Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [313]
And Ysandre de la Courcel rode forth alone between the ranks of the Unforgiven.
The Queen of Terre d'Ange.
It was a broad aisle the Unforgiven had opened for a single rider, and Ysandre traversed it slowly, an eternity of suspense in every step her palfrey took. Her chin was upraised, her violet eyes wide and seemingly fearless. I heard Amaury Trente somewhere near me, muttering prayers and love-words like a curse. The dying and the wounded moaned with pain, and the soldiers of the Royal Army stood curiously still, staring past the Black Shields.
When Ysandre was two-thirds of the way down the cordon, Tarren d'Eltoine gave the command, a single, clipped word. "March!"
With the immaculate precision for which they trained, the Unforgiven put up their pikes and sheathed their swords, marching into the throng of the Royal Army, toward the City of Elua.
I, who was there, have no words to describe the sight; how the ranks of soldiers parted, falling away before the advance of the Queen of Terre d'Ange and her tiny vanguard. How knots of protest surged and fell silent, how awe dawned and settled on their faces, and stillness spread across the battlefield. Some glanced down at silver coins held in sword-calloused hands. Some merely stared, and some knelt. It is a grave and mighty thing, to see an army part like the ocean in a Yeshuite tale.
Ysandre never faltered.
The path that they opened led straight to Lord Percy, Duc de Somerville, the Royal Commander. We followed behind, a half-organized handful trailing in her wake, dazed commonfolk wandering between the mounted members of the Queen's Guard. Behind us, hundreds upon hundreds of de Somerville's soldiers came in close.
And ahead of us, always, was the tiny cordon of Black Shields, and in the aisle between them, the lone figure of the Queen, uncrowned, her fair hair falling in ripples down her back, her cloak in sculpted folds over her palfrey's crapper as she closed the distance between her and Percy de Somerville at a slow, even pace.
I will take credit for the coins; 'twas my idea, and it made a difference, that I will maintain. But it accounted only for the first blink of surprise, that opened the door. My skin prickled the whole of that terrible, fearful distance, awaiting the touch of steel.
That it did not come—that is due wholly to the courage of Ysandre de la Courcel.
He was waiting, Lord Percy, with the most loyal of his soldiers about him, unmounted, standing with legs solidly planted like some ancient, mighty tree. His gold-inlaid armor gleamed, though he held his helmet in the crook of his arm. I daresay he had known it, the moment his army turned. He was a good commander; the best, for many years, near as long as I had lived.
Ysandre halted before him. "Do you know who I am, my lord?" she asked softly.
"Yes." His expression never changed as he raised his voice in answer. A scent of apples hung in the chill autumn air, faint and sweet as a sun-warmed orchard. "You are Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange."
A sound like a vast sob of pain swept the field; soldiers who had not done so sheathed their weapons, shields falling with a clatter, knowing beyond doubt what they had done. Alone among the thousands who knelt in shame, Percy de Somerville remained standing, his gaze locked with his Queen's.
"Percy de Somerville," she said. "I place you under arrest for high treason."
EIGHTY-TWO
it was atop the walls of the City that the cheering began. They had witnessed it all from the high white walls, the defenders of the City of Elua under the command of Barquiel L'Envers; indeed, it is his description that Thelesis deMornay used in her epic when she set these events to verse. It was easy to pick out his figure, a surcoat of L'Envers' purple over his armor, raising his sword in salute. The wintry sun flashed