Kushiel's Dart (64 page)

"Yes." Unable to lie, I whispered the word. My hand rose to clutch the diamond, and I jerked it hard, breaking the knot that bound the lead. "Ah, Elua! I would be free of it if I could!" I said in disgust, hurling it away from me. It fell with a faint chink against the cavern well. Joscelin gazed after it into the darkness beyond the firelight.

"Phedre," he said presently. "We've nothing else of value to our names."

"No." Obstinacy overcame me. "I would rather starve."

"Would you?" He looked soberly at me. "You made me choose life over pride."

I was silent a moment, thinking on it. "All right," I said. "Fetch it back, and I will keep it. I will wear it, and remember. If we need it to buy life, we will use it." My voice rose, ringing. "And if we do not, I will wear it, until the day I throw it on the ground at Melisande Shahrizai's feet. And then she will have her answer to her question: It is Kushiel's Dart throws truer than Kushiel's line!"

Joscelin retrieved the diamond without comment, tying it back around my neck. Better him, I thought, twining my hair forward, than anyone else who'd put it there. When he was done, he brushed the length of my spine with a light touch. "I'm sorry you had to leave your marque unfinished," he murmured. "It's beautiful, you know. Like you."

I turned round at that to meet his eyes; he gave me his wry smile.

"If I had to fall from Cassiel's grace," he said softly, "at least I know it took a courtesan worthy of Kings to do it."

"Ah, Joscelin ..." I leaned forward and took his head in my hands, kissing his brow. "Go to sleep," I told him. "We've a long way to go, yet, and you've healing to do. I'll tell you a story, if you like ... do they tell Naamah's temptation of Cassiel, in the Brotherhood? They tell it in Cereus House . . ."

I told him the story, then, and he fell asleep smiling before the end; as well he did, I thought, for it is one of those stories that ends without an ending, that the listener may judge for him or herself what happened.

Tales of gods and angels may end that way, for they continue, we know, in the land beyond the end of the world, the true Terre d'Ange. Alas for we who are mortal, and are denied the luxury of dramatic license. We must live, and go onward.

In the morning the fire had burned down to cold ashes and a few buried embers, and we dressed shivering in the chill. Of what had befallen us in the night, we did not speak. What would we have said, if we did? The romances would have it otherwise, but this I will say: There is no point in speaking of love when survival is at issue. I had spoken truly, when I said that we dreamed. It was only the waking that was grim. We went about the business of making ready to leave.

The snows had ended, and the day bid to be overcast, but the lowering clouds held no more in store. A grey light filtered into the cavern from outside. I worked quickly to lash the last of the packs onto my pony, holding my fur mittens between my teeth and working with frozen fingers. Joscelin, much recovered from his wounds, checked the horses' hooves.

"Phedre!" I heard him gasp as he released the foreleg of one of our Skaldi remounts. The horse stomped, the sound ringing off the stony walls. I looked up to see where he was pointing.

There, etched in rock above the mouth of the cavern, was Blessed Elua's sigil. Caught by some trick of refracted daylight it gleamed, silvery, in the hard stone. I stared without speaking, then closed my mouth, realizing it gaped. Joscelin and I looked wildly at each other.

"You know what this means?" he asked breathlessly. "They sheltered here, crossing the Skaldic hinterlands! Elua, Cassiel, Naamah ... all the Companions!" Approaching the cavern mouth, he laid his hands reverently upon the rock. "They were here."

"They were here," I echoed, gazing at the silvery lines, remembering my wordless, snow-bound prayer. We had dreamed, I thought, in a sacred place. "Joscelin," I said. "Let's go home."

Tearing himself away from the cavern wall, he glanced at me and nodded, settling the wolf-pelt of the White Brethren in place about his shoulders. "Home," he said firmly, leading the way.

A dream, and the promise of our long-ago celestial begetters, who had not forgotten the distant generations of their children, in whose red blood a thin thread of ichor ran still. Home, a golden memory, from which we were separated by mile upon icy mile.

