"Well and good." Ysandre cut me off, gazing into the distance, and I understood then that she had not spoken in mockery of me—and I saw, too, that 'twas no mere stub bornness that held her to this course. It is said, at times, the Scions of Elua could hear his call; I do believe Ysandre heard it then, calling her home to his City. "It is my pride and folly that has brought us to this pass. If I had heeded your fears long ago, I would not have gone trusting to La Serenissima. Let us choose the way of expiation, and place ourselves in Kushiel's hand. The Unforgiven shall form our point guard, and escort us to the City of Elua."
"The Unforgiven have sworn on Camael's sword to ward the borders of Camlach for all time!" Amaury Trente sighed again. "And you granted them that right, Ysandre. If they prove loyal, do you think they will be lightly forsworn?"
"Sometimes," Joscelin murmured, "one must break one oath to uphold a higher."
"Yes." Ysandre turned her gaze back to me. "What do you say, Phèdre nó Delaunay? It is you who shall command them, and not I. Kushiel's chosen has the right to ask what the Queen of Terre d'Ange does not. Will the Unforgiven obey?"
I saw in my mind Tarren d'Eltoine's face washed by fire light, calm and implacable. Kushiel's hand need not know its master's bidding, he had said to me; but I had endured the mysteries of the Temenos since then. I knew what I did, when I asked men to break their oaths and march toward death. Kushiel's hand, they had called me; but in Phaistos, a slave-girl had named me
lypiphera,
the pain-bearer. "Yes, my lady," I said softly. "They will obey."
Thus it was decided that we would ask only hospitality of the Duke of Milazza, and a replenishment of our stores. There, we were received with much fanfare, and our entke party ushered into the gates of the city, a gilded canopy borne over the head of Ysandre de la Courcel as we paraded through the streets to enter the mighty keep of the Castello. It is a vast, walled fortress encompassing an entire park, with tall, sturdy towers at every corner.
The Duke of Milazza was a slow, shrewd man, and I could see he wondered at Ysandre's haste and her story
.
I will say that she faced him down magnificently, cool gaze and raised chin giving not an inch before his suspicion; and I thought, too, that she had chosen wisely in refusing to ask him for troops. It was his Duchess, who was a noblewoman of an ancient Tiberian line, who intervened, calling upon the laws of hospitality to uphold Ysandre's request.
So we were feasted in the Castello, and the Duke opened his stores and promised guides to show us the quickest way through the foothills of the Camaelines. I think Amaury Trente repented his eagerness to rely on Caerdicci forces that day, though he never admitted as much. Still, 'twas there for all to see, how swiftly the proffered hand of an ally may be withdrawn when one's fortune turns.
In the morning, we departed for Camlach.
Of that journey, I will say little. I have crossed the Camaelines before, at their highest peak in the depths of win ter. It was a dreadful journey, and one on which I thought I might die or simply give up several times daily. If this was considerably less harsh, it was by no means pleasant. I dug my
sangoire
cloak out of my bags and wore it atop the woolen Illyrian cloak, shivering under both. I daresay we all would have flagged on that journey, were it not for Ysandre de la Courcel, who endured the same hardships and ignored them all, gazing westward with the fixed intensity of a sailor following the Navigator's Star. Like the others, I huddled atop my mount and followed after her, blowing on my near-frozen fingers. I'd have laid down with Selig himself for a pair of Skaldi mittens on that journey.
Joscelin, of course, was bright-eyed and alert, breathing in the mountain air and looking about him. He was born and bred to the mountains of Siovale, which are at least as rugged as these foothills. I hated him a little for that, and took comfort in knowing that Ti-Philippe did too.
Our Milazzan guides—hill-folk themselves, fur-clad and silent—melted away as we drew near the border, pointing out the last pass with quick bows. Ysandre's Bursar tossed them some silver coins, which they caught adeptly before disappearing.
We filed through the pass in a long line, our tired horses stumbling.
Terre d'Ange, I thought. I was home. No matter what else happened, we had at least come this far. Others felt the same, for I heard more than one voice offer a breathed prayer of thanks.
