Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 64

I squeezed her shoulders. “There is that.”

Another silence settled between us. I was beginning to think mayhap she’d drifted into sleep when she broke it, her voice low. “Do you often think about the son you lost?”

“Yes.” I swallowed. My unborn son, the child who would have grown into a tyrant. “Not so much as I did in the first year, but yes. Of course.” I tried to make out her face in the dim light. “Does it frighten you to think on it?”

“No.” Sidonie gazed at me with that expression of utter trust that nearly split my heart in two. “You asked me that once before, and my answer is the same. No. There’s nothing that lies between the two of us that frightens me, Imriel. We defied Blessed Elua’s precept and others paid the price for it. We have to live with that, you and I. If we survive this, I think we might at least reckon ourselves forgiven in part.” She smiled slightly. “I’m not sure how I feel about hordes, mind you. But I think we could manage a brooding boy and a haughty girl or two. ’Tis a pleasant thing to contemplate.”

“Life and hope,” I murmured, holding her closer.

“And love,” she added.

Two days later, we reached Roncal.

That last leg of our journey was the most difficult and the most beautiful. The hills grew ever steeper, the views breathtaking. In the distance, to the north, we could see snow on the peaks of the mountains; and yet, the slopes themselves were a bright, vivid green, even in winter, except where they were blanketed with darker pines. The air was crisp and cold, and our breath came short. Still, I could understand why the Euskerri loved their territory.

“There it is,” Paskal pointed as we crested the seventh peak of the day, our mounts huffing. “Roncal.”

As strongholds went, it didn’t look like much. It was a village of charming red-roofed buildings nestled in the valley. But the river that snaked through the valley had carved a passage through the mountains beyond, wide enough to be easily traversed, yet narrow enough to be easily defended. I could appreciate the strategic value of the place. The best thing of all about it was that there was no sign that Astegal’s cavalry had arrived before us.

We descended into the valley. The houses were whitewashed with red or green shutters, designs and words painted over the doorways. I asked Paskal what they meant.

“Those are the names of the houses,” he said. “Of their families. And the symbol of the sun to greet the dawn.”

“Eguzki,” Sidonie said, half to herself. “The sun.”

Paskal gave her a startled look. “Yes.”

Curious faces peered from a few of the houses and a man with a large wheel of cheese on his shoulder passed by, giving us a hard stare. Paskal led us along the valley, reading the names of the houses aloud. At one of the largest, he halted.

“This is the house of Iturralde,” he said with shy pride.

“Paskal, you’re a genius,” I said.

“No.” He grinned. “Just lucky like a bird.”

Sidonie took a deep breath. “Well, ’tis time to face the second test of diplomacy.” There was a trace of dismay in her voice. “Would that I could bathe first.”

There weren’t many folk in Euskerri territory who would recognize the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange if she turned up on their doorstep, but Janpier Iturralde was one of them. It was a woman who answered Paskal’s initial knock. Sidonie and I waited. I’d dismounted and stood holding her bridle, which was as close as we could come to presenting any manner of formal appearance. But she sat upright in the saddle, her posture regal and her expression composed.

The woman glanced over at us, eyes widening. She and Paskal exchanged words in the Euskerri tongue, and then she vanished. Paskal returned to join us. A few moments later, a man emerged. He was a sturdy, barrel-chested fellow with black hair and dark eyes set close to a long, straight nose. He stood on the doorstep for a long moment, staring at us, then at last approached.

“I did not believe it,” he said in accented Aragonian. “But it is true.”

Sidonie inclined her head. “Greetings, etxekojaun. It is a pleasure to see you once more.”

His mouth quirked. “The daughter of the Queen of Terre d’Ange comes to my house and greets me with a Euskerri courtesy. Why? I thought your country had gone mad and you’d run away to marry the Lion of Carthage.”

“It has and I did,” Sidonie said. “Now I come bearing a tale of dire magics, a pursuing army, and an offer for Euskerria’s sovereignty on behalf of both Aragonia and Terre d’Ange. Will you hear them?”

