Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1)
Page 75Melisande.
Ah, Elua! I did love her once . . .
It was the cessation of pain that brought me back. Selig's knife had halted in the course of parting my skin from my flesh, paused in an incredulous moment. A voice was speaking, one I knew, clear words ringing on the night air in heavily accented Skaldic.
"Waldemar Selig, I challenge you to the holmgang!"
They let me go, then, and I fell over, my cheek cradled on the dusty, trampled field. I bled into the dirt and blinked unbelieving at the figure that had parted the Skaldi ranks.
Stolen armor and a stolen horse for disguise—he had done it before—and Cassiline arms, summer-blue eyes behind the wild, desperate dare.
"Elua, no," I murmured against D'Angeline soil.
Waldemar Selig stood staring, then laughed; laughed and laughed. "It would have been too much to ask!" he declared joyfully, spreading his arms. "Ah, All-Father Odhinn, you are generous! Yes, Josslin Verai, let us dance upon the hides, and then . . ." He turned, roaring his words toward Troyes-le-Mont. "Then let Terre d'Ange see how Waldemar Selig deals with her champions!"
These are the things the Skaldi love, the stuff of legend. Twenty spears pointed at Joscelin as he dismounted and his stolen mount was seized. They stripped away his stolen armor, too, while a ripple ran through camp as they searched for a suitable hide to stake out for the holmgang. Hauled to my knees and held in place by the two White Brethren, I saw it all. Selig's hazel eyes gleamed keen and bright as he tested the heft of his shield.
No one would lend one to Joscelin. He stood at ease in the Cassiline manner, only the steel vambraces on his forearms to protect him. I knelt bleeding, rife with pain, and cursed him in my soul. Whether Selig defeated him or no, it didn't matter. He wasn't fool enough to throw victory away on a game of honor. He would break Joscelin; or worse, use me to do it.
Joscelin, Joscelin, I thought, tears running unheeded down my face, You've done it, you've truly done it, and killed us all with your damnable vow.
They took their places at opposite ends of the hide. Joscelin crossed his arms and bowed. Waldemar Selig thrust his sword into the air, and the Skaldi shouted; one voice, thirty thousand throats. They began to pound their weapons upon their shields, a measured beat. Selig turned to the dark watching fortress and swept a mocking bow. I knelt, awash in pain.
And the holmgang began.
I would like to tell it in poets' words, this deadly dance they enacted on a few square feet of hide, before the whole of the Skaldi army and the silent defenders of Troyes-le-Mont. I would that I could. But they were fast, so fast, and I had come back a long way from Kushiel's realm. I saw swords flickering in the torchlight, streaks of steel awash in ruddy light, the sound of clashing metal lost in the beating surge of spear-butts against Skaldic shields. I saw Joscelin's hair, wheat-gold against the darkness, fan out in a tangle of Skaldi braids as he spun, evading Selig's biting blade. Fast; not fast enough. I saw his sleeve darken with spreading blood as the edge of Selig's sword slashed his arm above the vambrace.
The beating rhythm hesitated, waiting to see if blood would spatter the hide. Selig tossed aside his cracked shield and reached for another, knowing without looking that a loyal thane was at hand. Joscelin loosed the buckles of his vambrace one-handed, sliding it up and tightening it in place over the wound, using his teeth.
Laughing, Waldemar Selig attacked, and the beat resumed.
And I saw Joscelin deflect his blow with one sweeping gesture, ready for the attack, his other hand coming up to resume the two-handed grip on his sword-hilt, and his sword slid high across the darkness as Selig raised his shield to parry, the point scoring a line across Selig's jaw.
It bled red rivulets into his tawny-brown beard with its gold-wrapped fork; bled red rivulets, that dropped fat red drops of blood onto the hide.
The Skaldi ceased their pounding.
In silence, Joscelin bowed and sheathed his sword.
Waldemar Selig wiped one palm along his jaw and shook it contemptuously, spattering blood. "For that," he said softly, raising his sword to point it at Joscelin's heart, "I will let you live long enough to see what is left of her when I am done, and have given what remains to my men."
I knew the whiteness of perfect despair.
And he moved, flowing like water.
