A shout drew my attention. One of Drustan's Cruithne pointed.
There, in the rigging, Joscelin clung, one-handed, feet braced in the ropes. His free hand clutched his sword, torn free of its scabbard; he held it aloft, the rising sun sparking a steel gleam from its length, a wild and dangerous tribute. High atop the cliffs, Hyacinthe's figure raised one hand in farewell and held it.
I laughed until I cried, or cried until I laughed. I am not sure which. Not until the isle was out of sight did Joscelin sheathe his sword and climb down, dropping the last few yards.
"Are you all right?" he asked me, only a little breathless.
"Yes," I said, drawing in my breath in a gasp. "No. Ah, Elua, Joscelin ... what did he say to you, at the end?"
Leaning on the railing, he looked at the water surging past the ship as the Master of the Straits drove us back up the coast of Terre d'Ange.
"He said not to tell you," Joscelin said. "He said not knowing would drive you mad."
I jerked my head, stung. "He did not!" I retorted in outrage, although it sounded very like something Hyacinthe might have said. Joscelin glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.
"No," he admitted at last. "He said if I let harm befall you, he would raise the very seas to fall upon me and crush me."
That, too, sounded like Hyacinthe. I gazed at the empty waters falling away behind us, smiling through my tears. "My friend," I whispered, "I will miss you."
All day the eldritch wind blew, driving us northward. We rode upon its crest, surging forward, coast-hugging, heading for the northern tip of Azzalle. Quintilius Rousse held hard at the helm, shouting commands in D'Angeline and bastard Cruithne. We kept a lookout for the remainder of our fleet, but no other vessels were to be seen on these waters.
When we reached the point where the Rhenus opened onto the sea, we saw why.
They had been brought there before us, all of them. The sandy-beached mouth of the river was clogged with craft, ships and oar-boats and rafts, a vast encampment awaiting us on the southern shore of the river. They hailed us with great shouts, crowding the shore. Standing in the prow, I watched Drustan's eyes alight, rejoicing to see his people alive and hale.
Half would have died in the crossing, the Master of the Straits had told Quintilius Rousse. In truth, it was a dubious undertaking; who was to say it was not true? One life measured as naught against hundreds. And yet Hyacinthe was my friend, and I grieved for him.
We tossed lines ashore, and dozens of willing hands drew us landward; disembarking in triumph, nearly the whole of our company reunited on solid ground, hands clasped, backs thumped, tales were exchanged. Our arrival followed theirs by mere hours, it seemed; we heard the stories, unbelievable to any save us, of how the great waves had cradled their fleet, to the shores of First Sister and back, depositing them safe as mother's babes on the silted shores of the Rhenus.
There had been losses, it was true, when the Master of the Straits had first risen from the waves. Seventeen men, and four horses. I added their lives, in my mind, to the price of his freedom. Dear-bought, indeed.
But most were alive.
The Twins had taken command in our collective absence, and made a good job of it. None spoke of it at the time, but I heard later how the army despaired, cast upon the shores of First Sister, and how it was Grainne who rallied their spirits, sparking them with her own indomitable will; Eamonn, Eamonn had kept them organized, pasturing the horses, drying and cleaning their sea-damped arms, setting parties to forage, finding coast-dwellers of the Eidlach Or who spoke D'Angeline to communicate with the islefolk, a skill garnered from years of trading shouted news with Azzallese fishermen. Indeed, he found some who had known Thelesis de Mornay, and given her shelter in her exile.
And when the face of the waters returned, rising to tower above the bay and ordering them back to the fleet, it was the Twins who convinced the army to obey. I was not there, and cannot properly give voice to what transpired, but it gave grist to the bardic mills of the Dalriada for many a generation.
Quintilius Rousse lost no time in reuniting with his men. Not a one among them had been lost and, indeed, the discipline he had instilled in them may be credited for the low number of losses on shipboard. Assembling his decimated crew, he asked for volunteers among them, picking the five best riders to depart ere the sun's dying rays fled the west.
Eastward, they would ride, in search of Ghislain de Somerville, who had with him the army of Azzalle and Rousse's fleet. I stood at the Admiral's side as they set off, saluting us both, carrying the banner of House Courcel and the makeshift flag that bore the insignia of Kushiel's Dart.
Phedre's Boys.
