Kushiel’s Dart

"They came at the Queen’s word! You did but carry it!"

"Ysandre de la Courcel did not play on the Twins' jealousy to spur the Dalriada to war," I said. "Or leave her oldest friend in the world bound to a lonely rock to win passage toward a doomed battle. I can’t run from this, Joscelin."

"What in Rousse’s seven hells do you think you can do?" he shouted at me. "It’s a war!"

I shrugged. "Put a face on what they’re fighting and dying for. That’s what you told me, isn’t it?"

He had no answer for that. "And if they vote to retreat?" he asked, looking away.

"I’ll go to Caerdicca Unitas and offer my services to Prince Benedicte," I said. Joscelin glanced back at me, surprised. "What other course is there? Drustan will stay, no matter what. Mayhap if the Caerdicci hear of the Cruarch of Alba’s sacrifice, it will sway some few of them."

"The Caerdicci won’t fight for Terre d’Ange," Joscelin said softly. "The city-states are more fractious than the Skaldi, and more jealous than the Twins. Not even Naamah’s wiles can bind them together, Phèdre."

"I know," I said. "But it’s better than waiting to fall into Selig’s hands." Rising, I stooped and kissed his cheek. "I’m sorry about your family. I’ll pray for them, Joscelin."

"Pray for us all," he whispered.

I did, too. It had been a long time since I’d truly offered prayer to Blessed Elua, and not just the desperate pleas one gasps out in terror. I prayed to Elua and all his Companions, not only those who had marked me, for wisdom, for guidance, for some glimmer of hope to hold against our despair. I prayed for the safety of Joscelin’s father and brother, for Ysandre de la Courcel and all immured in Troyes-le-Mont, for Drustan and the Twins and all of their folk, Rousse, Phèdre’s Boys, Ghislain and Trevalion and all the Azzallese, and Hyacinthe, alone at sea. For the Night Court and all her Houses, for the poets and players of Night’s Doorstep, for Thelesis de Mornay and Cecilie Laveau-Perrin, for the kind seneschal of Perrinwolde, and all his family.

In the end, I think I prayed for everyone I’d ever known, and everyone I’d never met, heart and soul of Terre d’Ange. Whether it did any good, I cannot say, but if my heart was no more at ease, it drove me at least to the sleep of exhaustion.

And in the morning, Drustan gave the answer of his people.

"We will stay and fight."

He gave it in Caerdicci, that all might understand. Ghislain de Somerville looked hard, not sure he’d heard him aright. "All of you?"

Drustan gave a short nod. "If you will swear us this," he said, switching to Cruithne; longer speeches were still difficult for him. "If we fall, someone must carry word to Alba. Our families and friends must know how we died. The poets must sing of our deeds."

I translated his words, and then said to him in Cruithne, "I promise it." He fixed his deep look on me. "I swear it will be so, my lord Cruarch." To Ghislain, I said in D’Angeline, "I swear it. In the Queen’s name."

Joscelin made a faint, despairing sound.

"Joscelin, think about it. If we fail…if I cannot cross the Straits," I said reasonably to him, "Who can?"

"She has a point, Cassiline," Quintilius Rousse observed.

"It was Caerdicca Unitas last night," Joscelin muttered sourly. "Tomorrow she’ll want you to sail to Khebbel-im-Akkad. If you ask me, lord Admiral, we ought to lock her in a dungeon and throw away the key."

"Then it is decided. I’ve sent word to Marc de Trevalion, asking to meet," Ghislain said, interrupting us. Hauling out one of his maps, he pointed to a spot along the Rhenus. "We’ll make our conference here. If Trevalion agrees, we’ll combine our forces under his command. With yesterday’s victory, we may even be able to spare a few hundred men. Lord Admiral, by your leave, I’d as lief have you stay with your fleet, and command the defense of the western banks." He looked up inquiringly.

It was something of a blow, I think; Rousse had been at the heart of our quest for so long. But Ghislain was right, it made more sense for him to remain in command of his fleet. Quintilius Rousse knew little of battle tactics on land; Ghislain de Somerville was the Royal Commander’s son. Rousse nodded slowly. "As you bid, my lord."

"Good." Ghislain rolled up the map. "Strike camp. We’re moving out."

Chapter Eighty-Three

On the morrow, Joscelin and I-and Drustan and the Twins as well-said our farewells to Quintilius Rousse. I had come to be very fond of the bluff Admiral, and realized, in the face of leaving him, how we had all come to depend on his strength.

"Elua keep you, girl," he said roughly, folding me in his massive embrace. "You’ve enough courage for ten, in your own perverse way, and your lord’s bedeviled sense of honor to boot. If you need to cross the Straits again, you know I’m the man to do it."

"Thank you," I whispered. "Would you carry another, if need be?"

"Anyone you name," he vowed.