The blood drained from Janpier Iturralde’s face. “Do you jest?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Blessed Elua bear witness, I have never been more serious in my life.”

He ushered us into his home with alacrity. Several hasty introductions were made, and then Sidonie poured out our tale to the Iturralde clan, while Janpier offered hurried translations for those who spoke no Aragonian.

It was hard to gauge their reaction. It was intense, but I couldn’t say whether they were hostile or sympathetic. Janpier’s pallor darkened ominously throughout the telling of our story. His wife covered her mouth with one hand and sat staring wide-eyed. Their eldest son clenched and unclenched his fists. When Sidonie had finished, there was a burst of Euskerri exchanged.

“How long before Carthage’s men come?” Janpier Iturralde demanded.

“I don’t know,” Sidonie said steadily. “A day, mayhap. Mayhap hours. We saw no sign of them, but they’ll be riding hard.”

“How many?” he asked.

“Astegal’s cavalry numbers three hundred horse. I don’t know how many he’ll send.”

“Three hundred!” His brows rose. “That’s all?”

“It’s a siege army,” I observed. “There are thousands of infantry troops and a massive naval force.”

“Bah!” Janpier waved a dismissive hand. “But they’re not here, are they?” He turned to his sons—there were three of them all told—and issued a stream of orders in Euskerri. The lads nodded and departed in a hurry. The women of the household began bustling about without any orders given.

“What passes?” I asked Paskal in a low tone.

“They’re marshaling the village,” he replied.

“Yes.” Janpier Iturralde overheard us. He pointed a finger at Sidonie. “Euskerria’s hand will not be forced. We are not children to be bought by a simple bribe. We will defend ourselves and slaughter these men of Carthage. Only then will we decide.”

“Fairly said, etxekojaun,” Sidonie agreed. “I’m sorry. It was not my wish to imperil Euskerria. But Carthage would have come for you sooner or later. And if Amílcar falls, it will not be three hundred horse. It will be ten thousand on foot. Can you stand against them?”

He ignored the question. “Go with Laida and the girls. They will take you to a safe place.” He pointed to Paskal and me. “You and you will fight with us.”

“My lord!” I protested. “It is imperative that her highness Sidonie and I continue on to Terre d’Ange. Will you not grant us passage?”

“Oh no.” Janpier shook his head. There was a spark of righteous fury in his gaze. “You have led this army to our doorstep. Either you stand beside us to fight them, or we will give them what they want. You.”

“I’ll fight beside you!” Paskal sounded eager.

Sidonie and I exchanged a glance. “’Tis a fair request,” I murmured.

“Imriel . . .” Her eyes glistened. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Janpier Iturralde overheard that, too. “What makes you think I could bear to lose a single Euskerri life?” he asked in a cold tone. “Do you imagine you love your kinsman more than I love my own sons? My own flesh and blood?”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Of course not.”

“Then he stands with us,” Janpier said.

Sixty

There was a point north of the village where the pass narrowed so that the Amazigh would be forced to ride no more than three or four abreast, their line strung out and attenuated. It was there that we waited, hidden in the pine forests that flanked the pass on both sides.

Unorganized, Lady Nicola had called the Euskerri. Elua knows, that was true. There was little in the way of a command structure or a battle plan. A few of the younger lads were posted on lookout, perched high on the pines. When the Amazigh arrived, they’d whistle sharply. We were to rush out with slings and javelins and slaughter Astegal’s men.

That was the plan.

The women and children of Roncal had been evacuated to a campsite high in the hills above us where they would be safe, Sidonie among them. We’d parted an hour before sundown. I could still feel her anguished farewell kiss lingering on my lips.

We waited.

The Amazigh didn’t come that night. The sentries in the treetops kept their vigil. Those of us on the ground dozed, spread throughout the forest. I reckoned there were less than three hundred men of fighting age in the village, but the Euskerri seemed unconcerned about numbers.

