uncle Benedicte’s behalf. To the left, Percy de Somerville’s standard-bearer raised the apple tree of House Somerville.
Rolande lifted his sword and nodded at his trumpeter.
One trumpet blew; two, three, ringing clear and brazen beneath the clear blue skies. At the far end of the valley, the Skaldi roared and beat their blades against their wooden shields.
We charged; charged, hewed down men where they stood, wheeled and retreated, dodging ponds, boulders and crevasses.
Once…
Twice…
I was hot beneath my armor, sweating through my padded undertunic and breathing hard, my sword streaked with gore and my sword arm growing tired. The ranks of Skaldi were growing ragged, wavering. A young lad with tawny-brown hair, long-limbed and tall for his years, rallied them, urged them to hold fast. At his tenacious insistence, they did.
“Third time’s the charm!” Rolande cried.
Cries of agreement echoed across the meadow.
One again, the trumpeters gave their brazen call; once again, we clapped heels to our mounts’ sides and sprang forward.
I KNOW WHICH is worse.
Remembering; oh, gods, by far. Dying is easier.
....
I WAS A Siovalese country lordling, and I knew mountains. I rode a sure-footed horse for a reason.
I’d made sure Rolande did, too.
Not his standard-bearer. When the lad’s mount caught a hoof in a crevice and went down with a terrible scream, left foreleg broken, there was nothing I could do but check my mare.
Uncertainty rippled down the line.
While Rolande raced to engage the Skaldi, men and horses in the center of the vanguard hesitated.
Those on the flanks, men under command of Percy de Somerville and Benedicte de la Courcel, had farther to travel.
Rolande plunged alone into the ranks of unmounted Skaldi, his sword rising and falling.
His standard-bearer’s mount rolled and squealed in agony, crushing her rider, sowing chaos. Cursing and sweating, I yanked my mare’s head with uncustomary viciousness and rode around them, putting my heels to her.
Too late.
I saw Rolande surrounded, dragged from the saddle. I saw the crude blades rise and fall, streaked with blood.
I fought.
Others came and fought, too. Too few; too late. Oh, it was enough to seize the pass, enough to guarantee a victory in the Battle of Three Princes. Still, it came too late.
As soon as the line had pressed past us, a handful of soldiers and I wrestled Rolande’s ruined body across my pommel, retreating with him. My good mare bore the burden without complaint.
Behind the lines of skirmish, I wept with fury, unbuckling his armor, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding of a dozen wounds. “Damn you, Rolande! You promised! Don’t leave me!”
Beneath the blue sky, his blood soaked the green grass, drenched the starry white blossoms. A faint sigh escaped him, bringing a froth of crimson to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. One gauntleted hand rose a few inches, then fell back to the ground, limp. “Anafiel. I’m sorry.”
And then the light went out of his blue, blue eyes, just as it had faded from Edmee’s.
He was gone.
....
WHY COULDN’T YOU have waited, Rolande? You always had to be first into the fray.
Why?
IT WAS A bitter, bitter victory won at the Battle of Three Princes.
For a long time afterward, I wished I had died with Rolande. Once the initial crushing weight of grief had faded, I flung myself into excesses of debauchery, making a circuit of the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, sampling the highs and lows of all that carnal pleasure had to offer as though to mock the vow I’d never wished to be free of, now broken with Rolande’s death.
It was the other vow I’d sworn that kept me alive; the vow to protect his daughter, Ysandre, now the infant Dauphine of Terre d’Ange.
For Rolande was right, intrigue surrounded her; from the moment of his death, a dozen challengers set their sights on the throne. Slowly, slowly, I gathered my grief-addled wits and began to assemble a net of spies, informants, and a few trusted allies. I remembered words spoken to me long ago by Master Strozzi in Tiberium.
I set out to cultivate them, aided by goodwill generated during my period of debauchery.
I kept my finger on the pulse of the world, learning that a well-placed word at the right time could thwart the most ambitious plot. The only one I failed to foil, I did not regret. In a fitting twist of irony, Isabel died by poison at the hand of one of Prince Benedicte’s scheming offspring; but her daughter lived, which was all that mattered to me.
Here and there, I had dalliances—always with women, for no man could compare in my eyes to Rolande.
None were serious, except mayhap for Melisande Shahrizai. Beautiful, calculating Melisande, with a hunger for life’s sharper pleasures, the only person clever enough to guess what I was about with my intrigues. In a moment of weakness, when the black grief was upon me, I told her of the Unseen Guild and how I regretted betraying Rolande’s trust to this day.
She understood. We were ill suited in many ways, but Melisande understood me.
....
TOO WELL, MAYHAP.
Even now, I cannot believe Melisande would have wished me dead… but I have been wrong before.
And Melisande knew his name.
THE WHOREMASTER OF Spies.
Even as I wove my net among the pleasure-houses of the Night Court, I never set out to become such a thing; and yet it happened. It began with the best of intentions.
There were six years of peace along the Skaldic border after the Battle of Three Princes. When reports of renewed raiding came, I did not volunteer. Instead, mindful of a promise Rolande had made, I journeyed to the Camaeline village of Trefail, where I found the widow’s son Rolande had promised to care for. His mother was dead, and his half-Skaldi nurse was preparing to desert him.
I took him home, the Skaldi sacking his village in our wake. In the City of Elua, I adopted him into my household and gave him my name—or at least my mother’s name, if not the one I was born with.
Alcuin; Alcuin no Delaunay.
When I began training him in the arts of covertcy, I’d not thought to employ him to serve my ends. It was merely a set of skills to teach him. But ah, gods! He was so bright, so eager to learn, so grateful to have been rescued. From the beginning, Alcuin simply assumed he would aid me in my work in whatever manner possible when he was grown.
Somewhere along the path, I began to assume it, too. I hardened my heart against any remorse.
Phedre was another matter. From the beginning, I knew what she was and why I chose her.
WHERE ARE YOU, my
