FORTY
THERE WERE a good many tearful farewells before we departed for Drujan.No one was happy with it, and I could not blame them, for once the moment had passed, I myself was riddled with doubt. I questioned my judgement some dozen times a day, seeking to rekindle that ineffable certainty that had assured me this was Elua's plan, the golden presence that had filled me and made me so cursed sure.
It never happened.
Baron Victor de Chalais would lead the delegates home, crossing the Great Rivers before the spring floods began. He was a good man and steady, and I was glad of it. Lord Amaury Trente, Nicolas Vigny and two others would remain, accompanying us to the border of Drujan with Prince Sinaddan's escort. There they would stay, for six months. If we were not back by then, they would reckon us dead or lost.
Renée de Rives fell on my neck, weeping hard and kissing me as she bid me farewell, leaving no doubt that she'd no hope of seeing me alive again. Despite the language barrier, the delegates had managed to get their fill of tales of Drujan; enough to render them certain that we rode toward our doom.
There had been a death in Nineveh, whilst we made our arrange ments—a commoner, a potter, had been crushed by his own wares when a shelf had given way in his workshop, after he'd cursed a Skotophagotis who crossed his doorstep.
It was enough to fuel the fear.
Joscelin said little and sharpened his blades, working them endlessly with a whetstone, oiling his scabbard and sheathes and removing the last traces of rust from our rain-sodden journey to Nineveh. We had worked out a plan, such as it was. The Lugal's man, one Tizrav, would guide us to the palace of Daršanga. If we reached it safely, Joscelin would pay him half the agreed-upon price from his own purse. Our story was that Joscelin was a renegade D'Angeline lordling who had abducted a peer's wife—that was me—against her will. Having found the price of his escapade too steep, pursued by my husband's kin across several lands, he would be willing to trade my favors for sanctuary in Drujan, where no one would dare seek him.
A simple plan, and a good one. As a surety, Lord Amaury himself would hold the second half of Tizrav's payment, to be rendered only when the Persian returned from Drujan with the appropriate code-word. Joscelin and Amaury had agreed upon the word, and Joscelin would not give it unto the Persian until he was certain Tizrav had not betrayed us.
"What word shall we choose?" Amaury had asked, frowning.
Joscelin had looked at me. "Hyacinthe," he said.
It was only fitting.
There is a point where fear becomes so large it ceases to matter, and exists only in the abstract. I reached it, during those preparations. It was too vast to comprehend, so I went about my business. I met Tizrav, son of Tizmaht; he was not a figure to inspire confidence, a wiry, dirty man with one eye put out by a poacher's arrow, so he said. I considered it a good deal more likely he had been poaching. None theless, the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad vouched for him.
"Tizrav knows the mountains," he said. "He is a coward, but a cunning one, and he will not betray you, not where there is gold at stake."
I'd no choice but to believe him. "Are you willing to lesson me in Old Persian along the way?" I asked. "It is a long road to Daršanga."
"Of course!" he said, bobbing his head agreeably, grinning and fingering beneath his eyepatch. "Whatever my lady wishes. It is my milk-tongue; I speak it like a native! It is why no Drujani will trouble us, no, not when Tizrav is guiding."
I had my doubts; I had a thousand doubts. I kept my mouth silent on them. Joscelin looked at me without speaking and continued to sharpen his blades.
Ironically, Valère L'Envers forgave me for abusing her House's password and came to like me better once she thought I was marked for death. Having nowhere else to turn for it, I begged a favor and asked her to hold in safekeeping the Jebean scroll with the story of Shalomon's son, and Audine Davul's translation. Not only did she ac cede, but did me another favor unasked. "Here," she said, thrusting a coat upon me, a deep crimson silk lined with marten-skin. "It was a gift from Sinaddan, who had it in tribute, but the sleeves are too short and I've never bothered to have it sized. It ought to fit you well, Comtesse, and it will be cold in the mountains."
I tried it on, and it fit perfectly. "Thank you," I said softly, the silken brown fur of the collar nestled against my cheek. "My lady is kind."
"I'm not kind!" Tears stood in her violet eyes. "Elua, why couldn't you be different? I know your history! The Queen heeds you, my cousin Nicola dotes on you, even my father acknowledges your merit! Why do I have to be the one member of my House to send you off to die, and all for that viper's brat?"
"I'm not dead yet, highness," I murmured.
"No." Valère L'Envers turned away, fussing with her wardrobe. "But you may be soon, and I need to prepare for it. Well," she sniffed, "never let it be said that I allowed a D'Angeline peer to face death ill- garbed for it."
Favrielle nó Eglantine, I thought, would have appreciated her sen timents. I was not so sure Ysandre would. It hardly mattered, anymore.
