Twenty warriors, Dalriada and Cruithne paired in twos, rode in advance on the swiftest horses, leaving at angles in a vast semi-circle to compass Alba. They carried the twin banners under which they fought, the Fhalair Ban, the White Mare of Eire, white on a green field, and the Cullach Gorrym, the Black Boar on a field of scarlet. We cheered as they left, twisting in the saddle to wave bold farewells, knowing themselves most likely to die. If they succeeded, they would spread word, bringing allies to swell our ranks as we marched eastward.
Some would succeed. Some would die.
Drustan watched them go in silence. Fifty men, no more, had come with him to Innisclan, fighting free of Maelcon’s forces, protecting the Cruarch’s heir, his mother and sisters. A full two hundred had begun the journey. His blood-father had been among them, slain at the hands of the Tarbh Cro. Maelcon’s mother, Foclaidha, was of the Brugantü, who followed the Red Bull; it was her kin who came, overrunning Bryn Gorrydum, starting the bloodbath.
Setting Maelcon on the throne.
No wonder, I thought, the Lioness of Azzalle had sought to treat with Foclaidha and Maelcon. They would have understood one another. I wondered about Marc de Trevalion, then, and whether he’d been recalled from exile, whether or not his daughter Bernadette was willing to marry Ghislain de Somerville, whether or not Marc agreed. I wondered whether or not war was declared, if d’Aiglemort was at large, and about the deadly vipers of House Shahrizai. I wondered, indeed, if Ysandre still held the throne. Who was to say? I wondered if the Royal House of Aragon had sent troops, and how many.
I wondered what Waldemar Selig knew.
It was a terrible thing, to be so far and know so little, but I could not help wondering. I rode with Hyacinthe and Joscelin, Necthana and her daughters, and others of the Twins' household, behind the advancing army. We’d have choked on their dust, in a D’Angeline summer, but it was late spring in Alba and a rain fell near every day, damping the dust and greening the earth. A full mile wide, our front line stretched, straggling and undisciplined, traveling at the foot-soldiers' pace.
We marched and marched, and ate what we could, the army foraging while the peasants cursed. Drustan’s Cruithne shot for the pot, their arrows finding game with deadly accuracy. None of his folk ever went hungry.
And the allies came, flocking to the banner of the Culloch Gorrym.
Handfuls of Decanatü and Corvanicci, Ordovales and Dumnonü, flying the Black Boar, and our numbers grew. And then a wild band of Sigovae and Votadae from the north, defiantly waving the Red Bull; fair-haired, with height and lime-crested manes like the Dalriada and the blue masques of the Cruithne; and bad news, too, of tribes among the Tarbh Cro loyal to Maelcon, and six of Drustan’s outriders slain.
Maelcon knew; Maelcon was raising an army.
Maelcon was waiting.
A rumor reached us; the south had declared for Maelcon, and was rising up to burn the homesteads of those to the north who’d left to follow the Cullach Gorrym. We nearly had a mutiny, then, as half the tribes of the Cullach Gorrym bid to turn back, until we saw a large force on the horizon.
The Twins were ready to attack. It was Drustan made them wait, holding desperately in place, until he saw who approached: Trinovantü, Atribatü, Canticae-folk of the Eidlach Or, flying the Golden Hind on green, and above it the Black Boar, declaring their allegiance. It was a false rumor. Battle they’d seen, and lost hundreds of warriors, but Maelcon’s supporters had given way to those who remembered their ancient blood-debt to Cinhil Ru’s line.
So we made our way toward Bryn Gorrydum.
"Boy’s amazing," Quintilius Rousse said, settling by our fire with a grunt. He’d a pain in his joints that troubled him in damp weather. "He never sleeps. Maelcon’s army out there, Elua knows where, and he’s riding up and down the lines, a word for every man among 'em, and the women too. What kind of damn-fool people let their women ride to war?"
"Would you try to stop them?" I asked, thinking of Grainne. Rousse gave me a dour look.
"I would if I wedded one," he said sourly. "Listen, I’ve been thinking. Mayhap it would be for the best if I brought the lads in, had them guard you, my lady. When the battle breaks, you shouldn’t be without protection."
Sibeal, Necthana’s middle daughter, spoke.
Quintilius Rousse looked at me. I translated. "If you will not die for us," I said slowly, "you cannot ask us to die for you."
"I don’t want anyone to die," Quintilius Rousse said, scowling at her, waiting for me to translate, little need though she seemed to have of it. "But least of all, my lady Queen’s ambassador."
I wrapped my arms around my knees and gazed at the night sky, stars hidden under a blanket of cloud. "My lord Admiral," I said, "if you are asking me for the sake of your men, I say yes, let them do this thing, for I’ve no wish to see D’Angeline blood shed on foreign soil, nor to bring word of your death to Ysandre de la Courcel. But if you are asking for my sake, I say no." I looked at him. "I cannot countenance it. Not with what we are asking of them."
He cursed me, then, with a sailor’s fluency. Delaunay’s name was repeated no few times, with several choice comments about honor and idiocy. I waited him out.
"We will be well behind the lines of battle, my lord Admiral," I said. "I take no risk that the Prince’s own mother does not share. And I have Joscelin."
Quintilius Rousse cursed some more, got up and paced, stabbing one thick finger at Joscelin. "You will stay with her?" he asked, brows bristling. "You swear it, Cassiline? You will never leave her side?"
Joscelin bowed, his vambraces flashing in the firelight. "I have sworn it, my lord," he said softly. "To damnation, and beyond."
"I ask it for your sake." Quintilius Rousse fetched up in front of me and drew a ragged breath. "My men are itching to fight Albans. They’ve seen no action since we fought the hellions of Khebbel-im-Akkad. But I swear to you, Phèdre nó Delaunay, if harm comes to you in this battle, your lord’s shade will plague me until my dying! And I’ve no wish to have it on my head."
"She will not die." It was Hyacinthe’s voice, hollow with the dromonde. He turned his head, black gaze meeting Rousse’s, blurred and strange with sight. "Her Long Road is not ended. Nor yours, Admiral."
"Do you say we will be victorious?" Rousse’s voice took on a jesting edge; Hyacinthe’s gift made him uneasy, the more so since it had proved true. "Do you say so, Tsingano?"
Hyacinthe shook his head, black ringlets swinging. "I see you returning to water, my lord, and Phèdre as well. More, I cannot see."
Quintilius Rousse cursed again, at greater length. "So be it! We’ll fight for Ysandre’s blue lad, then. Let Alban blood taste D’Angeline steel." He bowed to me, his scarred features suffused with irony. "May Elua bless you, my lady, and your Tsingano witch-boy and Cassiline whatsit protect you. We will meet again on the water, or in the true Terre d’Ange that lies beyond."
"Blessed Elua be with you," I murmured, kneeling and rising. I embraced him and kissed his scarred cheek. "No Queen nor King e’er had a truer servant, my lord Quintilius Rousse."
He blushed; I could feel the heat of it beneath my lips. "Nor a stranger ambassador," he said gruffly, embracing me. "Nor better, girl. You’ve brought 'em here, haven’t you? Elua be with you."
We slept that night under the clouded skies, while the camp stirred, sentries startled at the slightest noise and Cruithne scouts prowled the perimeter, searching for Maelcon’s army. We were less than a day’s march from Bryn Gorrydum.
No word had come when the crepuscular light that heralds dawn seeped over Alba, but Drustan roused the army all the same. They turned out in a formless horde: some six thousand foot, seven hundred horse, and fifty chariots or more. We were encamped at the verge of a young copse, alongside a deep valley. Beyond the valley, it was straight onward to Bryn Gorrydum.