Kushiel's Chosen

Amaury Trente implemented Ysandre's orders with dogged efficiency, and I could see why she had chosen him as Captain of the Guard for her progressus. Ysandre was never one to seek unquestioning obedience, merely loyalty. He had that, and to his credit, not one of his guardsmen faltered in following, though I am sure many of them thought it folly.
    I worried more about Brys no Rinforte, her Cassiline guard, who followed her like a haggard grey shadow. David de Rocaille's actions had shocked him to the core, and I did not think he had recovered from it; those who are too rigid in their beliefs will break rather than bend with fortune's blows. I know it worried Joscelin too, but there was naught he could say that the man was willing to hear.
    By contrast, the Unforgiven grew steadily firmer in their resolve as more and more of them poured into Southfort throughout the day, ultimately accepting the dire news and the hard task I had set them with fierce Camaeline determination. Although I understand little enough the desire to seek glory in battle, I understood the hunger for redemption which drove them. My lord Kushiel is a harsh master, but his worship has ever served a purpose.
    Tarren d'Eltoine had his day, and when the sun rose on the following day, the full company of Black Shields had assembled at Southfort. It was in itself a heroic effort, though they have their own means of communicating and travelling at speed through the foothills of the Camaelines, a system laid down by Isidore d'Aiglemort when he formed the Allies of Camlach.
    It was a cold, crisp morning when we departed from Southfort, still and windless, the sky a brilliant blue overhead, our breath emerging in gusts of frost. Ysandre de la Courcel gave a short speech ere we departed, seated astride her favorite grey palfrey, her purple cloak flowing over its haunches and the morning sun gilding her fair hair.
    "It is our purpose to ride hence to the City of Elua and reclaim the throne to which we were born!" she said in her clear, carrying voice. "Not for power nor wealth do I seek to do this thing, but for love. Blessed Elua bid us, Love as thou wilt Terre d'Ange, my first and greatest love, is threatened by those who would tear her asunder to possess her. As I am a Scion of Elua's lineage and the rightfully crowned Queen of Terre d'Ange, I will not permit this to come to pass. Let no man or woman among you set forth this day by aught save his or her free will! Let no one among you ride with me save for love of Blessed Elua, and this glorious nation he begot!"
    We cheered her then until our throats were ragged, and the Unforgiven pikemen hefted the points of their weapons heavenward. Ysandre's face was flushed and brilliant, and I think that all there assembled that day saw what I had seen outside Milazza; that the bright shadow of Elua lay upon her like a mantle.
    Thus did we depart.

EIGHTY-ONE
    It was four days' ride to the City of Elua, and rumor raced before us like a brushfire.
    We had known it would happen; indeed, we encouraged it. Even in the small villages of Camlach, they had heard that the Queen was dead and Percy de Somerville and Barquiel L'Envers strove for mastery of the City. D'Angelínes are not known to sit idle on news of such moment. I am happy to say that word that Ysandre de la Courcel yet lived was received with overwhelming joy.
    I had seen it when I rode to Southfort in the spring; Terre d'Ange had prospered under Ysandre's rule, and her marriage to Drustan mab Necthana had brought further wealth and trade to the nation. If the nobles bridled at the unprecedented alliance with a foreign power and the mingling of Elua's lineage with barbarian blood-for Prince Benedicte and Percy de Somerville had not been alone in that sentiment-the commonfolk knew that their beautiful Queen had wed for love. They remembered too that her barbarian king was a hero of the realm, and they had known only peace and prosperity under this union.
    Here and there, we handed out silver coins along the way, and those who received them marked well the resemblance. There would be no doubt, in Camlach, that the woman styling herself Ysandre de la Courcel was not an imposter.
    In L'Agnace, it grew more difficult.
    There was no way to prevent the spread of rumor, unless we marched day and night, and both Tarren d'Eltoine and Amaury Trente had reckoned that mere folly. Thus had we chosen to exploit it, letting word race ahead from village to village whenever we