It grew more difficult the closer I got to Troyes-le-Mont. I held my line toward the prisoners' camp as long as I dared, but at last I must cut inward, heading for the fortress, toward where the burned skeleton of a siege tower reared up above the moon-glimmering water of the moat. Selig had patrols posted here, roaming along the perimeter, keeping an eye on the defenders.
All my wiles I used to avoid their detection; even so, it scarce sufficed. I ducked back hard to evade an approaching patrol, huddling in the shadow of a firm-planted shield.
The corner of my cloak caught the edge of a stack of spears, sending them clattering to earth.
The nearest Skaldi, his arm thrown carelessly over a young D’Angeline woman, stirred and lifted his head. He blinked at me, bleary-eyed, then smiled slowly.
"Where do you run to, little dove?" he asked in Skaldi, raising himself on one arm. "Come, I’ll show you your new home!"
One looks for aid where one can, in times of fear; my terrified gaze slid to the woman beside him. Her eyes were wide and clear. She had been awake. We stared at each other in the moonlight, D’Angelines alike, and I realized that she wore the rent and dirt-stained robes of a priestess of Naamah.
Of course; we were in Namarre, Naamah’s country.
But I had not thought the Skaldi would raid her temples.
"Where are you going, messire?" she asked in D’Angeline, catching his arm and drawing him back to her. "Would you leave me to the cold?"
If he did not understand her words, he understood her intent, laughing and nuzzling her neck. Crouched in the shadows, I held her gaze as it watched me over the warrior’s shoulder, bleak and resolute. I mouthed the words silently-thank you-and fled into the darkness, offering a blessing to Naamah, who had protected her Servant.
So I gained the ruined siege tower.
How often had I cursed Anafiel Delaunay for forcing me to endure the endless drill of our tumbling-master? I have repented of it since; I repented of it now, grasping the scorched timbers and hauling myself upward.
Up, up into the night I climbed, facing the grey stone walls of Troyes-le-Mont, from which I was separated only by the width of the narrow moat. The tower had gotten close; if they’d bridged the moat, it was high enough to clear the battlements.
But they hadn’t, and the distance of their failure was the distance of my fate. I climbed as high as I dared, charcoal from the burned framework smudging my torn hands and rent clothing. Still, a kind of exhilaration overcame me, as it had on the rafters of Selig’s Great Hall.
On the sloping underside of the nearest tower was a muertriere, an opening from which the defenders could shoot at the attackers below. Surely, I thought, it must be manned in such times. I broke off bits of burned timber from the framework of the siege tower, tossing them at the narrow window.
Lights moved within, torches bobbing. I saw the blur of a D’Angeline face, removed quickly and replaced with the point of a crossbow’s quarrel, aimed in my direction.
My blood beat in my ears.
"Hold!" I cried aloud, letting my voice ring clear in the night. "In the name of Ysandre de la Courcel, hold!"
The archer held; and shouts arose from the Skaldi patrol. Figures raced in the darkness below me, swarming the base of the tower. The crossbow withdrew, replaced by the same face, perplexed eyes meeting my own.
I clung to the framework, leaning out as far as I dared, letting the faint torchlight from the battlements above illumine my face. "Tell the Queen," I shouted, "that Delaunay’s other pupil has done her bidding!"
That much, and no more, I got out, before hands grasped me from below, dragging at me. My fingers lost their grip, splinters wedged beneath my nails; then I was loose and falling, my head striking hard against a timber before I was caught ungently by Skaldi arms.
They forced me down the burned tower, pushing me harshly, but not letting me fall when my trembling arms gave way or my feet slipped from the supports. I could hear the uproar arising in the camp, watchfires fanned to a blaze as I was brought to earth.
One of the Skaldi shoved me as my feet touched ground and I stumbled, falling to my knees before the captain of the watch on patrol. He cuffed me once, then glowered.
"What were you doing, eh?" he asked in Skaldic, cursing me. "Did you think to gain the castle? Your place lies that way, slave!" He pointed toward the prison camp. "Do you know the punishment for flight?"
"She can’t understand you, Egil," one of my captors laughed, twisting a hand in my hair. I would have laughed too, if I hadn’t feared hysteria. They thought I was a runaway slave. Steel and flame and Skaldi faces streaked across my vision, and the rank smell of a battlefield filled my senses. Somewhere, a rider approached.
"Oh, I think she understands." It was a different voice, deep and commanding, and rich with irony. I knew it. I knew it well, better than I cared to remember. My Skaldi captor wrenched at my hair, tilting my head back, forcing me to meet the speaker’s eyes. He was tall, taller even than I recalled, the breadth of his shoulders looming against the fortress behind him. His hazel eyes, meeting mine, narrowed, and his lips curved in a smile. "Don’t you, Faydra?" Waldemar Selig asked softly.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
"Yes my lord Selig." I forced the words out.
Dismounting and handing his reins to a waiting thane, Waldemar Selig stepped forward and struck me twice across the face. My head reeled. "That," he said calmly, "I owed you." Grabbing my forelock in his fist, he yanked my head up and stared at me. "What were you doing on the tower?"
I stared back at him and kept silent.
Twice more he struck me, hard and fast. "What were you doing?"
Touching my tongue to my lower lip, I tasted blood.
"She shouted somewhat," one of my captors said helpfully.
"What was it?" Selig asked, not relinquishing his grip.
They argued over it, puzzling out the words in phonetic D’Angeline. Swaying on my knees, I watched Selig’s lips move silently as he tried to put the words together. He spoke passable D’Angeline. I knew. I’d helped teach him. "Tell the…tell the Queen that Delaunay’s other…other…something…has done her…" The words were too badly mangled for his ear. Frustration seized him, and he shook my head like a rattle. "Send for one of the prisoners," he ordered.
It was the priestess of Naamah; she was closest. Summoning a measure of dignity, she wrapped her stained red robes around her as they herded her across the plain. Her gaze slid across my face as if without recognition as she stood listening to the garbled phrase the patrol captain repeated.
"Tell the Queen that Delaunay’s other pupil has done her bidding," she said coolly in D’Angeline.
I do not think she reckoned on Selig’s comprehension; it unnerved her, a little, when he smiled. I watched his smile fade, though, and knew bitter triumph. The words meant nothing to him. "Thank you," he said to Naamah’s priestess in curt D’Angeline, adding in Skaldic. "Take her back among the prisoners." She glanced back once over her shoulder, then I saw her no more. Selig considered me, still holding my head up-tilted. "It will go better for you if you tell me," he said, almost gently. "I don’t owe you a quick death, but I’m willing to give it you, if you’ll speak."
He was handsome, for a Skaldi; I have said as much. The torchlight born by warriors pressing round glinted from the gold fillet that bound his hair, the gold wire that twisted his beard into twin forks. My face ached, and tears stood in my eyes. I did laugh, then. I’d nothing left to lose. "No, my lord," I said simply. "I will take the other choice."