Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [266]
“We recognize the Baronesse Isabel de Bretel as an emissary of the avowed traitors Alais de la Courcel and Barquiel L’Envers,” Ysandre announced coolly. “Do you bring word of their surrender?”
“Your majesties.” Isabel de Bretel sank into a deep curtsy, then rose. “We come in peace. I bring one last plea for sanity.”
“We ask for nothing more,” Drustan said with deceptive mildness, resting his chin on one fist. “Have they renounced their mad quest?”
“There is madness, but it does not lie outside the City’s walls.” Her voice quavered, then strengthened. “Your majesties, we beg you to see reason! These men . . .” Isabel de Bretel gestured. “These men surrounding me, they are farmers and tradesmen and merchants, fathers and husbands and sons. We come to beg you to listen.”
“Listen to what?” Ysandre’s voice rose. “More sedition?”
A thousand voices murmured in agreement.
“You’re ill!” The old baronesse’s voice broke. “All those outside the City’s walls know it.” I could tell by the angle of her head that she sought Sidonie’s eyes, but there was nothing there she could speak to. “Please, we’re searching for a cure. We’re all searching. We beg you stay your hand—”
Drustan made an abrupt gesture. “Do you bring terms of surrender?”
Isabel de Bretel bowed her head. “No, your majesty.”
“Then there is nothing to discuss.” Ysandre nodded to the Palace Guard. “Throw her in chains. Throw them all in chains and lock them in the dungeon.” She paused. “No, wait. Save one of these farmer’s sons to carry word to our youngest child. We will give no quarter. We will accept no terms save surrender.”
Ah, gods! I was cold, so cold. Guards moved forward, chains at the ready. They’d been prepared for this. The outcome had never been in question.
I daresay Isabel de Bretel had expected it. It had been a desperate measure. They knew reason held no sway here, but they’d been compelled to try. I would have felt the same. She said a quiet word to her escort, then stood with her back proud and straight, holding out her hands to accept the shackles.
None of them protested. The guards handled them roughly nonetheless. They wrestled all but one of her party into chains, singled out a lanky young fellow with silken brown hair and cornflower-blue eyes, young enough that he was still rawboned with it.
“You.” Drustan pointed to him. “Come here.” The lad approached the throne, trembling. Drustan moved swiftly, rising and grabbing a handful of his hair. He stared into the lad’s eyes, his face deadly. “I should send you home in pieces, farmer’s son,” Drustan said softly. “Or at the least have you flogged. But time is short.”
“Your majesty,” the poor fellow whispered. “Please!”
Drustan put his free hand on the lad’s chest and shoved him. There was a ripping sound. The lad cried out in pain, stumbling backward and falling hard. “No quarter.” Drustan tossed a hank of brown hair on the lad’s sprawling form, the roots bloody. “No terms but surrender. Go.”
He went, weeping.
I wanted to weep, too.
“Take the Baronesse de Bretel and the others,” Ysandre said with disdain. “Get them out of my sight.”
The Palace Guards obeyed, shoving them past us. Isabel de Bretel paused before me, seeking my gaze as she’d sought Sidonie’s. Her gnarled hands rose, chains clanking at her manacled wrists. I could still remember the feeling of her hands pressing mine in gratitude and apology, the overwhelming sense of forgiveness and redemption that had come with it. But I didn’t dare meet her eyes. I turned my head away from her and saw Sidonie’s dispassionate face. As I gazed at her, her brows knit. For a second, for the merest space of a heartbeat, I thought mayhap there was a flicker of agonized awareness behind her eyes. Then it vanished and my heart ached anew.
We had given them hope.
We had failed them.
“My lords and ladies!” Ysandre’s voice rang clear and true. “You have heard the final word of those who would destroy the rule of law in Terre d’Ange. They are relentless. They are the enemy. I bid you go forth this day.