Kushiel's Scion

"Montrève, I hardly think—"



"Don't be an ass." Clad in a woolen shirt and breeches, I crawled onto the pallet beside him. "You've got pillows enough for an orgy here. Move over."



In the end, Lucius was too exhausted to protest. I propped myself against the pillows and pulled him toward me, trying to settle his head on my shoulder.



"Come here," I said. "I'll tell you a story."



"I'm not a child," he murmured. "And I do not need your damned D'Angeline pity."



"Shut up." I tugged a lock of his hair. "This is a true story. You've heard of the Master of the Straits?" He nodded. "Well, there was a curse that bound him to his island. And it bound him to immortality, too; but an immortality of endless aging. It was the angel Rahab who uttered the curse, and the only thing that would break it was the Name of God…"



As the candles sank low throughout the night, wax dripping, I told him the story of our quest to Saba. I told him about stowing away on the boat to Menekhet, praying Phèdre and Joscelin wouldn't send me away. I told him of our voyage down the Nahar, and sang the children's counting songs in Jeb'ez that our felucca-captain Wali taught me. I felt Lucius' cheek move in a smile. I told him about crossing the desert on camelback, and the stark, awful majesty of the desert. He called me a liar in a sleepy voice.



Stroking his hair, I told him about the splendors of Meroë, where Queen Zanadakhete ruled and soldiers rode oliphaunts in the streets. I told him about our journey southward, about the rhinoceros and the immense fish that Joscelin and I caught. I told him about the Great Falls. I told' him about Saba and the lost Tribe of Dan with their ancient bronze weapons.



As I was telling him about following the stars across the Lake of Tears, rowing and rowing, Lucius fell asleep.



Sleep eased the stark lines from his face. He looked ten years younger; almost like himself, albeit a worn, thin version. I held him close and kept talking, keeping my voice low. It seemed to soothe him, and I thought he'd like to know the story had a happy ending, even if he wasn't awake to hear it. But between the warmth and the peaceful sleeping weight of Lucius, I fell asleep before the end.



It seemed like only a few minutes.



"Montrève!"



I snatched the dagger from my boot-sheath, eyes snapping open. Lucius was standing a safe distance away, regarding me with a bemused look.



"I've seen the way you wake when startled," he said dryly. "O, dear my prince, you are an odd one, aren't you?"



I grinned at him, sheathing my dagger. "So I've been told. How do you feel?"



He stretched his arms, flexing his hands. The lines had returned to his face, but they were carved less deeply, and his color was better; much better. "I'll serve. I don't feel like a strong wind might blow me to pieces anymore. That's an improvement." He met my eyes. "Thank you. Someday I'll have to hear how the story ends."



I nodded. "Get us through this, and I'll tell you."



"I'll do my best."



Daybreak was nigh. A scuttling priest came with a breakfast of dates, black bread, and hard cheese. We both ate as much as we could, washing it down with water, then assisted one another in donning our armor with unself-conscious ease. There was a strange sense of intimacy between us, born of the night's shared sleep and the morning's imminence of death.



"You know I have to send you back to your squadron," Lucius said quietly.



"I know." I yanked the mended chin-strap of my helmet, testing its strength. "I'm ready. We're ready. And Eamonn's a good leader. You—Gallus—did a good job of training us."



"He wasn't all bad, was he?" Lucius mused. "Not wholly."



"No," I said. "And when all is said and done, he believed in you. He'd never have left if he didn't. Gallus Tadius believed you could do this. Remember that."



"I will." Leaning over, Lucius plucked something from the tangle of blankets and pillows on the pallet; a length of crimson cloth, loosened during the night. "Here." He knotted it firmly around my upper arm. "The badge of the Red Scourge."



I gave him a half-bow. "My thanks, my lord."



"Imriel…" Shaking his head at me, Lucius took my face in his hands. "Don't be an ass," he said, and kissed me.



It was sweet.



It was sweet and strong and firm. There was amusement in his handsome satyr's face as he drew back from me; what my own expression was, I cannot guess. I was struggling with an unexpected swell of desire.



"For luck," he said lightly.



