Kushiel’s Dart

"You think they’ll flock to aid the d’Aiglemort eagle?" Isidore d’Aiglemort asked wryly. "Don’t count on their being quick, cousin."

"My father is no fool." Ghislain stared through the gloaming at the distant fortress. "Drustan’s men are flying the Cullach Gorrym. He’ll know."

"If he can even see the Black Pig, over thirty thousand howling Skaldi." D’Aiglemort drew back from the vantage, and shrugged matter-of-factly. "We’ll do as much damage as we can, and pray it’s enough to break the siege. But for every minute your father hesitates, and for every minute it takes for them to marshal a counterattack, we’ll die by the hundreds."

One of Phèdre’s Boys-Eugene, whom Quintilius Rousse had prized for his long vision-gazed out over the battlefield and made a choked sound, pointing.

It was hard to make out events at such a distance, the figures tiny, but not so hard that we couldn’t see the line of prisoners being led among the camps of the Skaldi, shoved and stumbling. Their gowns made bright spots of color against the dust and steely turmoil of a war-camp.

Women, all of them; D’Angeline women.

Selig’s army had cut a swathe through northern Namarre before Percy de Somerville’s force had intercepted them. We’d not seen it before. They had taken slaves.

We watched it silently, too far away to hear if they cried out. I doubt it. They would have been some weeks among the Skaldi. One grows numb to almost anything, after a while. Still, I could not look away, until Joscelin took my shoulders and pulled me gently back. I pressed my face to his chest and shuddered. When I lifted my head, Isidore d’Aiglemort was watching us both, his expression somber.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. "For what was done to you both. For what it’s worth, I am sorry."

Joscelin, holding me, nodded.

"Daybreak," Ghislain de Somerville said grimly.

Chapter Eighty-Six

I awoke a little past moonrise.

It was the rustling tide in my blood that awoke me, Kushiel’s presence around me like great bronze wings, setting my blood to beating in my ears. Lifting my head from my bedroll, I gazed across our sleeping camp and saw everything washed in a red haze of blood, staining armor, faces, horses drowsing with heads low and a rear leg cocked.

For every minute that passed, they would die by the hundreds.

Kushiel’s voice whispered in my ear.

Now…

I covered my face with my hands and knew.

It was not such a difficult thing, to arise without waking anyone near me. Our sentries were posted outward, they’d no orders to restrain movement within the camp. And I know how to be quiet. It is the first thing they teach, in the Night Court. Before anything else, we learn it; to be unobtrusive, invisible, to attend unseen and unnoticed.

Delaunay taught us too.

Leaving Joscelin was the hardest, because I knew he’d never forgive me for it. I stooped over him as he slept, lying silvered in the moonlight, like Endymion in the old Hellene tale. I pressed my lips to his brow, light enough that he only murmured in his sleep. "Good-bye, my Cassiel," I whispered, smoothing his hair.

Then I rose, and pinned about me my traveling cloak, a deep brown velvet, Quincel de Morbhan’s gift. It was dark enough to serve. I picked my way through our darkened camp-no fires had been allowed, lest the Skaldi spot them-and sought out Isidore d’Aiglemort.

He came awake in an instant when I knelt by his side, inborn Camaeline reflexes sending him reaching for his sword. Its point was at my throat before I could speak.

"You," he said, eyes narrowing in the moonlight. "What is it?"

"My lord." I spoke in a low voice that would not carry. "The fortress will be ready for your attack."

Sheathing his sword, d’Aiglemort stared at me. "You’ll be captured."

"Not before I gain the wall." I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. "The Skaldi camp is full of D’Angeline women. I can get close enough. And I can give a warning Ysandre will understand."

D’Aiglemort shook his head slowly. "Do you not understand? Selig will make you talk. You’ll give us all up for dead."

"No." A dreadful laugh caught in my throat. "No, my lord. I am the one person who will not."

It was too dark for him to make out the scarlet mote in my left eye, but I saw him look anyway, and remember. Isidore d’Aiglemort pushed his shining hair back from his face. "Why are you telling me?" he asked in a hard voice.

"Because you, my lord, are the one person who won’t try to stop me," I said softly. "Help me get past our sentries. A hundred lives for every minute, you said. I can save a thousand, at least; mayhap three times that many. I gave you the choice of your death. The least you can do is honor mine."