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.
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 Na-marre. 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 beseiged." 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 Due 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. Jos-celin 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.
EIGHTYWe set sail at dawn.
Needless to say, much of the evening was spent in planning. At our request, the servants brought pen and ink and a clean-scraped parchment; there was no new paper to be had, on the Three Sisters. I sketched out a map of Terre d'Ange and the battle as we knew it, with Rousse, Joscelin and Drustan looking over my shoulder, adding and correcting.
Necessity had dictated by now that communication among us was accomplished in a polyglot babble, D'Angeline, Caerdicci and Cruithne mingled together. I could not be everywhere to translate. I daresay anyone listening would have found it nigh incomprehensible; nonetheless, everyone made themselves understood.
Hyacinthe listened with shadowed eyes.
We had told him, of course, what had transpired in the Master of the Straits' bronze mirror of seawater. He heard it without comment, sorrowing at the news.
It pained him to hear our plans, I could tell. After a time, when we had dined—absentmindedly from dishes brought into the library, where we worked—he bowed and took his leave.
"I'll see you off in the morning," he said softly.
I watched him go; and felt, unexpectedly, Joscelin's gaze upon me. He smiled wryly when I took notice, and shrugged, opening his hands. In the depths of a Skaldic winter, we hadn't needed words. I understood.
"My lord Admiral," I said. Quintilius Rousse looked up from pondering a drawing of a Caerdicci catapult scavenged from the library shelves. "You do not need me, I think, to plan a war."
"You trace a fair line . . ." He caught himself, shaking his head, and a compassionate expression crossed his scarred face. "No, my lady. We don't need you tonight."
Nodding my thanks, I returned to my chamber.
If the maidservants had labored to find fitting sea-treasures to adorn me last night, it was nothing to what I set them to now. I think, at least, that they enjoyed it; the young one giggled a great deal. Scavenging through trunks, piling high gorgeous garments cleansed and restored with loving care, they found another deemed acceptable; deep amber, like a low-burning flame, with gold brocade on the fitted bodice. A caul of gold mesh, to hold my hair; and, I swear it, tight-sealed vessels from some noblewoman's toilette, with cosmetics untainted by the sea.
I leaned close to the darkened glass of the old mirror, brushing a hint of carmine on my lips. Red, echoing the mote that blossomed on my left iris, startling against the dark bistre. My eyes, I touched with kohl; I have never used a great deal of color. I do not need it.
My attendants drew in a collective breath when I stood.
"'Tis like somewhat from an old lay," the eldest said, hushed. I ruefully glanced in the mirror.
"It is," I said, thinking of Hyacinthe's fate. "Very like."
His door was unlocked. Candle in hand, he glanced up sharply when I turned the handle and opened it; I caught him readying for bed, coatless, in a white shirt and dark breeches. He took one look at me, then another, staring hard.
"I'm not Baudoin de Trevalion," he said harshly. "I've no need of a farewell gift, Phedre."
I closed the door behind me. "If it's easier on you to be cruel," I said softly, "I understand. I will go. But if it's not. . . how do you want to remember it, Hyacinthe? On a battlefield outside Bryn Gorrydum, or here, like this?"
For another long moment he stood staring, then gave his best sweeping bow, high spirit rising, flashing his white grin. "To the Queen of Courtesans!"
In that moment, I loved him.
"And the Prince of Travellers," I said, inclining my head.
Of what passed between us that night, I will not speak. It had no bearing on aught that happened before or after, and was of no concern to anyone save Hyacinthe and myself. Seldom enough have I had the luxury of bestowing my gift, Naamah's art, where I chose. I chose that night, and I do not regret.
We were awake when the sky began to grey in the east.
"Go," Hyacinthe said, kissing my brow, his voice unwontedly tender. "Before my heart breaks. Go."
I went.
From my sea-buried finery, I changed into my travelling attire, Quin-cel de Morbhan's gift, cleaned with the same care as the gown I'd worn. I laid it back in the trunk, thanking the bleary-eyed servants, and went out to rejoin my companions.
On the wind-swept temple, we took our leave, the Master of the Straits standing silent as a statue, only his robes stirring. I would not relive that moment, for gold or jewels. How Hyacinthe endured it, I cannot say, but he had a word for each one of us, while our ship rocked on the water far below, and Tilian and Gildas oversaw the loading of our crew.
"My lord Cruarch," he said to Drustan, in the Cruithne taught him by Moiread and her sisters, "I will be watching." Hyacinthe grasped Drus-tan's hands, gold signet uppermost. "Blessed Elua keep you safe."
Drustan nodded. "The Cullach Gorrym will sing of your sacrifice," he said quietly. Their eyes met; there was no need of translating.
As the Cruarch made his lame progress to the steps, Quintilius Rousse stepped up to embrace Hyacinthe. "Ah, lad!" he said roughly. "You guided us through the mists to safe landing. I'll not forget." He wiped his eyes. "I'll curse the name of the Master of the Straits no more, Younger Brother. If there's aught you need sail for, send the wind to whisper in my ear."
"Bring them safe to shore," Hyacinthe said. "I ask no more than that, my lord Admiral."
Rousse left, and Joscelin took his place. "Tsingano," he murmured, gripping Hyacinthe's wrists. "I have no words."
Hyacinthe smiled wryly. "Funny. There's plenty I could say to you, Cassiline. You've come a long way since first I saw you, baited by Eglantine tumblers. You made the beginnings of a fair Mendacant, even."
"That I owe to you." Joscelin's hands tightened on Hyacinthe's wrists. "And a lesson in courage, too, Tsingano." He said the traditional Tsingani farewell, then; he must have learned it among the kumpanias. "I will speak your name and remember it."
"And yours." Hyacinthe leaned forward, and spoke in a low tone, so low I could not overhear. Awaiting my leavetaking, I turned to the Master of the Straits, who stood watching with eyes opaque as clouded crystal.
"Why did you let us cross for a song?" I asked abruptly, the question arising from wherever unanswered mysteries dwell. "And Thelesis de Mor-nay, and others. Why?"
The clouded eyes met mine. "My mother sang," the Master of the Straits said softly, his voice merging with the winds. "Sometimes, she sang to me. It is the only kindness I remember. After eight hundred years, I hunger for new songs."
I shivered and drew my cloak about myself. "I have no kindness to give you, my lord of the Straits, nor thanks. The price of your freedom is too high."
He did not answer, but only bowed. He knew, I think, the measure of that price.
Then Joscelin was gone and it was time to say good-bye.
Atop the lonely isle, Hyacinthe and I looked at one another.
"You're right," he said. "From Mont Nuit to the Palace, we would have ruled the City."
That was all he said and all there was to say. For a moment, I clung to him, then he pried my fingers gently from about his neck. "Elua keep you, Phedre," he whispered. "Go. Get out of this place."
All the long way down, step by broad step, I didn't dare look back. Tear-blinded, I made the descent, helped over the gangplank by Elua knows who. Colors and faces blurred; I heard Quintilius Rousse shouting, and the clanking of the chain as the anchor was weighed. Our ship set her prow toward the open seas, and a breath of wind came at our back. Up went the sails, snapping as they bellied full. Grey cliff walls rushed by in a blur, and we were clear, free of the isle, setting a northward course.
I looked back, then, when we were on the open sea. I could see them still, the columns of the temple rising atop the promontory, two small figures; one robed, still as a statue, the other smaller, black ringlets wind-tossed.