The Hedgewitch Queen

Chapter One

If not for a muddy skirt, I would have been dead like all the rest. Dead — or worse, perhaps.

The green overskirt was attached to one of Lisele’s bodices — an old one, to be sure, but I had remade it prettily enough — and I returned late from the herb gardens that day. There had been a hard rain the previous night; mud daubed my hem and my perfume was hedgewitchery, sweat, and crushed green things. I could not attend Lisele in this state, so I ducked into the kitchen for a slice of bread and a wet rag to work some of the mud off the green velvet before I ran through the corridors to change quickly into a primrose silk. The primrose would set off Lisele’s new pale-green gown, just arrived from the royal dressmakers yesterday, to perfection. She had been absolutely mad with impatience and anticipation.

The kitchen was a-chaos with preparations for the night’s feast, so Head Cook Amys gave me a slice of bread thick with eldrin jam and shooed me away. Fowl chattered in the cages attached to the wall, and a wooden tub full of dazed and writhing eels in well water sat by the cellar stairs.

I allowed myself one nose-wrinkle and a shudder. “Those things?”

Amys, a stout red-cheeked woman in a plain gown and a cap of starched white, laughed. “I know. Yet the King requested, so eels it is.” Her voice belled merrily through the din of the kitchens, and she turned away to scold a hopping scullery boy as Jirisa ducked close to me, setting down her basketful of baguetton on the step.

I smiled a greeting, and Jirisa’s fair round face blushed scarlet. She wiped her hand on her rough woolen skirt and thrust it at me. A soiled bandage flapped against her palm, its ears coming loose.

“D-d-d’mselle—” She was all but speechless with fright. Poor Jirisa was painfully shy, and the distance between her station and mine simply made it worse. In the four years she had been at the Palais I had never heard a complete sentence from her.

“Tis no matter, Jirisa. Let me see.” I set the bread aside, the growling in my stomach protesting, and carefully unwrapped stained cloth from her moist, tender paw. “You should wash the bandages. It may take the rot if you do not.”

“Not with you charming it, d’mselle.” Amys had caught me out, and stood with her fists on her broad hips. Her sleeves, pushed up, showed forearms thick with muscle. “And she should not be disturbing a great lady so. The Duchesse has other things to do with her time, Jirisa.”

“It will make me no earlier nor later to bind this up, Amys.” The slash along Jirisa’s palm was healing nicely, the careful charm I had laid against her skin still pulsing and tingling reassuringly. Instead of a deep muscle-slicing cut, it was now a fragile pink scar.

Satisfied, I dug in my pocket for some antiseptic balm-lemon leaf and crushed it between my fingers, binding the resultant pungent mass against the slice and tying off the bandage. Jirisa snatched her hand back as soon as I finished and bobbed a courtesy, then scooped up her basket and was on her way, her blonde head down as if she were walking against a heavy wind.

“You should not encourage such familiarity.” Amys quite enjoyed sounding scandalized.

You are far more worried with my reputation than is quite proper yourself, m’dama. I rescued my slice of bread and smiled up at her, dabbing at my hem with the damp rag. My emerald eardrops bobbed, swung heavily against my cheeks. “There is some chivin coming in that should flavor the eels nicely.”

She was not to be dissuaded. “Indeed there is, and what is a lady like you doing in the herb garden? Why, you’re all over mud!” She was working up to a fine scolding, those being her way of easing feastday tensions, but she had not the time because one of the undercooks set a butter sauce on fire and I escaped, almost catching my heels on my skirt in my hurry.

Amys had known me when I first came to Court, a provincial girl with a very noble name but no prospects save the income from a small estate in Vintmorecy my father received from the King as payment for me attending the Princesse — necessary, if I was to buy my own dresses. My father had been a gentleman in waiting to King Henri in the days of his youth, when he had been Prince Royal and, later, newly ascended to the throne. I had heard it whispered at home that Father had saved the King’s life once in a Court intrigue, but I never knew the truth of that tale. For that matter, gossip also had it that the King’s father dallied with my grand-dam; I did not know the truth of that, either. King’s bastards swirl among nobility like loose leaves in cheap chai, especially in Arquitaine.

My noble mother died of an attack of fever and left it as her final wish that I be brought up properly at Court. How proper an upbringing one could find at the Court of Arquitaine I cannot guess, having seen my fair share of things that might have driven my poor mother to her grave twice had she known I witnessed them.

Yet Court my mother had wished me to attend, and my father — just before he took the fever himself and stepped into the arms of the Blessed to join my mother — had faithfully packed me off at my ninth birthday with an introduction and a new dress as well as a request for maintenance that the King, being in a gracious mood, granted. And so Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, at your service, became lady-in-waiting for Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin, daughter of the King and heir to the throne of Arquitaine.

But that was so far off, we worried over it not a whit. Or at least, Lisele did not.

I climbed up the disused back stairs from the kitchen. As far as I knew, I was the only person of quality who used them, and I took care not to let anyone see me except the servants. They would discover me as a matter of course, so I did not bother. And Duchesse Vianne the hopelessly gawky and mud-splattered, Duchesse Vianne more interested in herbs and books and peasant hedgewitchery than the Court sorcery the rest of the nobles used, was of no account anyway. Nobody marked my comings and goings, and nobody with any sense grudged me my position as honored lady-in-waiting and confidante to the Princesse, quiet intrigue-hunter and scholarly counterweight to Lisele’s frivolity.

Some days I did not envy myself that honor.

Lisele would be working herself into a fit of pique over the dress just about now, and I would have to hurry and leave my hair half braided. Luckily, artfully disheveled hair was the fashion now. If I had not been muttering in the garden seeking to save some of the dying priest’s-ease in the south beds, I would not have been late. Still, I thought the plants would survive now that I had found a charm to keep greentip flies from eating the tender shoots. Twas a good morn’s work, and one that satisfied me a great deal more than the prospect of tonight’s banquet with its stultifying protocol, even if there was sure to be dancing afterward, and a wonder or two of illusion worked.

Court sorcery is all violence and air-and-light illusion, and my interest in the more practical peasant’s magic was, while odd, not entirely improper. It was simply a mark of my provincial upbringing, or a childhood nurse versed in the rustic art.

Though a di Rocancheil has nothing to be shamed of when it comes to blood. My mother’s family is of the oldest and finest nobility, that of the sword; my ancestors rode to war as boon companions of Edouard Angoulême the Merovian, first conquerer of Arquitaine. Twas no small thing to be a di Rocancheil, and my father’s family of Vintmorecy was no less noble. If I chose to waste my time with herbs and healing, twas nobody’s business but mine.

Besides, it was the only area of my life that decidedly pleased me. So much of life is what one can stand; it is a relief to have a small corner be otherwise. Or so I have found.

I let out a small sigh. Another long slow afternoon of reading aloud from romances or doing needlework in frames before the banquet, maybe broken by a maidendance or two. I would be called upon to give a lesson on Tiberian verbs or needled about my hedgewitchery, and Lisele would turn her sharp tongue on whoever needled me.

I often thought Lisele protected me because I was a pet without claws, an ugly girl with no prospects except a noble name and no chance of making a good marriage, since I seemed to have forgotten men existed. Or so twas said. I held my peace, though I longed at times to point out that men were troublesome creatures indeed, and a marriage sometimes worse confinement than the endless round of dresses and dancing. As an unmarried girl I could study Tiberian and hedgewitchery if I wished. As a woman with a Consort, who knew? Then there was the trouble of childrearing, though any hedgewitch can mix a draught to ease that burden before it begins.

Besides, nobles of the sword must seek the King’s leave to marry. I had not yet met the man who might prove worth such an endeavor, noble or no. I had been at Court too long to trust any courtier’s promises, no matter how I might bandy light words and glances.

What else is there, at Court? Empty words, light glances, and being on my guard not merely for myself but for Lisele as well. I loved her, but sometimes I had the utterly disloyal thought that she was not suited for a royal life.

I climbed the stairs and finished the last of the bread and jam, licking my lips and my fingers in a decidedly provincial fashion. I hummed a lately famous tune about the Chivalier Coeurre di Jaronne, skirts and eardrops both swinging merrily, and entered the gallery running alongside the armor hall. I could reach the women’s rooms from there, and—

“And what are you about here?” someone snarled, and there was the sound of a blow.

I stopped dead, the wet rag clenched in my hand. Growing up at Court meant I needed but a single word to place a voice. Yet why would anyone be in this hall? Especially him?

“You cannot prevent it. Tis too late.” A whining, breathless, triumphant sentence.

I recognized that voice, too, and I peered around the corner, the damp rag in my suddenly-hot fingers. I twitched my skirts back without thinking about it — Court had taught me one thing at least: skirts may be seen around a corner when a woman eavesdrops.

I had to peek past a tapestry, and could see two men in the hall.

Baron Simieri and the Captain of the Guard. I winced inwardly. I did not know the Baron well — he was the King’s Minister Primus, born common for all he was granted a title, and he did not participate in much of the dances and fêtes that are the female side of Court life. I had danced with him once, a pavane at Lisele’s Coming-of-Age. His hands had been wet and trembling, and he danced woodenly. None of the ladies-in-waiting liked him, but he was only the Minister Primus, not even a noble. Too busy to court a lady, so we did not have to bear his clumsiness for long if at all.

