Kushiel's Chosen

coins left than I would have wished; but enough. Each man among them had hoarded a cache. They spent them now, pressing close behind Ysandre and the ranks of the Unforgiven, jostling the knot of nobles they enclosed-including me-and hurling their remaining stores with slings of homespun cloth. Showers of silver coins burst into the air, scattering over the assembled forces of the Royal Army, who checked themselves out of sheer surprise at this unprecedented rain from heaven.
    I had hoped for nothing more.
    In the startlement that followed, Ysandre de la Courcel's party pushed forward, surrounded by the riders of the Unforgiven ... and the ragged chant of the villagers began to make itself heard.
    "Ys-and-dre! Ys-and-dre!"
    At the outer edges of our company, the skirmishing slowed to a halt. The hurled coins, the cries of the commonfolk and the black shields of the Unforgiven had opened an aisle into the heart of the Royal Army.
    "I cannot do it!" It was Brys no Rinforte who spoke, the Cassiline, his voice strung tight and frantic. His hands trembled on the reins and his mount shifted nervously beneath him. "Your majesty, I have failed you once; I will fail you again! Do not ask me to do this thing!"
    "Stand down, Cassiline," Ysandre said gently. "I do not ask it."
    I heard Joscelin's indrawn breath; he caught my eye, deadly sober. I nodded. We had learned to speak without words, he and I, a long time ago. I knew what he intended. "Your majesty-" he began.
    "No." Ysandre held up one hand. "No, Joscelin," she said, quietly. "It is mine to do alone."
    He checked himself, pausing. The Unforgiven held then-position, faces grim with resolve. A murmur like a swelling current passed through the vast forces of the Royal Army, drawing near to the ears of Percy de Somerville, Brys n ó Rinforte dismounted on shaking legs and pressed his face against his horse's neck. Joscelin bowed from the saddle, vambraced arms crossed before him. Like the others, I watched.
    And Ysandre de la Courcel rode forth alone between the ranks of the Unforgiven.
    The Queen of Terre d'Ange.
    It was a broad aisle the Unforgiven had opened for a single rider, and Ysandre traversed it slowly, an eternity of suspense in every step her palfrey took. Her chin was upraised, her violet eyes wide and seemingly fearless. I heard Amaury Trente somewhere near me, muttering prayers and love-words like a curse. The dying and the wounded moaned with pain, and the soldiers of the Royal Army stood curiously still, staring past the Black Shields.
    When Ysandre was two-thirds of the way down the cordon, Tarren d'Eltoine gave the command, a single, clipped word. "March!"
    With the immaculate precision for which they trained, the Unforgiven put up their pikes and sheathed their swords, marching into the throng of the Royal Army, toward the City of Elua.
    I, who was there, have no words to describe the sight; how the ranks of soldiers parted, falling away before the advance of the Queen of Terre d'Ange and her tiny vanguard. How knots of protest surged and fell silent, how awe dawned and settled on their faces, and stillness spread across the battlefield. Some glanced down at silver coins held in sword-calloused hands. Some merely stared, and some knelt. It is a grave and mighty thing, to see an army part like the ocean in a Yeshuite tale.
    Ysandre never faltered.
    The path that they opened led straight to Lord Percy, Duc de Somerville, the Royal Commander. We followed behind, a half-organized handful trailing in her wake, dazed commonfolk wandering between the mounted members of the Queen's Guard. Behind us, hundreds upon hundreds of de Somerville's soldiers came in close .
    And ahead of us, always, was the tiny cordon of Black Shields, and in the aisle between them, the lone figure of the Queen, uncrowned, her fair hair falling in ripples down her back, her cloak in sculpted folds over her palfrey's crapper as she closed the distance between her and Percy de Somerville at a slow, even pace.
    I will take credit for the coins; 'twas my idea, and it made a difference, that I will maintain. But it accounted only for the first blink of surprise, that opened the door. My skin prickled the whole of that terrible, fearful distance, awaiting the touch of steel.
    That it did not come-that is due wholly to the courage of Ysandre de la Courcel.
    He was waiting, Lord Percy, with the most loyal of his soldiers about him, unmounted, standing with legs solidly planted like some ancient,