We set off from Nineveh with a good deal of fanfare, and a special ceremony by the priesthood of Shamash. A fire was kindled at dawn and a brace of sheep sacrificed. I swallowed hard, seeing it; we do not do such things, in Terre d'Ange. Shallow golden bowls were placed beneath the gaping throats of the sheep, the blood carefully collected. Each Akkadian man on the journey placed his sword in the pyre, letting it glow red-hot at the edges.
When it did, each man quenched it in the sheep's blood, laying his blade flat in the bowl and uttering a declaration as the hot steel sizzled and blood-stink filled the air: "Mighty Shamash willing, let me next sheath my blade in the blood of my enemies!"
Well and so, I thought; they are not journeying into Drujan.
Joscelin watched the ceremony without comment, and uttered no prayer. His sword had been consecrated long ago, by his uncle, and his great-uncle before him, plain steel with a worn grip, oft-replaced. For him to draw it was an act of prayer. Until then, it remained sheathed. He wore a new coat, too; sheepskin, embroidered without, warm wool inside. I wondered if it were a gift or if he'd bought it. His hair hung loose, twined in small braids about his face, bound with bits of rawhide.
I'd not seen it thus since we escaped from the Skaldi.
It made him look . . . Elua, it made him look like a renegade D'Angeline lordling, fierce and desperate.
The priests of Shamash gave an invocation and finished, bowing deeply, dawn-light flashing from their gilded breastplates, inlaid with the Lion of the Sun. Prince Sinaddan's men bowed in reply, and the Lugal himself, on a balcony of the Palace, raised both hands skyward, hailing the sun. It was done. We were ready to depart.
"Blessed Elua," I whispered, stooping to touch the earth, the alien red earth of Nineveh, of Khebbel-im-Akkad, "keep us safe."
There was no answer, though I hadn't really expected one.
And thus we were on our way.
After several days, the plains gave way to lowlands, and then the lowlands to hills. Tizrav, grinning around his eyepatch, led us unerring to the shortest route. If he were going to betray us, I thought, it would hardly be here, in Akkadian territory. I rode veiled, surrounded by Joscelin, Amaury Trente and his men. The Akkadians made jests, none directed at me; fierce and bloodthirsty jests, hoping for battle.
So they might, I thought; they were young. It had been eight years since the Khalif had lost an army in Drujan, and dared not try again. These men were young and cocksure. Nonetheless, when nightfall came, they huddled close around the campfires, peering into their neighbor's faces and reassuring one another: Yes, we are men of Akkad, Akkad-that-is-reborn, we are brave and dauntless, and fear no shadows of the night.
"They are fools." Tizrav spat expertly through a gap between his teeth, making the campfire sizzle. He nodded companionably toward the Lugal's men. "Fools and children, jumping at shadows."
"Do you say shadows have no power?" Joscelin asked slowly, in fumbling Akkadian. He'd come late to the language, but his Habiru skills had stood him in good stead.
"Power." Tizrav grinned, showing his gap. Firelight played over the greasy leather patch that covered his missing eye. "What is power? These young fools surrender it with every heartbeat of fear. And so the shadows grow, and take on power. What is fear, but courage's shadow?"
"Common sense, mayhap," Joscelin said shortly, rolling himself in his blanket and making ready for sleep.
"You know better." Tizrav leered at me, despite the veil. "Light casts a shadow, the brighter the one, the darker the other. This is only fire, tame and kept. It will be different in Drujan. You will see."
I stared at him through my veil. "We are not in Drujan yet, Persian. Do you wish to forfeit your purse?"
"No." He shrugged unevenly. "Light, dark; it is all the same to Tizrav, if their gold is good. I have sworn my bargain and I will see you delivered. Lies, truth; I do not mind. Afterward ..." He shrugged again. "You will see how great a shadow your courage casts. It is all the same to me."
The hills gave way to mountains, the air crisp and clear. It was here that we reached the outer boundaries of Akkadian rule, and bid farewell to our escort, who would remain, supplementing the garrison of an outlying Akkadian fortress.
After this, it would only be Joscelin and me and our guide Tizrav.
"I must be out of my mind," Amaury Trente said ruefully, em bracing me in farewell. His breath made plumes of frost in the air. "Elua bless and keep you, Phèdre nó Delaunay."
"My lord." I was shivering despite Valère L'Envers' marten-skin coat. No matter where I went, it seemed there must always be winter, and mountains. "Why are you here?"
"Why?" He gazed across the foreboding landscape, an absent smile on his lips. "I don't know, my lady. Here is as good a place as any." He looked back at me then, and his expression changed. "I rode behind Ysandre de la Courcel into the heart of Percy de Somerville's army. You remember. You were there. She never looked back, do you know that? Not once. If she had, she would have seen me. I was there, and the Queen's Guard behind me. But she never even needed to look." He laid one hand on my shoulder. "If you look, my lady, we will be here. Right here, where you left us, guarding your back. Whatever fool's errand you're on this time, I reckon Terre d'Ange owes you that much."