Kushiel’s Dart

"Your majesty!" A soldier in a mail shirt, his helmet under his arm, appeared at the door. "The sky is beginning to lighten. My lord de Somerville would have conference with you."

Ysandre left, then, taking her guards and attendants with her, leaving Joscelin and me alone.

It was hard to speak of it, after what had happened.

"How did you know?" I asked softly.

He shook his head. "I don’t know. I awoke, and knew somewhat was amiss. When I saw you had gone, I just knew. And I knew what Selig would do, if he caught you."

"I thought you’d betrayed us all, for your vow. Before the end." I had to say it. "I’m sorry."

"I don’t blame you." He gave me his wry look. "You know, it is something every Cassiline learns, the terminus. But no one’s ever used it in living memory." He studied his hands. "I nearly killed us both."

"Joscelin." I touched his face. "I know. And until the day I die, I will be grateful for it." There was more, so much more I wanted to say to him, but I could not find the words, and there was no time for it. Joscelin caught my hand and held it hard.

"It would have saved Hyacinthe the trouble of drowning me, if I’d let Selig have you," he said with a lightness neither of us felt. We could hear shouting outside the door, and the sound of running feet. "Can you walk? We might find out what’s happening."

"I would have walked here, if you’d have let me," I said, struggling to stand. "You should go find your father."

Joscelin cocked his head, listening, then shook it. "It’s too late. I’d only be in the way, and take his mind off the battle." He gave a rueful smile. "At least he knew I was no murderer, before the end."

It was small consolation, but it would have to do. I squeezed his hand once more, in lieu of things unsaid. "Come on."

Chapter Eighty-Nine

We made our way through the fortress, sidling along the walls to avoid the lines of rushing soldiers. The ascent up the southeast tower was the worst, climbing the narrow spiral of stairs. Joscelin did his best to shield me, but the passage was too small; once or twice I nearly cried out as my back brushed against a rough outcropping of stone.

Still, we made our way upward, and gained the battlements of the eastern wall, guessing aright that the command watch would be stationed there.

In the leaden light of predawn, it was like a scene straight out of hell. I had been amid the Skaldi camp, but I’d not understood, until then, what life had been like for those besieged in the fortress.

An ocean of Skaldi surged on the plain below, breaking like waves at the edge of the moat, spears and arrows arching upward toward the parapet. Pots of feu d’Hellas smoked and stank on the battlement, the east-pointing trebuchet cranked and waiting. Archers crouched at the arrow-slits with crossbows, their seconds standing by with a replacement strung and ready. A longbow can fire six arrows to the single bolt of a crossbow on the field, but there is no weapon better in defending stone.

Amid this chaos, cool and composed behind one of the high merlons of the crenellated wall, stood Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d’Ange, in discussion with Percy de Somerville, Gaspar Trevalion and Barquiel L’Envers. Spotting Joscelin and me in the tower, de Somerville sent a detachment of soldiers to escort us, shields braced outward against Skaldi weapons.

"Good," de Somerville said calmly. "I’m glad you’re here. Selig’s got his temper under control. He’s still focused on the assault, but he just sent out scouting parties in six directions, and I think he’s increased the guard on the perimeter. What’s Ghislain’s angle of approach?"

"Due east," I said, pointing toward the foothills.

De Somerville put his eye to the arrow-slit and squinted through it. "How long until they arrive, if they began to move at first light?"

"Two hours?" I guessed.

Joscelin shook his head. "They’ll be moving in a hurry, and Selig’s sentries will give warning, long before they get there. I wouldn’t worry about scouting parties-they’re no match for the Cruithne-but once they’re on flat ground, they’ll be seen. The Skaldi won’t wait, they’ll take the battle to them. An hour, no more, I think."

"If Selig divides his forces, we’re in trouble." Barquiel L’Envers tucked the trailing end of his burnouse more securely beneath his helm. "He could leave ten thousand men here to keep us penned in, and still outnumber the Albans two to one."

I rose on tiptoes to peer through the arrow-slit. Below, out of arrow-range, Waldemar Selig rode a tall horse, a mighty figure, ranging back and forth along the line, shouting exhortations at the Skaldi.

"They’ll follow Selig," I said, drawing back. "If he turns, they’ll all go. And Isidore d’Aiglemort is aiming for him."

I could see how little they liked it still, mistrusting d’Aiglemort’s loyalty. I didn’t blame them.