The other man was…something else. Tristan d’Arcenne. He was tall and serious, always in attendance on the King, overseeing the endless drills and training for the King’s Guard. Quite a few of the Court ladies had left nosegays for him, but to my knowledge he had never shared a pillow with any of them. Court rumor had him painted as the King’s Left Hand and assassin — but, of course, he could not be. If he were, there would be no rumors.

On the other hand, anyone chosen to be the King’s Left Hand would be wise enough — and skilled enough with rumor and innuendo — to divert suspicion away from himself by dropping a choice word in the right quarters. So, there.

The Captain of the Guard had the Minister Primus by the throat, held against the dusty tapestried wall. The Primus, a soft, small man, had always reminded me of an oiled farrat.

D’mselle Maratine had a farrat she trained to beg for sweets. The poor thing did not live long, stuffed to its back teeth with chocolat pettites. A faint flash of nausea went through me. What was happening here?

“The details, Simieri. For my edification, you understand.” Tristan’s voice was low but not cultured at all just now — the accent of a nobleman had turned harsh, with an undercurrent of violence.

I had danced with him twice, once at Lisele’s Coming-of-Age, and again two months ago at the Festival of Skyreturn. D’Arcenne did not dance, and the fact he had done so twice with me caused some comment.

The rumormongers were doomed to disappointment, since he said not a word to me beyond requesting the turn and afterward giving formulaic thanks. He was tall and moved well, his dark hair long as was a chivalier’s fashion now. He had held my hand and watched me oddly during the dance, only occasionally glancing over my shoulder to direct us through the whirling crowd. I was sure I had imagined his hand firmly on my waist but trembling slightly, and his flush when he thanked me afterward. He was a fine figure on horseback, even if rumor did paint him as a bit of a fop.

As well as the Left Hand. Two very contradictory things, indeed.

“Too…late,” Simieri choked. I risked peering a little further around the corner. The tapestry here was red and green, a treatment of the last War of the Rose. A particularly ambitious and awful treatment, I might add. “No…time…”

“Why? Why here?” Tristan shook the Primus and shoved him back against the wall again, and I winced. The small man’s head bounced against stone. “Tell me!”

“Tis…too…late,” Simieri repeated, and a queer rattling noise rose from him.

My nostrils flared. There was a breath of sorcery in the dusty air, of rancid apples and matted fur. My hedgewitch training cataloged the scent, compared it to old treatises, and gave me an answer I did not believe. Apples, and a wet dog. A poison killspell?

But why? Poison killspells had not been used for over a hundred years; their onset was too delayed to fine-tune the effects.

I noticed the passageway I traveled almost every day was disarranged. A small end table of fragrant wood obediently growing thicker with dust now lay smashed on the floor; there was a spatter of something fresh, wet, and red on the bare stone floor. A Ch’min vase lay in pieces, and two of the tapestries were ripped to shreds.

What happened here?

Tristan d’Arcenne stepped back, and Simieri’s body fell limply to the floor. From where I stood I could see the Minister’s face, twisted into a grotesque, plum-colored mask. A thin thread of something dark trickled from his nose, and his eyes puffed shut with the killspell’s swelling.

The Captain of the Guard swore viciously, and I was too shocked to remain silent. I do not know if my gasp was very loud, but it certainly had an effect.

He whirled, and the sound of a blade leaving its sheath stunned me further. He carried a sword by the grace of the King — the Guard was trusted implicitly, and the Captain even more so. The bright length of metal glittered in the hall’s gloom.

It looked very sharp.

Tristan d’Arcenne regarded me over the length of his sword. He was breathing heavily, and so was I. The Minister Primus lay dead on the floor, smashed like the vase and the end table.

No few of the older ladies-in-waiting had succumbed to fever; I had even nursed Lady Atterlina di Herence a year ago until she died. One would have to be blind to avoid seeing death in the world. Yet I had never attended a hanging or a beheading, it being faintly improper for a young noblewoman to see such a thing with the common crowd, and besides I am possessed of a weak stomach. I felt faint each time I saw a duel begin, and usually watched no more than the first exchange of blows.

I could barely even watch a chicken being prepared for the feast. And now, this.

“Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” D’Arcenne’s tone had lost its violence but none of its quiet, as if he reminded himself who I was. And yet, there was something — an accent, perhaps, or simply the way his lips shaped the words — that seemed highly improper.

Heat rose up my neck, stained my cheeks. I dropped the wet rag. It made a small sound as it hit the floor.

“You — you—,” I stammered. “You k-k-k—”

“Not I. The spell was laid on him by another.” His blue eyes burned in a sharp face. I had never before noticed how much he looked like one would expect a d’Arcenne to. They are mountainfolk and have the faces to prove it, sharp and handsome. “Are you part of it, then, hedgewitch? Are you?”

My fingers curled around the corner, the sharp stone and the dusty tapestry. I smelled crushed green things from the garden, my own sweat, dust in the air, and a different horrible odor of violent death, the killspell’s reek vanishing as the spell faded.

He moved toward me in a quick light shuffle, a swordsman’s move. I stayed where I was, staring woodenly at the Minister Primus.

The corpse who had been the Minister Primus.

“Are you?” D’Arcenne almost spat the words.

I tore my gaze away from the body and up to his blue eyes. He examined me for a moment. Slowly straightened, and sheathed his sword. “No, I do not think you are,” he continued meditatively. “Unfortunate timing, tis all. Duchesse—”

That was all I heard, for I turned and bolted back the way I had come.

I gave him a good chase. I streaked down the stairs and passed through the kitchen like a shadow — a wild-eyed shadow in a mud-splattered green velvet dress, glittering ear-drops, and half-unbound hair. I doubt any of the kitchen staff even saw me, but perhaps they saw Tristan d’Arcenne, who was almost on my heels.

I was already tiring by the time I reached the rose garden, and the cloying of blooms remained for a long while after a smell of terror to me. I had a stitch in my side and flagging feet by the time I pounded up a crushed-shell walk, bursting past Baronesses di Clency and di Amoranet as they ended their early-afternoon promenade. I suppose I must have scandalized them dreadfully, as I am sure I looked frightful, but I never saw them again.

I knew the King would be taking chai in the Rose Room, and that room had a tall, broad casement that looked out on the garden. I skidded to a stop. The window was open — I wrenched at it, hearing the bootclatter of my pursuer right behind me. I ducked into the Rose Room, toppling another small table — this one thankfully did not break — and threw myself to my knees before the surprised King and two of the Guard, who had their blades half drawn.

“M-m-majesty—” I could not make my tongue work. “Tristan d’Arcenne — murder — the Minister — Majesty — Your Majesty, please—”

The King was a tall, graying Arquitaine noble with the stamp of the Tirecian-Trimestin family on him, dark eyes and a hawk nose. That day he wore blue velvet, and rings on every finger, his long, graying hair coiffed elaborately in ringlets. He glanced up from his chai-table, laid with dainties and a piping-hot sam’var, and waved a hand at the two Guards. “Wait outside the door, if you please,” he said mildly.

The Guards paused for only a moment before obeying, closing the door behind them.

“M-m-majesty—,” I stammered again. My knees throbbed, bruised from the floor. Why would my tongue not work? I was quick enough most times; I can only surmise the shock had temporarily unseated my words.

He looked down at me. “Well, Tristan.”

I cast one terrified glance over my shoulder to see Tristan d’Arcenne step inside the casement and half-turn to shut it with a gentle snick. The uniform of the Guard — black doublet and white shirt, red sash and breeches — suited him very well. He turned back, folded his arms over his chest, and regarded both the King and me with his blue d’Arcenne eyes.

He would have looked entertained, had his jaw not been so set.

“It seems,” the King continued, “you’ve been rather untidy.”

“Simieri was part of it. Died of a poison killspell, the same work as one or two of the others. I suspect I shall have no luck at stalking this one to its source, either.” The Captain said this lazily, as if he had not chased me through half the Palais. “Someone is covering their tracks very well, my liege.”

“And this young d’mselle?” The King looked down at me. I must confess my jaw dropped. “The di Rocancheil girl. Vianne, is not it? I might have known. Your father was always too curious by half.”

Curiosity did not kill him, sieur, the fever did. My heart started out through my ribs. “Y-your M-majesty,” I said with all the dignity I could muster. Forced the unruly words to obey me. “I saw—”

“Forget what you think you just saw,” the King said. He poured chai into a delicate Ch’min porcelain cup and saucer, picked up a pink-frosted pettite-cake. “Tristan, is she…?”

Am I what? There was no help for it — I was before the King and unable even to protest my innocence, since I had no idea what in the Seven Realms was afoot.

The Captain answered, saving me the trouble. “An innocent, my liege. She uses the back passage between the kitchens and the women’s quarters to avoid being seen in a…disheveled state.” Irony tinted d’Arcenne’s voice, equal parts amusement and something darker.

I shot him another look over my shoulder. This one was pure venom. He wore a faint relieved smile almost as shocking as the King’s utter calm.

“I have never had reason to distrust a di Rocancheil.” The King sipped at his chai, and I began to feel light-headed. I had not taken much breakfast, worked in the herb garden all day, and had only bread and jam. The smell of food shocked me into faintness. “Shall I start?”

D’Arcenne made a movement, for I heard bootleather creak. There was a fire in the grate, and it popped, nearly driving me out of my skin.

The King put down his pettite-cake and regarded me again. “Still, you have given every appearance of being faithful, and loyal, and extremely discreet. A good influence on my Lisele. Who needs one, I might add. A few intrigues caught, her name neatly kept clean, and I have rested easier knowing you are at her side.”