All the Cassiline forms have names: poets' names, lovely and serene, drawn from nature . . . birds on the wing, mountain streams, trees bending in the wind. It is how they name what they do.
Except for the one they call terminus.
There is a play, a famous play—its name was lost in white light of despair—in which a Cassiline Brother performs the terminus. I saw a player act it out, once, in the Cockerel. I knew it, then, swaying on my knees, held upright by my Skaldi guards. When Joscelin, spinning in my direction, tossed his right-hand dagger in the air and caught it by the blade, I knew. When he brought his left-hand dagger to his throat and set its point, I knew.
It is the last act the Perfect Companion may perform.
I met his eyes, the dagger in his right hand balanced to throw at my heart, the dagger in his left poised to cut his throat. I had judged him wrong. Truly, he had come to save us both, in the only way left to us. I had not known, until that moment, how very deeply I had feared my fate.
"Do it," I whispered.
Joscelin looked over my shoulder and froze.
And then moved like lightning, his right hand whipping forward to throw the dagger. It caught the White Brethren guard on my left in the throat and he fell backward with scarcely a gurgle, his hand leaving my arm. I swayed, unbalanced. Joscelin was coming toward me at a dead run, scarce pausing to snatch the hilt out of the Skaldi's throat. My other guard released me, fumbling for his sword. Too late; the crossed daggers took him high too, opening gaping wounds on either side of his neck. Heedless of the pain it caused, Joscelin grabbed my arm unhesitatingly, hauling me to my feet and plunging toward the fortress.
Half-dragged, staggering in his wake and in agony, I saw it. The portcullis was being raised. The Skaldi army roared behind us as the drawbridge crashed down across the moat. We raced desperately across the ruined earth, my lungs burning for air, each step an agony of blossoming pain.
That was when the night skies lit on fire.
From atop the battlements, the trebuchet were loosed, and gouts of flame seared the night; feu d'Hellas, liquid pitch, ignited and burning. It soared in an arc over our heads, splattering into the front line of our Skaldi pursuers, sending them rolling and screaming to earth. I heard Selig's voice, rising above it all. "Advance!" he roared. "Advance, and get ahead of it, you fools!"
How many listened, I don't know; enough, I daresay. But then the earth shook, and from the dark mouth of the gate a mounted sortie emerged.
Four Siovalese cataphracts, riders and horses alike covered head to hoof with armor, gleaming silver and gold by firelight. They pounded past us on either side, slamming into the wall of the approaching Skaldi. And on their heels, twenty-odd light-armed riders, turbaned and helmed, uttering a fierce Akkadian ululation. One swooped by me like a mounted hawk, a deft hand plucking me up to sling me across the pommel of his saddle. Jouncing in pain, I dimly saw Joscelin take the hand of another, swinging up behind him in the saddle.
We wheeled, and turned. The cataphracts split off and surged back toward the drawbridge, heavy hooves pounding; the other riders roiled in a semicircle against the Skaldi, fingers plucking at horsemen's bows. The trebuchet atop the fortress thudded dully, and more feu d'Hellas lit the air, glittering bright above the furious mien of Waldemar Selig, who stared unbelieving as his prize escaped.
Hoofbeats echoed as we fled across the drawbridge, the defenders of the gatehouse already working frantically at the winches. The last members of the sortie made it with desperate leaps, horses stumbling on the slanted planks.
The drawbridge shuddered into place, and they cut the ropes raising the portcullis, dropping it with a resounding crash. We had gained the inner ward. Slung across the saddle, limp and bleeding, I scarce heeded the commotion as the gatehouse guards rallied against the Skaldi who threw themselves in waves at the moat, driving them back coolly with a rain of crossbow-fire.
Safe within the stone walls of the fortress courtyard, the riders of the sortie dismounted, jesting with disbelief to find themselves still alive. My rescuer was among them, removing his conical steel helm and running a hand through his short-cropped, pale hair.
"Who would have thought," Barquiel L'Envers said ironically, "I'd risk my life for a member of Delaunay's household?"
I met his wry violet gaze as he helped me down from my awkward position, but then my feet touched the flagstones, and my strength gave way. I kept going, crumpling to a heap in the courtyard of Troyes-le-Mont.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
"Let her be!"
