Kushiel's Dart (93 page)

In the tower once more, in a sitting room with glassless windows, I called for wine, raising my voice sharply. The servants jumped, and hurried to obey; I was beyond caring, at that moment. I drank half a glass at a draught when it arrived, and looked hard at Hyacinthe. The others drew away, leaving us alone.

"Why?" I asked him. "Why did you do it?"

He smiled faintly, toying with the wineglass in his hands. There were dark smudges under his eyes, but now that the worst had come to pass, he seemed more himself. "I couldn't have, without you, you know. I didn't have the answer. It was so vast, I couldn't see it." He drank a little wine and stared past me out the window. "I knew it when I saw the isle, that my road ended here. I just couldn't see
why
. Last night, when I saw that you knew, I was afraid."

"Hyacinthe." My voice broke as I whispered his name, tears starting in my eyes. "A nation at war has no need of
anguissettes
. It should be me. Let me stay."

"And do what?" he asked gently. "Throw rocks at the Skaldi? Knife the dying? Tell their fortunes? A nation at war has no need of Tsingani half-breeds untrained to arms, either."

"You have the
dromonde
! It is more than I can offer!"

"It's the
drotnonde
that brought me here, Phedre." Hyacinthe took my hands in his and looked down at our interlaced fingers. "It's the
dromonde
that sets me apart from D'Angeline and Tsingani alike. If it has led me to a place where I belong, then let me stay." Releasing my hands, he touched the diamond at my throat. "Kushiel marked you as his own," he said softly. "Whatever target he had in mind when he cast his Dart, I think it was not the Master of the Straits."

I shuddered and looked away.

"Besides," Hyacinthe added wryly, "that damned Cassiline would only turn around the instant we reached dry land, swim the Straits, and damn the lot of us. Bad enough he's vow-blinded; being besotted with you makes him a positive menace."

"
Joscelin
?" Startled, I raised my voice. Joscelin looked over, brows raised in inquiry. I shook my head at him, and he turned back to Rousse.

"Elua help him, if he ever comes to realize it." Hyacinthe traced the line of my brows, brushing my lashes with a fingertip; the red-moted eye. "And you."

"Hyacinthe," I pleaded with him, pulling away, glancing around the austere tower room. "Look at this . . . this place. You're the least-suited person in the world to end here! Without friends, laughter, music . . . you'll go mad!"

He looked around, shrugging. "I'll teach the Master of the Straits to play the timbales and the waves to dance. What would you have me say, Phedre? If you could survive crossing the Camaeline Mountains in the dead of winter, I can survive one lonely island."

"Eight hundred years."

"Mayhap." Hyacinthe rested his chin on his hands. "The Prince of Travellers, chained to a rock. It's funny, isn't it?" I stared at him, until he shrugged again. "The rest of the Lost Book of Raziel is out there, somewhere. I've always been good at finding things. Who knows? Maybe there's somewhat in those drowned pages to free me. Or maybe someone good at riddles will find a way." He flashed his impossible grin. "It wouldn't be the least likely thing you've done."

"Don't," I begged, half-laughing through tears. "Hyacinthe, it's not funny."

"It is, a little." He looked more soberly at me. "Do me a favor, will you?" I nodded. "My house, the stable ... it should go to my crew in Night's Doorstep. I'll write out a deed. Give it to Emile, I left him in charge. If there's aught left of the City of Elua when this is done, he'll know what to do."

"I promise."

"Good." He swallowed; it was a little harder, facing the reality of what he'd chosen. "And make an offering to Blessed Elua in my mother's name."

I nodded again, my eyes blurred with tears. "Anasztaizia, daughter of Manoj." She had defied the Tsingani, and taught her son the
dromonde. What do you suppose she saw, eh? The
Lungo Drom
and the
kumpania,
or somewhat else, a reflection in a blood-pricked eye
? What Hyacinthe saw in mine, I knew; I could see it reflected in his, through my tears—a lonely tower on a lonely isle. "I will."