So you have noticed, Your Majesty. I thought I kept it all so very quiet. I did not drop my gaze. Twas insulting to stare at the King so, but I hoped he could read innocence upon my features. The edge of a red rug lay under my left knee, and I struggled to stay upright. Sinking into the floor could not be accomplished, no matter how devoutly I wished for it.

Finally, the King seemed to notice I still knelt on hardwood. “Well, Duchesse. It seems I must set you a task.”

I realized my jaw was still hanging, closed my mouth with a snap. I bowed my head, dark hair falling forward over my shoulders. I was in complete disarray, and I had just burst in on the King of Arquitaine during his chai.

Dear gods. Perhaps I should play at draughts; I’ve used up all my day’s worth of bad luck. Day? No, perhaps my whole month’s worth.

The King continued, with the ponderousness of a man who knew his every word was well attended to. “Duchesse, you must remain silent. I ask this as your liege and King, and as your half-uncle, child. Tristan has been hunting a plot to murder me for some years now, and it appears Simieri was part of it. My most trusted Minister…” Here the King paused, and glanced past me to d’Arcenne. “If you speak of what you saw, Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil, you will place me — and our Lisele — in grave danger. If you do not speak, the King of Arquitaine shall owe you a boon.” He paused, and I realized he was waiting for my response.

Half-uncle? Plot? Murder the King? The world had fallen away underneath me. “Y-Your Majesty.” I pulled scraps of my tattered dignity close about. “You owe me no boon to command my obedience. I shall be silent.” My shoulders went back and my chin lifted, though I hoped my stained dress would not speak against me.

The King examined me again. Something very much like a smile tilted up the corners of his mouth. The tapestry on the wall, framing him, was the Tirecian-Trimestin family crest in gold and purple, swan necks and fleurs-di-lisse worked in gold thread. This was a beautiful room, and one I had only seen once or twice. “I half believe you will,” he said meditatively. “Oh, get up, child. You need not address me from your knees. Tristan, help her.”

I was only somewhat shocked to find d’Arcenne at my side, offering his hand. My heart gave one shuddering leap.

I now had to make one of those split-moment decisions one makes at Court. Did I ignore the King’s words and d’Arcenne’s hand to struggle to my feet under my own power, or did I take the Captain’s hand — the hand of a man I had just seen murder the Minister Primus?

Although, to be strictly logical, a poison killspell did not seem like something d’Arcenne would use. Why bother with a spell that could possibly be tracked back to its source when he carried anonymous steel at his side?

The King decided for me. “Take his hand, child, do not simply stare at it.” Now the King definitely sounded diverted.

I am overjoyed he finds my predicament so entertaining. But he was the King, and I decided obedience was the safest course. I took d’Arcenne’s hand. It was warm, and callused from sword practice. He pulled me to my feet and a novel contest ensued — me, seeking to take my hand back from the Captain of the Guard, and the Captain equally determined to keep it. I gracefully twisted my fingers loose with one practiced movement called “freeing the swain,” used after a dance when a man becomes too insistent.

“My thanks, Captain,” I said formally. Then I turned to the King and practiced my very best courtesy. If there is one thing I have learned to satisfaction, it is not to fumble while performing that movement. My ear-drops swung heavily, my ears ached. So did the rest of me. “Your Majesty. My apologies. I thought only to warn you of a—”

“A murder. And of course, if you had caught the Captain of the King’s Guard committing the violent murder of a Minister, I would be the only person who could possibly protect you.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “I believe you have some sense, Duchesse. I may find a use for you. Would that please you?”

“I would be happy to be of service, Your Majesty.” I rose from my courtesy. Shock added upon shock: Tristan d’Arcenne’s hand closed around my elbow. I sought to pull away without the King noticing, but I failed on both counts, for His Majesty’s mouth twitched again and the Captain kept his grip.

“Tristan, would you be so kind as to escort the Duchesse to her chambers? I believe she must dress for dinner. Make certain none see you, or more gossip will rise.” The King picked up the pink-frosted pettite-cake again and regarded me. “I shall send for you tomorrow, Duchesse.”

I would have courtesied again, as protocol demanded, but Tristan pulled me toward the second door — the one that led to the Painted Gallery. “Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored to serve Arquitaine in any way.”

The King most definitely smiled as I tried again, without success, to pull my elbow out of Tristan d’Arcenne’s iron-hard grip. I could not for the life of me understand what was so amusing — I had just witnessed a murder. Nevermind that I was now fairly sure d’Arcenne had not used the killspell; its scent did not cover him at all.

Hedgewitches are sensitive to such things, and now that I had leave to think, I realized it must be so.

Don’t I feel like a silly goose now.

At least the King had not ordered me clapped in irons. Or had he? Tristan would need no more than a word or a phrase to understand what the King wanted done with me — the Bastillion, perhaps, or summary execution in some dank cell.

The thought brought a cold bath of dread, but I stiffened my knees as best I could.

“Remember I require your discretion, Duchesse di Rocancheil,” the King said. “Not a word.”

I nodded. In audience with the King personally for the second time in my life, and I am wearing a muddy dress and garden-boots. At least I have my ear-drops on. “Your Majesty.” I managed to sound tart and respectful at the same time. “I have already given my word.”

The King outright laughed this time. I did not see what was so amusing, but I supposed then that kings had a different sense of humor than ordinary mortals, even nobles. We were almost to the door when His Majesty spoke again.

“Vianne?” He used my given name, and Tristan stopped, turning, so I could see the King, his fingers still playing with the pettite-cake.

“Your Majesty?” I did not moisten my dry, numb lips, though I ached to.

“Did you not have Tristan to vouch for you, I would be forced to order you thoroughly…questioned. He must favour you, child.” The King’s dark eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smile played under his graying mustache. He leaned back in his chair, reaching for the small silver bell to summon the guards.

A thousand acid responses rose to my lips and were strangled, and what ended up coming out was almost as mortifying. “I doubt the Captain favours me overmuch, Your Majesty. I would be forced to take your word for it.”

The King’s laughter followed us out the door.

The Painted Gallery is a long hall, frescoed walls broken by slim fleurs-di-lisse columns, brilliant daubs showing the history and noble Houses of Arquitaine. Red velvet curtains hung over slim leaded-glass windows with iron fretwork, and doors every so often pierced the walls, some locked, others merely unused. In the time of Queen Toriane, she had often paced the Gallery, and after her death her King was wont to roam here at night as well. Perhaps searching for the shade of the woman he had decided he could not live without.

Some said he roamed in search even into the present day, but never often enough to frighten the Court ladies. Still it was not an overused passageway, at least not during the day. At night, certain assignations were made. But I kept well clear of such things.

The Captain’s grip on my elbow was firm, and he said nothing until we were a quarter of the way down the Gallery, his boots clicking on parqueted floor, my own making a more decorous tapping. He indicated a door half hidden under another red velvet curtain, this one artfully hung to frame a fresco of the Battle of Arjeunne.

“Here.” He unlocked the door with a small iron key from a ring hung on his belt. Of course, the Captain of the King’s Guard would have keys.

The entire time, his hand was clasped around my elbow.

“You may set me loose.” I sought to sound very decided about the notion. He had shortened his strides for me, but the stitch in my side and the burning in my lungs had hardly abated. “I shall not run again, Captain, now I know you acted with the King’s blessing.”

“Indeed.” The creaking door revealed a dusty, small corridor, free of any ornamentation, and the rock in my throat turned dry. This was a secret of Palais D’Arquitaine to which I had never been privy.

He pulled me through and locked the door behind us, and I did my best to swallow the boulder lodging in my neck. “Am I to be arrested, then? Or sent to execution?”

“Stop chattering,” he muttered in my ear, his breath touching my hair. “Someone will hear you. The King ordered me to make certain none saw you, Duchesse, and you are making it difficult. It will be challenging enough to keep the Guard silent, not to mention the Baronesses you flitted past. I am half-certain your name will be linked more closely to mine now. It may make you a target.”

“A target?” For what? I am fashionably irreligious, of course, but a prayer to Jiserah the Gentle, queen of the hearth and protector of the foolhardy, would not have gone amiss at the moment.

“Hush.” He set off down the corridor. A tingle in my nose at the dust in the air added to my miseries, and the idea of locking myself in a watercloset and succumbing to a fit of tears was extraordinarily inviting.

Soon, I promised myself. A nice, lovely sobbing fit and a cool washcloth to drape over my eyes was just what a hedgewitch physicker would prescribe. Twas common knowledge I suffered the half-head pain. If I pleaded a headache, I might even escape the banquet.

Of course, if I was locked in the Bastillion, dinner would be a moot point.

The corridor led to a set of rickety wooden stairs, and d’Arcenne pushed me before him, relinquishing my arm. Under the smell of dust, green garden simmering, and my own sweat was now the tang of leather and male, of sharpened steel, of a Guard.

A new thought occurred to me, and it escaped my mouth before I could stop myself. “Tis true, then. You are the Left Hand.”

Too late I realized that even should I suspect such a thing, saying it aloud was extraordinarily dangerous.

“Up to the second level. I told you to stop chattering.” He took a step up. That meant I had to climb the stairs, or have him crowd me most improperly.

I cursed under my breath, a term most unladylike. D’Arcenne made a small sound that might have been a smothered laugh, and I set myself to climbing the narrow stairs. They twisted crazily, and I was half afraid the entire edifice would come crumbling down at any moment. When we finally reached the second level, I breathed a sigh of relief, and d’Arcenne touched my shoulder. “To your right, Duchesse.” His hand closed around my elbow again.