How Kings and Queens bear it, sending innocent folk to die in their name, I do not know. I had been through terror and grief in the past two days; all I wanted, swaying on my feet, was to lay my head in a quiet place and sleep. But Quintilius Rousse's sailors grinned in the saddle, saluting, and rode out in a thunder, horses trampling their own long shadows as they set their heads to the east.
"They will bring ships, my lord Cruarch, when they find my fleet," Rousse said to Drustan in slow Caerdicci. "Ships such as will bear the whole of your army up the Rhenus!"
His eyes gleamed at the prospect. Drustan nodded.
"Tonight we make camp," he said in Cruithne, looking to me to translate. "We celebrate the living and honor the dead. Tomorrow, we ride to war!"
EIGHTY-ONE
It took some time to get the whole of our camp in motion, but we set out ere the sun had risen too high.
We were short of horses and; to my surprise, Grainne sought me out and invited me to ride in her war-chariot, brought at great pains and carefully salvaged from our long and deadly crossing.
I made no protest, glad enough of her offer. It is the first and last time I have ridden in such a conveyance, and I will say this much; there is no luxury to the ride. My teeth fair rattled out of my head as her chariot lurched and jarred across the uneven terrain.
Still, I could not but be impressed with the skill with which she guided her team, legs braced, reins wrapped round one arm, leaving the other hand free to wield spear or sword. We travelled along the shore of the Rhenus, most of us; there were only a handful of ships worth salvaging. Hard going, for their part, as the current was against us; still, their oars dipped and beat, and the wind lay at our backs.
So we made progress, on foot and on horse, in chariot and ship, cutting a broad swathe along the flatlands. Some few villages we passed, filled with Azzallese riverfolk; they looked askance at us, fearful of the Cruithne, though their pride demanded they show it little. With Quintilius Rousse and Joscelin, I labored to allay their fears, although I think it did but confuse them the worse, to hear courteous words from the lips of a Night Court-trained adept in the company of woad-stained barbarians.
Still, they knew of the war, and that was some news; no village but had its militia, sturdy men armed with homemade weapons, keeping a keen eye on the river, lest the Skaldi attempt to bridge it. When we asked after Azzalle's army, they pointed us ever eastward.
Two full days' march we put in, and half another, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in between, before Rousse's riders returned, catching us at midday of our third march. They rode hell-for-leather, Phedre's Boys, having accepted fresh mounts, but no changes of couriers.
I confess, my heart lifted to see them coming, the Courcel swan and my own ludicrous insignia, Kushiel's tattered Dart, defiant on the breeze. I clutched at Grainne's arm and she drew up the chariot. Someone shouted for Quintilius Rousse, and he made his way to the forefront, even as the riders thundered upon us, reining in their mounts, hooves spattering dirt.
"My lord Admiral!" the first among them cried out, his voice ragged with exertion and pride. "The fleet comes!"
He pointed, and we saw them, rounding a bend of the Rhenus, rowing at full speed down the broad, rushing river: the Royal Fleet, decked out in full regalia, every mast flying the swan. Such was their speed, the riders had scarce beaten them.
I knew then how the Cruithne army had felt, seeing our modest ship; we cheered, all of us, and hurried to catch lines cast ashore.
Over thirty ships, all told; their masts made a forest on the river. Quintilius Rousse, his face beaming joy, roared orders, relayed in a babble of Cruithne and Eiran, getting Drustan's army on board. When it was done, the ships fair groaned, riding low in the river. The oarsmen were hard-put to turn us about, beating against the current; but somehow, fate favored us, a fair wind arising at our backs, filling the sails and making their task easier.
The Master of the Straits honored his debt still, I thought, standing in the prow and gazing upriver.
Having seen to her team and made certain her chariot was stowed with proper care, Grainne came to join me. We rode in the flagship, with Rousse; a second ship drew alongside, Eamonn hailing us. Grainne shouted back, laughing, blowing kisses to her twin. I smiled to see it.
"We cannot honor the Dalriada enough for what you have done," I said to her. Grainne gazed at Drustan, who stood listening attentively to Quintilius Rousse.
"You have given us a part in a story the bards will sing to our children's children," she said, laying one hand over her belly and giving her private smile. "Such is the dream of the Dalriada. Even Eamonn knows, in his heart." She put her arm about me, then. "We heard what befell your friend. I am sorry, for his loss. He had a bold spirit, and a merry one."
