Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter 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. Baudoin! Baudoin! It had been Gaspar 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 Duc 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 Duc 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 Duc, 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, Kusheline, 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 Duc 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 Duc 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.

It was a rout. To de Somerville’s credit, it was an orderly one. I never fully understood, until then, how he’d come to the title of Royal Commander. I understood that day. A line of L’Agnacite archers, protected by the cavalry, took their positions, kneeling with longbows in hand. Faces grim, they held their position, firing volley after volley, holding the Skaldi at bay while the D’Angeline army retreated. Most of them would die, although Barquiel L’Envers' men, riding like Rousse’s ten thousand Akkadian devils, saved more than a few.

But the D’Angeline army’s flight was secured.

They fell back on Troyes-le-Mont, in the foothills of northern Namarre. Later, I learned, de Somerville had known it was likely; Troyes-le-Mont had been made ready for their retreat, stocked and garrisoned, fortifications in place.

Ysandre de la Courcel, who would stand or die with Terre d’Ange, was there.

It was the first thing we’d seen, in the waters of the Master of the Straits' bronze basin, and it was the last. The face of Ysandre de la Cource, the Queen of Terre d’Ange. Drustan drew a deep breath. Then the moving images faded from the surface of the water. In their place rose a map of Terre d’Ange.

"Do you understand?" the Master of the Straits asked, and pointed. "Here," he said, indicating the location of Troyes-le-Mont, "the D’Angeline army is besieged." His finger moved in a small circle. "All around, the Skaldi threaten." He traced the northern border of Azzalle. "Here, too, in lesser numbers, but enough to harry. Here, and here," he pointed at the lower passes, "the fighting is at a standstill. The numbers were too few. And here," he indicated the eastern edge of Eisande, that bordered on Caerdicca Unitas, "a force of the allied Caerdicci city-states holds, lest the Skaldi break through."

"Cowards," Quintilius Rousse muttered, his voice full of loathing. "The best they would offer, no doubt. My lord, can you tell me where my fleet lies?"

"They fly the swan?" the Master of the Straits asked; it surprised me, a little, that he did not know for a surety, although the faces on the water gave no names. Rousse affirmed it. "Here." The bone-white finger moved along the course of the Rhenus. "They hold the northern border with the Azzallese."

"Good lads," Rousse said gruffly.

"Then the Duc de Morbhan let them go," I mused. "Where’s de Morbhan, anyway? Did anyone see his banner?"

Heads shook. I pored over the basin, frowning. "Where is Isidore d’Aiglemort?" I asked the Master of the Straits, forgetting to be afraid of him. "He commands an army still, yes?"

"The silver-haired hawk of the north." The pointing finger hovered over an area along the upper border of Camlach and Namarre. "Here, today," the Master of the Straits said; his fingertip touched the surface of the water, and the map rippled and wavered. "Tomorrow, near. He has trapped himself in his folly."

"Good," I said bitterly, thinking of Baudoin’s Glory-Seekers, the hundreds of loyal Camaelines who’d died to pin him there. I touched the diamond around my throat. "Where is Melisande Shahrizai?"

The Master of the Straits hesitated, then shook his head. The sun, setting in the west, filled his mutable eyes with bloodred fire. Gildas and Tilian waited some feet away, agitated; it was time to descend the steps and refill the bronze basin. "Great events, I see reflected," said the Master of the Straits. "Small, I cannot see, unless the face is known to me."

"History hinges on small events," Quintilius Rousse said direly. Joscelin shifted, the sun at his back throwing the cruciform shadow of his sword-hilt across the bronze waters.

"There," Drustan mab Necthana breathed in Cruithne, ignoring us all. Leaning forward, he tapped the site of Troyes-le-Mont with one finger as had the Master of the Straits, marking the spot where Ysandre’s face had last been seen. Circular ripples spread outward, obliterating the map. When the waters stilled, it did not reform, but merely reflected sky and setting sun. "There is where we will go!"

He looked up at me, dark eyes gleaming in his blue masque. I glanced at Quintilius Rousse, the only one among us with military expertise, who looked to the Master of the Straits.

The tall, robed figure turned away, pacing to the far verge of the temple. "The Cruarch of Alba spoke truly when he said I did not play you fair. I will set your fleet where you will, where the shore touches sea. No more can I do. I have no mastery over land, to traverse it at will. First and Second Sisters I rule from the Third, though I may not leave her soil. No more can I do."

"My lord Admiral?" I held my gaze on Quintilius Rousse.

Rousse cleared his throat. "To the mouth of the Rhenus, then, Elder Brother, and as far up her shores as your wind may drive us." He scratched his chin and looked at the rest of us. "We’ll rendezvous with my fleet and Ghislain de Somerville’s forces and secure the northern border. Mayhap combined we can think of a way to break the siege on Troyes-le-Mont."

I translated this for Drustan, who nodded curtly. Young and lovesick he might be, but not such a fool as to throw away his people’s lives in a desperate charge.

"Tomorrow at dawn," the Master of the Straits spoke, turning round to face us, his face terrible and pale against the darkening skies. "The seas will carry you where you wish. Be ready."

"We will be," I whispered, shivering.

We were dismissed. Gildas and Tilian hurried past us to take up the bronze vessel, lifting it gently from the tripod and carrying it with exquisite care to the verge of the steps. I watched them disappear, piece by piece, as they descended one step at a time. I did not envy their job.

Walking back toward the tower, I gazed up the length of it, oriel windows lit from within, blazing amber, cobalt, ruby and sea-green across the rocky terrain. The chamber at the very top of the tower was ringed all round with them.

Hyacinthe.