Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1)

Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1) Page 73

It was much simpler, in truth, than the elaborate plan of retreat that Ghislain de Somerville had devised. Secure in their valley, the Allies of Camlach had posted only a few sentries; indeed, we would never have found them, had the Skaldi not pressed us to flee as far as we did.

Gauging the change of posting, Drustan's deadly Cruithne dispatched the sentries with ease. Archers and slingers found hiding places along the narrow egresses. The battle of Bryn Gorrydum, the flight from the Skaldi; all, it seemed, had been a rehearsal for this endeavor.

The rest of our army scaled the heights, encircling the valley. Ghislain placed his scant number of L'Agnacite warriors to the fore, to give us the semblance of a D'Angeline force. By dawn—less than a day and a half later—we were in place.

This time, I was there. It was my idea.

We had glimpsed the Camaeline forces by then; well over three thousand, by my count. They looked hungry, and weary, I thought. It was hard to tell, at a distance.

When the sun struck gold into the valley, Ghislain de Somerville gave the signal. We'd two trumpets among us, but they sounded like a dozen, ringing brazen from the mountains as our troops rose and stepped into view, lifting their standards.

The silver swan of House Courcel, the apple tree of de Somerville, the ships and the Navigator's Star of House Trevalion; and too, the people of Alba, the Cullach Gorrym and the Tarbh Cro, the Eidlach Or and the Fhalair Ban, the white horse of Eire. They flew proud, blazing in the sun. And our heralds, three of them, grinning under their chosen standard as it flew beneath the white flag of treaty: A ragged splash of red, crossed by Kushiel's Dart.

Phedre's Boys. Remy winked at me. That was an argument I'd lost.

It took the Allies of Camlach by surprise. Deep in the valley they turned, hands shading eyes, gazing up the steep mountains at the bright army surrounding them on all sides. One stood alone and fearless, and the sun glittered on his mail and his fair hair.

Kilberhaar, I thought.

Ghislain de Somerville stepped up to a precipice, cupping his hands about his mouth. "Isidore d'Aiglemort!" he shouted, his voice echoing from the crags. "We wish to parley! We send our heralds in good faith! Will you honor the concords of war?"

Easier to shout down than up; the shining figure gave an exaggerated bow.

"Go," I said to Remy and his two companions. "Elua keep you."

"You promised to throw open the doors of the Night Court," he reminded me.

"All that you desire, and more." I laughed, a sob catching in my voice. "Come back safe and claim it, Chevalier."

Spurring their mounts, they rode down a narrow mountain path, to be met by d'Aiglemort's men. We had no choice but to wait. If d'Aiglemort played us false, we could exact a terrible revenge, from this vantage, but their lives were forfeit. We watched as they were led to d'Aiglemort, relaying our request.

Those are surely the longest moments I have passed, atop that mountain, waiting to see if Isidore d'Aiglemort would honor the concords of war.

In the end, he did. A number of Camaelines surrounded Remy and his companions in clear warning. The white flag showed vivid against the valley floor. And Isidore d'Aiglemort and a handful of chosen warriors rode-slowly up the winding trail.

He came armed and mailed, but helmetless, pale hair bright in the sun, black eyes narrowed and glittering. Without the least sign of fear, he rode straight to Ghislain de Somerville, ignoring the L'Agnacite bowmen who fell in around him, arrows nocked and pointed at his head.

"I am here, cousin," Isidore d'Aiglemort said with exaggerated courtesy; all the Great Houses are kin, in some manner. "You wished to speak with me?"

"The emissary of Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, wishes to speak with you," Ghislain replied, his broad, handsome features impassive. "Your grace."

D'Aiglemort turned, scanning the arrayed forces, gazing over my head. I saw him take in the blue-whorled faces of the Cruithne and check himself, startled. Drustan mab Necthana ground his teeth. But this was a D'Angeline affair. I stepped forward and raised my voice.

"My lord," I said.

"You." Isidore d'Aiglemort looked down at last, and frowned. "I know you."

"Yes, my lord." I inclined my head. "I gave yore to you at the Midwinter Masque, when Baudoin de Trevalion played the Sun Prince. You remembered, when last we met." I saw him remember, placing me. "You were fostered among the Shahrizai," I said softly. "They should have taught you to recognize the mark of KushieFs Dart, my lord."

