Kushiel's Chosen

paused for an evening's rest. If the citizens of Terre d'Ange awaited us with hope and joy in Camlach, some few leagues into L'Agnace, we encountered rebounding denial.
    Word of Ysandre's survival had reached Percy de Somerville's ears, and he had responded in the only manner he could, naming her an imposter.
    It hurt her, to see simple farmers and humble folk turned out to jeer, children clutching clods of frozen earth to hurl at her retinue. The Unforgiven formed the vanguard, pikemen marching four abreast, cavalry following behind, their black-painted shields grim and foreboding. They glanced neither to the right nor the left at the jeers, nor did Ysandre, riding between Tarren d'Eltoine and the Captain of Northfort's garrison, with her Cassiline guard a half-pace behind. It fell to those of us who followed after to give the lie to de Somerville's claim, heralding Ysandre as the true-born Queen of Terre d'Ange and naming the Duc de Somerville's actions as lies and treason.
    I daresay it was the coins that turned the tide, although Amaury Trente would never admit to it. At first it was the children who shouted and scrambled after them, quarreling in the fallow fields over gleaming bits of silver; the adults would not be bought so easily, reckoning D'Angeline pride at a higher price. But when one or two of the children stood and stared, pointing at Ysandre, they began to take notice.
    And we began to acquire a following.
    Some of it, doubtless, was due to the mere fact that we were literally throwing money away; not all of it, I think. They looked, and they believed, grasping the truth that here lay a drama unfolding worthy of the poets' songs. And they were D'Angeline. By twos and threes, a trickle swelling to a flood, they came to join their Queen.
    How many came, I cannot say. There were farmers and cartwrights and weavers, chandlers, beekeepers and cheese-makers; no town or village but contributed a few. Some were old enough to have lined visages, though hale enough to march; some few were young, not yet out of childhood. Those we sent back, when we could, though more replaced them down the road. I saw the tears that stood in Ysandre's eyes as she set her face determinedly toward the City of Elua.
    So did they. And their numbers continued to grow.
    It was at the crossroads of Eisheth's Way that a unit of de Somerville's cavalry intercepted us; five hundred soldiers, mounted and armed. I learned later that they had been stationed in Eisande along the road from Milazza, poised to thwart any incursion-and indeed, it was Melisande's cunning that had suggested the precaution, although it was de Somerville's orders that called them back at the rumor of the Queen's return and set them in our path. I do not think he had reckoned on the whole of the Unforgiven accompanying us.
    I know he did not count on the hundreds of unarmed commonfolk.
    It was a standoff. The soldiers of the Royal Army were strung in a broad arc across the road and the bordering fields. Our company halted, and Tarren d'Eltoine gave a single command; the Unforgiven responded like a well-oiled machine, pikemen spreading out in a double line to face de Somerville's soldiers, the cavalry bunched behind, poised like an arrow to pierce the Royal Army's lines. We were secure behind them, bolstered on both sides and behind by the Queen's Guard under Lord Trente's command.
    Ysandre's herald, who had been chosen no less for his bravery than his ringing voice, made his way to the forefront of the party, bearing a standard from which flew both the Lily and Stars of Elua and his Companions, and the Silver Swan of House Courcel.
    "Make way!" he cried, his voice echoing across the shorn fields. "Make way for Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange!"
    There was a pause, and I knew the commander of de Somerville's cavalry was assessing the situation. He could not identify the Queen at that distance, but he could count our numbers and he was no fool. In a moment, he nudged his tall mount forward, wheeling it in the road. "Imposter!" he shouted. "Vile impersonator! We will meet you and your Black Shield traitors at the gates of the City!"
    With that he raised one hand and uttered a command, and the outspread wings of the Royal Army cavalry collapsed, folding in upon themselves as they whirled in an ordered retreat, showing us the flying haunches and tails of their mounts. Some of our D'Angeline followers ran after them, yelling, but soon gave up the