Kushiel's Chosen

mighty tree. His gold-inlaid armor gleamed, though he held his helmet in the crook of his arm. I daresay he had known it, the moment his army turned. He was a good commander; the best, for many years, near as long as I had lived.
    Ysandre halted before him. "Do you know who I am, my lord?" she asked softly.
    "Yes." His expression never changed as he raised his voice in answer. A scent of apples hung in the chill autumn air, faint and sweet as a sun-warmed orchard. "You are Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange."
    A sound like a vast sob of pain swept the field; soldiers who had not done so sheathed their weapons, shields falling with a clatter, knowing beyond doubt what they had done. Alone among the thousands who knelt in shame, Percy de Somerville remained standing, his gaze locked with his Queen's.
    "Percy de Somerville," she said. "I place you under arrest for high treason."

EIGHTY-TWO
    it was atop the walls of the City that the cheering began. They had witnessed it all from the high white walls, the defenders of the City of Elua under the command of Barquiel L'Envers; indeed, it is his description that Thelesis de Mornay used in her epic when she set these events to verse. It was easy to pick out his figure, a surcoat of L'Envers' purple over his armor, raising his sword in salute. The wintry sun flashed on its length, and Ysandre's herald hoisted her standard in reply.
    I saw joy and relief on the faces of many near me as they gave back the shouts of the defenders, but my own heart was too heavy for rejoicing. I saw the stricken grief in the faces of the soldiers of the Royal Army, struggling to understand what they had done. I saw Brys nó Rinforte, trembling with shame. I saw the stern resolve in the faces of the Unforgiven, who would never be done atoning for their own crime, and I saw Ysandre's chirurgeon and her assistant moving among the ranks, beginning the business of attending to the wounded and dying. I saw the glazed eyes of the Camaeline cavalryman I'd ridden around, and the hand of the village boy clutching in disbelief at the arrow shaft emerging from his flesh. I saw the shadow that haunted Ti-Philippe's smile, and remembered how my heart had been like a stone after Remy and Fortun were slain.
    These things should not be.
    And this sorrow, too, I saw in the face of Ysandre de la Courcel, who gazed at a man she had trusted since birth, her Royal Commander, a hero of the realm, sovereign Duc of L'Agnace, kin to her and a Prince of the Blood on her grandmother's side.
    I think he felt it, too; what would have transpired next between them, I cannot say, for shouting of a different tenor arose from the walls. I looked up to see them pointing toward the north, and a ripple of sound coming from the outlying verge of the Royal Army, resolving sighting into words.
    Ghislain was coming.
    "Let him pass," Ysandre said.
    He came armed for battle, bearing the colors and standard of House Trevalion, deep-blue with three ships and the Navigator's Star, and some three hundred men rode with. him. The Royal Army parted ranks to allow his company through as he rode unerringly toward us. Ysandre watched him calmly, ordering the Unforgiven to stand aside.
    They had ridden hard, their horses lathered and near-spent. Ghislain de Somerville drew rein before Ysandre and his company halted behind him, motionless to a man as he removed his helmet and pressed a clenched fist to his breast.
    "My Queen," he said, a catch in his voice; his face was strained with emotion.
    Ysandre inclined her head. "My lord de Somerville."
    "Name me not thusly, majesty." Ghislain turned his head to his father, mingled hatred and love suffusing his features. "Is it true?"
    Percy de Somerville did not look away, although there was a dreadful anguish in his eyes. Whatever else he was, he was no coward. "Yes."
    Ghislain flinched as if at a blow, then extended his closed fist and opened it. A length of green cloth fell to the trodden ground, and I glimpsed the embroidered branches of an apple tree, the insignia of the de Somerville line. "In the name of Elua and Anael," he said harshly, "I renounce my House. Ghislain de Somerville is no more."
    I felt tears stand in my eyes, and the blood beat hard in my head, a rush of bronze-winged sound, a tinge of crimson washing over my blurred vision. Percy de Somerville bowed his head in grief, his broad shoulders hunched, and I knew something had broken in him.
    My lord Kushiel is cruel and