Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Fifty-Four

In the days that followed, no further pursuit came upon us. The weather was our only enemy, but of a surety, it was enemy enough. With horses somewhat fresher than our own had been, we pressed harder, stopping when the light failed and setting up camp to fall into an exhausted sleep.

Betimes we encountered steadings along the way, but our senses had grown keen living in the wilderness, and each time either Joscelin or I detected signs of human habitation well in advance. We gave all steadings a wide berth, and never made camp within less than an hour’s ride from the nearest man-sign. Once or twice more, we saw wolves at dusk, and one terrifying time, we disturbed a fierce bear from its winter slumber in a cave that proved not to be abandoned. I thought my gallant pony lost that time as we fled, the longer-legged horses churning snow in their terror, but he floundered in our wake, making a horrid squeal of fear, his hindquarters inches away from swiping claws the length of my whole hand. I have heard the fabled oliphaunts of Bhodistan are the largest creatures living, but if I never see a doughtier beast than a Skaldic bear, I will rest well content. In this one thing, winter proved our friend, for the bear gave up the chase after a short distance and turned to lumber back into the depths of its shelter, and sleep.

Thus did we reach the Camaeline Range without further incident.

There is no easy way to cross from the Skaldic territories into Terre d’Ange. Where the Camaelines give way in the north, the Rhenus River takes over, too deep and fast to be forded, and seldom bridged since the days of the Tiberian Empire. They, with their legions of engineers, could muster a bridge-building brigade in a matter of a day, given sufficient timber. Since then, D’Angelines have held the river border.

If we dared, I would have ridden clear up to the flatlands and begged passage through Azzalle, for I’ve no doubt there were loyal adherents to the Crown there, if only in the person of Ghislain de Somerville, who, to the best of my knowledge, still held command of Trevalion. But to cross the heart of Skaldi wilderness was one thing; to ride the borders during wartime-albeit a war Terre d’Ange didn’t know was coming-was another. No, it had to be the mountains, and expedience demanded that we attempt the southernmost of the Great Passes.

We rode in the shadow of the tall peaks of the Camaelines for a day, and camped beneath them at night. The snow was deeper here, and it was hard going. Still, we were close enough to sense that the air of home lay on the far side of those cruel mountains, and it gave us heart.

In the morning, we came upon a sight that dashed our hopes.

I had feared that Selig would take further measures against us, and my fears were well-founded. Joscelin, heeding them, made a reconnaissance on foot and returned grim-faced, leading me to a secure vantage point. On the snowy plains before the southern pass, we saw them: A party of some two-score Marsi raiders, encamped between us and the pass.

Harald had said he’d traded places with one of Selig’s hand-picked thanes. I saw now what he meant. Selig had sent the steading-riders as well, turning out the Marsi tribe to guard the passes against us.

I looked once, hoping against hope, at Joscelin.

"Not a chance," he said ruefully, shaking his head. "There are too many and on open ground, Phèdre. I’d be slaughtered."

"What, then?"

He met my eyes reluctantly, then turned, gazing up at the vast mountain peaks, towering high above us.

"No," I said. "Joscelin, I can’t."

"We have to," he said gently. "There’s no other way."

On the plain below us, the Skaldi of the Marsi built up their fires, singing and holding games, drinking and shouting and dashing at each other in mock combat. For all of that, they kept scouts posted, watching the horizons. There were probably men of Gunter’s steading among them, I thought; men I’d known, men I’d served mead. We could hear them, occasionally, the clear thin air carrying their shouts. If word of what we’d done to Selig’s thanes had reached them, they’d kill us without blinking. We couldn’t go through them, and we couldn’t go around them.

He was right. There was no other way.

I pulled my wolfskin cloak tight around me and shivered. "Then let’s go. And may Elua have mercy on us."

I will not tell every step of that treacherous journey. It is enough to say that we survived it. Joscelin rode back the way we’d come, flogging his poor mount, and returned in the lowering orange light of sunset to report that he’d found a trail, a mere goat-track, winding up among the crags beyond where the eye could follow. Turning our backs on the Skaldi, we rode back to make camp in the foothills, daring only the smallest of fires. Joscelin fed it all night with twigs, and I daresay it would have fit within his cupped hands. It kept the warmth of life in our flesh, though barely.