Outside, the cold of a Skaldic winter awaited us.

Home.

FIFTY-FOUR

In the days that followed, no further pursuit came upon us. The weather was our only enemy, but of a surety, it was enemy enough. With horses somewhat fresher than our own had been, we pressed harder, stopping when the light failed and setting up camp to fall into an exhausted sleep.

Betimes we encountered steadings along the way, but our senses had grown keen living in the wilderness, and each time either Joscelin or I detected signs of human habitation well in advance. We gave all steadings a wide berth, and never made camp within less than an hour's ride from the nearest man-sign. Once or twice more, we saw wolves at dusk, and one terrifying time, we disturbed a fierce bear from its winter slumber in a cave that proved not to be abandoned. I thought my gallant pony lost that time as we fled, the longer-legged horses churning snow in their terror, but he floundered in our wake, making a horrid squeal of fear, his hindquarters inches away from swiping claws the length of my whole hand. I have heard the fabled oliphaunts of Bhodistan are the largest creatures living, but if I never see a doughtier beast than a Skaldic bear, I will rest well content. In this one thing, winter proved our friend, for the bear gave up the chase after a short distance and turned to lumber back into the depths of its shelter, and sleep.

Thus did we reach the Camaeline Range without further incident.

There is no easy way to cross from the Skaldic territories into Terre d'Ange. Where the Camaelines give way in the north, the Rhenus River takes over, too deep and fast to be forded, and seldom bridged since the days of the Tiberian Empire. They, with their legions of engineers, could muster a bridge-building brigade in a matter of a day, given sufficient timber. Since then, D'Angelines have held the river border.

If we dared, I would have ridden clear up to the flatlands and begged passage through Azzalle, for I've no doubt there were loyal adherents to the Crown there, if only in the person of Ghislain de Somerville, who, to the best of my knowledge, still held command of Trevalion. But to cross the heart of Skaldi wilderness was one thing; to ride the borders during wartime—albeit a war Terre d'Ange didn't know was coming—was another. No, it had to be the mountains, and expedience demanded that we attempt the southernmost of the Great Passes.

We rode in the shadow of the tall peaks of the Camaelines for a day, and camped beneath them at night. The snow was deeper here, and it was hard going. Still, we were close enough to sense that the air of home lay on the far side of those cruel mountains, and it gave us heart.

In the morning, we came upon a sight that dashed our hopes.

I had feared that Selig would take further measures against us, and my fears were well-founded. Joscelin, heeding them, made a reconaissance on foot and returned grim-faced, leading me to a secure vantage point. On the snowy plains before the southern pass, we saw them: A party of some two-score Marsi raiders, encamped between us and the pass.

Harald had said he'd traded places with one of Selig's hand-picked thanes. I saw now what he meant. Selig had sent the steading-riders as well, turning out the Marsi tribe to guard the passes against us.

I looked once, hoping against hope, at Joscelin.

"Not a chance," he said ruefully, shaking his head. "There are too many and on open ground, Phedre. I'd be slaughtered."

"What, then?"

He met my eyes reluctantly, then turned, gazing up at the vast mountain peaks, towering high above us.

"No," I said. "Joscelin, I can't."

"We have to," he said gently. "There's no other way."

On the plain below us, the Skaldi of the Marsi built up their fires, singing and holding games, drinking and shouting and dashing at each other in mock combat. For all of that, they kept scouts posted, watching the horizons. There were probably men of Gunter's steading among them, I thought; men I'd known, men I'd served mead. We could hear them, occasionally, the clear thin air carrying their shouts. If word of what we'd done to Selig's thanes had reached them, they'd kill us without blinking. We couldn't go through them, and we couldn't go around them.

He was right. There was no other way.

I pulled my wolfskin cloak tight around me and shivered. "Then let's go. And may Elua have mercy on us."