Then the cry, "Make way for the Queen!"
No fool, Ysandre; she had come with an Eisandine chirurgeon, who felt at me with cool hands, turning me on my stomach and examining Selig's damage, cleaning away the blood.
"It is not so bad as it looks," she said, reassuring, sending her assistant scrambling for a needle and thread. "He was aiming for pain and not death."
I gritted my teeth as she set the flap of skin back in place, anchoring it with deft stitches. But I did not cry out; they had heard enough of that, I reckoned. I could hear Ysandre murmur something to Joscelin, and his quiet reply. When it was done, the chirurgeon applied a salve and bound it tight with clean bandages, and I rose to my feet, my blood-soaked gown hanging loose from my shoulders.
By this time the courtyard stood full and waiting with the greater part of the D'Angeline Royal Army, amassed behind its lords and commanders, who stood aligned with Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange, flanked by two Cassiline Brothers. All of them, waiting on my words.
It was a little overwhelming.
Stiff with pain, I made my curtsy to Ysandre. I think she might have stopped me, if we had been alone; I saw her catch her breath. I managed. "Your majesty," I said, forcing my voice to steadiness.
"Phedre no Delaunay." She inclined her head. "Have we read your message aright?"
I took a deep breath and gazed at the sea of waiting faces. "An army of seven thousand stands ready to attack Selig's rearguard at daybreak," I said aloud, hearing a murmurous echo as my words were passed backward through the ranks.
Percy de Somerville, looking gaunt and tired, kindled to life. "Elua!" he exclaimed. "Seven thousand Albans!"
"No, my lord." I shook my head. "Half the force is Alban. The other half is Isidore d'Aiglemort's army."
This time, the murmur rose nearly to a roar, surging in waves through the courtyard. I wavered on my feet, and Joscelin caught my arm, steadying me. Disheveled and unwashed, hair in a half-braided tangle, one sleeve dark and stiff with blood, he looked nothing like his Cassiline brethren, and about ten times as dangerous.
"D'Aiglemort!" Barquiel L'Envers said in disgust. "Whose fool idea was that?"
"Mine, my lord," I said evenly. "Implemented by my lord de Somer-ville's son."
"Ghislain?" The light in Percy de Somerville's eyes grew brighter. "Ghislain is with them?"
I nodded, righting exhaustion. "Ghislain and a few hundred of his men. He left Marc de Trevalion in command in Azzalle, with Admiral Rousse. They planned the attack together; Ghislain, I mean, and d'Aiglemort and Drustan. And the Twins." I saw his face go blank. "The Lords of the Dalriada."
"Then Rousse is alive, and Marc, too." It was Caspar Trevalion, his salt-and-pepper hair gone greyer in the months since I'd seen him. I learned later that he had lingered too long aiding Ysandre and de Somerville in organizing the defense of Troyes-le-Mont, and been cut off from returning to Azzalle to fight with his kinsman.
"Yes, my lord," I said. "When we left them."
"Thanks to Elua," he murmured, grey eyes resting kindly on me, "for their safety, and yours."
"Why would Isidore d'Aiglemort aid us?" asked a quiet voice. I recognized Tibault, the Siovalese Comte de Toluard, more soldier than scholar now.
"Because," I shifted, and winced. My back throbbed and burned like fire. D'Aiglemort had been right, they were loathe to trust him. I hadn't reckoned on this difficulty; I'd not reckoned on being alive. "He is D'Angeline, my lord, and he is dead no matter what happens. I gave him the choice of a hero's death."
Barquiel L'Envers looked hard at me. "Are you that sure of him, Delaunay's pupil, that you'd risk our lives on it?"
"Because." L'Envers' eyes glinted, acknowledging my point. "Because we are D'Angeline, Phedre no Delaunay. And young Verreuil afforded Selig's men with a distraction." He clapped his hand on Joscelin's shoulder. "Good thing we came before you played out your Cassiline end-game, yes?" He laughed at Joscelin's level stare. "But d'Aiglemort is a traitor. Whatever Delaunay may have thought of me, I never let the Skaldi in the door. What does d'Aiglemort care who sits the throne, if he's dead either way? We set him up, with Baudoin's men. Do you think he wouldn't take the chance to serve us the same?"
