Kushiel’s Dart

I nodded, righting exhaustion. "Ghislain and a few hundred of his men. He left Marc de Trevalion in command in Azzalle, with Admiral Rousse. They planned the attack together; Ghislain, I mean, and d’Aiglemort and Drustan. And the Twins." I saw his face go blank. "The Lords of the Dalriada."

"Then Rousse is alive, and Marc, too." It was Gaspar Trevalion, his salt-and-pepper hair gone greyer in the months since I’d seen him. I learned later that he had lingered too long aiding Ysandre and de Somerville in organizing the defense of Troyes-le-Mont, and been cut off from returning to Azzalle to fight with his kinsman.

"Yes, my lord," I said. "When we left them."

"Thanks to Elua," he murmured, grey eyes resting kindly on me, "for their safety, and yours."

"Why would Isidore d’Aiglemort aid us?" asked a quiet voice. I recognized Tibault, the Siovalese Comte de Toluard, more soldier than scholar now.

"Because," I shifted, and winced. My back throbbed and burned like fire. D’Aiglemort had been right, they were loathe to trust him. I hadn’t reckoned on this difficulty; I’d not reckoned on being alive. "He is D’Angeline, my lord, and he is dead no matter what happens. I gave him the choice of a hero’s death."

Barquiel L’Envers looked hard at me. "Are you that sure of him, Delaunay’s pupil, that you’d risk our lives on it?"

"Yes, my lord." I held his gaze. "Why did you come for me, when you despised my lord Delaunay?"

"Because." L’Envers' eyes glinted, acknowledging my point. "Because we are D’Angeline, Phèdre nó Delaunay. And young Verreuil afforded Selig’s men with a distraction." He clapped his hand on Joscelin’s shoulder. "Good thing we came before you played out your Cassiline end-game, yes?" He laughed at Joscelin’s level stare. "But d’Aiglemort is a traitor. Whatever Delaunay may have thought of me, I never let the Skaldi in the door. What does d’Aiglemort care who sits the throne, if he’s dead either way? We set him up, with Baudoin’s men. Do you think he wouldn’t take the chance to serve us the same?"

Ysandre watched us, giving nothing away; the lords and the army were waiting on her decision.

"Oh, Isidore d’Aiglemort cares," I said softly. "And he wants revenge." I touched the diamond at my throat. "He is not playing for you, my lady," I said to Ysandre. "He is playing against Melisande Shahrizai."

There was a silence.

"That would do it," L’Envers admitted slowly.

"My lord de Somerville," Ysandre said crisply, turning to Percy. "We will support our allies and mount a counterattack on the Skaldi army. Will you so command it?"

Percy de Somerville bowed, his face firm with resolve. "Your majesty, I will." Willingness, and relief, in his voice; his son was leading those allies.

There was a muffled sound from the gatehouse. One of the defenders ran panting into our midst, saluting de Somerville. "They’re breaking up the siege tower to lay timbers across the moat, my lord," he said, wiping his forearm across his brow. "Selig’s out there, madder than a pricked bull."

"Use everything we have!" I didn’t know the lord who spoke; a Kusheline, by his accent. Excitement was beginning to spread in the wake of Ysandre’s pronouncement. "Set an archer at every arrow-slit, and rain down fire upon them! We’ve only to hold out till dawn!"

Cheering arose, setting my ears to ringing.

"No!" Percy de Somerville’s voice quelled it. He glared at the lord who’d spoken. "Listen well," he said grimly into the subdued quiet that followed. "The last thing we want to do is make Waldemar Selig think we can afford to waste our armaments in fending him off. The moment he thinks we’re confident, he’ll start to ask himself why. We need to dig in, and let him think we’ve overextended ourselves. He’s angry; good. Keep him mad and hungry, and above all, keep his attention on the fortress! Let him get as close as you dare, before you drive him back!" With a quick glance at Ysandre for permission, he began issuing orders, sketching out a plan of defense, and calling for the muster of the whole of the army.

I knew, then, that my role was done, truly done, and could have wept with relief to see the amassed forces in the courtyard surge into action, following de Somerville’s commands, sure and orderly. Ysandre looked at me with compassion.

"Come," she said, gesturing toward the inner gate. "You shouldn’t be standing, let alone walking and talking. I’ve a few attendants, inside. Let us at least make you comfortable. Messire Verreuil, will you assist?"

"A moment, your majesty," Joscelin murmured, turning aside to catch Tibault de Toluard’s sleeve. "My lord, can you tell me if my father is here? He is the Chevalier Millard Verreuil, of Siovale. My brother Luc would be with him, and four or five men-at-arms, perhaps."

De Toluard hesitated, and shook his head regretfully. "I’m sorry, messire Verreuil. There are some sixteen hundred Siovalese, and I do not know them all. You might ask the Duc de Perigeux, who commands for Siovale."