Kushiel's Chosen

home to his City. "It is my pride and folly that has brought us to this pass. If I had heeded your fears long ago, I would not have gone trusting to La Serenissima. Let us choose the way of expiation, and place ourselves in Kushiel's hand. The Unforgiven shall form our point guard, and escort us to the City of Elua."
    "The Unforgiven have sworn on Camael's sword to ward the borders of Camlach for all time!" Amaury Trente sighed again. "And you granted them that right, Ysandre. If they prove loyal, do you think they will be lightly forsworn?"
    "Sometimes," Joscelin murmured, "one must break one oath to uphold a higher."
    "Yes." Ysandre turned her gaze back to me. "What do you say, Phèdre nó Delaunay? It is you who shall command them, and not I. Kushiel's chosen has the right to ask what the Queen of Terre d'Ange does not. Will the Unforgiven obey?"
    I saw in my mind Tarren d'Eltoine's face washed by firelight, calm and implacable. Kushiel's hand need not know its master's bidding, he had said to me; but I had endured the mysteries of the Temenos since then. I knew what I did, when I asked men to break their oaths and march toward death. Kushiel's hand, they had called me; but in Phaistos, a slave-girl had named me lypiphera, the pain-bearer. "Yes, my lady," I said softly. "They will obey."
    Thus it was decided that we would ask only hospitality of the Duke of Milazza, and a replenishment of our stores. There, we were received with much fanfare, and our entke party ushered into the gates of the city, a gilded canopy borne over the head of Ysandre de la Courcel as we paraded through the streets to enter the mighty keep of the Castello. It is a vast, walled fortress encompassing an entire park, with tall, sturdy towers at every corner.
    The Duke of Milazza was a slow, shrewd man, and I could see he wondered at Ysandre's haste and her story . I will say that she faced him down magnificently, cool gaze and raised chin giving not an inch before his suspicion; and I thought, too, that she had chosen wisely in refusing to ask him for troops. It was his Duchess, who was a noblewoman of an ancient Tiberian line, who intervened, calling upon the laws of hospitality to uphold Ysandre's request.
    So we were feasted in the Castello, and the Duke opened his stores and promised guides to show us the quickest way through the foothills of the Camaelines. I think Amaury Trente repented his eagerness to rely on Caerdicci forces that day, though he never admitted as much. Still, 'twas there for all to see, how swiftly the proffered hand of an ally may be withdrawn when one's fortune turns.
    In the morning, we departed for Camlach.
    Of that journey, I will say little. I have crossed the Camaelines before, at their highest peak in the depths of winter. It was a dreadful journey, and one on which I thought I might die or simply give up several times daily. If this was considerably less harsh, it was by no means pleasant. I dug my sangoire cloak out of my bags and wore it atop the woolen Illyrian cloak, shivering under both. I daresay we all would have flagged on that journey, were it not for Ysandre de la Courcel, who endured the same hardships and ignored them all, gazing westward with the fixed intensity of a sailor following the Navigator's Star. Like the others, I huddled atop my mount and followed after her, blowing on my near-frozen fingers. I'd have laid down with Selig himself for a pair of Skaldi mittens on that journey.
    Joscelin, of course, was bright-eyed and alert, breathing in the mountain air and looking about him. He was born and bred to the mountains of Siovale, which are at least as rugged as these foothills. I hated him a little for that, and took comfort in knowing that Ti-Philippe did too.
    Our Milazzan guides-hill-folk themselves, fur-clad and silent-melted away as we drew near the border, pointing out the last pass with quick bows. Ysandre's Bursar tossed them some silver coins, which they caught adeptly before disappearing.
    We filed through the pass in a long line, our tired horses stumbling.
    Terre d'Ange, I thought. I was home. No matter what else happened, we had at least come this far. Others felt the same, for I heard more than one voice offer a breathed prayer of thanks.
    It was only minutes before a lone sentry spotted us. Amaury Trente rode after him, shouting, but too late; the sentry mounted at lightning speed and set off on his fresh horse. Lord Trente was soon left wallowing in his wake and drew up. I