Kushiel's Dart

seemed a long time, a very long time, since that dreadful day when Joscelin and I had failed to outrace death to Delaunay's door. And yet, now, it would come to an end, and it seemed too fast. We made our camp in the foothills, a prudent distance from the battle.
    Come morning, we would attack.
    I went with Ghislain and the others to survey the siege. With the sun settling low over the plain, we could see the embattled fortress, still flying the Courcel swan, an island in a sea of Skaldi forces. Beyond the breached bulwarks, the half-burned skeleton of a siege tower leaned against one wall; and there, on the plain, was the charred wreckage of the tower Drustan's Cruithne had ignited.
    But there were two towers yet, moved nearly into position, and the Skaldi were making ready a great battering ram to try the gates. Only the archers and the trebuchet in the fortress were keeping them at bay. If the Skaldi got one of their towers in place and swarmed the parapet, it would soon be done. They were withdrawing out of range, now, with the setting sun, to renew efforts with the dawn.
    "We'll wait for daybreak," Ghislain murmured, "and pray they know us for allies, in the fortress. The sooner they counterattack the Skaldi rear, the better our chances."
    "You think they'll flock to aid the d'Aiglemort eagle?" Isidore d'Aiglemort asked wryly. "Don't count on their being quick, cousin."
    "My father is no fool." Ghislain stared through the gloaming at the distant fortress. "Drustan's men are flying the Cullach Gorrym. He'll know."
    "If he can even see the Black Pig, over thirty thousand howling Skaldi." D'Aiglemort drew back from the vantage, and shrugged matter-of-factly. "We'll do as much damage as we can, and pray it's enough to break the siege. But for every minute your father hesitates, and for every minute it takes for them to marshal a counterattack, we'll die by the hundreds."
    One of Phedre's Boys-Eugene, whom Quintilius Rousse had prized for his long vision-gazed out over the battlefield and made a choked sound, pointing.
    It was hard to make out events at such a distance, the figures tiny, but not so hard that we couldn't see the line of prisoners being led among the camps of the Skaldi, shoved and stumbling. Their gowns made bright spots of color against the dust and steely turmoil of a war-camp.
    Women, all of them; D'Angeline women.
    Selig's army had cut a swathe through northern Namarre before Percy de Somerville's force had intercepted them. We'd not seen it before. They had taken slaves.
    We watched it silently, too far away to hear if they cried out. I doubt it. They would have been some weeks among the Skaldi. One grows numb to almost anything, after a while. Still, I could not look away, until Joscelin took my shoulders and pulled me gently back. I pressed my face to his chest and shuddered. When I lifted my head, Isidore d'Aiglemort was watching us both, his expression somber.
    "I am sorry," he said quietly. "For what was done to you both. For what it's worth, I am sorry."
    Joscelin, holding me, nodded.
    "Daybreak," Ghislain de Somerville said grimly.

EIGHTY-SIX
    I awoke a little past moonrise.
    It was the rustling tide in my blood that awoke me, Kushiel's presence around me like great bronze wings, setting my blood to beating in my ears. Lifting my head from my bedroll, I gazed across our sleeping camp and saw everything washed in a red haze of blood, staining armor, faces, horses drowsing with heads low and a rear leg cocked.
    For every minute that passed, they would die by the hundreds.
    Kushiel's voice whispered in my ear.
    Now . . .
    I covered my face with my hands and knew.
    It was not such a difficult thing, to arise without waking anyone near me. Our sentries were posted outward, they'd no orders to restrain movement within the camp. And I know how to be quiet. It is the first thing they teach, in the Night Court. Before anything else, we learn it; to be unobtrusive, invisible, to attend unseen and unnoticed.
    Delaunay taught us too.
    Leaving Joscelin was the hardest, because I knew he'd never forgive me for it. I stooped over him as he slept, lying silvered in the moonlight, like Endymion in the old Hellene tale. I pressed my lips to his brow, light enough that he only murmured in his sleep. "Good-bye, my Cassiel," I whispered, smoothing his hair.
    Then I rose, and pinned about me my travelling cloak, a deep brown velvet, Quincel de Morbhan's gift. It was dark enough to serve. I picked my way