I knew the whiteness of perfect despair.
Joscelin lifted his gaze to Selig’s, and stood motionless, his blue eyes tranquil. "In Cassiel’s name," he said, in a voice calm beyond calm, "I protect and serve."
And he moved, flowing like water.
All the Cassiline forms have names: poets' names, lovely and serene, drawn from nature…birds on the wing, mountain streams, trees bending in the wind. It is how they name what they do.
Except for the one they call terminus.
There is a play, a famous play-its name was lost in white light of despair-in which a Cassiline Brother performs the terminus. I saw a player act it out, once, in the Cockerel. I knew it, then, swaying on my knees, held upright by my Skaldi guards. When Joscelin, spinning in my direction, tossed his right-hand dagger in the air and caught it by the blade, I knew. When he brought his left-hand dagger to his throat and set its point, I knew.
It is the last act the Perfect Companion may perform.
I met his eyes, the dagger in his right hand balanced to throw at my heart, the dagger in his left poised to cut his throat. I had judged him wrong. Truly, he had come to save us both, in the only way left to us. I had not known, until that moment, how very deeply I had feared my fate.
"Do it," I whispered.
Joscelin looked over my shoulder and froze.
And then moved like lightning, his right hand whipping forward to throw the dagger. It caught the White Brethren guard on my left in the throat and he fell backward with scarcely a gurgle, his hand leaving my arm. I swayed, unbalanced. Joscelin was coming toward me at a dead run, scarce pausing to snatch the hilt out of the Skaldi’s throat. My other guard released me, fumbling for his sword. Too late; the crossed daggers took him high too, opening gaping wounds on either side of his neck. Heedless of the pain it caused, Joscelin grabbed my arm unhesitatingly, hauling me to my feet and plunging toward the fortress.
Half-dragged, staggering in his wake and in agony, I saw it. The portcullis was being raised. The Skaldi army roared behind us as the drawbridge crashed down across the moat. We raced desperately across the ruined earth, my lungs burning for air, each step an agony of blossoming pain.
That was when the night skies lit on fire.
From atop the battlements, the trebuchet were loosed, and gouts of flame seared the night; feu d’Hellas, liquid pitch, ignited and burning. It soared in an arc over our heads, splattering into the front line of our Skaldi pursuers, sending them rolling and screaming to earth. I heard Selig’s voice, rising above it all. "Advance!" he roared. "Advance, and get ahead of it, you fools!"
How many listened, I don’t know; enough, I daresay. But then the earth shook, and from the dark mouth of the gate a mounted sortie emerged.
Four Siovalese cataphracts, riders and horses alike covered head to hoof with armor, gleaming silver and gold by firelight. They pounded past us on either side, slamming into the wall of the approaching Skaldi. And on their heels, twenty-odd light-armed riders, turbaned and helmed, uttering a fierce Akkadian ululation. One swooped by me like a mounted hawk, a deft hand plucking me up to sling me across the pommel of his saddle. Jouncing in pain, I dimly saw Joscelin take the hand of another, swinging up behind him in the saddle.
We wheeled, and turned. The cataphracts split off and surged back toward the drawbridge, heavy hooves pounding; the other riders roiled in a semicircle against the Skaldi, fingers plucking at horsemen’s bows. The trebuchet atop the fortress thudded dully, and more feu d’Hellas lit the air, glittering bright above the furious mien of Waldemar Selig, who stared unbelieving as his prize escaped.
Hoofbeats echoed as we fled across the drawbridge, the defenders of the gatehouse already working frantically at the winches. The last members of the sortie made it with desperate leaps, horses stumbling on the slanted planks.
The drawbridge shuddered into place, and they cut the ropes raising the portcullis, dropping it with a resounding crash. We had gained the inner ward. Slung across the saddle, limp and bleeding, I scarce heeded the commotion as the gatehouse guards rallied against the Skaldi who threw themselves in waves at the moat, driving them back coolly with a rain of crossbow-fire.
Safe within the stone walls of the fortress courtyard, the riders of the sortie dismounted, jesting with disbelief to find themselves still alive. My rescuer was among them, removing his conical steel helm and running a hand through his short-cropped, pale hair.
"Who would have thought," Barquiel L’Envers said ironically, "I’d risk my life for a member of Delaunay’s household?"
I met his wry violet gaze as he helped me down from my awkward position, but then my feet touched the flagstones, and my strength gave way. I kept going, crumpling to a heap in the courtyard of Troyes-le-Mont.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
"Let her be!"
There was a crowd around me, that much I knew; and then Joscelin was there, mercifully, making them stand back and give me space to breathe. I clung to his hand as he knelt beside me, desperately grateful for his presence.
Then the cry, "Make way for the Queen!"
No fool, Ysandre; she had come with an Eisandine chirurgeon, who felt at me with cool hands, turning me on my stomach and examining Selig’s damage, cleaning away the blood.
"It is not so bad as it looks," she said, reassuring, sending her assistant scrambling for a needle and thread. "He was aiming for pain and not death."
I gritted my teeth as she set the flap of skin back in place, anchoring it with deft stitches. But I did not cry out; they had heard enough of that, I reckoned. I could hear Ysandre murmur something to Joscelin, and his quiet reply. When it was done, the chirurgeon applied a salve and bound it tight with clean bandages, and I rose to my feet, my blood-soaked gown hanging loose from my shoulders.
By this time the courtyard stood full and waiting with the greater part of the D’Angeline Royal Army, amassed behind its lords and commanders, who stood aligned with Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d’Ange, flanked by two Cassiline Brothers. All of them, waiting on my words.
It was a little overwhelming.
Stiff with pain, I made my curtsy to Ysandre. I think she might have stopped me, if we had been alone; I saw her catch her breath. I managed. "Your majesty," I said, forcing my voice to steadiness.
"Phèdre nó Delaunay." She inclined her head. "Have we read your message aright?"
I took a deep breath and gazed at the sea of waiting faces. "An army of seven thousand stands ready to attack Selig’s rearguard at daybreak," I said aloud, hearing a murmurous echo as my words were passed backward through the ranks.
Percy de Somerville, looking gaunt and tired, kindled to life. "Elua!" he exclaimed. "Seven thousand Albans!"
"No, my lord." I shook my head. "Half the force is Alban. The other half is Isidore d’Aiglemort’s army."
This time, the murmur rose nearly to a roar, surging in waves through the courtyard. I wavered on my feet, and Joscelin caught my arm, steadying me. Disheveled and unwashed, hair in a half-braided tangle, one sleeve dark and stiff with blood, he looked nothing like his Cassiline brethren, and about ten times as dangerous.
"D’Aiglemort!" Barquiel L’Envers said in disgust. "Whose fool idea was that?"
"Mine, my lord," I said evenly. "Implemented by my lord de Somerville’s son."
"Ghislain?" The light in Percy de Somerville’s eyes grew brighter. "Ghislain is with them?"
I nodded, righting exhaustion. "Ghislain and a few hundred of his men. He left Marc de Trevalion in command in Azzalle, with Admiral Rousse. They planned the attack together; Ghislain, I mean, and d’Aiglemort and Drustan. And the Twins." I saw his face go blank. "The Lords of the Dalriada."