My sense of direction was completely bewildered, more by shock than by actual location, so I had no idea where in the Palais I was. “Captain,” I began again, “please, have mercy on me. Tell me if I am to be arrested, or executed, or—”

“Cease.” Quietly, again in my ear. My skin tingled with the warmth of his breath. “This particular corridor is hidden only from eyes, not ears. A chance eavesdropping will place you in even greater danger. I would not have that.”

“But,” I whispered frantically, “dear gods, please, can you not tell me?”

He half-turned, spinning, and pushed me. I retreated, nearly tripping on my skirts, and my back met the wooden wall. I could go no farther. Tristan d’Arcenne put his hands to either side of my shoulders and leaned in as if he were a courting swain, his nose less than an inch from mine. “You are not to be arrested or executed, d’mselle,” he whispered fiercely in return. “The King told me to take you back to your chambers without anyone noticing, and that is what I intend to do. Do not force me to stopper your mouth, Duchesse. I might enjoy myself, but I doubt you would.” His lips curled up into a half smile, and I noticed his eyelashes were charcoal, and thick enough to make any vain Court noblewoman envious.

My heart galloped along inside my rib cage, rattling me. Perhaps it was only the shocks to my nerves that made it behave so.

The King called himself my half-uncle. So it’s true, Grand-dam dallied a bit. No wonder Father sent me to Court. Then I thought something even stranger. Tristan d’Arcenne is the Left Hand of the King. The rumors are true. Did he start them himself?

“No doubt the King will explain what he wishes from you tomorrow,” d’Arcenne whispered, less forcefully now. “But for the present, Vianne di Rocancheil, I must ask that you trust me.”

The King said you favoured me. A flush rose in my cheeks. It was not a proper thought for a lady to have — and it was an even more improper thought to have while the Captain of the Guard was leaning in close enough to kiss.

I bit my lip. D’Arcenne studied me, his blue eyes suddenly speculative. It cannot be true. I seized on disbelief as a drowning man seizes a rope. I’ve only danced with him twice.

Yet it seemed to me d’Arcenne had been quietly hanging in the background of Court functions, sometimes watching me, sometimes not, for a very long time now. And whatever part of the ballroom or Great Court chambers I wandered to, he was frequently in the same place. Twice was also precisely twice more than any other Court lady had danced with him.

You are being ridiculous, Vianne. Simply set yourself the task of repairing to your chamber, and repairing your attire. Lisele will be in a perfect fit of impatience by now. Attend her dressing, plead a headache, and retreat to your bed with a cold washcloth over your eyes. Send for a glass or two of unwatered wine to steady your nerves, and by tomorrow this will simply be a past shock you may add to your collection of unpleasant experiences. You may set your wits then to whatever task the King gives you. It is bound to be even more unpleasant, whether you will or no.

I do not know how long Tristan d’Arcenne stood waiting for my reply. Finally, I looked up at him, opened my mouth, remembered not to speak, bit my lip again, and nodded.

Yet whatever I would have said was drowned in the noise and clamor starting almost that very moment, the moment the world completed veering off its accepted course and descended into confusion.

He actually jerked, as if struck by a fist. His eyes widened, and he grabbed my shoulders. “Curse me for a fool,” he said, conversationally. I was later to learn that very same soft impersonal tone was the voice he used while dueling. “Duchesse. Vianne.” His fingers bit my shoulders, slipping against green velvet. “Listen to me very carefully. Go down this hall to the third door on the left. It should be unlocked. Take care no one sees you exit it; we may have to use this passage later. You should find yourself in the Blue Hall near the women’s quarters. Attend the Princesse at once, do you hear? You should be safe enough in her presence, and she may very well need — well, no matter. If she requires explanation tell her I will make amends, for I was sent to bring you to her royal father and you had not time to change. Take this.” He thrust something into my hands. It was a small ring of keys — not the official ring from his belt, but a different set. “I shall expect its return later. Put it in your pocket, and do not lose it.”

Did he think me some featherbrained ninny? I took the keys and put them in my skirt-pocket. Alarums now could only mean one thing — the conspiracy the Minister Primus had spoken of was now loose, and the Princesse was at risk even as the King was.

Lisele. I must protect her. I nodded.

Footsteps, shouting voices, and steel clashing now resounded through the deserted hall. I gasped, for d’Arcenne’s hands tensed even more. I would be bruised both on knees and shoulders, come morning.

“Take care, Duchesse.” His expression was very strange as he gazed down at me. “Take exceeding care. Promise me you will.”

I was now beyond words. I nodded, my cheeks flaming. Even at that moment I did not think a conspiracy could matter. It was serious, of course — the conspirators would be locked in the Bastillion, then beheaded, their bodies buried turned away from the West and the home of the Blessed.

But a conspiracy could never truly affect the Court or the King, could it? The King was eternal. He was Arquitaine itself, the seal of the gods in flesh and blood, no matter that the Blessed left us largely to our own devices here on the imperfect earth.

“You.” The word caught me by surprise; I found what I wished to say. “Take care yourself, d’Arcenne. My thanks.” I managed to sound calm, and lifted my chin so I could gaze directly at him.

He swore again, and did another passing-strange thing. He shook me so hard my head spun, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. The touch sent a scorching flush through my every limb, my dress suddenly rasping-tight against me.

He released me, turned, and ran lightly the way we had so recently come. I knew where he went — he was called to the King’s side.

As I was called to Lisele’s.

I stood there, dazed, for a few moments, hearing the clamor of alarum bells and shouting. Those moments I later cursed myself for, though I sorely needed them to quiet my racing heart and laboring lungs.

When I could think again, I shook myself and ran along the corridor. My skirts dragged, weighing me down.

I found the third door on the left — twas a narrow aperture with a slim wooden panel, hardly qualifying as a door—and slipped through it, finding myself indeed in the deserted Blue Hall, still hung with the traditional cour bleu tapestries; someone would have to take them down before the Fête of Sunreturn. The Blue Hall is little used in spring and summer, being stifling, but in winter it was where the Princesse’s retinue gathered on long evenings to read aloud, or perform plays and songs. Now it was hot with late-afternoon spring sunshine, and I sweated even more as I ran, keeping to one side so I could duck into a window-couvre if anyone happened along.

I reached the hall that housed the Princesse’s suite not long after, with a stitch gripping my side and bringing me tears.

There I had my first horrible intimation of utter doom.

The Guards on duty all afternon—Chivalieri di Tatancourt and di Belletron — both lay slain at the door to the Princesse’s afternoon chamber. I gasped and clamped my hand over my mouth. Blood washed the floor where they had fallen — di Tatancourt, who had a splendid waxed blond mustache and who was courting Lady Arioste di Wintrefelle, had a horrible gaping grimace under his chin. A slit throat. Di Belletron was gashed and terribly torn; I supposed he had put up a stouter resistance.

Hot sourness rose under my breastbone. It was a lucky thing I had taken no chai, for the slice of bread and jam was demanding to be released from the confines of my stomach. I resisted, and heard myself give a dry barking sob instead.

Lisele. She will be terribly frightened. Where is she? “Lisele?”

I had to gather up my skirts to go over the fallen Guards. The door — a door I had passed through hundreds of times, I hardly noticed anymore its carved bunches of grapes and the royal crest worked in gold and blue — was hacked apart as if by axes, and spattered with dark fluids I dared not think on too closely. I ducked through, my garden-boots slipping in blood, and I am not too proud to say that just inside the door the long-resistant slice of bread escaped me at last. I vomited, having enough presence of mind to pull my skirts back so I did not foul them more.

There was Lady Arioste, sprawled in a corner, graceless in death as she never was in life. And beside her a stout headless body I recognized from her pink and gold as Baroness di Vonstadt. Dama Elaina di Cherefall and D’mselle Courceline di Maritine lay tangled together by the gilt fireplace grate — they must have been clutching each other as they died. D’mselle Robertine, Dama Pirial, Baroness Iliana di Chantrour et Val, the Marquise di Valancourt, and the Comtesse di Cournburiene—

I lost count. I looked for one face, and did not find it.

I followed the trail of destruction. Not one of the Princesse’s attendants remained alive.

Except me.

The door to Lisele’s inner receiving-room was hacked open as well, and the Comtesse Rochburre lay across it, fearfully wounded and with her eagle eyes closed. I stepped over her, miserably determined to find Lisele. Please, I begged, not knowing which god I pleaded with, since I was fashionably irreligious like most of the Court. We laughed at the pious, but never too loudly. After all, Arquitaine bore the mark of the Blessed, just as other countries had their own gods…

I found my Princesse, my Lisele, lying across a half-couch of watered-blue silk we had been wont to sit giggling upon in our girlhoods, and later. Her harp lay cast aside, its strings cut. Had she tried to defend herself with it?

I cast myself to my knees, bruising them anew, and shook her. “Lisele—Lisele!” She was covered in blood, and there was an awful wound to her breast, dewing the pretty pale-green silk. She had been dressed without me.

I sobbed, repeating her name, and when her dark eyes opened and she drew in a terrible tortured breath I actually recoiled. Those eyes fastened on me, and I heard a horrible sucking sound. A punctured lung. I had read enough treatises to know, though I had never treated more than a fever or pneumonia, or a wound on a scullery maid’s hand.

Treatises? Of course. A healing charm, anything to stem the flow of blood.

“Vianne,” Lisele said, in a choked whisper.

