Deep in the wilds of Camlach, a horse is picking its way through the forest trails. The rider is wrapped in his cloak, long and luxurious and well-made, to protect him and his satchel as they brave the mountains to Skaldia. The road from Kusheth is long indeed, and they are tired; they will be glad enough to stop for the night. But not just yet. Ahead is the river, and the little wooden bridge that spans it. It is but a few leagues past the bridge to the clearing he is seeking, and there they can rest.
"No," Ysandre sighs. "'Tis implausible either way, but this is Melisande's hand, of a surety. It appears we needs must prepare for war." She looks at her uncle. "Uncle?"
"Call a council," he says promptly. "Quietly. A 'retreat for old family friends' or some such nonsense. Out of the palace, mind; 'twas enough of a risk finding you here." He frowns, thinking. "Rousse is still in Kusheth, but de Somerville's in the city, I'll be bound. We'll need the Army, that's for certain."
"I agree," says Sarafiel. "The Navy would be of... less direct assistance." She looks at Ysandre.
For the first time, Ysandre looks uneasy, uncertainty creeping into her eyes. "The Navy has men, trained men," she murmurs. "They could still be of use-"
Barquiel looks between the two of them, confusion writ upon his face. "What else could they- no. No. Ohhhhh no. Ysandre, you can't mean to abide by it!"
"Be reasonable," he implores her. "You could wed a prince of Aragonia, who could lend us two thousand spears. Elua have mercy, you were but sixteen!" He stretches out his hands beseechingly. "He no longer even has a kingdom."
"His kingdom could be regained," says Sarafiel. "With help. The Master of the Straits is known to take a dim view of violence crossing his waters, but it may be that the situation can be explained to him."
Barquiel arches one eyebrow at her. "I no longer even need ask how you come to know these things," he says sardonically. "Little goes on in this kingdom you do not know of, it would seem."
"Be that as it may, Uncle," Ysandre says firmly. "Lady Fortier. It would appear you are already aware of my betrothal to Drustan mab Necthana, despite my grandfather's insistence on secrecy. Do you then have a plan for Alba, as you do for Terre D'Ange?"
"Yes," she says. "This one does require your involvement, naturally. I would take however much of the Royal Navy I could convince the Master of the Straits to let pass, and the first person I could find who speaks Cruithne but is not widely known for it, and someone else unremarkable to provide entertainment - Thelesis de Mornay crossed that way once, but if I take her along, someone will notice. The idea is not to be noticed. And I'd bring my sister, too. And when we arrived, I would find Drustan and tell him that we were there to help him regain his kingdom, and would appreciate a similar favour from him come spring."
"It's too risky." Barquiel glares at Ysandre, displeasure writ on his face. He nods curtly at Sarafiel. "Oh, it might work, I grant you that. But there are too many factors here, too many things that could go wrong. And if they do, Elua help us! We face thirty thousand Skaldi with no reinforcement."
Ysandre regains her composure, drawing herself up and gazing steely-eyed into her uncle's glare. "We may discuss such things at our council," she says. "It may be that we can address your concerns there. But you are right; this is too grave a matter to be discussed by merely us three." She stands. "We will retire to the King's hunting lodge in L'Agnace in a fortnight. A gathering of friends, upon your long-awaited return from Khebbel-im-Akkad."
"Until L'Agnace, then." She turns to Sarafiel. "Lady Fortier. It is hard news you bring, and I regret if I have seemed unkind. Know that you have the gratitude of your country, for the warning you bear us."
"Thank you," she says. "And know that I do this not for my country's gratitude but for her safety. I will begin looking for an entertainer and a translator, but I will not speak with them until after the council. My sister already knows as much as she needs to."
In a fortnight, as promised, Ysandre lets it be known she will be retreating to the Courcel's country estate in L'Agnace to visit with her uncle, newly returned from the Akkadian court as he is. Also invited are Percy de Somerville, Duc of L'Agnace and Royal Commander; Gaspar Trevalion, Comte de Fourcay, cousin to the disgraced Duc de Trevalion but whom her father had trusted; Thelesis de Mornay, for her long knowledge of Alba and simply because Ysandre trusts her. And, of course, Barquiel L'Envers. There is no one else the Dauphine dares invite, on a matter so grave.
They gather in one of the larger rooms, well appointed but informal. Once her guests have taken light refreshments and the servants have withdrawn, Ysandre enters. Her guests, as one, offer her deep bows and curtsies.
"Rise, gentles," she tells them. "We will not stand on ceremony here. You may find it difficult indeed, when I have told you why I've asked you here." She looks around. "Lady Fortier?"
"Did you bring the letter?"
"This is a letter from Melisande Shahrizai to Waldemar Selig of the Skaldi," she says. "To explain the problem in brief: Selig plans to conquer Terre d'Ange in the spring with thirty thousand Skaldi and the half-unwitting aid of Isidore d'Aiglemort, who believes that after he lets the Skaldi into Camlach through the southern passes they will sign a trade agreement worked out in advance and then turn around and go home. Melisande plans to be Selig's queen, or perhaps betray him in some subtle way she has not committed to paper where I can see it, but in any case Selig believes her his conspirator and she is acting the part in full."
She eyes Thelesis, and continues quietly. "At the age of sixteen, I was betrothed to the Cruach's heir, his sister-son Drustan mab Necthana. It is my thought to send support of his claim to the Alban throne, that the Picti might in their turn lend us their aid. I would hear your thoughts on this matter."
"Not an army, no," Thelesis de Mornay agrees softly. "But a ship- you might get a ship across. It has been done."
Gaspar inclines his head to her. "One ship then, mayhaps. But how? And even so, that is scant help, to a prince without an army. Maelcon the Usurper still holds Bryn Gorrydum."