Kushiel's Scion

It was a clear night. The clouds had retreated and the lingering pall of smoke had finally cleared. The moon was three-quarters full, drenching the city with silvery light. It seemed almost peaceful. I wondered if Quentin LeClerc and his contingent was riding beneath the same stars. I hoped so. Their mission seemed a good deal more urgent than it had yesterday.



"What do you think?" Eamonn asked in a low voice.



"I don't know." I shivered, drawing my cloak tighter around me. "It's possible, I suppose. A lot of things are possible."



He gazed at the stars. "You would know, wouldn't you?"



"I ought to." I rubbed my eyes. "Ah, Eamonn! I wish you'd gone with them."



"I wish I'd sent a letter," he said quietly.



That was all we spoke of it. In the small hours of the night, the sentries passed word that our shift was ended and we headed back for the villa. The Bastard was lazy that night, his head nodding. He'd preferred the wild rides the night of the fire. I didn't blame him. Amid the horrors of war, the poets seldom saw fit to mention the deadly tedium. I was thinking about the possibility of a flood and the stables, and trying to determine where the highest ground of the Tadeii property lay. As we drew upon a crossroad, the hooded figure blocking our path took me by surprise.



"Prince Imriel."



For a wild instant, I was flung back into the past. A cold, crisp night outside the Cockerel, and a figure speaking my name. Bertran's fury and Gilot's faithful response. A chase, a cap. My reputation in tatters.



I yanked my sword from its scabbard, the Bastard startled into skittering life beneath me.



"Who asks?" I demanded.



Somewhere in the darkness behind us, there was a faint scuffling sound. With a curse, Eamonn rounded his horse and drew his blade, riding to investigate.



The figure lifted its head.



It was a woman's face within the hood; young, scared, and adamant, leached of color by the moonlight. I put up my blade. I knew her.



Helena .



"Please," she breathed. "I only want to speak to you."



Eamonn returned at a lope, indicating his failure with a shrug. When he saw Helena, he let out a sigh and sheathed his sword. "My lady," he said, bowing in the saddle. "You should not be here. Let us escort you home."



Her gaze never left my face. "Please?"



Having wrestled the Bastard under control, I spread my arms. "What is it you want of me, my lady? I'm cold and tired, and very, very mortal. Whatever it is you think I am, I assure you, I'm not."



"I know." She bowed her head and opened one clenched hand. Three small objects fell rattling onto the cobblestones. Beads, glass beads. In the daylight, I guessed, they would have been blue. Little things, Lucius had said; offerings at the crossroads. Helena nudged them into a crevice with one slippered toe, then lifted her head. "I've been foolish, but I'm not stupid." She was trembling with cold, but the set of her delicate jaw was no less adamant. Her wide eyes searched my face for meaning, for a sign, for somewhat that wasn't there. "I know what you're not," she whispered. "I don't know what you are."



"Just Imriel," I said tiredly. "A stunted tree reaching for sunlight."



She blinked at me and shivered.



Eamonn raised his brows at me.



What could I do? I was D'Angeline and taught by Phèdre nó Delaunay. Swallowing my own cruelty, I dismounted and bowed to Helena, holding it for an extra heartbeat. "Forgive me," I said to her.



"I am weary and sharp-tongued. And Eamonn is right, this is no place for you. We will escort you home."



I cupped my hands to cradle her slippered foot, hoisting her astride the Bastard. Ah, Elua! She weighed little more than Alais. I took the reins and began trudging in the direction of the Correggio palazzo, trying not to think about what she had endured.



"Will you not ride with me?" Her teeth chattered. "Can he not carry two?"



The Bastard snorted.



So I mounted, settling myself behind her while she perched on the pommel, and took up the reins. Eamonn and I exchanged a long, silent look that spoke volumes.



"Fine," I said shortly. "I'll see you at the villa."



He saluted me and cantered away. I took Helena home. She held herself taut, and I did nothing to discourage it. Still, I could feel her growing warmer between my arms and in time her shivering stopped.



