Kushiel's Dart

the key. I stood and made my curtsy, with all the grace of Cereus House, and turned to leave.
    "Wait," Eamonn protested, following to catch my shoulder. "You need not depart in such haste, my lady! At least... at least drink with me, will you not? You have not... you cannot. . ." He shot an evil glance at his sister. "We are alike, she and I, born of one womb! You cannot favor one over the other!"
    "My lord!" I shook off his hand. "I am the Queen's ambassador! Would you treat me so?"
    "I have never forced any woman!" Snatching his hand back, he glared at me. "But how can you choose so? It is not right!"
    I shrugged. "My lord," I said mildly, "as you desire D'Angelines for our beauty, so do we admire aught in others, boldness and daring. Such, your sister possesses."
    "And you say I do not?" Eamonn was working himself into a fury, features wild and distorted. "You say I lack courage?"
    A small crowd was beginning to gather. Joscelin worked through it unobtrusively, making his way to my side.
    Feeling his reassuring presence at my shoulder, I looked at Eamonn and shrugged again, keeping my face expressionless. "I do not say it, my lord. Your actions speak for me."
    "Rather louder than you imagined, Eamonn." That was Grainne's voice, sharp and mocking; it drew laughter. He turned to glare at her, his face near purple with anger, hands fisting at his sides. She looked back at him, her face a cool reflection of his, red-gold brows arched. "You have made your bed; do you cry now, that you lie in it alone?"
    "If it is daring you want," he said through grinding teeth, "I will show you daring!" Thrusting one fist into the air, he cried out. "The Dalriada ride to war, at the side of Drustan mab Necthana!"
    Cheers erupted; if there were groans, they were swept aside in the wave of jubilation. Eamonn pumped his fist, shouting, wholly caught up in it. For a moment, I think, he forgot about me; I had been a catalyst to this deep rivalry between the Twins, no more. But he remembered, and turned to me with bright eyes, grinning.
    "What do you say to that , D'Angeline?" he asked, catching my arms. "Was that daring enough?"
    A horse, a sword, a brooch ... it was a boy's glee, at a victory won. It made me smile, despite myself. "Yes, my lord," I said, meaning it. "It is enough."
    At my side, Joscelin heaved a sigh.
    Thus did it come to pass that I bedded the Twins, Lords of the Dalriada. Eamonn kept his grin for days, going about the business of preparing for war with it plastered on his face, foolish and blissful. I daresay I served him better than I had his sister, having been considerably more sober. Although Grainne had no complaints, to be sure; she caught me in the hall one day and slid a gold bracelet over my arm, rich with the fine, intricate knotwork they do.
    "For luck," she said, amused. "This goddess you serve, she is a powerful one."
    I hoped so.
    We were riding to war.

SEVENTY-TWO
    No D'Angeline need march, of course; it was not our battle. We could have set sail, gone the long way around, avoiding the Straits to set course for lower Siovale. But it would have been a coward's course, and in truth, we'd have had no word to bear. By the time we made landfall and won through to Ysandre, the Cruithne would have crossed the Straits or died.
    Drustan was willing to ride to the aid of Terre d'Ange; we D'Angelines could do no less for the Cullach Gorrym. Quintilius Rousse left half his men with the ship, with instructions to bring word to the Queen if we failed.
    The rest of us would follow the battle.
    The Dalriada ride to war as if to a party, laughing and shouting and jesting, decked out in splendour and finery. The lords fight in the old style still, with war-chariots; it was something to behold, a Hellene tale sprung to life. The Cruithne are quieter, but just as deadly, fierce eyes and battle-grins gleaming in their blue-whorled faces.
    Twenty warriors, Dalriada and Cruithne paired in twos, rode in advance on the swiftest horses, leaving at angles in a vast semi-circle to compass Alba. They carried the twin banners under which they fought, the Fhalair Ban, the White Mare of Eire, white on a green field, and the Cullach Gorrym, the Black Boar on a field of scarlet. We cheered as they left, twisting in the saddle to wave bold farewells, knowing themselves most likely to die. If they succeeded, they would spread word, bringing allies to swell our ranks as we marched eastward.
    Some would succeed. Some would die.
    Drustan