Thoughts flickered across his face, too quick to follow. His emotions, he concealed. "Delaunay's anguissette" he said dryly. "I remember. Mel-isande begged a favor, for a plan gone awry. I thought you gone, among the Skaldi. But your lord's death was not of my will, anguissette."

"So I am given to understand," I said, with a calm I did not feel.

He raised his pale brows. "You are not here for revenge? Then what?" D'Aiglemort glanced around at the Alban army, pressing close around us. "You bring the Picti? Why?" One could see the thoughts connect behind his eyes. "Delaunay. That's what he and Quintilius Rousse were about."

"My lord." It took all of my training to keep my voice level and my gaze upon his. "This is the army of the Cruarch of Alba and Ghislain de Somerville. And we are here to offer you the choosing of the manner of your death."

D'Aiglemort's men reacted, then, reaching for their swords despite the vast number arrayed against them. The Due held up his hand, expressionless. "How do you say?"

"You are a dead man, Kilberhaar." I saw the blood leave his face at the Skaldi name, and was glad. "Waldemar Selig used you for a fool. He'll not let you live, if he defeats us; the D'Angelines know you for a traitor, and will not abide it. Selig's smart enough to clean up after himself, and wise enough to leave no blade aimed at his back. I know, I spent considerable time in his bed, thanks to you. You're dead, no matter who wins. We can offer you a chance to die with honor."

Isidore d'Aiglemort threw his head back, eyes blazing. "What possible reason would I have to take it, anguissette?"

"I am Phedre no Delaunay," I said softly, "and I can give you a reason, my lord. Because if you do not, and Selig prevails, Melisande Shahrizai will dance upon your grave."

I have seen men take dieir death-wounds, and their faces looked much like d'Aiglemort's, contorted in a terrible rictus, as if hearing some dreadful jest. His eyes, blazing horribly in his stricken face, never left mine. I had gambled, and guessed aright. He'd not known of Melisande's betrayal.

"Melisande was in league with Selig?" he asked harshly.

"Yes, my lord. I saw a letter, in her own hand. I know it well. I ought to." I dared not take my eyes from his. "You would be well-advised to do her no more favors."

He turned away then with a curse, staring out over the valley, where his army was arrayed. Leather and steel creaked as the Alban forces shifted, waiting. Ghislain de Somerville stood as stolid as an oak, and with as much expression. Drustan watched, dark eyes thoughtful. Joscelin hovered at my elbow in Cassiline attentiveness, and I was glad of his presence.

What Isidore d'Aiglemort thought, I cannot guess.

"I am the sword you would plunge into Selig's heart," he said presently, not turning around.

"Yes, your grace." It was Ghislain who answered. "Camael's sword."

D'Aiglemort laughed humorlessly. "The betrayer of the nation turned its savior." He stood motionless, looking down at his army. A knot of men surrounded our three heralds, not to ward, but to listen, starved for news. They were D'Angelines alike, after all, and no one tells tales like a sailor, except perhaps for Tsingani and Mendacants. Faint snatches of sound and laughter rose from the valley, as Phedre's Boys sounded their marching-chant. Whip us till we're on the floor. . . "Will you feed them?" d'Aiglemort asked abruptly. "Ysandre cut off our supply-train, and sealed the doors of Camlach against us."

"We will," Ghislain said quietly.

D'Aiglemort turned around then and met his eyes. "What do you propose?"

"I propose that we unite our forces and mount an attack on Selig's army." Ghislain gave a faint, wry smile. "And strike as hard as we can for Waldemar Selig. No one's asking you to die alone, cousin."

"Selig is mine." The tone was calm, but the black eyes glittered. "Swear it, and I will grant what you ask."

"I swear," Ghislain de Somerville said, and his face grew stern. "Do you pledge your fealty to Ysandre de la Courcel, on Camael's honor, and in the name of Blessed Elua?"

"I'll pledge my loyalty to the destruction of Melisande Shahrizai," d'Aiglemort said in his harsh voice. Ghislain glanced at me. I touched the diamond at my throat and nodded.

It would do.