"Luck," I echoed. The flamen dialis was standing in the doorway, his brows raised and his lips pursed in disapproval. In that instant, I despised him. I wished I could give him the sort of devastating look that Phèdre had given me the day I'd quarreled with Mavros, that deep, penetrating, self-aware gaze before which all accusations quailed and all shame rebounded upon the accuser.



Lucius did it for me.



The priest dropped his gaze. "Captain Arturo is awaiting orders."



"Right." Lucius donned his gilded helmet, which bore a tall plume of horsehair dyed red. It had belonged to Gallus Tadius once. He fastened his chin-strap and checked his sword-belt, then settled his buckler on his arm. He drew a deep breath, as though to better fill out the armor. Beneath the helmet's gilded peak, a look of grim resolve suffused his features. "Let's go."



He strode out of the sanctuary, back upright, shoulders squared.



I trailed behind him, a lowly foot-soldier once more, clad in motley attire.



Beneath the shadow of Jupiter's mighty effigy, Captain Arturo saluted, his weary face surprised and hopeful. "My lord?"



Lucius gave him a curt nod. "Report."



"They're coming."



Chapter Sixty-Two



It was raining again.



A light rain, little more than a steady drizzle. We held our position, periodically twitching our cloaks to shed the rain. Barbarus was the 22rd squadron. We were posted on the right side of the aqueduct. On the left side was the 21st, and behind us were the 23rd and 24th, which were called Stone and Anchor. All of the best or most foolhardy soldiers were in the latter two. Either trait would serve.



Before us was the 20th, called Senecus owing to the age of their commander, a grizzled oldster with fierce eyes and narrow jaws like a pike eel. A good fighter, his men said.



I hoped so.



We were in a narrow formation, each squadron split into two lines of twenty men. Eamonn stood directly in front of me, blotting out most of my view; in front of him, there was a sea of cloaks belonging to the other squadrons of the Red Scourge. We were backed up all the way to the residential district.



Gallus Tadius rode back and forth along our ranks.



Not Gallus; Lucius.



Even I, who knew, had to remind myself. He did a beautiful job of it. The set of his shoulders, the straight line of his back, the defiant angle of his chin—it was pure Gallus. I suppose he'd had time to learn it. Bone-weary though I knew he was, it didn't show. When he called out mocking assessments of the enemy's fears and ordered us to hold firm, even I drew heart from it.



"Is he… ?" Eamonn had asked when I slipped back into the basilica.



"He'll do," was all I said.



We couldn't see what was happening beyond the breach, but word filtered down from the sentries atop the wall and passed through the ranks. Valpetra's men were massed and waiting. During the night, they'd managed to ford the river. In the grey light of dawn, they'd slogged across the burned, half-flooded fields. The cavalry, a mere hundred and fifty men, had fallen back to take a position at the rear. Almost two thousand infantry stood just out of bowshot, awaiting orders.



And we awaited them, a thousand strong.



I tried to clear my mind.



I tried to imagine I was Joscelin. What must he have felt in such moments? A clarity of purpose, the essence of his oath and long training, purified and distilled. But I wasn't him. There was no charge to protect, no oath to obey, no act of solitary heroism pending. I was only a soldier, a single cog on a mighty wheel, a single brick in a vast wall.



Imriel.



A soldier.



Beyond the wall, Valpetran horns sounded a charge. Atop the wall, Lucca's horns echoed a warning, caught up and repeated throughout the city, atop a dozen rooftops. We all braced ourselves, bucklers on arms, the butts of our spears planted. I was on the inner edge beside the aqueduct on my left, the water flowing high but contained. I spared a glance to my right, where Matius gave me a nervous grin. Not a good man to have beside me.



"Here they come!" Lucius shouted. "Hold, lads!"



They came.



They came hard and fast, charging the gap. They came in waves, the first wave ducking low and running, bent double beneath their raised shields. Our sentries' crossbows twanged, bolts flying, thudding into wood and flesh. The second wave of Valpetra's infantry followed hard on the heels of the first, hurling javelins. Atop the wall, men staggered and fell, pierced through.



"Cutpurse, Horsethief, hold." Lucius roared. "Everyone, hold."



The sound of that first clash was like nothing on earth. A screech of metal on metal, the crash of shields, battle-cries and howls of pain. We felt it, all of us. All the way through the ranks, we felt the impact, as Valpetra's first wave struck our vanguard. It rocked us on our heels, setting us to scrambling, until we got our feet beneath us and leaned forward, shields pressing.