"Thank you," I said softly, tears stinging my eyes. Hyacinthe. It was a kindness in her, that I have never forgotten. There are those who are awkward in the face of sorrow, fearing to say the wrong thing; to them, I say, there is no wrong in comfort, ever. A kind word, a consoling arm . . . these things are ever welcome. Grainne knew it; such was her gift, a shrewd kindness, to know what was needful to the hearts of those around her.
We were another day on the river, our progress slow in the overladen ships, despite the fair winds. Still, there was no shortage of men to arm the oars, and no one of us grew overtired. The Segovae of the Tarbh Cro put in long hours in self-imposed atonement for what had befallen us during the crossing of the Straits, their hands raw and bleeding, until word of their efforts reached Drustan. He spoke to them, then, and made it clear that he didn't hold them to blame for it.
It was fairly done, and generous; I held myself as much to blame, for having failed to warn Rousse's sailors. But in truth, the Master of the Straits had rigged and baited the trap, and I think we'd have fallen into it no matter how it transpired.
Rousse's riders had found the fleet with Ghislain de Somerville and half the Azzallese forces; this was the word they had brought back to us. The other half was under the command of Marc de Trevalion, further southeast. Between the two of them, they covered a long stretch of border, and the half-destroyed remnants of four bridges that might be used to cross the Rhenus. We would sail as far as the first bridge; beyond that, Rousse's ships could not travel. Their value lay in securing the length of the river between bridge and sea; we'd only caught them massed at the bridge because a tenacious party of some fifteen hundred Skaldi was rumored to be gathering for an assault on the bridge.
I do not think a river-crossing ever played any part in Selig's invasion plan; surely, from what we had seen, the bulk of the Skaldi horde had flooded through the Northern Pass. But if he did gain control of Azzalle's border, he would have unlimited access to Terre d'Ange, and a strong foothold in the flatlands. And if he did not, with a mere handful of men—and a few thousand were little more than that, to Selig—he tied up the forces of an entire province and ensured that Azzalle's army wouldn't fall upon his back.
A leader who thinks. Gonzago de Escabares had spoken truly.
When the shouting clamor of battle, steel on steel, reached our ears, I knew we must be nigh.
We saw it first, in the flagship. The Skaldi had found an engineer or two among their number, and in the absence of Rousse's fleet, mounted a full-scale effort to restore the bridge. They'd adopted Tiberian tactics, digging fortifications along shore and constructing narrow rolling walls to shelter the builders.
Tiberian soldiers, however, wouldn't have broken ranks and disregarded order halfway through the process, forging forward under cover of a hail of spears, inching crude rafts along the half-drowned bridge supports. Only a few hundred had gained D'Angeline soil, but the rest were bidding fair to cross, keeping Ghislain's men a spearcast's length at bay. He'd only seven hundred under his command; and I learned, later, that his archers had spend their arsenal over the past two days, hoping to hold off the Skaldi until our arrival.
They'd succeeded, if only barely.
The Skaldi froze, as our thirty-odd ships drew upriver. I daresay they'd posted a lookout for the fleet's return two days ago, but that discipline too had crumbled in the blood-fever of launching a full attack. My heart filled with icy fear at the familiar sight of them, Skaldic warriors, iron-thewed and ferocious.
It's as well that D'Angeline women don't ride into battle. Quintilius Rousse never hesitated. Each ship had a full complement of his own sailors on board, trained to obey the Admiral's voice without thinking. He raised it now, roaring orders as if to shout down the ocean, incomprehensible commands that only sailors understand.
The Skaldi began to chant Waldemar Selig's name.
I daresay Drustan mab Necthana grasped Rousse's plan quickly enough; leaping onto the prow of the flagship, his misshapen limb no obstacle to his agility, he called out to the Craithne. On each ship, a line of archers formed along the shoreward side, protecting the sailors who scrambled overboard like monkeys, catching cast lines and hauling the ships toward the shallow waters along the foreign bank.
At the bridge, the Skaldi broke ranks, the greater number surging back toward the flatlands. If nothing else, they are bold; those trapped on D'Angeline soil never looked back, but began composing their death-songs. I heard the sound of it rise, fierce and hard, chilling my spine. No doubt the Azzallese felt the same.
