Kushiel's Dart - Jacqueline Carey [342]
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.
"Phedre no 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, fighting 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."
"Then Rousse is alive, and Marc, too." It was Caspar Trevalion, his salt-and-pepper hair gone greyer in the months since I'd seen him. I learned later that he had lingered too long aiding Ysandre and de Somerville in organizing the defense of Troyes-le-Mont, and been cut off from returning to Azzalle to fight with his kinsman.
"Yes, my lord," I said. "When we left them."
"Thanks to Elua," he murmured, grey eyes resting kindly on me, "for their safety, and yours."
"Why would Isidore d'Aiglemort aid us?" asked a quiet voice. I recognized Tibault, the Siovalese Comte de Toluard, more soldier than scholar now.
"Because," I shifted, and winced. My back throbbed and burned like fire. D'Aiglemort had been right, they were loathe to trust him. I hadn't reckoned on this difficulty; I'd not reckoned on being alive. "He is D'Angeline, my lord, and he is dead no matter what happens. I gave him the choice of a hero's death."
Barquiel L'Envers looked hard at me. "Are you that sure of him, Delaunay's pupil, that you'd risk our lives on it?"
"Yes, my lord." I held his gaze. "Why did you