Kushiel’s Dart

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 Namarre. 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 besieged." 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 Duc 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. Joscelin 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."