Our ships grounded in the shallows. Planks were lowered with a crash, some reaching the bank, some landing in water. Drustan, red cloak whipping around him, shouted orders. Ramps were dropped into the holds, horses brought up, wild-eyed and terrified, Cruithne and Dalriada scrambling to arms.
It was something to see, an entire army boiling over the fleet's edge, plunging down planks, churning water and soil into mud. I understood, for a brief moment, why poets sing of such things.
And then the fighting began.
It didn't last long. Fierce as the Skaldi are, they are men, and bleed and die like men; and nothing, in all Waldemar Selig's planning, had prepared them for Drustan's wild army, blue-whorled faces spilling out of ships, fighting with a ruthless ferocity that equalled their own.
What he had told them of D'Angelines, I can only guess, but if the Skaldi trapped between Ghislain's men and the river thought to find their opponents soft, they soon found otherwise. The Azzallese fought with dire efficiency under his command, any reluctance at serving under a L'Agnacite lord, it seemed, resolved by the return of Marc de Trevalion.
I saw it all, from shipboard, warded by Joscelin and a loyal handful of Phedre's Boys; after what had happened outside Bryn Gorrydum, Quintilius Rousse wasn't minded to take any chances with my safety.
When it was done, Drustan's Cruithne returned, bloodstained and victorious. They'd taken few losses, although the Lords of the Dalriada were unhappy at the necessity of having to leave their war-chariots aboard the ships. The ships themselves, alas, were well and firmly grounded. It took fifty men or more to push the flagship free; Rousse left Jean Marchand in charge of the rest, and the oarsmen took us across to D'Angeline soil.
We found the Azzallese grimly attending to the aftermath of battle. It is a thing one need see only once to make it a familiar sight, etched forever in memory. We descended together, a small party; Rousse, Joscelin and I, with two of Phedre's Boys, Drustan, Eamonn and Grainne, and a small honor guard of Cruithne and Dalriada.
The blue-painted faces of the Cruithne no longer seemed strange to me, but the Azzallese stared as they pointed us toward Ghislain de Some-rville. Drustan understood some of the whispers, I think; he was quick to learn, and had gained some D'Angeline during our journey. Nonetheless, he gave no sign of it. Eamonn, who understood none of it, scowled; while he bore no woad on his face, his lime-stiffened hair marked him well enough as a barbarian.
Grainne, surrounded by staring D'Angeline warriors, smiled and did not look in the least displeased.
We came upon Ghislain de Somerville in the midst of directing the disposal of the Skaldi dead. I had heard he was a sensible man, and indeed, if not for his standard-bearer standing near, I'd not have known him for a lord's son. Wide-framed and sturdy, he was attired in a well-worn cuirass, simple steel and oiled leather straps. He took off his helmet as we approached, running a gauntleted hand through damp golden hair.
"I didn't believe it when your men told me, lord Admiral," he said bluntly. His eyes were a pale blue, like his father's, and he had the broad features of a L'Agnacite farmer.
Quintilius Rousse bowed, as did Joscelin; I curtsied. Drustan and his folk remained upright, owing no obeisance to D'Angeline peerage.
"My lord de Somerville," Rousse said, "this is Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba. And Eamonn and Grainne mac Conor, Lords of the Dalriada."
I translated for them, and they did bow, then, or at least inclined their heads. Ghislain de Somerville looked at them with something like wonder.
"You really did it," he said in awe, and gave a startled bow back to them. "Your majesties."
"Not I," Rousse said gruffly. Putting a hand on my back, he shoved me forward. "Phedre no Delaunay, Ysandre's emissary."
"The Queen of Terre d'Ange," Ghislain said automatically. His eyes widened at me. "You're Delaunay's whore?"
I do not think he meant it ill; thus had I met his father, returning from my sojourn to Valerian House, the day the old Cruarch of Alba had met with Ganelon de la Courcel. I remembered well how Delaunay had sent Alcuin to the Royal Commander, Percy de Somerville, that night. It had sealed the compact between them, I think; if Delaunay did not take de Somerville into his confidence, still he was nothing loathe to trust his loyalty. But that was what Alcuin and I had been to Percy de Somerville. Delaunay's whores. No surprise that his son knew naught else.
