Kushiel's Chosen (29 page)

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Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

BOOK: Kushiel's Chosen
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"I wondered why you wanted camping gear," Remy mut tered. "Thought you'd never sleep on aught but silk sheets, after campaigning with the Cruithne."
I smiled. "Now you know better." In truth, I'd sooner have slept under a silk coverlet on a down-stuffed pallet, but the pursuit of knowledge makes all manner of hardship worthwhile.
And I had known worse. I could not help but remember, as we travelled deeper into the forests of Camlach, how Joscelin and I had staggered, half-frozen, wind-burned and exhausted, out of the Camaelme Mountains and into shelter in this land. How the men of the Marquis de Bois-le-Garde had found our meager campsite, and that awful, terrifying flight through the benighted woods. Travelling by day, golden sunlight slanting through the pines, it seemed harmless, but we had come near to death in this place.
Different times, those; Isidore d'Aiglemort's treacherous Allies of Camlach held the province, and there was no tell ing who was friend or foe. Now those same men guarded the borders and the Duc d'Aiglemort was dead, slain on the battlefield of Troyes-le-Mont, spending his life to thwart the very enemy he'd invited onto D'Angeline soil. Kilberhaar, the Skaldi had called him; Silver Hair. I had watched it all, from the parapets of the fortress. Seventeen wounds d'Aiglemort had taken, battling his way across the field to challenge Waldemar Selig. They counted, when they laid him out and gave him a hero's funeral.
I had been there, at the end, when he died, carrying water to the wounded and dying.
I am afraid of your lord's revenge,
he said to me, lying in a welter of his own gore. At first, I thought he meant Delaunay—and then I knew better. It was Kushiel he feared; Kushiel, who metes out punish ment.

For that, I could not blame him. I fear Kushiel myself, for all that I am his chosen. On the whole, Naamah's Service is a great deal more pleasant, but I do not think it is Naamah whose hand placed me on the battlefield that day.

So I mused and remembered as we travelled, and the time passed swiftly.
On the fourth day, we came upon the Stream that Fortun had recorded on his map, and a broad, well-trodden trail that led out of the woods and toward the foothills of the Camaelines. The first garrison lay to the south of the south ernmost of the Great Passes. It was but early afternoon, and the woods were cheerful with birdsong.
"I don't like this," Joscelin said, frowning at the serenity of our surroundings. "Why isn't there a guard posted? If Fortun's directions are right, we're inside the perimeter of the garrison."

"Mayhap they thought it wiser to guard against the Skaldi," Remy offered sardonically.

"No," I said absently. "Joscelin's right; any Camaeline corps this close to the border would mount a guard on all sides. They're not likely to let themselves be flanked."
"There's been a large party riding through here," Fortun observed, pointing to the myriad hoofmarks churning the soft loam. "Not long past; these are fresh since it rained this morning. A scouting party, mayhap?"
In the distance, we heard a sudden shout, and then the distinctive metal-on-metal sound of swordplay.

"Mayhap not," Joscelin said grimly, and wheeled his horse. "Whatever trouble it is, we're best away from it." He nearly clapped heels to his mount's sides, before he saw me motionless in the saddle, head cocked to listen. "Phèdre, you brought me to keep you safe!" he snapped, jostling his mount next to mine and grabbing at my reins. "At least do me the kindness of heeding my advice!"

The chevaliers were milling, uncertain. I met Joscelin's eyes. "Listen."

Biting back a retort, he did; and he heard it too. Rising above the clash of arms and shouted orders, a faint cry, ragged and defiant. "Ye-shu-a! Ye-shu-a!"

Joscelin quivered like a bowstring, his face a study in anguish. With a sound that might have been a curse or a sob, he let go my reins and jerked his horse's head around and set heels to it, riding at a dead gallop toward the garrison.

"What are you waiting for?" I asked my staring cheva liers, turning my own mount after Joscelin. "Go!"
I daresay we made for a strange sight, bursting from the forest trail to fan out across the narrow plain; a D'Angeline noblewoman, three men-at-arms and trailing packhorses chasing someone who looked very much like a Cassiline Brother riding hell-for-leather toward an entire garrison. If the Unforgiven corps had not been occupied, they might have laughed—but occupied they were. Thirty or more encircled a party of Yeshuites, who numbered in the dozens. There were two wagons at the center, and I could discern the figures of women and children on them, while the men grappled with the Unforgiven guardsmen, calling on Yeshua with fierce, exultant cries.
For all of that, they were outfought and losing.