I will not tell every step of that treacherous journey. It is enough to say that we survived it. Joscelin rode back the way we'd come, flogging his poor mount, and returned in the lowering orange light of sunset to report that he'd found a trail, a mere goat-track, winding up among the crags beyond where the eye could follow. Turning our backs on the Skaldi, we rode back to make camp in the foothills, daring only the smallest of fires. Joscelin fed it all night with twigs, and I daresay it would have fit within his cupped hands. It kept the warmth of life in our flesh, though barely.

In the morning, we began to ascend.

After a certain point, it was no longer possible to ride, and we needs must dismount and climb, using frigid hands and feet to find holds, leading the horses scrambling after. I lost my mount on the first day. It was a horrible thing, and I do not like to think on it; he sheered away from a crag when it loosed a small avalanche of snow and lost his footing. If I'd been mounted, I'd have gone over the precipice too. As it was, we lost half our stores, and I was sick at the poor creature's demise.

"Never mind," Joscelin said through frozen lips, his eyes looking as sick as I felt. "We've enough for two more days, and if we don't live that long, it won't matter."

So we kept on, shifting the bulk of our packs to the pony. I was glad I'd kept him with me, for he was surer-footed in the mountains than the tall horses.

Joscelin's mount we lost on a mistep.

It happened after we had reached the summit, where the air was so thin we could not seem to fill our lungs, but gasped in breath like knives. It is beautiful in the mountains; so they say, and I daresay it is true. If I fail to describe the beauty of the Camaelines, do not think it is for lack of poetry in my soul. I fought for my life with every step, and could not spare the strength needed to lift my head and take in the view. We reached the top, and headed down.

It is easier to go down than up. It is also more dangerous. A pocket of snow, a hidden crevice; Joscelin's horse snapped a foreleg. It was the second he'd had to put down, and no easier than the first. This time, he held the cook-pot to the vein when he cut it.

"One of Barquiel L'Envers' men told me the Akkadians make blood-tea when they're caught out in the desert," he said without looking at me. "They can live for days, and the horses too. He's dead anyway, Phedre."

I did not argue; it was true. We drank blood-tea. We survived the mountains, and descended into Camlach.

The province of the traitor Due, Isidore d'Aiglemort, and the Allies of Camlach.

It was too much to ask, that we should pass unnoticed through the D'Angeline borderlands. When they sing of this winter, the poets—none of whom stood atop the Camaelines, you may be sure—call it the Bitterest Winter. The Skaldi had been raiding all winter, braving the passes. The border was well patrolled.

The Allies of Camlach found us that night.

We were careless, it is true, relieved to be alive. Our campsite was secluded and our fire small, but it might as well have been a beacon in those lands, which are little kinder than the Skaldi territories themselves, so close to the mountains.

It was a small scouting party that found us, riding out of the darkness with a faint jingle of bit and harness, the firelight gleaming on mail shirts. Joscelin sprang to his feet with a curse, kicking snow at the fire, but too late; they were on us.

They expected us no more than we did them; less, I daresay. No more than a score of men, mounted D'Angeline warriors all, staring in perplexity at the sight of us. My heart bounded and sank, all at once, and I looked frantically for their standard-bearer.

There, the burning sword, emblazoned on sable. Allies of Camlach. Not d'Aiglemort's men, though; Elua favored us. Beneath it flew a standard of a mountain crag and fir, argent on green. Whose House, I wondered desperately, searching the archives of my mind.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin begin the sweeping Cas-siline bow, reaching for his daggers. With a shout, I threw myself at him, cutting his knees out from under him. We rolled on the snowy ground together, while the Allies of Camlach stared. Whatsoever House they belonged to, I didn't want word out that a lone woman and a Cassiline Brother were travelling through the wilds of Camlach.

One of their number stepped forward, a seasoned warrior in well-worn arms. "Identify yourselves!" he snapped curtly.

It wasn't until then that I realized how we must look, the both of us, wind-and snow-burned, swathed in Skaldi furs, venturing alone through the worst of Camlach's winter, with only a heavily laden Skaldi pony to accompany us.

"My lord!" I gasped, signing Joscelin urgently to silence. "I am sorry, we meant no harm! Do we trespass here?"