In the morning, we began to ascend.

After a certain point, it was no longer possible to ride, and we needs must dismount and climb, using frigid hands and feet to find holds, leading the horses scrambling after. I lost my mount on the first day. It was a horrible thing, and I do not like to think on it; he sheered away from a crag when it loosed a small avalanche of snow and lost his footing. If I’d been mounted, I’d have gone over the precipice too. As it was, we lost half our stores, and I was sick at the poor creature’s demise.

"Never mind," Joscelin said through frozen lips, his eyes looking as sick as I felt. "We’ve enough for two more days, and if we don’t live that long, it won’t matter."

So we kept on, shifting the bulk of our packs to the pony. I was glad I’d kept him with me, for he was surer-footed in the mountains than the tall horses.

Joscelin’s mount we lost on a misstep.

It happened after we had reached the summit, where the air was so thin we could not seem to fill our lungs, but gasped in breath like knives. It is beautiful in the mountains; so they say, and I daresay it is true. If I fail to describe the beauty of the Camaelines, do not think it is for lack of poetry in my soul. I fought for my life with every step, and could not spare the strength needed to lift my head and take in the view. We reached the top, and headed down.

It is easier to go down than up. It is also more dangerous. A pocket of snow, a hidden crevice; Joscelin’s horse snapped a foreleg. It was the second he’d had to put down, and no easier than the first. This time, he held the cook-pot to the vein when he cut it.

"One of Barquiel L’Envers' men told me the Akkadians make blood-tea when they’re caught out in the desert," he said without looking at me. "They can live for days, and the horses too. He’s dead anyway, Phèdre."

I did not argue; it was true. We drank blood-tea. We survived the mountains, and descended into Camlach.

The province of the traitor Duc, Isidore d’Aiglemort, and the Allies of Camlach.

It was too much to ask, that we should pass unnoticed through the D’Angeline borderlands. When they sing of this winter, the poets-none of whom stood atop the Camaelines, you may be sure-call it the Bitterest Winter. The Skaldi had been raiding all winter, braving the passes. The border was well patrolled.

The Allies of Camlach found us that night.

We were careless, it is true, relieved to be alive. Our campsite was secluded and our fire small, but it might as well have been a beacon in those lands, which are little kinder than the Skaldi territories themselves, so close to the mountains.

It was a small scouting party that found us, riding out of the darkness with a faint jingle of bit and harness, the firelight gleaming on mail shirts. Joscelin sprang to his feet with a curse, kicking snow at the fire, but too late; they were on us.

They expected us no more than we did them; less, I daresay. No more than a score of men, mounted D’Angeline warriors all, staring in perplexity at the sight of us. My heart bounded and sank, all at once, and I looked frantically for their standard-bearer.

There, the burning sword, emblazoned on sable. Allies of Camlach. Not d’Aiglemort’s men, though; Elua favored us. Beneath it flew a standard of a mountain crag and fir, argent on green. Whose House, I wondered desperately, searching the archives of my mind.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin begin the sweeping Cassiline bow, reaching for his daggers. With a shout, I threw myself at him, cutting his knees out from under him. We rolled on the snowy ground together, while the Allies of Camlach stared. Whatsoever House they belonged to, I didn’t want word out that a lone woman and a Cassiline Brother were traveling through the wilds of Camlach.

One of their number stepped forward, a seasoned warrior in well-worn arms. "Identify yourselves!" he snapped curtly.

It wasn’t until then that I realized how we must look, the both of us, wind-and snow-burned, swathed in Skaldi furs, venturing alone through the worst of Camlach’s winter, with only a heavily laden Skaldi pony to accompany us.

"My lord!" I gasped, signing Joscelin urgently to silence. "I am sorry, we meant no harm! Do we trespass here?"

He settled back in the saddle, eased by my tone, my voice and accent clearly D’Angeline. "No, lass, you’ve the right to passage. But it’s not safe this close to the border. Who are you and where are you bound?"

