Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter 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 compels 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 protégé. 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 Duc 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 Ysandre, 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.

"We’ll wait for daybreak," Ghislain murmured, "and pray they know us for allies, in the fortress. The sooner they counterattack the Skaldi rear, the better our chances."

"You think they’ll flock to aid the d’Aiglemort eagle?" Isidore d’Aiglemort asked wryly. "Don’t count on their being quick, cousin."

"My father is no fool." Ghislain stared through the gloaming at the distant fortress. "Drustan’s men are flying the Cullach Gorrym. He’ll know."

"If he can even see the Black Pig, over thirty thousand howling Skaldi." D’Aiglemort drew back from the vantage, and shrugged matter-of-factly. "We’ll do as much damage as we can, and pray it’s enough to break the siege. But for every minute your father hesitates, and for every minute it takes for them to marshal a counterattack, we’ll die by the hundreds."

One of Phèdre’s Boys-Eugene, whom Quintilius Rousse had prized for his long vision-gazed out over the battlefield and made a choked sound, pointing.

It was hard to make out events at such a distance, the figures tiny, but not so hard that we couldn’t see the line of prisoners being led among the camps of the Skaldi, shoved and stumbling. Their gowns made bright spots of color against the dust and steely turmoil of a war-camp.

Women, all of them; D’Angeline women.

Selig’s army had cut a swathe through northern Namarre before Percy de Somerville’s force had intercepted them. We’d not seen it before. They had taken slaves.

We watched it silently, too far away to hear if they cried out. I doubt it. They would have been some weeks among the Skaldi. One grows numb to almost anything, after a while. Still, I could not look away, until Joscelin took my shoulders and pulled me gently back. I pressed my face to his chest and shuddered. When I lifted my head, Isidore d’Aiglemort was watching us both, his expression somber.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. "For what was done to you both. For what it’s worth, I am sorry."

Joscelin, holding me, nodded.

"Daybreak," Ghislain de Somerville said grimly.