It was only minutes before a lone sentry spotted us. Amaury Trente rode after him, shouting, but too late; the sentry mounted at lightning speed and set off on his fresh horse. Lord Trente was soon left wallowing in his wake and drew up. I leaned on my pommel, glad of a moment's rest, and looked up to find Ysandre gazing at me.
"It is your plan, Phèdre," she said. "What would you have us do?"
"Follow him," I replied wearily. "And let me ride at the fore, my lady. I have promised to stand surety for this plan."
Ysandre paused, and nodded; Amaury Trente's advance guard parted to make a passage. I rode to take my place at the front of the party, with Joscelin at my side, my Cassiline shadow, pausing only to give a few words of instruction to Ti-Philippe and the other men-at-arms who warded Ysan dre's ladies.
So we rode onward.
It was late afternoon when the scouting party found us, and the sun slanted low and orange through the pines. They had chosen their spot with care; a narrow bottleneck in the stony path, leaving our party strung out in a straggling line behind us. Twenty of them, crossbows at the ready, in well-worn armor with black shields hanging at their sides. I knew how skilled their formations were. A dozen men would suf fice to hold us here for the better part of an hour, while the others raced to report; doubtless the garrison had already been turned out and was on its way.
"Who are you, who have entered unbidden onto D'Angeline soil?" one of the foremost asked, his voice muf fled by the visor of his helm. "Name yourselves!"
I nudged my horse forward, fearfully aware of the barbed quarrel of his crossbow pointed directly at my heart
.
"My lord guardsman, I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," I said aloud. "I ask safe passage among the Unforgiven for her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange.”
There was no echo of Kushiel's bronze-edged thunder to my words, no hint of scarlet haze to my vision; only my voice, thin and tired in the cold air. Nonetheless, the leader checked, putting up his crossbow. A murmur arose, before and behind. He lifted his visor and rode forward, setting his horse sideways to me as he leaned in the saddle, peering at me. Beside me, Joscelin tensed, his hands edging for his daggers. Low sunlight glanced off his vambraces, and one of the Unforgiven exclaimed.
"My lady!" The leader of the scouting party's eyes wid ened; he had seen my dart-stricken gaze. Before I could speak he had dismounted, kneeling in the snow-dusted pine mast. "Kushiel's chosen," he murmured. "We are yours to command."
Once again, I sat bewildered as, one by one, the Unfor given dismounted and bowed their heads, kneeling to me, and this second time was no less strange than the first. I turned in the saddle to meet the steady, violet gaze of my Queen, who had chosen to risk her very throne at my word. I turned back to face the Unforgiven.
"Take us to Southfort," I said. "I have a favor to ask Captain d'Eltoine."
EIGHTY
Tarren d'Eltoine received us with hospitality and no little awe.
"Majesty," he said bluntly, going to one knee and bowing his head to Ysandre. "Forgive my surprise, but we did not look to see you alive. I received word two days past that you were slain in La Serenissima, and your uncle the Duc L'Envers had seized the throne and sealed the City."
Tears of relief stung my eyes. "It's true?" I asked, heed less of protocol. "Barquiel L'Envers holds the City of Elua?"
D'Eltoine opened his mouth to reply, then glanced at Ysandre, who gave a brief nod. "Rise, Captain, and tell us what you know," she bid him.
This he did, in the crowded council room of the Southfort garrison, while members of the Queen's party and the Unforgiven alike pressed close to hear the news. "Majesty, I don't vouch for the truth of it, but this is what I was told. Six days ago, Prince Benedicte's couriers brought the news that there had been rioting in La Serenissima, and you had been foully murdered as part of a conspiracy headed by the newly elected Doge's brother, with the aid of a Cassiline traitor. They carried orders to his grace the Duc de Some rville to secure the City's safety, for Prince Benedicte would be following in all haste. Lord Percy immediately began to move his troops from Champs-de-Guerre, and, begging your pardon, majesty, your uncle Barquiel used his authority as Regent to stage a coup and seal the City against him."
"And now?" Ysandre asked grimly.
