Songs of Love & Death

I see a lot of you in her, Rolande. The relentless nobility, the determination, the firm sense of obligation. Although Ysandre looks a great deal like Isabel, I do not see her mother in her.

Only you.

....

STANDING ON MY doorstep, surrounded by guards, Rolande swallowed hard, the knot of his throat rising and falling. “You heard?”

I stared at him, wondering why in the world he was here. “Yes, of course. Congratulations.”

“Anafiel…” He caught my hand, and I let him. “I have no right to ask you anything, but I am asking nonetheless. My daughter, Ysandre…” The knot of his throat rose, fell. “I begin to fear that you may have been right about certain matters. I begin to fear that a good deal of intrigue may surround her.”

I was silent.

Rolande’s eyes were so blue, so earnest. “I have no right—”

“You have every right,” I said softly. “What’s changed?”

He smiled a little, sadly. “Mayhap you’ve heard, my uncle Benedicte is planning a visit. He has grown children he wishes to introduce to the court. Isabel grows fearful and speaks of intrigues against me, against our daughter. There is a dark, suspicious edge to her I’ve never known before. I need to know Ysandre has people who will protect her, who will have her interests at heart. Like you did with Edmee. Remember?”

My heart ached. “I remember.”

Rolande squeezed my hand. “Will you?”

I lifted his hand to my lips, pressed them against the signet ring he wore with the crest of House Courcel emblazoned on it. “Of course. On the blood of Blessed Elua, I swear it.”

He sighed.

My throat was tight, too. “Will you come in?” I asked, hoping against hope.

He didn’t look away, and there was hunger in his gaze. “Yes.”

It was good and glorious and terrible all at once, a tempest and a homecoming, an apology and a benediction. Afterward, Rolande wept. I stroked his hair, dry-eyed. Although my love for him was undiminished, I wasn’t the innocent young Siovalese country lordling he’d fallen in love with anymore.

Presently, he whispered a question. “Has there been… is there anyone else, Anafiel?”

I gazed at his beautiful face, his eyelashes spiky with tears, and pitied us both. “No, Rolande,” I murmured. “I swore an oath. For so long as we both live, I am bound to you, and you alone.”

He bowed his head. “I would release you from it if I could.” His voice was low and uncertain. “Would you want that?”

“No.” I lifted his chin with one hand, the memory of the golden warmth of Elua’s blessing spilling over me. “Only don’t shut me out again.”

Rolande smiled with relief. “Never.”

YOU KEPT THAT promise, Rolande. And yet you left me anyway.

It hurts.

I don’t want to relive it, but I am dying, and I cannot stop the memories from coming.

THE CITY OF Elua buzzed with the news of our reunion. Isabel gnashed her teeth in fury. What passed between them in private, I didn’t know, but in public, Rolande held his head high and acknowledged me with quiet dignity.

I was not wholly absolved, the ban on my poetry remaining, but I was once again welcome at Court—or at least tolerated.

Even so, I avoided it for the most part. I had few friends there. Rolande and I spoke of those we trusted the most, men we had ridden and fought with. Gaspar Trevalion. Quintilius Rousse, who had accepted a naval commission. Percy, Comte de Somerville, kinsman to Rolande’s mother the queen and a Prince of the Blood in his own right.

Based on what I’d learned in Tiberium of the Unseen Guild, a plan began to form in the back of my mind.

This time, I was wise enough to keep my mouth shut on my thoughts.

And all too soon, concrete concerns in the world displaced vague and nebulous ones. Once more, the Skaldi were raiding in strength, angling for control of one of the major mountain passes. Rolande’s uncle Benedicte de la Courcel was bringing a contingent of seasoned warriors from La Serenissima on his impending visit. King Ganelon was minded to use the occasion to mount a large-scale offensive and seize the pass for good.

Once again, I was to fight at Rolande’s side.

“Achilles and Patroclus side by side once more,” Rolande said lightly, dallying in my bed.

“Hush.” I covered his mouth with one hand. “Don’t make ill-luck jests. It didn’t end so well for them.” I took my hand away. “Any mind, I fear I cast you wrong. You would never sulk in your tent while your honor was at stake.”

“Oh?” He raised his strong brows. “Who, then?”

“Knowing you as I do now?” I smiled wryly. “Noble Hector, mayhap; but I don’t like to speak of him, either.”

Rolande folded his arms behind his head. “It ended badly for most of them, didn’t it?”

“It did,” I agreed.

He eyed me complacently. “You’d have gotten away, though. Wily Odysseus, that’s who you would have been.”

I shuddered. “Let’s not speak of it, truly.”

A date was chosen, plans were made. It was decided that the command should be shared among three men: Percy de Somerville, Benedicte de la Courcel, and Rolande. Princes of the Blood, all three.

Even before we set out, folk were calling it the Battle of Three Princes. But only two of them came home alive.

WHICH IS WORSE, remembering or dying?

I cannot say.

THE SKALDI MADE their stand in a vast meadow high in the Camaeline Mountains—a green meadow in which thousands upon thousands of starry white flowers blossomed, a meadow dotted with lakes and rocky outcroppings.

Overhead, the sky was a flawless blue, and the white tops of the mountains where the snow never melted glistened.

The Skaldi awaited us at the far end, clad in furs and leather, hair braided, steel weapons and wooden shields in their hands. A handful were mounted on shaggy mountain ponies, but most were on foot.

They outnumbered us by half, but we had steel armor, better weapons, and a sizable cavalry.

The air was thin and clear, very, very clear. It reminded me of my childhood in the mountains of Siovale. I breathed slowly and deeply, stroking my mount’s withers. She stood steady as a rock beneath me. She was a good mare, sure-footed and battle-seasoned.

Rolande eyed me sidelong, eyes bright beneath the brim of his helm. All along the line of the vanguard, leather creaked and metal jingled. “Ready?”

I frowned at the uneven terrain. In private, I’d argued in favor of sending the foot soldiers out first, but the Three Princes, none of whom were mountain-born, had overridden my concerns.

Rolande read my unspoken thoughts and lowered his voice. “Anafiel, I’m not willing to give up one of our greatest advantages. If they don’t break and flee by the third charge, we’ll fall back and let the infantry engage them while we regroup. Well enough?”

I knew my duty. “Well enough, my liege and my love,” I murmured. Saluting him with my sword, I added in a ringing tone, “Ready!”

He grinned.

His standard-bearer raised his staff, flying the silver swan pennant of House Courcel. Some fifty yards to the right, a second standard was hoisted, flying the pennant of House Courcel and the insignia of La Serenissima on his