Kushiel’s Dart

"Thank you." He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the waves, surging golden beneath the late-afternoon sun. On the far side of the room, Rousse, Drustan and Joscelin watched us quietly. If they had not known it before, I was sure Joscelin had told them how deep rooted the friendship between Hyacinthe and me was; Drustan understood Caerdicci better than he spoke it, he knew enough for that. Longer even than Delaunay, I’d known him, if only by a day. He had been my friend, when I had no one else to call the same; he had been my freedom, while I had been a bond-slave. He turned around to look gravely at me. "Phèdre, be wary of Melisande Shahrizai."

I touched her diamond. "Do you speak the dromonde?" I asked, fearful.

He shook his head. "No," he said, with a rueful smile. "Your life takes more odd turns than a Mendicant’s tale. I doubt I could see past tomorrow sundown. It’s easier to look backward, you know; it’s all fixed, no matter how far back it reaches. I speak as one who knows you, no more. If you ever have a chance to confront her alone, don’t take it."

"Do you truly think I don’t hate her enough to trust myself?" I asked with a bitter laugh. "You weren’t there in the wagon with me, when I awoke after her betrayal."

"I was there at the Hippochamp when I threw away my birthright to bring you out of the trance the mere sight of her sent you into," he said. "Whatever caused it, it’s not all hatred. She should never have let go the leash when she set that collar on you. Don’t give her the chance to lay a hand on it again."

It was fair; more than fair, it was likely true, in the darker corners of my soul, which I did not care to acknowledge. I bit my lip and nodded. "I won’t. Blessed Elua grant I have a chance to heed your words."

"Good." He looked at all of us, then. "If you don’t mind," he said quietly, "I’d like to be alone for a little while, I think. I may as well start getting used to it, before we say our farewells. And you’ve a campaign strategy to plan, once the Master of the Straits has shown you what he may. You’ll need your wits about you."

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.