The Correggio palazzo was untended in the moonlight, the gate unguarded. Small wonder that she had been able to slip away unnoticed. I supposed their retainers had been impressed into Gallus Tadius' army, too. The Bastard paced into the courtyard as though he owned it. I dismounted and lifted her down from the saddle, my hands around her waist.



"Will you be all right?" I asked her.



"Will I?" She looked up at me with that soft, aching gaze. "I don't know. You… you were taken, too, weren't you? Father explained it to me. I understand about your mother, a little bit. But that part of the story is true, isn't it? You were lost and taken."



"Yes," I said.



"When does it stop hurting?" she asked.



I was silent for a moment, and it came to me that it wasn't Helena I'd tried to protect by avoiding her, not entirely. It was me. It wasn't just the women of the zenana I saw reflected in her broken gaze. It was my ten-year-old self.



And my ten-year-old self owed her an honest answer.



"Never," I said. "But it gets better."



Helena nodded. "Will you come and talk with me? Please? I only want to understand. And I think… I think you matter. What you did… it matters to me. I just want to make sense of it. Please?"



"All right," I said. "I'll come when I can."



Chapter Fifty-Eight



On the morrow, there were orders awaiting.



Eamonn and I reported to the park. In the summer, doubtless it was a green and pleasant place, but dry autumn had taken its toll. What remained of the sere grass was already flattened by treading feet. There were a few late-blooming flowers, but most were already dead, straggling and unpruned. All the ornamental trees were losing their leaves, which lay scattered on the trodden ground. Like everyone else, Lucca's gardeners were conscripts. Only the tall cypresses retained their dark green majesty.



We were to begin drilling in groups of forty. Gall us Tadius reckoned that was the maximum size that could maneuver swiftly within the city streets. And we were to train on foot. There would be no cavalry for the Red Scourge.



Several other squadrons had gone before us. There was an array of armor laid out in piles; all the oddments and remnants that Gallus Tadius had managed to confiscate based on the inventories. He pointed to one of the piles and gave us a few minutes to scavenge whatever fit to augment our gear, or lack of it.



We all scrambled.



I didn't hesitate, going straight after a pair of rusted vambraces. Manners be damned; if there was anyone else there who could make as much use of them, I'd eat my boots. When the flurry was over, I had my vambraces, as well as a leather jerkin stitched with small metal disks, which I reckoned would turn a glancing blow if not a straight thrust, and an open-faced helmet with a shallow brim and a missing chin-strap.



Eamonn had a cuirass that actually fit him and a tall, kite-shaped shield. Since he was the only one who could lift it with ease, no one had challenged him for it. Everyone had something, though almost no one had a full set. There were bare heads, unprotected limbs, vulnerable throats and sides. All in all, it was a motley assortment.



Lucca was a trade town. It had always hired merchant armies for its defense. After Gallus Tadius had seized it and established himself as Prince of Lucca, the Red Scourge had disbanded. Within two generations, the descendants of those who had settled there had long since sold their arms and been absorbed into society.



Gallus shook his head, watching us don our armor.



"Right," he said when we were more or less assembled. "Here's the thing, lads. It's not going to get much better. We're ransacking the city and I've got carpenters and smiths working day and night to pound out bucklers and spears. They won't be much to look at, but they'll serve. Until then…" He shrugged. "We'll work with what we've got. Now let's see what you've got."



Arrayed in a loose circle, we watched as he called us out one by one to test our mettle with a quick bout.



Gallus Tadius was good.



Not great, but good.



He was a deceptively straightforward fighter, although I couldn't really tell until his bout with Eamonn. Most of the conscripts had little or no training. He dispatched them quickly, pointing out the deathblows he could have dealt and leaving them a few bruises and scratches as a reminder to take the matter seriously.



And he never got tired.



I wondered how many bouts he'd already fought that day. Forty? Eighty? I didn't know how many groups had trained before us. And I wondered what toll this tireless energy was taking on Lucius' body. When I watched him fight Eamonn, it gave me an idea.



It was a good bout. Eamonn had learned a measure of patience since that day so long ago when we'd dueled with wooden blades, betting the Bastard against his golden tore. His tall shield covered him from chin to knees, and he used it to full advantage. They sidled around one another, trading blows.



