To my surprise, Barquiel L’Envers grinned, and kissed his niece on the brow. "Take care of yourself, Ysandre, you make a damned good Queen. We’ll do our best to see you stay one." He nodded at Joscelin and me. "Keep these two with you, will you? They seem to be damnably hard to kill."
I did not always like the Duc L’Envers, but I could not help loving him then.
When they were gone, Ysandre shivered, and wrapped her deep-blue cloak with the Courcel swan embroidered in silver at the collar tight around her.
"I must speak to Farrens de Marchet, who commands the trebuchet crew on the western wall," Gaspar Trevalion said apologetically. "Will you not go below to safety, your majesty?"
"No." Ysandre shook her fair head. "I will stay here, my lord. Terre d’Ange stands or falls with us this day, and so do I."
"We’ll stay," I said to Gaspar. It made no earthly difference, save for L’Envers' flippant comment, but it was enough. He nodded and set off quickly, a company of shields with him.
We stood there and watched the skies lighten as dawn broke full in the east, and the sun slowly began to clear the horizon. Joscelin kept a watchful eye to the arrow-slit, looking for our army. A handful of Ysandre’s House Courcel guard, as well as her ever-present Cassilines, surrounded us; still, I think there was no one else to whom she dared speak her mind.
"I have your book, still, your majesty," I said presently, casting about for something to say. "Your father’s diary. It is with my things, in our camp. I kept it with me, all this time."
"Did you read it?" She smiled sadly. "It was very beautiful, I thought."
"It was. He loved wisely, too. Delaunay lived for the memory of that love." I didn’t mention Alcuin, though I was glad, now, that Delaunay had known a second happiness.
"I know." Ysandre glanced down into the courtyard far below and to the fore of us, filled with a tight mass of men. "I’m glad he made his peace with my uncle before he died. My mother caused a great deal of pain, I think."
"Yes." I couldn’t gainsay her. "People do, for love, or for power."
"Or honor." She looked sympathetically at me. "I’m sorry you were drawn into this Phèdre. Please know that whatever happens, you have my gratitude for the role you played. And for…for what you told me of Drustan." She smiled at Joscelin. "Both of you. What became of your friend?" she asked then, remembering. "The Tsingano? Is he with Ghislain’s army?"
It hurt to think of Hyacinthe; I caught my breath, and met Joscelin’s eye, glancing round from the arrow-slit. "No, your majesty," I said. "It is a long story, our journey, and Hyacinthe’s may be the longest."
"A Mendicant’s tale," murmured Joscelin.
We told her, then, there on the battlements of besieged Troyes-le-Mont, while arrows clattered against the merlon and her guards kept watch. I began it, but Joscelin told it better, with all the skill he’d gained in his Mendicant guise. It was his tribute to Hyacinthe, and I let him have it, as he had let me have mine, the last night on that lonely isle.
Hyacinthe would have liked it, I think.
Gaspar Trevalion came back to find his Queen round-eyed with awe, uncertain whether or not to credit our tale.
"De Marchet is ready," he said brusquely, returning us to the dire reality of our situation. "He’ll fire on my command. Any sign of d’Aiglemort or the Albans?"
"No, my lord." I had been watching, while Joscelin told the story of Hyacinthe and the Master of the Straits. "Not yet."
Gaspar glanced up at the sky, turning a pale blue as the sun rose steadily. "Pray they don’t fail us," he said grimly. "They’ve near filled the moat with rubble at the barbican, and Selig’s sappers are digging under the northwest tower. Farrens said they felt the stone tremble underfoot. They’re moving one of the siege towers toward the north wall, too. We’ve let him get deadly close, if help doesn’t come."
"It will come," I said, with a confidence I didn’t feel. It was harder to believe, here.
"It is coming." Joscelin, back at the arrow-slit, pressed his eye to the aperture. His hands, flat against the wall, clenched, fingertips digging into stone. "It is coming. My lord! Look!" Heedless of station, he grabbed Gaspar’s arm and drew him to the wall.
Gaspar Trevalion looked silently, then drew back. "Your majesty," he said, gesturing for her to look. Ysandre took a turn for a long moment, then stepped away and drew a shuddering breath.
"Phèdre," she whispered. "You brought them. You should see."
I stepped up to the arrow-slit, standing once more on my toes and ignoring the pain of my injuries, and looked.
In the distance, at the base of the foothills, a shining line of silver advanced toward the fortress.
High on the battlements of Troyes-le-Mont, we had the advantage of sight, despite the greater distance; still, it was not long before Selig’s sentries spotted their advance. None of his scouting parties had returned alive, and it was a mercy that Ghislain had found a path where they could descend undetected, but there was no hiding an entire army, once they were on level ground.
I gave way to Ysandre at the arrow-slit-she was Queen, I could do no less-but it was agony, not to see. I bore it as long as I could, then stepped out from behind the merlon, to stand at the low crenelation. Joscelin was a mere step behind me, and I thought for an instant that he would drag me back to safety, but he merely gave me a quick glance and set himself at my side, vambraces crossed before him.
We didn’t have much to fear, as the attention of the Skaldi began to shift direction.
Nothing I have ever seen can compare to it, unless it be the seas roiling under the duress of the Master of the Straits. It was so vast, the Skaldi army, spread like an ocean across the plain. Word came from the eastern rearguard, the tiny figures of Selig’s sentries pelting across the torn ground, and the mighty army began to surge.
It hit the outskirts of his forces with a ripple, and built to a swell, moving toward us. By the time it crested and broke against the fortress, throwing our attackers into chaos, the silver line of advancing soldiers had drawn nearer.
The outermost ranks of Skaldi broke, racing on foot and on horse across the plain to engage the oncoming enemy. The silver line halted and shrank, kneeling, and Ghislain de Somerville’s L’Agnacite archers fired over their heads, a rain of black arrows arching down on the Skaldi. Then the line rose, shields raised to form a bar of of silver, and advanced.
These were Camaeline soldiers, born to the sword and drilled within an inch of their lives. Undisciplined and fierce with battle, the Skaldi broke against them like a wave against a wall, crashing, falling, dashed back. And the wall advanced.
At the base of the fortress, milling confusion ensued, Skaldi sappers and engineers abandoning their posts. Fearless in the melee, Waldemar Selig rode back and forth, shouting at them, ordering them to hold their places.
Disorderly and milling, they held, enough to hold our forces pinned within Troyes-le-Mont.
Far across the plain, the silver line of d’Aiglemort’s infantry pushed forward, moving relentlessly into the Skaldi horde, which overran them on both sides, threatening to overwhelm them with sheer numbers.
That was when the Alban forces struck.
Cavalry to the right flank, and war-chariots to the left, foot soldiers swarming after both, streaming from behind the Camaeline infantry, wild and terrifying, they threw the entire battle into chaos.
But the numbers were against them.
Even at this distance, I could see the blood run in rivers of red, see our allies cut down. I turned without realizing it, found my hands clutching at Gaspar Trevalion’s arm.