Until Joscelin slammed into the garrison's perimeter.

Two of the Unforgiven he took down with main force, checking his mount into them. The soldiers went down, as did Joscelin's horse; and then he was on his feet, vambraced arms crossed, daggers in his hands.

I lashed my horse's rump with the ends of my reins, gasp ing a quick prayer of thanks that Joscelin hadn't drawn his sword instead. Cassiline Brothers do not draw their swords unless they mean to kill, and he was Cassiline enough for that. He was only trying to protect the Yeshuites.

Of course, that didn't matter to the Unforgiven, who knew only that the garrison was under attack.

"Blessed tears of the Magdelene!" I heard Remy's shocked voice close to me, his horse drawing briefly on a level with mine, before I urged it to even greater speed.

I had forgotten that none of Phèdre's Boys, Rousse's wild sailor-lads, had ever seen Joscelin Verreuil fight. No one but I had seen the terrible splendor of his battle in the midst of a Skaldic blizzard. At the battle of Bryn Gorrydum, he had stayed at my side; when the campsite was ambushed, he fought almost single-handed to defeat an entire party of Maelcon's Tarbh Cró. At Troyes-le-Mont, he crossed the battlefield at night to follow me, and challenge Waldemar Selig to the holmgang.

We are alike, Joscelin and I,
in
that what we do, we do very well.

And with the aid of a few dozen Yeshuites, I might have given him odds, against any other company; but these were the Unforgiven, scions of Camael, born to the blade, and sur vivors of the deadliest suicide charge in D'Angeline history. Plain steel and leather armor they wore, and carried un adorned black shields. By the time I reached the battle, seven or eight of the Unforgiven had him isolated, surrounding him with careful swordwork and waiting for an opening, steel blades darting past his guard to score minor wounds. In truth, despite his skill, Cassiline training is not meant for the open battlefield; it is designed for efficiency in tight quarters. The Yeshuites and the remaining Unforgiven battled in knots, the skill of the latter slowly prevailing, and from one of the wag ons rose a child's scream, endless and unremitting.
Three Yeshuite dead already; it would be more, in a mo ment. It would be Joscelin.

"Stop!" I drew up my horse, shouting, pitching my voice to carry over the battle, even as I realized the idiocy of it. "Stop the fighting!"

Enough to give them pause; Joscelin redoubled his ef forts, and nearly broke free. Unfortunately, it was at that moment that the Captain of the Guard and another two dozen reinforcements, all mounted, reached the plain. He gave a series of sharp commands, and his men split in two, one group surrounding the Yeshuites and calling on them to throw down their swords or die, the other moving to inter cept me and my three chevaliers, who came ranging and panting up behind me.

They were gentle, and firm. I struggled with the young corporal who blocked my view, moving me forcibly back from the fighting, his battle-trained mount pressing hard against mine, his companions separating us, containing my chevaliers. "You don't understand!" I said wildly, trying to see around him; Joscelin had not surrendered. "Love of Elua,
stop
it! He's a Cassiline, he's just trying to protect them ... I swear, if you kill him, I'll have your head!"

"M'lady," he muttered, flushing beneath his helmet, "We're trying to protect you, please get
off
the field of battle!"
A bellow of pain, distinctly Camaeline in tone, and the Captain's voice rose ringing. "For Camael's sake, just
kill
him!"

I could hardly see for the tears of fear and frustration that blurred my eyes; after all we had been through, for him to die like this! Shoving at the corporal, I drew a great breath and loosed it. "Joscelin! No!"

The corporal caught at my arm, wrenching me around in the saddle to stare into my face. His eyes widened, and his hand fell away. "Captain, hai! Company, hai! Black Shields, hold!" he shouted, his voice loud and frantic. "Hold, hold, if you love your honor, hold!"