EIGHTY-FIVE

Descending into the valley to join d'Aiglemort's army was tense. I did not think he intended to betray his word—he couldn't break the Skaldi siege without our aid, any more than we could without his—but if he did, that would be the time to do it, when our forces were strung out in long winding lines, bringing down not only the men, but provisions, pack-mules, and the unwieldy war-chariots the Dalriada would not abandon.

I know Ghislain de Somerville and Drustan mab Necthana were both alert and wary to the possibility, remaining mounted and full-armed throughout the journey. Isidore d'Aiglemort, who had ridden bare-headed to meet us, watched with a hint of contempt. Guiding his mount effortlessly down the steep trail, he came alongside us.

"You were the Cassiline, weren't you?" he asked Joscelin. "I remember. Melisande's favor."

"Yes, my lord." Joscelin's tone was edged with bitterness. "I was the Cassiline. Joscelin Verreuil, formerly of the Cassiline Brotherhood."

"You're better off," d'Aiglemort said dryly. "Steel and faith are an unnatural mix. I'm impressed, though. I'd have thought slavery would kill a Cassiline. I'll want to hear, later, all you know of Waldemar Selig." Nudging his horse, he left us. Joscelin stared after him.

"If we didn't need him," he said savagely, "I swear, I'd put a knife in his heart! How can you possibly trust him?"

"He was a hero, once," I murmured. "Whatever else he may have been, he was that. If we succeed, or even if we die trying, he'll be remembered as a hero in the end. Without this, his name will ring through D'Angeline history—whatever remains of us to tell it—as Waldemar Selig's dupe. And he dies knowing Melisande used him to do it."

Joscelin was silent for a moment. "She could have gained the nation with him," he said presently. "Why?"

I shook my head. "The Skaldi would still have invaded. Selig was using him too. Who knows what he promised her? At his side ... she stands to gain two nations. Ten thousand Camaelines know Isidore d'Aiglemort betrayed the Crown, he had an army at his back. Melisande plays a deep game. If Selig wins, you can count the survivors who know her role on one hand. He'll have an empire. And he'll take a Queen to consolidate it."

"Is that what you think?" Joscelin threw his head back, shocked. I gave him a rueful smile.

"What else? Melisande plays for high stakes. I can't think of any higher. Unless," I added thoughtfully, "it would be to eliminate Selig once he'd gained the throne and mastered his realm."

"How could she bear so much blood on her hands?" Joscelin asked softly, gazing at the Camaeline army sprawled in the valley before us. "How could anyone?"

"I don't know." I shook my head again. "Except that it's the game that compells her. I don't think she ever reckoned the cost in human lives, not truly." Delaunay, I thought, had been the same, a little bit, though his reasons were nobler. They had their pride alike, in the playing out of their deep-laid schemes. I remembered how he had showed me to her, when all the City was buzzing to know about his second protege. And I remembered how she had let him know, through me, that she was the architect behind the fall of House Trevalion.

"Either way," Joscelin said soberly, "it's monstrous." I did not disagree.

We reached the valley floor without incident, crowded together in a throng of D'Angelines and Albans alike. The Allies of Camlach stared at our forces, the blue-painted Cruithne, in wonder. They were gaunt and feverish, with a fierce, fugitive air; we wasted no time in setting up an encampment and beginning the process of sharing out our foodstuffs.

It was a strange mood that prevailed, and my own mood was no less peculiar. Gaiety and despair commingled as word spread of the planned assault. I thought that my mood would lighten, with the success of our endeavor; whatever happened, at least, I would not be responsible for leading anyone to die at d'Aiglemort's hands. Instead, it deepened. Everything seemed very clear and sharp to me, and yet it was as if I stood outside myself, watching.

They made conference long into the night, tallying the numbers, arranging our joined forces into the most effective array of legions. D'Aiglemort and his captain of infantry; Ghislain; Drustan and the Twins; and I, on hand to translate, with Joscelin as my ever-present protector. The Cruithne and the Dalriada had little notion of battle formation, but they grasped it quickly enough.

Still, it was agreed that the Camaeline infantry would form the front line of our attack. Isidore d'Aiglemort's reputation was no fluke; he was an extremely skilled soldier, and every man who served under him was trained and disciplined. Once the Skaldi had begun to rally, we would loose the Alban army, cavalry and chariots sweeping around the outer flanks, followed by the hordes of foot soldiers.