“A healing charm. Oh, Lisele.” Cease, you ninny. Find a healing charm in that warehouse of oddities you call a brain.

I did. It was the same simple bit of hedgewitchery I had used on Jirisa’s hand, meant for binding a small wound and staving off infection, but I repeated it quickly, flattening my hand against the bloody hole. I repeated it again, heat draining through my palm — hedgewitchery draws its power from the witch when it cannot draw from a bit of free earth. A tree, the open sky, or even a clod of dirt, none of which were to hand.

I repeated it a third time, my vision blurring with exhaustion, before Lisele’s fingers came up and gripped my wrist with surprising strength. “No…Stop, Vianne…too late.”

“I can heal you, I can.” Remember a charm, Vianne. A stronger one. A better one. Think!

“Do not be a silly goose.” She looked so weary. A smear of blood marred her pretty cheek, and her dark hair lay tangled over blue watered silk. She must have been waiting for me to braid it. Guilt twisted my heart. Was she dying while Tristan d’Arcenne kissed my forehead? “Listen to me, Vianne…carefully. I…command it.”

So rarely did my Princesse command anything from me, I swallowed my tears. “Lisele…” I ceased to speak. The spell still worked through my palm, its power coming from my already weary body. Her grasp curled around my wrist, cold and waxen.

Lisele firmly pulled my hand away from her wound. I cried out, the charm breaking, and she pushed something hard, metallic, and warm into my fingers. A momentary flush of strength filled her, turned her cheeks crimson and brought her words without gasping. “Take this. Keep safe. I could not wake…If they have killed me, Father is dead too. Go to mountains…d’Arcenne. Go to Arcenne. Father said…loyal…please, Vianne…do as I…”

The mention of Arcenne caused a guilty start in me, but it was too late. Lisele sighed, a long, low sound, and slumped back into the blue silk. Something fled her, a spark I could see only with the small amount of magical Sight I possess.

“Lisele,” I whispered. “Lisele, no, Lisele, no, no, no—”

I do not know how long I crouched there, sobbing, repeating the same small hedgewitch charm that availed naught since there was no life left in her body for it to foster, no spark for it to conserve. I wept and heaved dryly until I heard something. My head jerked up, as if I’d been stung.

Footsteps, coming this way. Booted feet, purposeful strides.

I fair leapt to my feet. Lisele’s eyes were closed. She lay pale and perfect, her pretty sharp-chinned face smooth as if she merely slept.

I could not wake, she had gasped. What it meant would have to wait. I looked wildly about the room. There, beside the fireplace, a door that led to a half-stair, and from there I could…do what, precisely?

Where could I go? What place was safe?

Clutching whatever Lisele had given me in my sweating palm, I ducked through the door and locked it just as the bootsteps reached Lisele’s receiving-room. Four or five men, I guessed, listening with Court-sharp ears.

I hesitated, my hand on the knob, the key in my fingers. If they were from the King I should make myself known, not hide like a thief.

If they are from the King they will take me to him, and d’Arcenne might be there. I struggled with temptation, caution and a small deep irresistible instinct nailing me in place, freezing the words in my throat and my hand on the dusty crystal knob.

It would be foolish not to see who they are, Vianne. Do not be a fool.

I slowly lowered myself to my knees again, peered through the keyhole. I could only see a small slice of Lisele’s receiving-room, and thankfully none of the blood. I could, however, see the edge of Lisele’s dress. If I tried hard enough, I could imagine she simply slumbered, perhaps given a draught of night’s-ease and valeriol to quiet her dreaming.

I sought to calm my heaving sides. My own harsh gasps sounded loud as a trumpet in the quiet.

They thundered into the receiving-room. I saw plumes and blue sashes.

The Duc’s Guard. The Duc Timrothe d’Orlaans, the king’s brother, perhaps the finest Court sorcerer in Arquitaine. He dueled regularly, and rumor said he allowed his opponent to survive only if there were official witnesses present. For all that, he was blood royal, and had he killed a few, noble or common, nothing could be done. Still, his Guard was perhaps here to protect the Princesse.

I let out a relieved sigh and was about to rise and make myself known when yet another voice I recognized sounded deep and harsh.

“Check the bodies. Make absolutely certain none live.” Garonne di Narborre, the Duc’s servant, otherwise known as the Black Captain for the coal of his hair and eyes. I had danced with him several times, had even taken a rose from his hand at the last Fête of Flowers. He cut a fine figure, yet somehow few of the women cared for him. I had found his fingers too hard on my waist and my hand, but twas not politic to refuse him a dance.

Not politic at all, and while he was occupied with me he did not watch Lisele so closely. I simply did not like the way he gazed at her. He could not hope to win her hand, and there was no tenderness in his watching, and since the Duc was just after Lisele in the Line of Succession and she was just barely of age…well. I danced with him, and Lisele told me afterward she did not like him overmuch.

“Aye, sieur.” A lieutenant — I think it may have been Gregoire di Champforte.

“Have they found the di Rocancheil girl yet?”

I started violently, tasted bitterness on the back of my tongue. Bit my lower lip, hard, to stop any betraying noise from my treacherous, dry throat.

“No, sieur. She was in the gardens this morn, has not been sighted since.”

“Well, perhaps Simieri caught her; he was waiting in the passage. And d’Arcenne?”

Simieri was part of this, and meant to catch me in the passage? Why? My heart pounded in my ears, and I swayed.

Do not dare faint now, Vianne. Do not dare!

“Taken to the donjons, sieur. Executed come morning, the orders are being drawn up now.” The men were stepping among the bodies. I heard a crunch, and a wet stabbing sound.

They were making certain no woman survived.

My gorge rose again, and I trembled. Whatever Lisele had closed in my nerveless hand was still there, pulsing.

“Look, sieur. On the Princesse.”

“Hedgewitchery,” someone breathed. “The di Rocancheil girl has been here.”

A tense, indrawn breath. “Find her. Search the Palais and the gardens. She wanders about in the gardens and the kitchens. Find her! Bring her to the Duc. He needs her.”

What? I am of no account, and I have not done anything!

Yet I knew even an innocent could be caught in a net at Court. I hesitated. Should I announce myself, and be taken to the Duc? But they were making certain the women were dead.

They had not said aught of “rescue.”

The Duc is next in line to the throne, with Lisele…gone. It was the only answer that made any sense at all. And yet…

My wit, weak and weary as it was under these successive shocks, began to work again. I must hide. But where would they not find me? I cast about frantically, taking care not to lean on the door — varnished wood, and suddenly thin as an eggshell. Such a fragile, flimsy shield.

The North Tower. Tis locked, and none have used it for a hundred years or more. My wits began to work, racing inside my head with little pattering feet, rather like a collection of cats chasing about in my skull. Stunned and witless, with my Princesse’s blood on my fingers and something in my hand she had entrusted to me, I closed my eyes and forced myself to think.

You must find food, and clothing, and you must wait for nightfall.

Then what do I do? I wailed silently. My eyes squeezed themselves shut, and had I been more pious I might have begun praying again. Instead, something horrible occurred to me.

Tristan d’Arcenne is in the donjons, and they will take him to the Bastillion and behead him. The fingers of my free hand crept into my pocket, found the cold metal ring. Among them would be keys to a donjon door, perhaps?

But there will be many guards, and the whole length of the Palais between you and him.

It does not matter. He will know what to do.

Footsteps echoed. Boots, approaching my sanctuary.

Oh, dear gods. I rose, silently, and backed away from the door. My mouth gapped open so my breathing would not betray me, and tears trickled hot down my cheeks, dripping onto my collarbones.

“We must find the di Rocancheil girl.” Di Narborre sounded very close, and the door rattled as he tested it. Had I left a trace of blood on the knob on the other side? “Let us go. Our lord the Duc will be crowned tonight.”

I let out a soft, shapeless breath, dropped the key that had held the door closed between me and di Narborre, and fled.

Chapter Two

I could not return to my own rooms, but I did stop in Lady Arioste’s tiny closette between the Princesse’s bedchamber and mine. She and I were of a size, though thankfully not of matching temperaments; I dug in her wardrobe until I found a serviceable dark blue velvet-and-silk, frightfully old but still good. I took hair ribbons and a servant girl’s bag I filled with fruit from the bowl on Arioste’s night table; and a sewing kit, as well as extra stockings. For some reason I also took a comb, instead of a hundred other items which might have proved useful.

The table was not laid for chai, since Lisele would have ordered chai in one of her own reception rooms, and Arioste would have been in attendance.

Carrying the dress carefully so as not to foul it with mud or…other things, I made my way through dusty passages to a little-known door that gave into the North Tower. Several times I heard running feet. Once I even hid in a niche, lost behind dusty red-velvet curtains as a detachment of the Duc’s Guard thundered past, no doubt searching for me or on some other unsavory business. Tears rolled unheeded down my cheeks and dripped onto my poor muddy gown.

One of the keys on the ring d’Arcenne had given me fit a neglected door at the end of a long, chilly passageway. I might have simply sunk to the floor and given up if it had not. I was famished, exhausted, and at what I thought then was the end of my strength.

I closed the door behind me and locked it carefully, took my first faltering steps into the gloomy dust of the North Tower. The narrow hallway of the servant’s entrance hung thick with cobwebs, a sour exhalation from the masonry full of neglect and rot; the lower windows still sealed tight.

