Kushiel's Chosen

I'd sooner have slept under a silk coverlet on a down-stuffed pallet, but the pursuit of knowledge makes all manner of hardship worthwhile.
    And I had known worse. I could not help but remember, as we travelled deeper into the forests of Camlach, how Joscelin and I had staggered, half-frozen, wind-burned and exhausted, out of the Camaelme Mountains and into shelter in this land. How the men of the Marquis de Bois-le-Garde had found our meager campsite, and that awful, terrifying flight through the benighted woods. Travelling by day, golden sunlight slanting through the pines, it seemed harmless, but we had come near to death in this place.
    Different times, those; Isidore d'Aiglemort's treacherous Allies of Camlach held the province, and there was no telling who was friend or foe. Now those same men guarded the borders and the Duc d'Aiglemort was dead, slain on the battlefield of Troyes-le-Mont, spending his life to thwart the very enemy he'd invited onto D'Angeline soil. Kilberhaar, the Skaldi had called him; Silver Hair. I had watched it all, from the parapets of the fortress. Seventeen wounds d'Aiglemort had taken, battling his way across the field to challenge Waldemar Selig. They counted, when they laid him out and gave him a hero's funeral.
    I had been there, at the end, when he died, carrying water to the wounded and dying. I am afraid of your lord's revenge, he said to me, lying in a welter of his own gore. At first, I thought he meant Delaunay-and then I knew better. It was Kushiel he feared; Kushiel, who metes out punishment.
    For that, I could not blame him. I fear Kushiel myself, for all that I am his chosen. On the whole, Naamah's Service is a great deal more pleasant, but I do not think it is Naamah whose hand placed me on the battlefield that day.
    So I mused and remembered as we travelled, and the time passed swiftly.
    On the fourth day, we came upon the Stream that Fortun had recorded on his map, and a broad, well-trodden trail that led out of the woods and toward the foothills of the Camaelines. The first garrison lay to the south of the southernmost of the Great Passes. It was but early afternoon, and the woods were cheerful with birdsong.
    "I don't like this," Joscelin said, frowning at the serenity of our surroundings. "Why isn't there a guard posted? If Fortun's directions are right, we're inside the perimeter of the garrison."
    "Mayhap they thought it wiser to guard against the Skaldi," Remy offered sardonically.
    "No," I said absently. "Joscelin's right; any Camaeline corps this close to the border would mount a guard on all sides. They're not likely to let themselves be flanked."
    "There's been a large party riding through here," Fortun observed, pointing to the myriad hoofmarks churning the soft loam. "Not long past; these are fresh since it rained this morning. A scouting party, mayhap?"
    In the distance, we heard a sudden shout, and then the distinctive metal-on-metal sound of swordplay.
    "Mayhap not," Joscelin said grimly, and wheeled his horse. "Whatever trouble it is, we're best away from it." He nearly clapped heels to his mount's sides, before he saw me motionless in the saddle, head cocked to listen. "Phèdre, you brought me to keep you safe!" he snapped, jostling his mount next to mine and grabbing at my reins. "At least do me the kindness of heeding my advice!"
    The chevaliers were milling, uncertain. I met Joscelin's eyes. "Listen."
    Biting back a retort, he did; and he heard it too. Rising above the clash of arms and shouted orders, a faint cry, ragged and defiant. "Ye-shu-a! Ye-shu-a!"
    Joscelin quivered like a bowstring, his face a study in anguish. With a sound that might have been a curse or a sob, he let go my reins and jerked his horse's head around and set heels to it, riding at a dead gallop toward the garrison.
    "What are you waiting for?" I asked my staring chevaliers, turning my own mount after Joscelin. "Go!"
    I daresay we made for a strange sight, bursting from the forest trail to fan out across the narrow plain; a D'Angeline noblewoman, three men-at-arms and trailing packhorses chasing someone who looked very much like a Cassiline Brother riding hell-for-leather toward an entire garrison. If the Unforgiven corps had not been occupied, they might have laughed-but occupied they were. Thirty or more encircled a party of Yeshuites, who numbered in the dozens. There were two wagons at the center, and I could discern the figures of women and children on them, while the