Kushiel's Dart

breath and gazed at the sea of waiting faces. "An army of seven thousand stands ready to attack Selig's rearguard at daybreak," I said aloud, hearing a murmurous echo as my words were passed backward through the ranks.
    Percy de Somerville, looking gaunt and tired, kindled to life. "Elua!" he exclaimed. "Seven thousand Albans!"
    "No, my lord." I shook my head. "Half the force is Alban. The other half is Isidore d'Aiglemort's army."
    This time, the murmur rose nearly to a roar, surging in waves through the courtyard. I wavered on my feet, and Joscelin caught my arm, steadying me. Disheveled and unwashed, hair in a half-braided tangle, one sleeve dark and stiff with blood, he looked nothing like his Cassiline brethren, and about ten times as dangerous.
    "D'Aiglemort!" Barquiel L'Envers said in disgust. "Whose fool idea was that?"
    "Mine, my lord," I said evenly. "Implemented by my lord de Somer-ville's son."
    "Ghislain?" The light in Percy de Somerville's eyes grew brighter. "Ghislain is with them?"
    I nodded, righting exhaustion. "Ghislain and a few hundred of his men. He left Marc de Trevalion in command in Azzalle, with Admiral Rousse. They planned the attack together; Ghislain, I mean, and d'Aiglemort and Drustan. And the Twins." I saw his face go blank. "The Lords of the Dalriada."
    "Then Rousse is alive, and Marc, too." It was Caspar Trevalion, his salt-and-pepper hair gone greyer in the months since I'd seen him. I learned later that he had lingered too long aiding Ysandre and de Somerville in organizing the defense of Troyes-le-Mont, and been cut off from returning to Azzalle to fight with his kinsman.
    "Yes, my lord," I said. "When we left them."
    "Thanks to Elua," he murmured, grey eyes resting kindly on me, "for their safety, and yours."
    "Why would Isidore d'Aiglemort aid us?" asked a quiet voice. I recognized Tibault, the Siovalese Comte de Toluard, more soldier than scholar now.
    "Because," I shifted, and winced. My back throbbed and burned like fire. D'Aiglemort had been right, they were loathe to trust him. I hadn't reckoned on this difficulty; I'd not reckoned on being alive. "He is D'Angeline, my lord, and he is dead no matter what happens. I gave him the choice of a hero's death."
    Barquiel L'Envers looked hard at me. "Are you that sure of him, Delaunay's pupil, that you'd risk our lives on it?"
    "Yes, my lord." I held his gaze. "Why did you come for me, when you despised my lord Delaunay?"
    "Because." L'Envers' eyes glinted, acknowledging my point. "Because we are D'Angeline, Phedre no Delaunay. And young Verreuil afforded Selig's men with a distraction." He clapped his hand on Joscelin's shoulder. "Good thing we came before you played out your Cassiline end-game, yes?" He laughed at Joscelin's level stare. "But d'Aiglemort is a traitor. Whatever Delaunay may have thought of me, I never let the Skaldi in the door. What does d'Aiglemort care who sits the throne, if he's dead either way? We set him up, with Baudoin's men. Do you think he wouldn't take the chance to serve us the same?"
    Ysandre watched us, giving nothing away; the lords and the army were waiting on her decision.
    "Oh, Isidore d'Aiglemort cares," I said softly. "And he wants revenge." I touched the diamond at my throat. "He is not playing for you, my lady," I said to Ysandre. "He is playing against Melisande Shahrizai."
    There was a silence.
    "That would do it," L'Envers admitted slowly.
    "My lord de Somerville," Ysandre said crisply, turning to Percy. "We will support our allies and mount a counterattack on the Skaldi army. Will you so command it?"
    Percy de Somerville bowed, his face firm with resolve. "Your majesty, I will." Willingness, and relief, in his voice; his son was leading those allies.
    There was a muffled sound from the gatehouse. One of the defenders ran panting into our midst, saluting de Somerville. "They're breaking up the siege tower to lay timbers across the moat, my lord," he said, wiping his forearm across his brow. "Selig's out there, madder than a pricked bull."
    "Use everything we have!" I didn't know the lord who spoke; a Ku-sheline, by his accent. Excitement was beginning to spread in the wake of Ysandre's pronouncement. "Set an archer at every arrow-slit, and rain down fire upon them! We've only to hold out till dawn!"
    Cheering arose, setting my ears to ringing.
    "No!" Percy de Somerville's voice quelled it. He glared at the lord who'd spoken. "Listen well," he said grimly into the subdued quiet that