The Tower had been stopped up when the King’s treacherous great-great-grandmother, the Dowager Elisaine, was bricked inside it to die. She conspired with the Damarsene, who would always like nothing better than to swallow our land — you would think they had enough and to spare, but no, they are greedy. The Dowager had plotted to kill her elder brother’s son Archimvault the Tall, before he came of age to be crowned. That treachery had been averted just in time, the Damarsene ambassador sent home in disgrace, and the White Dowager starved to death in the North Tower. The sealing-bricks from the entrances had been taken away with her body, and used to line her tomb. It was said that when her body was found she was clutching a statue of Jiserah, and the goddess’s face had turned away.

When Lisele and I were young, we had dared each other to spend a night before the great ironbound main door to the Tower, carved with Elisaine’s device — the swan and the serpent over the crown of Arquitaine.

None would think to look for me here. At least, not for a while. And none would suspect I had a key, except Tristan d’Arcenne. Would they torture him to find what he knew? What would he say?

The sweat coating me was suddenly cold as a lemon-ice. Still, they must have greater matters at hand than a hedgewitch lady-in-waiting, even a di Rocancheil. The assurance was hollow, at least in my ears.

I penetrated the mysteries of the North Tower a short way and found nothing but decay. I climbed to the third level, where some of the windows had not been sealed, and found a room with wan sunlight coming from a high casement, piercing the gloom. Dust lay in great sheets over everything, and the furniture was covered in white drapes grown gray and moth-eaten with years. I took two more steps and sank to the floor, buried my face in my filthy, sweating hands, and proceeded to weep like an absolute fool.

The storm of tears did not last as long as I thought it would, since I was too hungry and exhausted to cry much more. So I did the only thing I could — gathered up the dress and the bag and carried them further up into the Tower until I found a half-hidden door behind a rotting tapestry of Elisaine’s crest. This led into a sitting room, close and still and cold as all the Tower, even in the late-spring heat. I changed into Arioste’s gown with shaking hands. I had no servant girl to help me, so it took two or three tries, but the lacings were relatively easy.

With that done, I tossed a dusty sheet back to reveal a frightfully old divan done in faded red and gold satin, chewed by gods alone knew how many tiny animals but sound enough. I sank down, dropping the bag of fruit and other things next to me, tucking the strap as if I were arranging an embroidery bag prettily on one of Lisele’s wide sophas.

Another wave of faintness went through me at the thought. I shook it away, transferred the keys to my new skirt-pocket, and fished the thing Lisele had given me out of my old skirt as well.

I opened my fingers, found my palm full of a medallion that occupied my hand to the first joints in my fingers, with a thick antique silver chain. The medallion itself was three serpents twisted in a complex knot — copper, silver, and black gold, set with rubies and clear glittering diamonds for eyes.

The world slipped from beneath me again.

It was the Aryx, the Great Seal of Arquitaine. It lay cool and weighty in my hand, the source of all Court sorcery and the servant of the bloodline of Edouard Angoulême, however diluted in the house of Tirecian-Trimestin. It belonged in the possession of the King. Why had Lisele had it — and why had she given it to me?

If the Duc’s men had found it, they would have taken it to the Duc, and he would be the king in truth. I touched the medallion with one trembling finger smudged with garden-dirt and blood. I had scrubbed my fingers on my green velvet, but it did very little to help. Lisele is the Heir — of course she would hold it sometimes; the Festival of Skyfall is soon, and the reigning monarch and the Heir pass the Aryx between them at sundown. The whys and wherefores matter not a whit. It only matters that you do not let the Duc find it. Lisele charged you with keeping it safe.

I found the clasp and fastened the chain about my own throat with trembling fingers, silently praying it would not take a notion to fry me for my insolence. The histories said the royal family of Arquitaine knew the secret to using the Aryx as a weapon, but it had not happened since the time of King Fairlaine’s suicide, after the death of his beloved Queen Toriane. Since then, we had not needed the Aryx’s power in battle or in the defense of the King’s person. King Fairlaine’s death had brought the Great King Tibirius to the throne, and he had been the architect of a lasting peace, even if that peace meant paying tribute to the Damarsene across our borders with their hungry army — and to the Damarsene alliance with the Pruzians, those mercenary masters of cold warfare.

If the King had carried the Aryx, the Duc could not have killed him, and Lisele would still be alive.

I had more pressing matters at hand. I dropped the Aryx down into my bodice, thanking the gods Arioste had been relatively modest — at least when it came to showing her twin charms. Heartless and fickle, with no more brain than a poisonous serpent, she still had not deserved…that. A cold shudder racked me.

The neckline concealed most of the medallion, leaving only a meaningless curve of copper that was a serpent’s back but might have been anything.

Chill metal settled against my skin as if it belonged there. The Aryx began to throb, softly, taking on the quality of a heartbeat — my own heartbeat, rapid and thready as it was in my own ears. Strangely, it comforted me to have that warmth against my skin.

I ate an apple, and my hands ceased their trembling. The window set high in the wall let westering sunlight through, making golden motes of dust dance in the air. I thought of Tristan d’Arcenne locked in the donjons, and hoped they would not torture him. I thought of him because otherwise I would have to think of Lisele, and her blood on my hands.

I ate another apple, and wiped at my cheeks with a bit of my green velvet dress. Then I combed out my tangled hair and braided it back, weeping afresh because I had twisted Lisele’s hair so many times. I had taught her to braid in the style of di Rocancheil too, and it had been quite the fashion when we were eleven together. By then we had been fast friends, and Lisele had come to trust me as much as a princesse could trust a confidante of noble blood. She was my Princesse and my lady, and I bound to serve her, but she was also my friend, and I tried to be discreet and trustworthy for her.

Yet I failed her when she needed me most. Had I not been standing uselessly, feeling d’Arcenne’s lips on my forehead, I might have been able to…

Do not be ridiculous. They would have killed you as well, and found the Aryx to take to the Duc. You did what you should have, Vianne.

But oh, I did not believe it.

Chapter Three

I did sleep, a thin troubled slumber broken by restless starts whenever I thought I heard a footstep or a mouse scratching. It would not be long before the North Tower was searched as well.

And I dared not sleep too deeply lest I waste the night.

When darkness crept slowly through the windows, I wished I had brought a candle. Yet if I had one, or if I practiced my limited Court sorcery and used a witchlight, how would I wend my way to the donjons without being seen? And if I could reach the warren of prison cells without being remarked, what chance did I have of setting d’Arcenne free? Did the keys he’d given me include a donjon key among them?

I waited in the darkness for what seemed like ages, until the clock in my head — probably thrown off by shock, but the only measure of time I had — told me twas the hour of the planned banquet. Court dines late in summer, and only a touch earlier in late spring; besides, the Duc would be anxious to bring the Palais under his control. I wondered what tale would be given to the Ministers, and to the lords and pages and chivalieri. The women who had not seen the attack on Lisele, of course, would be dead or taken somewhere, whisked out of the way for their own safety. I wondered grimly who would be blamed for the afternoon’s events, where the Duc would pin the conspiracy that had left him King.

He is not King without the Aryx. I left my green velvet dress on the divan and covered it with the dust cloth. The disturbed dust would not hide where I had spent the afternoon, but I felt compelled to conceal what I could.

I used a dry abandoned watercloset to relieve my aching bladder and crept through the North Tower to the servants’ door, again. I listened, my ear pressed against cold wood, for a long, agonizing time, before I unlocked it and stepped out.

The hall was empty.

Now I had only to reach the donjons without being seen.

I had mulled the matter long and hard, and decided I would use the Sculpture Hall, since it ran almost the whole length of the Western Palais and was rarely guarded, being completely enclosed by the King’s Pavilion. There were plenty of niches and passages to hide in. Lisele and I had explored the Palais as children, and I knew not all of it, for there were some places children and women did not go, and passages both secret and forgotten. Yet I knew enough to possibly pass unseen if I wished to devoutly enough.

The Sculpture Hall proved to be under heavy guard by the Duc’s blue-sashed men, so I was forced to use a different route — a dusty garret over the north end of the Sculpture Hall leading to a jumbled, confusing patchwork of servant’s passageways. I kept my ears tuned and had to hide once or twice, and was almost discovered by a fumbling pair of servants eager to find a place for their assignation. From them I learned the whole Palais was at sup in the Coronation Hall, the Court putting on a brave face over the tragedy of the King slain by his own Captain, Tristan d’Arcenne.

Who was scheduled to be executed tomorrow, beheaded after his tongue was torn out. My stomach turned over afresh when they dropped that choice morsel of news.

I held my breath while the lovers fumbled to their niche, and I passed by them silently as they were engaged in their congress. I was not innocent of the ways of lovers, but this brought a silly flush to my cheeks. I seemed to feel lips against my forehead, and to smell leather and steel.

I slipped unseen through the Palais, helped by a generous portion of luck, until I reached the entrance to the donjon in the west wing, tunneled into the rock of Mount di Cienne, which loomed over the Palais and the Citté. Its dark mouth yawned; there was only one entrance and a single Duc’s Guard at it. Everyone else had perhaps been called to duty elsewhere — searching for me, and serving in the Coronation Hall.

Why are they seeking me? Will they blame me for Lisele’s death, as they are blaming d’Arcenne for the King’s? What could they want with me?

I tucked myself into a niche down the hall, wondering how I would get past the guard until I noticed him leaning back in his chair, almost certainly asleep. A leathern skin dangled from one limp hand. As I watched, the skin slipped from his fingers and thumped on the floor, but twas drained enough not to spill.