The Unforgiven Captain shrugged, spreading his hands. "L'Envers had a fair number of his own men in the City, and it seems the Palace and City Guards are loyal to him. Enough to hold, for a time. The Royal Army is encamped at the very walls of the City; Lord Percy is reluctant to use siege engines against the jewel of Terre d'Ange. It is his hope that the City will surrender and give over your uncle when Prince Benedicte arrives."
"Prince Benedicte isn't coming, my lord," I said softly. "You guessed rightly when you guessed I went hunting trai tors. I found them."
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy. "Prince Benedicte?"
"Yes." I felt pity for him; he would take it hard, having served already under one traitor. "He was one. I sought the missing guardsmen of Troyes-le-Mont, do you remember? I found them in La Serenissima, in the Little Court of Benedicte de la Courcel."
Tarren d'Eltoine was not a slow-witted man. He looked at me with a flat gaze. "Who sent his couriers to Lord Percy, the Royal Commander, and not the Queen's chosen regent.”
"Yes, my lord," I said. "I am sorry."
"You are certain?"
"We are certain," Ysandre interposed in her cool voice, though there was compassion in her expression. "It was Percy de Somerville who enabled Melisande Shahrizai's escape." And she told him, then, the whole of the story, beginning with de Somerville's complicity in the schemes of Lyonette de Trevalion, all the way through Melisande's blackmail, her deception in La Serenissima, Prince Bene-dicte's betrayal, the plots of the Stregazza, David de Rocaille's attempted revenge for his sister's long-ago death, and the missing heir, Imriel de la Courcel.
D'Eltoine's mien grew stony with gathering anger, re flected in the faces of all the Unforgiven. "Majesty," he said when she had finished. "My couriers are at your disposal. They will carry this story the length of Camlach, and to Eisheth, to Namarre, to Siovale, that you might begin raising an army to move against Lord Percy—"
"No." Ysandre shook her head. "While I am Queen, I will not instigate civil war in Terre d'Ange. I ride to the City of Elua, Captain, to claim my throne."
He stared at her; behind me, I could hear Amaury Trente heave a sigh. "What would you have me do, majesty?" d'Eltoine asked, bewildered.
I stepped forward. "My lord Captain," I said formally. "You told me once that the Unforgiven had sworn to obey Kushiel's chosen. This thing I ask, in Kushiel's name: That your company lead her majesty the Queen to me City of Elua."
"Leave the borders?" Tarren d'Eltoine blanched. "Comtesse, we have sworn an oath to Camael as well, to ward the passes against the Skaldi for as long as we shall live. Do you ask us to abandon this trust?"
"You have other recruits to man the garrisons, and the Skaldi have retreated far from our borders," I said to him. "The threat to the realm lies now at its heart, my lord, and the path to your redemption lies in facing betrayal, not the Skaldi.”
He looked away from me, murmuring, "What you ask is hard,
anguissette."
"Yes." Though I ached for his pain, I did not waver. "I know."
For a long moment, he said nothing, then gave at last a brusque nod. "Majesty," he said to Ysandre. "Grant me a day, to assemble the Unforgiven. We will escort you to the City of Elua."
So it was decided, and riders set out within the hour, racing north to carry word to the garrisons' relay stations. I knew well how swiftly the Black Shields could muster. For our part, we took our ease as best we could in the confines of Southfort and beyond, establishing a campsite for the bulk of Amaury Trente's guard.
With a decision made and a plan to implement—even a foolhardy one—our spirits were strengthened. It was, after all, somewhat of a homecoming; and we were D'Angeline. Kegs of wine were brought forth and heated in vast kettles above the hearth, mulled with spices, to be shared among guardsmen and soldiers alike, and those few of us who were neither. One of the grey-haired ex-soldiers who served as a steward to the garrison brought out a lap-harp in fairly good tune, and Marie de Flairs and Vivienne Neldor took turns at singing and playing. Ysandre's ladies-in-waiting had en dured the journey without complaint, and I had come to admire them both. I daresay their efforts did a good deal to raise the spirits of the Camaeline soldiery, still reeling from our news. We who had been on the road had had longer to become accustomed to it.
Ysandre was closeted with Captain d'Eltoine, Lord Trente and their various subcommanders, plotting a detailed course of action. I did not regret being excluded from these strat egies, being content to leave it to the heads of state for once.
