deep breath and loosed it with all my might. "Turn back!"

A sharp, double-clap of thunder echoed my words. With terror writ on his face, the steersman yanked hard on the rudder-bar, and the ship heeled, her prow swinging to the south and her sail coming around with a vengeance. Men cried out, staggering, grabbing for support; two I saw were lost, thrown overboard at the sharp turn. I had time only to spare a fleeting prayer that they might yet swim to safe harbor, and then the northerly wind bore down upon us and our sails snapped taut and we were running, running before the wind.

I sank to my knees at the base of the mizzenmast and wept.

Would we have reached Epidauro that day if I had not spoken? I cannot say. I chose in the space of a heartbeat, and once the decision was made and the deed done, it could not be undone. And yet, if I had it to make again, I would choose the same, though the throne of Terre d'Ange hung in the balance. Too many have died, who aided me. In that terrible, storm-ridden moment, I could not knowingly choose to condemn Kazan Atrabiades to his death. I never understood, until then, how Joscelin could have chosen to remain at my side in Skaldia, when he had a chance to escape and warn the nation of Selig's plan. I understand it better now.

So it was that we fled before the storm, and that journey is grim beyond telling. I did not think any mere force of nature could be more dire than the wrath of the Master of the Straits. I was wrong. That craft and crew survived is a testament to the skill of the Illyrian sailors; never again will I smile to hear one boast of his seamanship. Night and day, the wind howled at our backs, harrowing us ever southward. More than once, I thought our ship would surely crack in two as it plunged into a trough; more than once, I thought we would capsize when a towering wall of green water broke like thunder over the ship, setting the decks awash. Half our stores were spoiled by salt water, and one precious cask of fresh water was cracked and leaking. Glaukos could do naught for the wounded but pray.

As for Kazan, he was like a man caught in a waking dream, open-eyed and insensible. It was all I could do to keep him in the forecastle out of the way, while his sailors fought for our survival. He would look at me when I spoke to him with no sign of understanding.

There was no question of pursuit by the Serenissiman war-galleys. Even if they had had the will to follow, they could not have; no oarsmen could have outlasted that gale. Sodden and bone-weary, I could do naught but wonder and pray, hoping that they had turned back rather than risk confrontation with the whole of the Epidauran navy.

Pekhlo, Kazan's second-in-command aboard the ship, was one of the men I'd seen thrown overboard when we fled. With Kazan useless, it was Tormos who took command, and he found steel in his soul on that fateful day, for as grim as it got, he never faltered. It was his decision to ride out the crest of the storm, although I daresay if he'd known how long it would last or how far it would drive us, he might have tried to make landfall. But once we had turned, we never had a chance; the winds chivvied us away from the coastline and into the raging seas. Three times he sought to make for land; three times, the storm blew us back.

How long did it last? Six days, mayhap seven. I lost count. Of our position on the face of the earth, I had no notion. I am no navigator, to reckon my place by the stars; even if I were, there were no stars to be seen during that terrible flight. Only waves and more waves, and the vast, wrath-filled skies, until at last the storm blew itself out and subsided into meekness, leaving us dazed and exhausted, clinging to our half-crippled ship floating on the bosom of a gentle sea.