Kushiel's Dart

he may. You'll need your wits about you."

SEVENTY-NINE
    So it was that there were only four of us, and not five, who gathered once more atop the high temple of the Master of the Straits.
    "You are ready?" he asked, in that voice that spoke many tongues at once. Numb with grief, it no longer seemed so strange to me.
    "Show us what you will, my lord," I said for us all.
    The Master of the Straits swept his arm through the air above the bronze vessel, the trailing sleeve of his robe shifting to amber in the low sunlight. "Behold," he said. "War."
    The word held all the cold, benighted terror of the ocean deeps. We stood around the tripod and watched as pictures formed on the surface of the water.
    Skaldi, tens of thousands of them, armed with spear and sword and axe, helms on their heads, bucklers on their arms; thousands of Skaldi, pouring over D'Angeline borders through the NorthernPass. Bands of Skaldi riding across the flatlands and ranging along the Rhenus, hurling spears at D'Angeline ships sailing on the river, whirling and retreating from the answering volley of arrows. Skaldi in the lower passes, holding ground, drawing D'Angeline soldiers eastward.
    And in the mountains of Camlach, Isidore d'Aiglemort, glittering in armor, waited in command of some five thousand men, all answering to the flaming sword of the Allies of Camlach.
    I pressed my fist against my mouth, watching. They had known Selig's invasion plan, I'd told them as much! I had thought Ysandre had believed. Was it too much to ask, that an entire army obey the Queen's command, on the say-so of a Servant of Naamah turned runaway Skaldi slave? And one convicted of murder, I remembered grimly. But surely Ysandre was clever enough to credit the intelligence elsewhere.
    "Wait," said the Master of the Straits.
    The pictures on the water changed.
    The Skaldi horde swept down from the NorthernPass like locusts, killing as it came. I saw Waldemar Selig himself, massive atop his charger, commanding the left flank. Kolbjorn of the Manni, whom Selig trusted, led the right. The horde was strung out, the center falling behind; there were so many of them, it wouldn't have mattered if the D'Angelines hadn't known.
    I saw the apple-tree banner of Percy de Somerville flying beneath the silver swan of House Courcel as a vast portion of the D'Angeline army withdrew from the lower passes, wheeling and turning, regrouping and surging north across Namarre to intercept the Skaldi.
    And in the mountains of Camlach, I saw Isidore d'Aiglemort raise his hand and shout a command. Did he know, I wondered, that Selig had betrayed him? His force, arrayed in deadly efficiency, was poised to descend. Quintilius Rousse, his voice ragged with tears, called curses down on d'Aiglemort's head.
    And then, inexplicably, confusion broke out among d'Aiglemort's ranks; the Allies of Camlach, turning, milling. I stared at the waters, trying to sort out what was happening.
    When I saw, I wept.
    The rearguard of d'Aiglemort's own force had fallen upon his men, slashing and killing. And here and there among them, in the pockets where the fighting was fiercest, I saw crude banners lashed onto spear-poles; the insignia of House Trevalion, three ships and the Navigator's Star. Young men, who went down fighting wildly; I could see the cry their lips shaped as they fought and slew. I'd heard it, long ago, chanted as they rode in triumph. Bau-doin! Bau-doin! It had been Caspar Trevalion's plan to send "Baudoin's Glory-Seekers into Camlach. Whatever part they may have played in the schemes of the Lioness of Azzalle, they paid their debt in full that day.
    They didn't fall alone, the Glory-Seekers of Prince Baudoin de Trevalion. There had been others among the Allies of Camlach loyal to the Crown. They had to have known it was suicide. Even as I watched, horror-stricken, the Due d'Aiglemort rallied his loyal forces, shouting soundlessly.
    But it had been enough to shatter d'Aiglemort's attack. A handful of surviving rebels fell back and peeled away, retreating at speed down the mountains. The quickest among d'Aiglemort's men would have pursued, but the Due held them back, gathering to assess his forces. He was too clever for haste in battle.
    Those rebels captured alive, d'Aiglemort interrogated. One of them-one of the Glory-Seekers-laughed and spat at the Due, while d'Aiglemort's men wrestled him to his knees and put a sword to his neck. D'Aiglemort asked him somewhat. Even without hearing, I could