Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Eighty-Four

"Isidore D’Aiglemort."

Ghislain de Somerville said his name like a curse. I didn’t blame him. None of us did, who were D’Angeline. I heard Joscelin’s breath hiss between his teeth at the name.

I explained briefly to Drustan, who nodded, understanding, his dark eyes deepset. He had been betrayed by his cousin Maelcon; he understood such things. "We’ll make camp nonetheless," I said, confirming it with Ghislain. We’d get no further that night, and d’Aiglemort’s forces were unaware of our presence.

One would think the very heavens would storm their disapproval on such a night, but in truth, the skies held clear. My exhaustion forgotten, I wrapped myself in my cloak and sought out the Cruithne scout who’d spotted the army of Duc Isidore d’Aiglemort, questioning him at some length.

When I was done, I went looking for Ghislain de Somerville and found him overseeing the care of the horses, who were worth their weight in gold to us.

"My lord," I said to him, "you said if the Caerdicci would rally sufficient forces, we could crush the Skaldi as if between hammer and anvil. How many would you need?"

"Ten thousand, perhaps, in sum. Maybe less, if we could coordinate with the defenders in Troyes-le-Mont." He looked sharply at me. "Why? The Caerdicci won’t venture past their borders. We both know it is so."

I looked to the south, and shivered. "I have a thought."

I told him what it was.

Ghislain de Somerville gave me another long, hard look. "Come with me," he said. "We need to talk."

His fairly appointed commander’s tent with the worktable had been left in Azzalle; this was a simple field-soldier’s shelter, luxurious only in that most of our army had nothing but a bedroll. We had traveled light, but for the most necessary provisions. I sat on a folding camp-stool while he paced, lit by a solitary lamp.

"If you think it madness, my lord," I said finally, unable to bear it, "then say so."

"Of course it’s madness," he said abruptly. "But so is what we did today, and will do again tomorrow, if we do not choose another course. And if it goes as it did today, we will die in slow degrees, until we grow too tired or too slow or too careless, and the Skaldi catch us. If they’re not already scaling the fortress walls." Stopping his pacing, Ghislain de Somerville sat on his bedroll and covered his face with his hands. "Ah, Anael!" he sighed. "I was born to rule apple orchards, to tend the land and love its folk. Why do you send me such terrible choices?"

"Because, my lord," I said softly, "you were born to tend the land and love its folk, and not to put them to the sword. No other among us could devise a plan that would make this work."

"It might be done." He lowered his hands on his knees and looked gravely at me. "Even if it can…if we fail, we stand to lose everything, and I do not know if I can bear to see our people slain by D’Angeline hands. Phèdre nó Delaunay, are you certain of him?"

"No," I whispered, feeling cold despite the warmth of the night and the glow of lamplight. "There is one trump card, one thing he does not know, that might be enough…but I am certain of nothing, my lord."

"I wish you were," Ghislain de Somerville murmured, hands flexing on his knees. He smiled ruefully. "Did you know my father likes to wager? L’Agnacites have a weakness for it, I don’t know why. But he always said the one man he’d never wager against was Anafiel Delaunay."

"My lord," I said, alarmed, "I am not him. Even if I had half his wisdom, I would fear to advise you in this."

"If you had half his wisdom, you might never have conceived this." He gazed at the flickering lamp-flame. "But you have, and I must wager on something. I’ll speak with the Cruithne scout, and see what more we may learn. When I’ve a plan, I’ll let you know."

I nodded and rose, according him a grave curtsy, one offered in the Night Court only to scions of the Royal House. I kept my composure leaving his tent; it was only outside, beneath the stars, that I staggered and had to catch myself, terrified by the enormity of the risk in what I had proposed.

Never had I judged a patron wrongly, not Childric d’Essoms, not Quincel de Morhban, not even Melisande Shahrizai, when all was said and done. But Isidore, Duc d’Aiglemort, was no patron of mine, and by his own deed, traitor to Terre d’Ange. If I was wrong, we would all pay. And the payment would be exacted in blood.

"Where were you?" Joscelin asked when I returned, his sharp tone betraying his concern. He glanced at my pale face. "What is it? Is aught amiss?"

"No," I said, through chattering teeth. He flung a cloak around me; his Mendicant’s cloak, stained and travel-worn, the splendid colors dulled by rain and sea. I huddled into its warmth. "Not yet."

"You’ll be the death of us all," Joscelin muttered, and wondered why I laughed in despair.

By the time we surrounded the valley in which d’Aiglemort’s army was encamped, he knew.

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.

Phèdre’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 joie 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 Kushiel’s Dart, my lord."

Thoughts flickered across his face, too quick to follow. His emotions, he concealed. "Delaunay’s anguissette" he said dryly. "I remember. Melisande 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 Duc 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 Phèdre nó 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 their 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 Mendicants. Faint snatches of sound and laughter rose from the valley, as Phèdre’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.