And when chaos ensued, the Camaeline infantry would part, and d'Aiglemort's cavalry would penetrate into the heart of the Skaldi forces, driving toward Waldemar Selig. He would be at the forefront of the attack on Troyes-le-Mont, I could well guess; Selig was not one to lead from behind. They would have to pierce deep to reach him.

"How good is he?" Isidore d'Aiglemort asked abruptly, looking up from our hastily sketched battle plan to meet Joscelin's eyes. "Do you know, Cassiline?"

Joscelin returned the gaze unblinking. "He disarmed me," he said flatly. "In the heat of battle. He is that good, my lord."

I expected some comment from the Due d'Aiglemort, but he somehow took Joscelin's measure in the long stare that they exchanged, and only nodded, lamplight gleaming on his silver-pale hair. "Then I shall have to be better," he said quietly, touching the hilt of his sword.

Joscelin hesitated, then spoke. "Don't wait to engage him. He'll move inside your guard if you do. He fights without thinking, the way you or I breathe. And don't be fooled by his size. He's faster than you think."

"Thank you." D'Aiglemort nodded again, gravely.

We spent the whole of the next day making ready to march, while scouting parties rode ahead, searching out our Skaldi pursuers, and reporting back on the state of the siege. We had word before we set out the following morning: The fortifications had fallen, and the Skaldi were at the gates of Troyes-le-Mont.

It had been the right decision, to seek Isidore d'Aiglemort's aid. Even if our plan of harrying the Skaldi had worked, we'd not have had the time to divide their forces. I'd no head for warfare and strategy, there was no more I could do, save translate when needed, and stay out of the way when not. I had played my last card. What happened next was out of my hands.

Why, then, did I feel this strange unease, this nagging feeling of something undone?

All through the long march back toward Namarre, it persisted. I gazed at the people who surrounded me, seeking an answer in their faces. Now that our course was set and we were in motion, the strangeness in them had passed, giving way to grim resolution. Here and there, I saw the inward-looking gaze of those facing death; and here and there, too, I saw the hope and defiance. Drustan mab Necthana had it, riding with his head high, dark eyes shining. No matter what else, he was riding toward Ysan-dre, whom he loved. Grainne and Eamonn had it, too, sharing grins; I saw how alike they looked, then, in the face of battle.

I looked at Ghislain de Somerville, and his expression was set and hard. He had planned as best he could, the Royal Commander's son. His father could have done no better. Isidore d'Aiglemort glittered in his armor, his gaze fixed on the distance like an archer's upon a faraway target, a faint smile upon his face as he rode toward his fate.

And Joscelin, who rode at my side, quiet and worried. It gave me a pain in my heart to look at him.

Blessed Elua, I prayed, what would you have me do? Nothing but silence answered. I prayed to Naamah, then, whose servant I was. Whatever it was, it was not in her service. All I could do, and more, I had done in Naamah's name.

And I was Kushiel's chosen.

I prayed to him.

My blood surged like the tide, whispering in answer. All my life, I had honored Elua; since I was a child, I had served Naamah. But it was Kushiel who had marked me, and Kushiel who claimed me now. I felt his presence, enfolding me like a mighty hand. My lord Kushiel, I prayed, what must I do?

You will know . . .

How long had we been on the road? I could not count the number of weeks, months. It seemed a long time, a very long time, since that dreadful day when Joscelin and I had failed to outrace death to Delaunay's door. And yet, now, it would come to an end, and it seemed too fast. We made our camp in the foothills, a prudent distance from the battle.

Come morning, we would attack.

I went with Ghislain and the others to survey the siege. With the sun settling low over the plain, we could see the embattled fortress, still flying the Courcel swan, an island in a sea of Skaldi forces. Beyond the breached bulwarks, the half-burned skeleton of a siege tower leaned against one wall; and there, on the plain, was the charred wreckage of the tower Drustan's Cruithne had ignited.

But there were two towers yet, moved nearly into position, and the Skaldi were making ready a great battering ram to try the gates. Only the archers and the trebuchet in the fortress were keeping them at bay. If the Skaldi got one of their towers in place and swarmed the parapet, it would soon be done. They were withdrawing out of range, now, with the setting sun, to renew efforts with the dawn.