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."
I thought he might refuse, but in the end, he gave a curt nod. I had chosen well, in Isidore d’Aiglemort. We walked together to the outskirts of our encampment, where one of his men was posted. D’Aiglemort called him aside for a word, and the soldier obeyed with alacrity. It is no discredit to him that he did not see as I slipped past in the shadows. He was not looking to be deceived.
So I left the camp.
When all was said and done, I have made harder journeys. It could not even compare to Joscelin’s and my flight through the frigid depths of a Skaldic winter, and it was fraught with none of the unnatural terrors of crossing the Straits. But there are ways and ways for a thing to be difficult, and in some of them, this was the hardest journey of all.
Once I left d’Aiglemort behind, I was alone.
It took a great deal of care, climbing soundlessly down the foothills. I’d have taken a horse, if I dared, but Ghislain’s L’Agnacite archers were posted with orders to shoot at anything that stirred on the approaches. I would not test their skill, even shooting blind. They can shoot a crow in a cornfield by the rustle of the grasses, and a horse makes a good deal of noise, and a sizeable target by moonlight.
I made a small target and very little noise.
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It took me an hour and better to make my descent, moving quickly after I cleared the outmost perimeter of our guards. I clambered downward using hands and feet alike, and my hands were torn by the rocks. But I gained the plain.
Two hours, I gauged, to cross it and make my way to the fortress walls. It was little more than a mile to reach the outer skirts of the sprawling Skaldi army, but making my way through the encampment would be a slow process.
It was enough. I had at least four hours until dawn.
The plain lay still and silent beneath the high, bright moon, and I crossed it in an agony of terror, starting at every sound. It is a wonder to me, that the small creatures of the field-mice, rabbits, a night-hunting snake-do not flee the advent of war for miles all around. Once an owl’s cry made me jump, tangling one foot in the hem of my gown, sending me sprawling to earth. With both hands planted in the rich soil of Terre d’Ange, I tried to slow the terrified beating of my heart. I found a smooth rock beneath one hand, and carried it with me.
I went onward.
A child’s ploy, to distract the Skaldi sentry dosing on his spear; nothing more. I threw the rock, hurling it with all my might. It fell to earth with a dull thud, and he looked that way. I passed the other way, drawing my hood about my face. Never despise a trick because it is simple, Delaunay said; the old ploys endure because they work.
That would be the most dangerous part, I thought.
Until I reached the Skaldi camp.
The fortified earthworks that surrounded Troyes-le-Mont had been breached in a dozen places, undermined by sappers, burst with rams. It would have gone even quicker, had Selig had catapults but, mercifully, it seemed, that was one element of Tiberian technology that had proved too difficult for his Skaldi engineers to replicate with any accuracy.
Bad enough they had learned to build siege towers.
Mindful of the Alban attack some days before, Selig had posted sentries at the largest breaches; but they were looking for an army, not a lone intruder. Circling the bulwarks at a distance, I spotted a gap scarce large enough to admit a child, where the sappers had broken through and abandoned the place when their cohorts had succeeded elsewhere.
The earth-and-timber walls cast a deep shadow. Crouching in it, I worked feverishly with both hands, widening the hole until it was large enough to get my head and shoulders into it.
Halfway through, I got stuck. It was a tight fit and something, I don’t know what-the clasp of my girdle, mayhap-caught on the rough timbers that formed the framework of the bulwark. I wriggled frantically, struggling not to panic, striving to remain silent. I was stuck fast. Kushiel, I thought, you did not send me to die here. I gave one last convulsive push, and something gave way, allowing me to spill out on the far side of the wall.
Collecting myself, I knelt in the darkness and glanced around.
I was behind enemy lines once more.
Far ahead of me stood the embattled fortress, looming against the night sky. The outer windows were darkened, but I could see lights moving deep within, and torches on the battlements, where patrols went to-and-fro, keeping a watch on the quiet Skaldi camp.
Between us lay the Skaldi.
Taking a deep breath, I left the wall and began to make my way through the encampment.
The outermost ranks were the easiest. Trusting to Selig and the sentries, they slept deeply, rolled in their cloaks, letting the embers of their watch-fires burn low. The Skaldi had no fear of being seen; all the world knew where they were.
Picking my torturous way among them, I could see where the divisions lay, tribal and deeply ingrained. I had seen it at the Allthing; I knew. Here and there, among the slumbering camps, lay lines of division. Manni and Marsi, Gambrivü, Suevi and Vandalü…I picked my way among them, following the invisible faultlines, avoiding an outstretched hand here, an iron-thewed leg there.
It is not to say that there were none awake and watching, and none who saw me. Some Skaldi were, and did, much as I sought to avoid it. But they saw-what? A lone D’Angeline woman, young and disheveled, shivering with fear. I kept my head bowed, and angled toward the direction from which they’d brought the prisoners, praying it would suffice.
Elua was merciful; it did.
So many Skaldi! It was unreal to me, the numbers of them. And they looked so harmless, sleeping, fierce mustaches and braided beards like adornments on their sleep-softened faces, shields and weapons set aside like children’s toys. Would that they were no more than they seemed in slumber.