Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [208]
More and more Euskerri came.
They were all cut from a similar cloth, men and women alike. A dark-haired, dark-eyed folk, proud and rugged. Very few of them spoke aught but their own tongue. I wished I could understand them.
“I know,” Sidonie said ruefully when I voiced the thought. “’Tis frustrating. I understand only a little myself. I’ll have no way to gauge whether or not my words have swayed them, no way to gauge what they’re saying.”
“Do you think the outcome is in doubt?” I asked in surprise. “I have the sense they’re hell-bent on gaining sovereignty.”
“True.” She knit her brows. “I don’t know. Mayhap I’m overanxious. I can’t stop worrying over what’s happening at home. It goads me somewhat fierce to be so close.”
On the following day, the debate began.
It was held in the village square, crowded to overflowing. A small dais had been constructed at the base of the oak tree. Sidonie stood atop it, flanked by Paskal and me. In the midst of a sea of dark-haired folk, she stood out like a beacon, far more than I did. She told our tale in a strong, clear voice, pausing after every few sentences for Janpier Iturralde to translate her words into Euskerri.
There were no interruptions. We had been told that the debate would follow on the heels of her words. Sidonie talked and they listened.
She told the story well. There were no dramatic embellishments; it was compelling enough on its own merits and any clever twist of rhetoric or theatrical gesture would fail to translate. She expressed regret for leading the Amazigh to Roncal while making it clear that the situation in the south was growing desperate, and that if the Aragonians and the Euskerri didn’t stand together against Carthage at this juncture, they would fall separately. She enumerated Astegal’s forces in succinct terms.
I didn’t think the Euskerri doubted her, at least not in a broad sense. We might not have had a parlor trick to play to lend credence to our tale of ensorcelment, but the essential reality of the situation was self-evident. Terre d’Ange was in disarray to the north and Aragonia besieged to the south. The Amazigh had come in pursuit as Sidonie had said they would. Janpier Iturralde could vouch for her identity.
She presented Iturralde with the written charter of sovereignty that Serafin’s council had prepared and described it in clear detail for the benefit of the audience. She recited from memory the terms of the accord to which her mother had been willing to agree well over a year ago, detailing the D’Angeline territory to be ceded. She gave her word on behalf of Terre d’Ange that not only would the accord be kept if the Euskerri agreed to it, but that Terre d’Ange would use its sway to ensure that Aragonia didn’t break faith with Euskerria.
When Sidonie finished, a great roar arose, not cheers, but merely the sound of thousands of voices rising in simultaneous argument as the Euskerri turned to one another in the square, taking up their individual concerns and ignoring her presence. She blinked, taken aback.
Janpier Iturralde moved closer to us. “There will be debate for many hours,” he said frankly. “Perhaps for days, as others come to Roncal. There is nothing more you can do. Wait in the guest-house and I will send word if there is a decision or further questions.”
I glanced involuntarily toward the north. “My lord, is it not possible—”
Sidonie laid a hand on my arm. “We will await your word, etxekojaun,” she said calmly.
In the days that followed—and it did take days—the debate raged heatedly. If there was a system of governance in place among the Eus-kerri, I failed to grasp it. Of a surety, there was no single ruler. It didn’t appear that there was a formal parliament or governing council, either, nor any form of elected republic. As best I could determine, each village had its own headman or woman, but they were not allowed to represent the views of the village until concord was reached.
And once it was,