"Bar-bar-us!" Eamonn chanted. "Bar-bar-us!"



I found myself grinning.



Ahead of us, someone took up the chant anew. "Sen-e-cus! Sen-e-cus!"



We held, all of us, squadron by squadron. Cutpurse and Horsethief were borne backward, taking casualties, bearing the brunt of the first wave's attack. It seemed forever until the Luccan horns blew, echoing the command of Lucius' bellowing voice. As the 3rd and 4th squadrons stepped up to take their places, they peeled away at a dead run, dropping back into the city. I looked for Canis among the retreating figures and saw only a blur of men, faces undistinguishable.



Again.



Again.



Again.



It went on and on. With each squadron's retreat, Valpetra's men seized the chance to push farther into the city. Despite our best efforts, they had taken control of the gap. Rank by rank, squadron by squadron, the Red Scourge opposed them, pitting fresh soldiers against weary ones, trying to reduce the odds against us, trying to hold them long enough for the retreating squadrons to take up defensive positions in the city.



And with each squadron's retreat, I took a step closer to combat.



"Senecus!" Lucius roared.



Ah, Elua! I saw them die, then. I saw it at close range, helpless behind them. The Valpetrans were wading through their own dead and wounded, and so were we, by now. We were packed too tightly to move them. There was a body at my feet, stirring. I could hear him moan. I didn't dare look down and put a face to him. I was afraid to know.



More and more Valpetrans were streaming through the gap. The newcomers began edging around in an effort to flank us.



"Double up the ranks!" Lucius shouted. "Now!"



Our commanders echoed his order and we obeyed. In front of me, Eamonn's line spread out, stretching and thinning. Just as we'd practiced a hundred times on the drilling ground, those of us in the second line stepped forward and the two short lines of our squadron meshed into one long one, staving off the attack on our flanks. Now I had Eamonn on my left, and a taciturn cooper named Calvino on my right instead of Matius. I barely had time for a guilty twinge of gratitude before the horns blew another retreat and Senecus' line began to peel away.



My mouth went dry and my limbs tingled all over with fear. Despite the chill, my palms were sweating so hard I was afraid the wooden shaft of my spear would slide through my grasp. I flexed my fingers around the grip of my buckler, willing myself not to drop it. "Barbarus!" Lucius roared. Leveling our spears, we stepped forward.



They were on us instantly, flinging themselves forward. The Valpetran opposite me evaded my jabbing spear-thrust. He was left-handed, and if he'd had a spear of his own, he'd long since lost it. They were tired and half-starved, and they'd been fighting in the vanguard long enough to grow reckless and desperate. His shield crashed hard against mine and he pressed forward, his short-sword stabbing. I twisted sideways, avoiding his blade, and felt him overbalance. Shoving hard with my buckler, I hooked my left foot behind his forward leg.



If not for the surging ranks of men behind him, he would have fallen; as it was, he staggered backward, clad in heavy armor. I settled my spear, holding it tight between my elbow and my body, wishing I had his armor. For the space of a heartbeat, we stared at one another. Men; ordinary men. Then he gritted his teeth and charged me again. At the last instant, I shifted, raising the tip of my spear.



It caught him under the chin, nearly lifting him off his toes. His mouth gaped and I could see the wooden shaft between his reddened teeth, dark and bloody. It nearly made me vomit. I yanked it loose, and blood spilled out of the round hole it had made. He fell.



Another Valpetran took his place, and I killed him, too. He got tangled in the first man's dead limbs and sprawled at my feet. I shortened my grip on the spear and punched downward, driving into a gap at the base of his back-plate. This time, my spear stuck. I braced my foot on his armored back and tugged. Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw a blade flash toward me and Calvino's buckler rise to intercept it.



"My thanks!" I gasped as the spear came free.



He grunted.



On my left, Eamonn was singing. An Eiran song, fierce and bloody, filled with grim joy. He'd gone to his sword and was laying about him left and right, half-hidden behind his tall shield. Where he struck, men cried out in pain. The sheer force of his blows was devastating. Already, they were trying to give him a wide berth.