Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [157]
And they did. Oh, they did.
I went obediently, stumbling and numb. It is a long journey. They placed a hood of rough-spun material over my head and took me by ship the full length of the broad lagoon, making landfall at the far southern end. Once we were on dry land, they plucked the hood from my head; I did not care either way, having welcomed the oblivion of darkness.
Here the mainland had been left untended and wild. There were servants with horses waiting; Benedicte's guards helped me to mount, avoiding my eyes. Someone else led my gelding as we wended along the coastline, a narrow and forested trail.
Melisande, I thought, over and over again. Melisande.
Prince Benedicte's bride.
Through the trees, I glimpsed it: The black isle. It reared up, craggy and defiant in the gloaming, separated from theshore by an expanse of churning water. Between La Dolorosa and the mainland, only the swaying bridge, a vast length of crude planks and rope, hung suspended in midair.
There was a watchtower on the mainland, sparsely manned. My guards were halted and questioned; there was a sign, a countersign. They gave it in assured tones, and I saw from the uppermost window of the watchtower a cunningly wrought signal of torches and a mirror, flashing approval to the island. From the hulking mass of the fortress, looming atop the seaside cliff, flashed an answering response, cutting through the falling dusk.
We dismounted, and two of the guards took my arms, leading me onto the bridge. I went unprotesting.
I daresay it would have terrified me, had I not been beyond the reach of fear. With the full use of their arms my guards held me lightly, clinging to the hempen guidelines with their outer hands. I walked between them, manacled and untouchable, while open air gaped between the swaying planks and far, far below, the angry sea boiled and surged. Let it have me, I thought, what did I care? I had failed. My lord Delaunay had seen fit to train us with a tumbler's skills—I have used them, once or twice in my lifetime. Let is not be said that I shamed him in the end, at least. I walked steady and graceful on that dreadful bridge, going toward my doom as if it were my final patron.
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 ofthe 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