Tributary: Memory Bubbles

[youandyoualone]

Inside this post: book or short story passages featured in Delaunay's memory bubble regains. (Text is Jacqueline Carey, not me.)

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From You And You Alone

[youandyoualone]

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 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.

Once 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. His 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 Edmée’s.

He was gone.


WHY COULDN’T YOU have waited, Rolande? You always had to be first into the fray. Why?

From You & You Alone

[youandyoualone]

DURING THE YEAR I spent patrolling the Camaeline border with Rolande, the Skaldi had not yet found a leader who thought, but they were tenacious and doughty warriors, pouring through the high mountain passes to stage raids on vulnerable villages, looting them and taking female captives.

Rolande was a natural leader skilled at commanding men, always willing to hurl himself into the forefront of a battle. Where he went, we followed. Not a man who fought under him begrudged him his status.

As good-natured as he was, he kept strict discipline. When word reached him that one of his men had gotten a young widow with child and abandoned her, he dismissed the fellow in disgrace and took personal responsibility for the woman and her infant son, promising they would never again lack for aught. As ever, his sense of honor demanded nothing less.

It was a difficult time, but it was an exhilarating time, too. After my first battle, I felt sick and strange to myself. That never changed, although I grew accustomed to the feeling. In a sense, I was glad not to lose it, for it meant I had not become inured to the horrors of warfare.

But the fighting itself … there was a certain terrible glory in it. Anyone who has lived on the dagger’s edge between life and death will know what I mean; to those who have not, I cannot explain it.

It brought us closer together, all of us; and especially Rolande and I.

Until I confessed the truth to him.

It came after a hard-fought battle in the narrow, winding passes above the village of Liselet, where horses were no use. We’d routed the raiders, and I lost sight of Rolande as he raced after them on foot around a hairpin turn. Ahead, I heard a chorus of defiant roars and the sound of blades clashing.

Three of the Skaldi had made a stand, safeguarding their fellows’ retreat, and Rolande was nigh overwhelmed. My heart in my throat, I threw myself at the nearest man, raising my buckler, hacking at his wooden shield, driving him backward. Still, it wasn’t enough. For the space of a few heartbeats, our fates hung in the balance …

… and then more of our own men arrived, turning the tide. We killed two of the Skaldi, and the third fled.

“Shall we go after them, my lord?” Gaspar Trevalion inquired.

“No.” Rolande grimaced, one hand pressed to his neck. “We’re too close to the border.” Blood welled between his fingers. “And I fear I’ve need of attention.”

It scared me.

The wound wasn’t serious, requiring only a few stitches to close, but it could have been. An inch or two higher, and it could have severed the big vein in his throat. The thought of coming so close to losing him made me dizzy, and the lingering guilt of my deception was leaden in my belly. I had to disgorge it.

That night, in our shared tent, I told Rolande the truth about Tiberium and the Unseen Guild, speaking in a low whisper.

He rose and walked out into the starlit night without a word. I followed him in anguish past the outskirts of our camp, past the startled sentries, along the verge of a dense pine forest.

Well out of earshot of the camp, he halted. I did, too. He spoke without turning around. “You.” His voice was strained. “I don’t even know what to say to you, Anafiel. I trusted you with everything I am, and you lied to me.” He gave a harsh, ragged laugh. “Is this how you honor what we are to one another?”

“No!” Beneath the stars, I dropped to my knees. “No!” I struggled to draw breath, feeling as though my chest might crack open. “I thought … it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, so very sorry. More than anything, I love you.”

He was silent.

“Can you doubt it?” I was desperate and crazed, the words from an ancient oath spilling from my lips, unstoppable. “I swear on the blood of Blessed Elua himself that I love you, and you alone. By the blood that Blessed Elua spilled, for so long as we both shall live, I bind myself to you, and you alone—”

“Anafiel!” Rolande was kneeling before me, his hands hard on my shoulders, eyes wide. “Don’t!”

I felt the golden glow of Elua’s blessing wash over us both, accepting my oath, banishing my guilt. I smiled wearily at Rolande. “Too late, your highness.”

He sighed, leaning his brow against mine. “I have a duty to Terre d’Ange. You know I cannot swear the same.”

“I know.”

From You & You Alone

[youandyoualone]

FASTER AND FASTER, memory comes.

Edmée.



SPRING IN TERRE d’Ange, a green haze of leaves on the trees. There was a royal fete; a hunt. A prelude to a wedding.

She rode beautifully, Edmée did. She always had.

I was behind her.

I saw the saddle lurch sideways as her mount leaped the hedgerow; I heard her startled sound of dismay.

I saw her fall.

I do not remember jumping the hedge, I do not remember dismounting. I remember hearing the sound, the crack of her slender neck breaking. I remember kneeling beside her, holding her hand and begging her not to die, watching the light fade from Edmée’s eyes as she did anyway, sweet and apologetic.

Just like that.

Others had gathered. I looked at their faces; fast, so fast. I saw a mingled expression of guilt and furtive triumph cross Isabel L’Envers’, swiftly giving way to solemn grief. Then and there, I knew.

But I could never prove it.



WOULD IT HAVE made a difference if I had been able to prove it, Rolande? Ah, gods! Why couldn’t you just believe me? You were angry, I know. Furious with grief at Edmée’s death; and beneath it, still angry at me for concealing the truth from you. For lying to you. You didn’t want to hear my suspicions.

I was right, though.

From You & You Alone

[youandyoualone]

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.

Whores make some of the best spies.

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