Not to be easily swayed, then. I swallowed hard, and lied through my teeth. "Suriah of Trefail, my lord. This is my cousin, Jareth." I trembled, not dissembling; to be undone now was unthinkable. "Our village was destroyed by Skaldi raiders some days past. We…my cousin took a blow to the head, I hid him in the empty granary, they never found us, my lord. We took these things from those who’ll need them no longer, and fled for the City. Was that wrong?"

It was a gamble. I couldn’t be sure of where we were, nor how well these scouts knew all the mountain villages. One thing was sure, though. Trefail had been destroyed by the Skaldi. I knew, because it was the village where Alcuin had been born.

"No, no, not wrong." The scout’s face was unreadable in the shifting firelight, embers scattered across the snow by Joscelin’s attempt to extinguish it. "You thought we were Skaldi?"

"You might have been." I shuddered and stole a glance at Joscelin. He was silent under the shadow of the wolf-mask on his brow. "We didn’t know, my lord. My cousin got scared." Joscelin nodded without speaking, somehow managing to make it seem a dumb-show, for which I was grateful.

The leader chewed at his lower lip, ruminating. I saw his gaze wander over us, assessing our garb, our gear. I kept my head slightly averted, trusting to the flame-cast darkness to hide the tell-tale mark of Kushiel’s Dart. For a moment, I thought we’d get away with it; but the scions of Camael are too martial to trust wholly to the element of chance in a chance encounter.

"There’s nothing for you in the City of Elua," he said cannily. "Winter’s been hard, and it’s fever-stricken. You’ll ride with us to Bois-le-Garde. The Marquis le Garde won’t turn away Camaeline refugees, you’ll be well taken care of." He turned to one of his men. "Brys, ride on and tell the castellan we’re coming in. Be sure to give him the details."

He stressed the last words; there was no mistake. The le Garde rider began to turn his horse’s head northward.

Joscelin moved like lightning; and what’s more, he did it more like a Skaldi than a Cassiline, with brutal efficiency. One dagger-one dagger only-flashed from his sheath as he grabbed the leader of Bois-le-Garde’s scouting party, setting his blade to the man’s throat.

"Everyone," he said tersely. "Dismount. Now!"

They obeyed, eyes glaring fury. He set his teeth and held the dagger steady; their leader stood unmoving.

I didn’t need orders. Working frantically, I stowed our gear, lashing the packs onto our Skaldi pony.

"Two horses." Joscelin held himself rigid; I could see the effort it cost him, to hold a dagger on a fellow D’Angeline. He was breathing hard. "Scatter the rest."

I did it, though over a dozen armed warriors stood frozen in hatred, unwilling to sacrifice their leader by interfering with me. The horses scattered reluctantly, trained to obey; I had to shout and wave my arms, slapping at their hindquarters with ferocity. They ran, then, in all directions, save the two whose reins I’d lashed to a tree. They tugged at their restraints, large eyes rolling to show the whites.

"Ph…Suriah, mount up." Joscelin cursed at his near-slip, jerking the dagger. The leader inhaled sharply.

"You won’t get away," he said bitterly. "We’ll come after you."

"Our kin in Marsilikos will protect us!" I said defiantly. "You’ve no right to detain free D’Angelines!"

"Quiet!" Joscelin hissed at me. "Suriah, get out of here!"

He’d followed my lead; I followed his, freeing one of the Camaeline horses, swinging into the saddle and plunging headlong through the woods, trailing the pony on a lead-rope.

To any who’ve not tried it, I do not recommend a blind flight through the wilds on horseback. We blundered, crashing through the undergrowth, both animals caught by the contagion of my fear. Joscelin caught up with us no more than half a mile out, a dark blurred figure on horseback, and we rode for our lives.

It was a clear night, Blessed Elua be thanked, the stars standing distant and frosty overhead; if not for that, we would surely have been lost, but the Great Plow and the Navigator’s Star stood clear in the black skies above us, guiding our way and shedding their faint silvery light over the snowy landscape. Fixing a map in my mind, I headed us grimly south, hoping to intersect one of the great roads of the realm: Eisheth’s Way, that the Tiberians call the Via Paullus.