Wine. I sniffed quietly. D’Arcenne’s Guard would never be caught sopped on duty. Then again, a new King was cause for celebration, even if the old King had been slain. D’Orlaans needed his Guard loyal and satisfied, too.

It took far more courage than I thought I possessed to step from my hiding place. I moved soundlessly as I could, halting and trembling like a rabbit whenever the guard snorted or muttered, slipping past him and through the half-open gate. I did not recognize the man, but he wore a blue sash. His feathered hat tipped down over his face and his chair leaned back precariously. I had a moment’s mad desire to kick the chair and spill him onto the stone floor.

Trembling so hard my ear-drops swung, I found myself in the donjon.

Luck was with me again. Torchlight ran red over stone floor and bare iron bars, and Tristan had not been thrust into one of the deeper cells. No, he was in the third cell to the left, and he was alone. The other cells were empty.

Of course — the Duc’s Guard might have killed everyone else, but they needed a public beheading for Tristan. I felt almost sick at the thought, and at the cold logical way my mind ran now. Had I ever been this calculating before?

They will tear out his tongue before they kill him. Cannot have him speaking, of course. And that is the traditional punishment for traitors, is it not?

I sank to my knees by the door of his cell. I could see him through the bars, flung down on the floor, his red sash half torn off, his dark hair lying on stone. He still had his boots, but his swordbelt was gone. “D’Arcenne,” I whispered.

He did not stir. Had they killed him already?

“D’Arcenne.” A little louder. I felt for the keys in my pocket and drew them out, as softly as I could. “Captain!” I nearly wept again, I was so distraught. “Captain, please!” I almost forgot to whisper.

He stirred, but he said nothing, made no noise. Relief scalded the inside of my throat. He was alive.

“Tis Vianne,” I whispered. “Vianne di Rocancheil. Please, you must tell me which key will work, if any…please, Captain, for the love of the Blessed, wake up!”

He curled up to sit, suddenly; I gave an undignified little squeak, choked off halfway as I remembered to be quiet. I fell backward off my knees onto the floor, and my teeth clicked together painfully. From bruised knees to a pratfall. Tis a good thing I am not known for my grace.

He was at the bars, reaching through, his hand shot out and clasped around my wrist. “Is it you?” he demanded in a whisper. “Or have the gods driven me mad with hope?” He dragged me forward. Torchlight ran red over his face. He had taken a beating — one eye swollen shut, split lips, and half his face terribly bruised. His hand was bruised, too.

“You look awful,” I murmured. Of all the things to say, Vianne.

Still, it brought a wisp of amusement to his blue eyes — or eye, since the other one was puffed nearly shut. “Thank you, d’mselle.” There was the shadow of a bow, his body inclining stiffly. “I did not even dare to hope — you brought the keys?”

I turned my wrist in his grasp, so he could see. “Tell me which one, and I shall unlock the door.”

“None of these will work. My belt hangs near the door of the guardroom — my sword, my keys, everything else. You shall have to fetch it for me. How did you get past the guard?”

“He’s sotted. I must fetch your belt?” I sounded blank and witless.

He nodded. “Quietly, Duchesse, and quick. We have not much time.” He let go of me, finger by finger.

I made it shakily to my feet. Ghosted over the floor, and almost collapsed as I reached the entrance again. My knees wished to simply fold, and I fought the desire to sink to the floor, put my head in my arms, and let the world do whatever madness took its fancy next.

Move, Vianne. Do not stop now. The guard still slept, his breathing heavy and whistling, and I padded past him.

The guardroom was lit only by a single small lantern. I found Tristan’s belt hanging on a row of pegs driven into the stone, took it down with trembling hands. Twas heavy and clumsy, so I cradled it in my arms as I peered down the hall again and set out past the guard for the third time. The sotted man mumbled once as I passed him, and I nearly fell headlong as my knees threatened fresh mutiny. The torchlit dimness of the donjon was almost a blessing.

I found the Captain’s keyring and passed it through the bars. He selected a thick heavy iron key, and in a trice the door was unlocked. Why had they left his belt there? The Duc must have been confident — or extremely hurried, not to take it and lock it up. Then again, the plan had gone smoothly, and if there were none loyal to d’Arcenne still left alive there was no worry, was there?

The door squeaked slightly as Tristan eased out. He moved stiffly, but seemed otherwise hale. I offered his belt, but he caught me by my shoulders and examined me from top to toe. His gaze snagged on the copper peeking out under my neckline, then met mine with a question unasked.

“The Aryx,” I whispered. “Lisele was dying, she gave it to me. They killed the women — and Lisele…” My voice refused to work further.

He whispered an oath that would have normally made me blanch, and pulled me forward into a rough embrace. I nearly cried out as my face crushed against his chest. He breathed another curse into my hair, as the hilt of his sword jabbed me in the shoulder and his belt made a clinking sound.

“Gods.” His arms were bruising-tight. “Gods. I thought you dead, or worse. Where did you hide?”

Why does he hold me so? “The N-North T-T-Tower.” The urge to weep returned, but I was mercifully out of tears.

He nodded and released me all at once, subtracting the belt from my numb fingers. What was clumsiness in my grasp turned into supple, well-behaved leather in his; he buckled it on deftly. “Come.” His hand worked a knife free of its sheath with a whisper. “Stand by the door, Duchesse. You do not wish to see this.”

He led me to the half-open gate, and I stayed where he placed me. He glided away. I stood, my fists clenched, trembling from head to foot.

A number of things passed pell-mell through my throbbing, too-full head. He’s betrayed me was one, and: Of course — he’s gone to kill the guard was another, overwhelmed by the ever-present song below all the others—Lisele, oh Lisele, a griefstricken refrain like a myrmyra bird’s call. Then, Why did he embrace me? And, But he only danced with me twice.

The most unsettling thought of all—“Dead, or worse.” What would be worse than dead?

He returned with a cat’s soft step. Something I did not care to examine too closely glittered in his one good eye. Something like rage, and satisfaction.

“Come.” No need to whisper now, but he still spoke softly. “We must free you from this place, d’mselle.”

I was all too ready to leave. But he did not turn to lead me out through the gate. Instead he drew his sword and dropped to his knees, offering me the hilt.

“You have saved my life.” His ruined face lifted to mine. “I owe you my service, d’mselle. I give you my oath.”

I almost choked. At any other time it might have been a pretty picture, and very romantic, even if terribly embarrassing. But this moment I was tired and hungry, and the entire world had gone spinning merrily off its course. And Tristan d’Arcenne, Captain of the King’s Guard, was acting like the hero of a silly courtsong.

“For the sake of all the gods,” I hissed, “get up and let us go!”

Something dark crossed his marred face, but he stayed where he knelt. “Accept my oath. Please?”

I touched the hilt of his bare sword with two fingers. “Very well, then, I-accept-your-oath-chivalier-now-may-we-please-flee? They shall catch us, and if they do they shall kill us both.”

He rose to his feet in one motion and sheathed his sword, his eyes — eye — gleaming balefully. “They shall try to kill me, but they will seek to take you alive.”

“Why?” I still held the ring of keys, hastily offered them to him. He pushed them into a pouch depending from his belt, gazing so steadily over my shoulder I expected to hear someone behind me, and I sidled nervously.

His hand twitched, but he brought it back to his side. “Because your father was an illegitimate son of King Taristide.” Slowly and softly, as if talking to an idiot. “The King is—was—your half-uncle, and so is the Duc. You are the last person alive who can challenge his hold to the throne since the Princesse is dead. But he will not kill you; he will marry you, and found his new dynasty.”

For perhaps the hundredth time that day, my jaw dropped. I stared at the Captain, stunned and speechless, and he took my hand and started not out the half-open gate, but deeper into the donjons.

Marry the Duc? “But I do not wish to marry him,” I finally managed, stupidly. “And where are we—”

“There is a passage that will take us from the Palais, and I will take us from the Citté as quickly as possible. It does not matter if you wish to marry him, Vianne. If it is a choice between marriage or death, I would counsel you to marry and live. There is no princesse of marriageable age from any other country, and any other noble domestic House will become dangerous if a daughter of theirs marries a King who attained the throne with bloodshed. Bloodshed does remove a king so throned.” He made no attempt to shorten his stride; I had to run to keep pace, my bag bouncing against my hip. “Perhaps the Duc thinks you are stupid and tractable. Though I cannot see how he can reach that conclusion.” He glanced down at me and slowed abruptly. “Your pardon, Duchesse. I do not mean to run you to death.”

“Tis no matter.” My voice sounded choked and thin, small in the gloom. There must be other royal bastards, plenty of them female and more suited than I. Why would the Duc want me?

We passed out of the reach of the torches, the ground sloping down and becoming rocky. I wondered if there were other prisoners locked down here and shuddered. Perhaps a moldering body or two — I did not think the King had ever ordered anyone held in the Palais donjon.

No, he had them sent to the Bastillion before execution. The Duc, perhaps, wanted Tristan kept close at hand. But why? Something to do with the conspiracy, no doubt.

“What do you have in your bag, Duchesse?” Tristan asked in the darkness. I stumbled but he righted me, and we continued to descend. I was now wholly at his mercy, in the dark and confused.

“F-fruit. I took it from Lady Arioste’s rooms. And a d-d-ress, the one I wear now. I brought a comb, and a sewing kit, and some stockings…I could not bring anything useful, it seems. I wish I had thought.”