"Thank you." He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the waves, surging golden beneath the late-afternoon sun. On the far side of the room, Rousse, Drustan and Joscelin watched us quietly. If they had not known it before, I was sure Joscelin had told them how deep rooted the friendship between Hyacinthe and me was; Drustan understood Caerdicci better than he spoke it, he knew enough for that. Longer even than Delaunay, I'd known him, if only by a day. He had been my friend, when I had no one else to call the same; he had been my freedom, while I had been a bond-slave. He turned around to look gravely at me. "Phedre, be wary of Melisande Shahrizai."

I touched her diamond. "Do you speak the
dromonde
?" I asked, fearful.

He shook his head. "No," he said, with a rueful smile. "Your life takes more odd turns than a Mendacant's tale. I doubt I could see past tomorrow sundown. It's easier to look backward, you know; it's all fixed, no matter how far back it reaches. I speak as one who knows you, no more. If you ever have a chance to confront her alone, don't take it."

"Do you truly think I don't hate her enough to trust myself?" I asked with a bitter laugh. "You weren't there in the wagon with me, when I awoke after her betrayal."

"I was there at the Hippochamp when I threw away my birthright to bring you out of the trance the mere sight of her sent you into," he said. "Whatever caused it, it's not all hatred. She should never have let go the leash when she set that collar on you. Don't give her the chance to lay a hand on it again."

It was fair; more than fair, it was likely true, in the darker corners of my soul, which I did not care to acknowledge. I bit my lip and nodded. "I won't. Blessed Elua grant I have a chance to heed your words."

"Good." He looked at all of us, then. "If you don't mind," he said quietly, "I'd like to be alone for a little while, I think. I may as well start getting used to it, before we say our farewells. And you've a campaign strategy to plan, once the Master of the Straits has shown you what he may. You'll need your wits about you."

SEVENTY-NINE

So it was that there were only four of us, and not five, who gathered once more atop the high temple of the Master of the Straits.

"You are ready?" he asked, in that voice that spoke many tongues at once. Numb with grief, it no longer seemed so strange to me.

"Show us what you will, my lord," I said for us all.

The Master of the Straits swept his arm through the air above the bronze vessel, the trailing sleeve of his robe shifting to amber in the low sunlight. "Behold," he said. "War."

The word held all the cold, benighted terror of the ocean deeps. We stood around the tripod and watched as pictures formed on the surface of the water.

Skaldi, tens of thousands of them, armed with spear and sword and axe, helms on their heads, bucklers on their arms; thousands of Skaldi, pouring over D'Angeline borders through the Northern Pass. Bands of Skaldi riding across the flatlands and ranging along the Rhenus, hurling spears at D'Angeline ships sailing on the river, whirling and retreating from the answering volley of arrows. Skaldi in the lower passes, holding ground, drawing D'Angeline soldiers eastward.

And in the mountains of Camlach, Isidore d'Aiglemort, glittering in armor, waited in command of some five thousand men, all answering to the flaming sword of the Allies of Camlach.

I pressed my fist against my mouth, watching. They had
known
Selig's invasion plan, I'd told them as much! I had thought Ysandre had believed. Was it too much to ask, that an entire army obey the Queen's command, on the say-so of a Servant of Naamah turned runaway Skaldi slave? And one convicted of murder, I remembered grimly. But surely Ysandre was clever enough to credit the intelligence elsewhere.

"Wait," said the Master of the Straits.

The pictures on the water changed.

The Skaldi horde swept down from the Northern Pass like locusts, killing as it came. I saw Waldemar Selig himself, massive atop his charger, commanding the left flank. Kolbjorn of the Manni, whom Selig trusted, led the right. The horde was strung out, the center falling behind; there were so many of them, it wouldn't have mattered if the D'Angelines hadn't known.

I saw the apple-tree banner of Percy de Somerville flying beneath the silver swan of House Courcel as a vast portion of the D'Angeline army withdrew from the lower passes, wheeling and turning, regrouping and surging north across Namarre to intercept the Skaldi.

And in the mountains of Camlach, I saw Isidore d'Aiglemort raise his hand and shout a command. Did he know, I wondered, that Selig had betrayed him? His force, arrayed in deadly efficiency, was poised to descend. Quintilius Rousse, his voice ragged with tears, called curses down on d'Aiglemort's head.

And then, inexplicably, confusion broke out among d'Aiglemort's ranks; the Allies of Camlach, turning, milling. I stared at the waters, trying to sort out what was happening.

When I saw, I wept.

