Kushiel’s Dart

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?"