Eisheth’s Way leads south, to the coast; Marsilikos is her greatest city-founded long ago by Hellenes, even before Elua’s time-and because it is a harbor city, a great many wanderers end there. I hoped the Marquis le Garde’s men would take our bait, and follow our trail south.

We reached Eisheth’s Way come dawn, our Camaeline mounts staggering with exhaustion, foam-flecked and winded. The pony trotted behind us, sides heaving, still game; half-dead with tiredness as I was, it put me to shame.

There is little trade at this time of year. Now, in the Bitterest Winter, the road stretched open and empty before us, gilded with the pale gold light of dawn.

The Allies of Camlach could not be more than a mile behind us.

"A side road," I said to Joscelin, lifting my voice with an effort. "Any road, leading west. And pray they keep on toward Marsilikos."

He nodded wearily; we pressed the horses, demanding speed they didn’t have to give. An hour along Eisheth’s Way, we saw it, a nameless road, only the signpost with Elua’s sigil indicating that it led to the City.

"There." Joscelin pointed.

I cocked my head and listened. In the distance, I could hear hoofbeats, an erratic multiple beat. A dozen men, riding horses nigh as tired as our own. "Ride!" I gasped, setting heels to my mount.

Once more, we fled.

A mile along the route, we came upon the Yeshuite wagon.

We nearly ran them down, in truth, coming hard around a bend. It was a narrow road. The horses, done in, balked and wheeled; the team of mules set their ears and showed their teeth. Joscelin shouted something, I don’t know what, and a young girl poked her head out of the rear of the wagon even as the driver turned round to look at us.

I’d not known, until that moment, that it was a Yeshuite family, but I knew him by his sidelocks, long and dangling, while the rest of his hair was cropped at the neck. I would have said something then, but Joscelin spoke first.

"Barukh hatah Adonai, father," he said, at once breathless and respectful, giving his Cassiline bow from the saddle before I could protest. "Forgive our intrusion."

"Barukh hatah Yeshua a’Mashiach, lo ha’lam." The Yeshuite driver said the words automatically, keen dark eyes gauging us. "You are a follower of the Apostate, I think."

He spoke to Joscelin, who bowed again. A second face peered through the curtains at the back of the wagon, with a markedly girlish giggle. "Yes. I am Joscelin Verreuil of the Cassiline Brotherhood."

"Indeed. And who is chasing you so hard?"

I drew breath to answer, but Joscelin cut me off. "Men who are apostate even from the teachings of Blessed Elua, father, fruit of Yeshua ben Yosef’s vine. Stand aside, and we will go. Ya’er Adonai panav-"

"And why do they chase you?"

"To kill us, most like, by the time they catch us," I broke in impatiently. "My lord…"

"Your horses, I think, will not go much further."

It was true and I knew it, but they would go a little further, and right then, my only thought was to put as much distance as possible between us and our pursuers, whose mounts must surely be as tired. For after them would come fresher riders, and if we could get beyond the borders of Camlach ahead of them, we would be safer. "Yes, my lord, but-"

"Shelter us." Joscelin’s voice was abrupt, his eyes intense with the plea. "The men who follow us, father, they’ll not think to look in the heart of a Yeshuite family. They think we are rebels, perhaps, Skaldi spies. I swear to you, we are not. We are free D’Angelines, escaped from captivity, and we bear information on which the freedom of our nation hinges."

I drew in my breath, terrified by the trust with which he revealed our secret. The Yeshuite nodded slowly, then glanced at the back of the wagon. "How do you say, Danele?"

The curtains clashed open, and a woman with kind eyes and a shrewd face emerged, shooing the two girls into the depths of the wagon. She sized up Joscelin and me and her face softened, especially for Joscelin. "He is one of the Apostate’s own, Taavi. Let him in." Raising her voice, she called into the wagon. "Girls! Make room!"

And so we came to join the Yeshuites.