It made absolutely no sense to me, and even less when he dropped his reins and dismounted, going down on one knee and bowing his head over his unadorned shield. I looked in bewilderment to the next-closest soldier, and saw him swallow visibly, hurrying to dismount and kneel. In seconds, every one of the Unforgiven near me had followed suit. From this center of stillness, a hissed whisper spread, and stillness followed, battle abandoned. I sat atop my horse open-mouthed, while the entire Unforgiven garrison knelt, until no one was standing but Joscelin, and the Yeshuites.

One of whom raised his sword over the neck of a kneeling Unforgiven soldier.

"No!" I flung out my arm, pointing at the man. He glanced at me, then away, and made to swing the blade. I could see the muscles quiver in the bowed neck of the kneel ing Unforgiven; and yet, he never raised his head. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin moving, turning, a terrible despair in his face, switching his right-hand dagger to grasp its hilt. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would throw it at the Yeshuite if he had to; and I was afraid, very afraid, that he held the hilt of the other dagger in his left hand, and meant to bring it across his own throat. A fine idea, this side trip of mine. A film of red veiled my vision, and my blood beat in my ears, a sound like great bronze wings clapping about my head. Somehow, I spoke, and my voice seemed distant and strange, edged with blood and thunder.
"Drop your swords!"
He did; they did. All of the Yeshuites, weapons falling with a clatter. Joscelin halted, in the middle of executing the
terminus,
that final move that no Cassiline Brother in living history has performed. If it was that. In the wagon, the child continued screaming.

None of the kneeling Unforgiven even looked up.

"Fortun," I asked, bewildered, "what's happening here?"

TWENTY-EIGHT
You are Kushiel's hand."
That was how the Captain—whose name was Tarren d'Eltoine—explained it to me in the garrison keep as he poured me a generous measure of very good Namarrese red wine, of which I drank a long draught. "My lord Captain," I said, shuddering and setting down the glass, "forgive me, but I do not understand."

Tarren d'Eltoine sat opposite me and fixed me with an intent gaze. "My lady Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, you bear the mark of Kushiel's Dart. You are his chosen. And we who name ourselves the Unforgiven, scions of Camael, in our pride and arrogance, conspired to open our borders to the Skaldi, betraying the sacred trust of Elua and his Companions." He smiled grimly. "We have thrown away our honor, in bright-bladed Camael's eyes. For this, there is no forgiveness; only the hope of redemption. It is you who brought us that hope. Do you now understand?"

I gazed into the hearth-fire, burning merrily against the evening chill that fell during spring in Camlach. "Isidore d'Aiglemort," I said presently.

"Even so." Captain d'Eltoine nodded. "You gave him a chance to die a hero, and he took it. He did. Those of us who survived, we will not sway from the course you set, not until we die. What you have given us is a chance to endure Kushiel's punishment here on earth, and expiate our sins."
I looked reluctantly at him. "My lord ... I am grateful for the lives you spared. But I didn't ask Isidore d'Aiglemort and the Allies of Camlach to fight for the sake of their souls. I asked because I was desperate, and I could think of no other way we stood to defeat the Skaldi."
"That doesn't matter." He gazed at his wineglass and low ered it untasted. "Kushiel's hand need not know its master's mind; it does his bidding all the same. We are the Unforgiven. We have a debt we must honor unto death, should you command us. That is all you need know."

"You could have notified me," I murmured. D'Eltoine blinked; my humor was lost on him. It was true, most Ca maelines do think with their swords. Isidore d'Aiglemort was an exception, but then, he was fostered among the Shah rizai. "Never mind." My head was reeling. It is not every day that one learns an entire militia has sworn unbeknownst to obey you. "My lord," I said, gathering my thoughts. "Why did your men attack the Yeshuites?"

"We sought to question them." He shrugged apologetically. "A party of that size, seeking to cross into Skaldia? There can be no good reason for it, my lady, save espionage. But when we sought to detain them for questioning, they drew steel. So my men say, and I have no reason to doubt them." He eyed me. "Though if you demand it, I will put them to questioning."

"No." After what had passed in the City, it rang altogether too true. "They seek to cross Skaldia, and find refuge in lands further north, my lord. They mean us no harm."

"You know this to be true?" Firelight washed his face, etching in shadow the severe Camaeline beauty of his features. Some of us live closer in the hand of those we serve than others; this Captain was one such. Whether he had broken faith or no, I could see the bright edge of Camael's sword hovering over him.

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