The rearguard of d'Aiglemort's own force had fallen upon his men, slashing and killing. And here and there among them, in the pockets where the fighting was fiercest, I saw crude banners lashed onto spear-poles; the insignia of House Trevalion, three ships and the Navigator's Star. Young men, who went down fighting wildly; I could see the cry their lips shaped as they fought and slew. I'd heard it, long ago, chanted as they rode in triumph. Bau-doin! Bau-doin! It had been Caspar Trevalion's plan to send "Baudoin's Glory-Seekers into Camlach. Whatever part they may have played in the schemes of the Lioness of Azzalle, they paid their debt in full that day.

They didn't fall alone, the Glory-Seekers of Prince Baudoin de Trevalion. There had been others among the Allies of Camlach loyal to the Crown. They had to have known it was suicide. Even as I watched, horror-stricken, the Due d'Aiglemort rallied his loyal forces, shouting soundlessly.

But it had been enough to shatter d'Aiglemort's attack. A handful of surviving rebels fell back and peeled away, retreating at speed down the mountains. The quickest among d'Aiglemort's men would have pursued, but the Due held them back, gathering to assess his forces. He was too clever for haste in battle.

Those rebels captured alive, d'Aiglemort interrogated. One of them—one of the Glory-Seekers—laughed and spat at the Due, while d'Aiglemort's men wrestled him to his knees and put a sword to his neck. D'Aiglemort asked him somewhat. Even without hearing, I could guess the answer by the terrible expression on Isidore d'Aiglemort's face.

He hadn't known Waldemar Selig had betrayed him.

He knew it now. He killed the messenger.

Would that the Master of the Straits' charmed basin hadn't shown what happened to the fleeing rebels . . . but it did. We watched as they gained the fields of Namarre, d'Aiglemort's force following in leisurely pursuit. Bent on escaping the Allies of Camlach, they ran straight into the forces of Waldemar Selig.

Joscelin made a strangled sound. I turned away.

"Watch," said the Master of the Straits, his voice remorseless.

It was a slaughter. It was swift, at least; the Skaldi are trained to kill efficiently, and Selig's warriors especially. I watched them sing as they killed, blades reddened. Doubtless I'd heard the songs before. In the vague distance, I could make out the shining hawk banners of d'Aiglemort's advance guard, beating a prudent retreat, unseen by the Skaldi invaders.

And then the bulk of the D'Angeline army swept onto the scene.

The fighting was too widespread to compass. We pieced it together, watching. Percy, Comte de Somerville rode at the head of the army, driving a wedge into the weak middle of the Skaldi masses. Ah, Elua, the bloodshed! It was dreadful to behold. I tried to number the banners in the D'Angeline army, and could not. Siovalese, Eisandine, L'Agnacites, Ku-sheline, Namarrane; no Azzallese, for they were ranged along the northern border, holding the Rhenus.

And no Camaeline, for they were with d'Aiglemort or dead.

I saw the gold lion of the Royal House of Aragon flying above a company of foot-soldiers, some thousand strong, who wore flared steel helms and fought with well-trained efficiency, using long spears to force back the Skaldi foot.

I saw, to my surprise, the Due Barquiel L'Envers at the head of two hundred Akkadian-taught cavalry, harassing the right flank of the Skaldi with short-bows. Drustan mab Necthana leaned forward, alert with interest; I couldn't blame him. The Due grinned broadly as he rode, the ends of his burnouse trailing at the base of a conical steel helm, and his riders wheeled and turned like a flock of starlings, releasing a deadly shower of arrows. One took Kolbjorn of the Manni through the eye, and I wasn't sorry to see it. I'd had my doubts of Barquiel L'Envers, who had been my lord Delaunay's enemy for so long, but I was glad, now, he was on our side.

In the end, the Skaldi were simply too many. The Comte de Somerville's wedge broke the Skaldi center, driving a dreadful swathe of carnage; the right flank was in disarray, breaking up in a surge to meet L'Envers' fleeting attacks.

But on the left, to the east, was Waldemar Selig. I watched, unable to look away, as Selig gathered his forces, roaring soundlessly, and brought them to bear on the D'Angeline army, closing in from behind on the rearguard of the Comte de Somerville's driving wedge.