Gallus was cunning and efficient. Every move was economical. He kept his feet planted and his guard high, moving only for an occasional feint. Eamonn watched him warily, circling with slow deliberation. For a moment I thought the bout would turn earnest, but then Gallus Tadius put up his sword and grinned.



"Ah, Prince Barbarus!" He clapped a hand on Eamonn's shoulder. "You'll do. Next!"



When my turn came, I stepped forward and bowed, then drew my sword and settled into a two-handed Cassiline fighting stance, angling the blade across my body.



Gallus eyed me with dour amusement. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, fancy-boy?"



"Preparing to be tested, my lord," I said politely. "Would you care to make a wager?"



"A wager!" He roared with laughter. "Oh, aye, lad, I'll wager aught you care to wager!"



"All right." I hesitated. "I'll wager I can disarm you. If I lose, I'll…" I swallowed. I couldn't bear to wager the Bastard, the only living reminder of home I possessed. I reversed my sword, offering the hilt. I pushed aside the memory of Joscelin and me conferring with the master smith. It was only metal, wrought in a pleasing shape. "I'll give you my sword."



There was a good deal of whispering among the conscripts, and not a little snickering. "I don't want your sword, lad," Gallus said absently, examining it. "I want you to use it in my service. Nice piece, though." He nodded and returned it. "All right. Mine for yours if you lose. And if by some poxy D'Angeline miracle you don't?"



"You sleep, my lord," I said steadily. "A full nights sleep."



His sharp brows, Lucius' satyr's brows, shot toward the rim of his helmet. "Oh, sweet tits of the Vestals! Now you're a damned nursemaid!" He turned toward the conscripts, laughing. "What do you say, lads? Does Gallus Tadius da Lucca need sleep ?"



"No, sir!" they shouted.



Gallus might not, but Lucius did. "Do we have a bargain, my lord?" I asked doggedly.



He shrugged. "Why not?"



It went fast. I'd watched him fight. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the fluid Cassiline style, but if I gave him a chance to adjust, he would. So I didn't. I brought my sword around from right to left in a high, sweeping circle, raising his guard, then continued the circle with a low feint at his legs. I ducked low under his counterthrust and rolled toward the right, coming up outside his guard.



His head was turned the wrong way. I could see a few inches of exposed skin between his helmet and his gorget where his pulse beat.



I didn't strike. Instead, I spun behind him, turning my back to him, keeping my blade high and tight against my body. Circles within circles, as Joscelin had taught me. Gallus was caught inside my circle, his sword-arm overextended. He was turning toward his left. I was on his right, where he didn't expect me. With my two-handed grip, I brought the pommel of my sword down hard on the back of his gauntleted hand.



It opened in an involuntary spasm.



He dropped his sword.



There was a collective gasp from the watching conscripts, with Eamonn's low chuckle resonating beneath it. I sheathed my sword, stepped back, and bowed.



"Well," Gallus Tadius said mildly. He slung his shield aside and shook out his hand, which must have stung somewhat fierce. "Well, well." He picked up his sword and sheathed it. "You're full of surprises, D'Angeline."



"Yes, sir," I said.



He stepped closer to me. I couldn't read his expression; I only knew there was nothing of Lucius in it. But there was no malice, either. "Do you know," he mused, "I had a D'Angeline in the Red Scourge once. Doucet, or something like. Got in some trouble back home, took to the mercenary life. Don't suppose you know of him?"



I shook my head. " 'Tis a large nation, my lord."



"Aye." Gallus nodded. "And he's been dead a while, I imagine. Hailed from Camlach, as I recall. He got a little crazy when he fought, too. Different style. A sodding pretty bastard, though not as pretty as you, not by half. Used to pray to one of your poxy D'Angeline gods before a battle."



"Camael," I said, relaxing. "Most likely."



"Camael. Aye, that was it." He nodded again, then punched me in the face.



It hurt like fury. He'd caught me high on the left cheekbone with his gauntleted fist, knocking me clean off my feet. I felt the ground break my fall and rolled backward, grabbing instinctively for my daggers. There was no room to draw a sword, but room enough for those. I came up hissing, half-blinded, my left eye watering, daggers in both hands.