Kushiel's Dart - Jacqueline Carey [352]
She nodded, her grey eyes bright with tears.
I had brought him here. I did not have the right to mourn. "I'm sorry," I murmured to Grainne, to Drustan, to the Dalriada; to all of them, my voice choking. "I'm so sorry."
"My brother chose his fate." Even clad in bloodstained armor, Grainne had her dignity, her kindness. "You made him choose to be more than he would have, otherwise. Do not deny him that honor."
And I had scorned Joscelin, for his Cassiline pride. It is true, we are the same, in the end. Bowing my head, I borrowed Drustan's belt-knife, and cut a lock from my own hair, laying it thick and shining beside the Cruarch's. "Elua keep you, Eamonn mac Conor." I remembered how he had kept the army organized, when the Master of the Straits had parted us; how his sensible manner had aided Ghislain de Somerville when we struck out on D'Angeline soil. "We would have failed without you."
Kneeling, I wept, and wept for all of us.
"Phedre." A familiar voice, exhausted. I looked up to see Joscelin, mounted, scratched but unharmed. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. "You're in no shape to do this."
It was true; I knew it well enough to rise, obedient. All the length and breadth of the battlefield, D'Angeline troops were about the grim business of gathering the dead and tending to the dying, aided by chirurgeons and healers. "Your brother?" I asked him. "And your father?"
"They are well enough." Joscelin's voice was hollow. "They survived." He bowed to Grainne from the saddle, a Cassiline bow. "I grieve for your loss, my lady."
I turned to her and translated unthinking. Grainne smiled sadly. "Give him our thanks, and go with him, Phedre no Delaunay. We will tend to our own."
Drustan's nod echoed her words, and Joscelin extended his hand to me, leaning down from the saddle. I took it, and mounted behind him, and we began the long, slow ride back to Troyes-le-Mont.
NINETY-ONE
D' Aiglemort's surviving forces decided to a man to pursue the fleeing Skaldi.
The aftermath of war is a dreadful thing. If ever I had envied Ysandre de la Courcel her crown-and I had not-that would have cured me of it. To her fell the terrible choices of apportioning blame and punishment, upon the living and the dead.
In the end she chose wisely, I think, granting amnesty to those Allies of Camlach who chose their own dire fate, vowing their lives to hunting down the remainders of Selig's vast army. No one gainsaid it, the memory of Isidore d'Aiglemort's last, sacrificial battle too fresh in mind. As for those Skaldi who had surrendered; it was my counsel, among that of others, to accept ransom for them. I knew well how much D'Angeline treasure had found its way across the border, thanks to d'Aiglemort's sanctioned raids. In truth, I'd no heart for further bloodshed. But neither, I think, had Ysandre, nor many of her supporters.
So the Skaldi were ransomed, and sent home, and the borders were sealed against them.
Enough had died.
As for the reunion of Ysandre and Drustan, I was there to witness it. So were some thousands of D'Angelines and Albans. He came riding, with the Alban army at his back, while she threw open the gates of Troyes-le-Mont to welcome him.
They greeted each other as equals, then clasped hands, and he drew her hands to his lips and kissed them. Our conjoined armies shouted approval, though I did not see it reflected in all the eyes of the D'Angeline nobility.
Wars come and go; politics endure.
For those seeking a higher degree of romance, I can only say that Ysandre and Drustan knew too well who and what they were: The Queen of Terre d'Ange and the Cruarch of Alba. With the armed forces of two nations watching, they dared be no less, and no more. I have come to know Ysandre passing well, since then, and I believe what fell between them behind closed doors was another matter. I know Drustan, too, and I know how he loved her. But they were monarchs alike, and had ever understood it would be so, and that is the face they showed to the nation.
One thing was sure;