Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [255]
On the fourth day, the weather cleared and, by late afternoon, we passed La Dolorosa.
I went to stand at the railing and watch as soon as I heard the sighting called; the Wailing Rock, they call it in Illyrian. Pjètri Kolcei ordered the ship's captain to steer a wide berth around it. None of the Illyrians would even look in the direction of the black isle. Whistling tunelessly as the sailors aboard the Darielle had done, they stared fixedly ahead or eastward, fingering amulets and making warding gestures in the direction they dared not look.
I looked; I had to.
And there it stood, much the same, crags of black basalt rearing skyward, waves crashing at its foot. The fortress where I had been held captive was still nestled atop the isle, stony and silent. I could hear, now that I knew to listen for it, the mournful, maddening winds playing over the crags.
Not until we had almost passed it did I see that the bridge, the hempen bridge that spanned the deadly drop betwixt mainland and isle, hung loose and dangling against La Dolorosa's cliffs. It twisted in the wind, wooden planks being slowly battered to splinters by the rock. On the mainland, the watchtower maintained a hollow vigil. La Dolorosa was abandoned.
Someone had cut the bridge.
Joscelin, ï thought, my heart pounding madly in my breast.
"Phèdre." It was Kazan's voice. He touched my arm, breaking my reverie. "It is time."
SIXTY- EIGHT
In the hold of the Illyrian ship, lamplight played over the contents of the Ban's tribute-gift, glinting on masses of gold and amber. Two of Pjètri's men glanced at their leader for permission; he gave the nod to proceed. Working quickly, they emptied the trunk of its spoils, a heady pile of treasure. A layer of marten skins followed, soft, lustrous pelts mounded on the cabin floor.
The false bottom of the trunk lay bare.
Pjètri Kolcei knelt, drawing his dagger and working it alongside the seam. It was a tight fit; the Ban's carpenters had wrought well. Wiggling the blade, he pried upward. The false bottom gave way, raising a hairsbreadth. He reached under it, wedging his fingernails into a narrow groove and lifting with a grimace. It came, though, and he lifted the false bottom clean away from the tiny ridge that supported it.
It was a small space left betwixt the true bottom and the false. It was a very small space.
I gazed at it, drawing a deep breath. Solid and dark and heavy, the trunk was, carved of cypress wood and bound in silver. There were air holes, yes, bored into the centers of the elaborate floral pattern that adorned the base; holes so small no light pierced them. I had not reckoned, until then, how much I feared confinement in that space.
"There is no time, Lady Phèdre," the Ban's middle son said quietly. "The Spear of Bellonus has been sighted. We must make ready for arrival."
I nodded once and took another deep breath — it seemedI could not get enough air into my lungs—and glanced around at Kazan and his men, their faces all at once seeming very familiar and dear. And then, lest my nerve fail me, I climbed into the trunk and forced myself into that terribly, terribly small space, knees drawn tight into my belly, chin tucked, squeezed on all sides by the trunk's walls.
"Now," Pjètri ordered. "Do it quickly!"
Epafras and Oltukh set the false bottom back in place, and that was the last glimpse I had of light and life; their worried faces, quickly obliterated by a solid width of wood. And then the false bottom was pressing down on me and I was in darkness. My shoulders and hips were crushed against it; I shifted, trying to move, but there was no space. It was tight and airless. I heard the soft sound of marten skins being piled atop the false bottom, and fought down a wave of panic. Not airless, no; it only seemed that way. Here, in utter blackness, I could see the air holes; there was one close to my left eye, admitting a faint hint of lamplight.