Ysandre watched us, giving nothing away; the lords and the army were waiting on her decision.
"Oh, Isidore d'Aiglemort cares," I said softly. "And he wants revenge." I touched the diamond at my throat. "He is not playing for you, my lady," I said to Ysandre. "He is playing against Melisande Shahrizai."
There was a silence.
"That would do it," L'Envers admitted slowly.
"My lord de Somerville," Ysandre said crisply, turning to Percy. "We will support our allies and mount a counterattack on the Skaldi army. Will you so command it?"
Percy de Somerville bowed, his face firm with resolve. "Your majesty, I will." Willingness, and relief, in his voice; his son was leading those allies.
There was a muffled sound from the gatehouse. One of the defenders ran panting into our midst, saluting de Somerville. "They're breaking up the siege tower to lay timbers across the moat, my lord," he said, wiping his forearm across his brow. "Selig's out there, madder than a pricked bull."
"Use everything we have!" I didn't know the lord who spoke; a Ku-sheline, by his accent. Excitement was beginning to spread in the wake of Ysandre's pronouncement. "Set an archer at every arrow-slit, and rain down fire upon them! We've only to hold out till dawn!"
Cheering arose, setting my ears to ringing.
"No!" Percy de Somerville's voice quelled it. He glared at the lord who'd spoken. "Listen well," he said grimly into the subdued quiet that followed. "The last thing we want to do is make Waldemar Selig think we can afford to waste our armaments in fending him off. The moment he thinks we're confident, he'll start to ask himself why. We need to dig in, and let him think we've overextended ourselves. He's angry; good. Keep him mad and hungry, and above all, keep his attention on the fortressl Let him get as close as you dare, before you drive him back!" With a quick glance at Ysandre for permission, he began issuing orders, sketching out a plan of defense, and calling for the muster of the whole of the army.
I knew, then, that my role was done, truly done, and could have wept with relief to see the amassed forces in the courtyard surge into action, following de Somerville's commands, sure and orderly. Ysandre looked at me with compassion.
"Come," she said, gesturing toward the inner gate. "You shouldn't be standing, let alone walking and talking. I've a few attendants, inside. Let us at least make you comfortable. Messire Verreuil, will you assist?"
"A moment, your majesty," Joscelin murmured, turning aside to catch Tibault de Toluard's sleeve. "My lord, can you tell me if my father is here? He is the Chevalier Millard Verreuil, of Siovale. My brother Luc would be with him, and four or five men-at-arms, perhaps."
De Toluard hesitated, and shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, messire Verreuil. There are some sixteen hundred Siovalese, and I do not know them all. You might ask the Due de Perigeux, who commands for Siovale."
"His grace de Perigeux is on the battlements," a passing soldier commented. "Or was, at last count. One of the trebuchet's not firing. South wall, I think."
"No, it was the west," came a dissenting voice.
Other voices offered comments; the Siovalese commander, it seemed, was to be found wherever mechanical difficulties arose—they are clever with such things, Shemhazai's line—and no one knew of Joscelin's father or brother.
"Go find him," I said, seeing Ysandre arch an impatient brow. "I'm fine."
Joscelin looked incredulously at me. "You're a long way from fine," he muttered, picking me up unceremoniously, careful of my injuries, though heedless of my dignity. "Your majesty," he said, nodding to Ysandre.
Inside, it was quieter. Thick stone walls surrounded us, and one might almost forget that a siege was being waged outside. Only three ladies-in-waiting attended the Queen; they would have been legion, in the Palace, but Ysandre was enough Rolande's daughter that she would not permit her household staff to follow her to war. Those who had come had done so of their own choice. The Eisandine chirurgeon—whose name was Le-lahiah Valais—checked my bandages once, then tended to the gash on Joscelin's arm and departed, bowing.
After a change of clothes—a gown borrowed from one of Ysandre's ladies-in-waiting—I felt a little more myself. Ysandre had bread and cheese and wine brought in for us. I was not hungry, but I ate a bit, as it does not do to disdain a Queen's hospitality, and indeed, it settled my frayed nerves, and a glass of wine helped to dull the throbbing pain to a more bearable level.