“Prince Imriel?” Paskal’s voice reached out to me in the darkness, sounding young and uncertain. “What’s it like?”

“Battle?” I tilted my head in his direction. “Much like escaping from Amílcar.”

He rustled. “No. Love.”

“Ah.” I remembered Leander Maignard asking me the same question outside a temple in Cythera. I leaned back against the trunk of the pine tree beneath which I was sitting, the rough bark snagging my hair. “It’s a force to make a man yearn for a lifetime of peace, Paskal.”

His reply sounded bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

“Pray you have the chance to do so,” I said.

It wasn’t long after dawn when the lookouts’ sharp whistles roused us. I bounded to my feet, snatching my dagger from its scabbard and holding it by the tip. Since I didn’t have a javelin or a sling, it was the best I could do. Ululating cries burst through the forest, men racing forward. I ran, too.

Astegal’s Amazigh.

They were strung out in a long line throughout the pass. Nowhere to go, nowhere to maneuver. The Euskerri fell on them, hurtling javelins and stones from the high embankments. I threw my dagger as Joscelin had taught me and one of the Amazigh rocked back in the saddle, slumping. I leapt down and darted between horses, yanking at the reins of a second opponent whose panicked mount had him half-unseated. He cursed and chopped at me with his sword, trying at the same time to regain his balance. I parried with my arms raised above my head, vambraces crossed. Dorelei’s gift. His blade skittered off their surface.

I caught his robes and jerked.

He fell.

I had my sword out before he hit the ground. I plunged it into his heart. His riderless horse reared above me, hooves flailing. I ducked under it, catching a glancing blow to the helm I’d borrowed from Amíl-car’s armory. Before me, another man clutched at the javelin sprouting from his ribcage and toppled from the saddle, falling hard and bearing me down in a swirl of indigo robes. I scrambled out from underneath him, a little dizzy, and dealt him the mercy-blow.

Another figure sought to ride me down, sword swinging. I stepped sideways and parried in the Cassiline manner, my sword angled over my head. An unexpected maneuver, meant to defend against a foe on higher ground. His momentum carried him onward until a flung stone from an unseen enemy knocked him insensible.

Javelins and stones.

Ululating cries.

After that it was over very quickly. Janpier Iturralde hadn’t been boasting. The Euskerri won that day, and they won handily. This was their territory and they knew every inch of it. There was no mercy. They swarmed the narrow pass with brutal efficiency, dispatching any who lived. They gathered the horses, herding them back toward the village. They tended their own dead and injured with care. They dragged the Amazigh dead into mounds.

“So.” Janpier studied me, blood-spattered. “You kept your word.”

I jerked my chin at the piled dead. “You might want to strip the corpses. If you’ve any thought of accepting Aragonia’s offer, believe me, those robes make an almighty disguise.”

He regarded me inscrutably, then issued an order in Euskerri and strode away.

They stripped the dead.

So many men! Faces laid bare, tawny limbs flopping. Some of them were a good deal younger than one would have reckoned behind the veils and robes. It was such a vulnerable thing, mortal flesh. I thought about Ghanim, the Amazigh slave who had extended such fierce loyalty to me when I’d promised him his freedom. I wondered what bribe it was that Astegal had given these tribesmen in exchange for their loyalty, and I wondered if they’d reckoned it worth the cost as they died.

The women emerged from their secret encampment. Wails of mourning for the Euskerri dead arose. Their losses had been light—I’d not counted more than a dozen—but dead was dead. It was a small village. Every man slain was someone’s brother or son, husband or father. In the midst of it Sidonie and I found one another.

“You’re alive,” she whispered with profound relief. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. “A few bruises.” I wanted to hold her, but I didn’t dare. I was covered in blood and filth.

“Paskal?” she asked.

“He’s fine,” I assured her. “Helping with the wounded.”

“Your highness!” Janpier hailed her, picking his way back toward us through the dead. “You should be proud. Your kinsman fought well.”