“You did well.” He slowed even further. I sensed him feeling along the wall with his other hand, but his fingers were warm in mine. I realized his hand was bruised, and he held mine so tightly it must have hurt, but he made no mention of it. “I would not have thought to bring a bag of apples. It was probably the only food you could find. No water, though — you must be thirsty.”

His words reminded me, and of a sudden I was parched. “A little.”

“Tis been rather a trying day for you.” It struck me that he spoke not out of need, but because he sensed my panic and sought to soothe me. Ridiculous. I was worse than useless to him now, and well I knew it.

Go to Arcenne. Loyal…Lisele’s tortured voice echoed in my ears. “Lisele told me to go to Arcenne. She said you were loyal; she said to go to the mountains.”

“Eventually we shall.” He sounded grimly pleased. “First we must escape the Palais, and then the Citté, and learn if any of my Guard have survived. Then we traverse league upon league of hostile territory until we reach Arcenne. There the mountains will protect us. The difficult part is reaching safety and surviving the winter. Then we can set our thoughts to war in the spring.”

“War?” I let out an undignified, thready squeak of alarm. He paused, made a quick movement, and there was a rusty screeching sound. I jumped nervously, though we were far out of the gate-guard’s hearing, had he even been still alive.

“Do not think on it. Right now, follow me, and go carefully. The door will close of its own weight. The passage is close, so hold my hand.”

I squeezed his fingers, and he inhaled sharply. “I beg your pardon,” I said immediately. “Captain—”

“Tis Tristan, and you are Vianne. Surely we have passed the point of formality.” He drew me through the door — at least, I thought it was a door. I could only see very faintly, and of course neither of us would risk a witchlight to alert any trackers. “Hold my hand as tightly as is needful. I do not mind.”

I remember very little of the nightmarish sqeeze through the narrow rock passage out of the donjons. The air was still and foul, and sometimes the Captain had to turn sideways to fit through the gaps, the hard length of his sword once sharply striking my knees. The passage twisted until I was lost, and I could see nothing. It was blacker than any night I have experienced before or since, and my breath came short. I could imagine all too well Mont di Cienne bearing down on us, squeezing the life out of our fragile human bodies. Even though the Mont, set in the middle of the rolling fertile land of Arquitaine, was little more than a hill compared to other mountains, it seemed still large enough to crush us.

I repeated to myself the first cadre of Tiberian verbs, starting with the irregular esse, but that did not help. I fell back on a teaching-rhyme about the Twelve Blessed.

I suppose anyone would have thought of the gods and prayed for help, down there in the dark.

These are the gods of our land, listen well. These are the Blessed of Arquitaine, six Old and six New, married by the Angoulême. Gentle Jiserah, hearth, hopeless, and home; Danshar her consort, warrior unknown. Kimyan the Huntress, maiden and bow; her twin is Torvar, of Sun, rain, and snow—

“Breathe, Vianne,” the Captain said, kindly enough. It interrupted my inward recitation. “If you swoon I shall have to carry you.”

How undignified that would be. Still… “Will the mountain crush us?” Childishly, the hot flush of embarassment rose to my cheeks again.

“Of course not.” He paused. “Look, tis not so dark. Courage, we are almost through.”

He was right — I could see the faint outline of my free hand as I lifted it before my face, and I further saw the Captain as a shadow cast by a pale glow. Starlight, or moonlight.

My chest unloosed. My arms and legs were made of lead, the relief was so intense.

We ducked out of a low cave scarcely big enough for a goat to pass through, and found ourselves on a long, rocky slope. Faint light struck my hot, aching eyes, sweeter than any candle or glowglobe lit in a nursery to comfort a dark-fearing child.

The Palais reclined, a white-glimmering bulk, in the distance. Below, the torches and lamps of Citté D’Arquitaine sprawled in glimmering patchwork; the river was a mellifluous gleam at its heart, a bright thread bridged with thin stonce arcs. I gasped, startled, and a flare of brilliance surprised me. It was a beam from a covered lanthorn, shone directly into my face. I heard steel drawn from the sheath before the Captain spoke.

“In the King’s name,” he said, calmly enough, and clearly, too.

I held my breath.

“For the King’s honor,” replied a tenor male voice. “Tristan? Gods above, is that you?”

“Tis. I am even relatively hale. How many with you, Jierre?”

Jierre? Jierre di Yspres. Lieutenant. I placed the voice just as the lantern was hurriedly recovered and someone pushed roughly past me to catch Tristan in a bear hug.

My eyes recovered slowly. I saw a little over a dozen men. Horses, too, all standing quietly, a tail occasionally flicking. The men moved forward, some of them whispering, and surrounded us. Jierre di Yspres held the Captain at arm’s length and hugged him again. “I saw you clapped in chains, my friend, and Adersahl had to hold me back. You are the luckiest bastard—”

“Not quite.” Some of the tension had left the Captain. “I was rescued by a d’mselle with far more presence of mind than any of us. Jierre, you know Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy?”

“Aye, Tristan. Who does not, who knows you?” Now the lieutenant sounded suspicious. “How did she—”

“She witnessed me catching the Primus at a deadly game. Events moved rather quickly afterward. She stole down to the donjons to free me after hiding in the North Tower.”

A collective indrawn breath. The North Tower was reputed to be cursed, and none of them believed it, of course…but still. Rumor said no statue of the Blessed, including Jiserah, would enter its walls since the Dowager had been carried out. Any who sought to bring one into the Tower’s environs would be unable to enter, held back by an invisible hand.

Though nobody had tried such a feat since Archimvault’s time. It was, like anything concerning the Aryx, a question better left unasked.

“As the only remaining scion of the King’s blood she is the rightful heir to Arquitaine, now that the Duc d’Orlaans has committed regicide and fratricide in one fell swoop,” Tristan continued implacably. “Mount up, Guard. We have leagues to travel before daylight.”

Only remaining scion? There are bastards sown the length of Arquitaine, Captain. Even I know that. Weariness swamped me. I held my peace, uncaring.

Jierre started to protest, interrupting my gasp. “A woman? A Court woman? Who knows where her loyalties lie? She may be part of the plot! And she will slow us. Speed is essential—”

“If she was part of the plot, would she have freed me? Come now, Jierre. You waited for me; you must have trusted I would not lead you astray. We have little time. Let us be gone.”

“We have no spare mount.” Jierre’s tone bordered on anger, rough and dismissive.

I swayed on my feet, too exhausted to care. If they left me there on the mountainside, my only feeling would have been weary relief that I could finally sink down to rest. I cared little what the morn would bring. “Take the Aryx.” I pitched my voice low enough none of others would hear, as the Captain leaned down to listen. “Leave me. You will go faster without.”

“If the Duc seizes her, all hopes for holding him accountable for his crimes are gone,” Tristan said sharply. “Do you challenge me, Jierre?”

“Of course not.” Now di Yspres seemed shocked. “I simply…tis been a long day of unpleasant surprises, sieur. I spoke unthinking; pardon me.” He did not sound repentant in the least. I shut my eyes and swayed again, Tristan’s hand closed around my arm. “Bring the Captain’s horse! Come, chivalieri, we ride!”

They moved. There was the creak of leather, and a huge horselike shape loomed out of the night.

“One more task,” the Captain said in my ear. “Just one more, Vianne. The saddle has a low back; we shall do well enough. I will help you mount, then do you kick the stirrup free for me. Can you do as much?”

I nodded, though I sorely doubted I could. But Tristan helped lift me up, and my foot found the stirrup. I had only ever ridden sidesaddle before, and my skirts caught awfully, but I was finally on the broad back of a Guard warhorse, who stood blessedly still as Tristan shoved velvet out of his way and settled himself behind me. His arms came around me, and I held myself stiffly forward, afraid to relax.

There were orders, given softly, and the remainder of the King’s Guard — little more than a dozen men out of more than four hundred — started down the slope of Mont di Cienne. Afterward it became a courtsong — the Dawning Ride, the minstrel called it, and had more than half of it wrong.

I would like to say I remember enough of it to correct the matter, but I do not. I fell asleep less than a dozen steps down the Mont.

Chapter Four

It took a moment to remember where I was, for I lay on a rough, dark wooden bed covered with homespun linen. There was a window, firmly shut, and no fire in the grate. There was a pitcher of water and a cup, which I seized with a will. Someone — probably the Captain — had taken off my garden-boots, put me in bed, and pulled the covers up over me. The large ease-chair by the fireplace had a blanket tossed over it, and a familiar torn red sash lay on the floor.

Had he slept there?

I finished a cup of water and poured another, looked for a watercloset door. I shuffled like an old woman. My knees hurt, and my shoulders — my entire body, for that matter. I had never been a-horseback for more than two hours at a time, for picknicking and easy riding when Lisele went hawking.

At the thought of Lisele a fresh pain arrowed my heart. I sank back down — was it a peasant’s bed? Had I been left behind? I heard voices, but could not tell of what they spoke. I had a confused memory of riding, the Captain’s voice in my ear, very soft but extremely important, and a hurried whispered conference while I leaned against something warm and hard, trying very hard to stay upright.

I finally went to the door that did not open to the watercloset and found it unlocked. I found myself in a low, pleasant hall that said “small house” instead of “inn,” and followed the voices until I came to a flight of exceedingly rustic stairs.

“—cannot take the risk.” Jierre di Yspres, I recognized his accent.

“I am with the Captain.” This sounded like a young man — perhaps Pillipe di Garfour? I could not tell. “We cannot leave a d’mselle here. Tis not safe. The Duc will find her.”

“Not if we leave her in the right place.” Di Yspres, grimly determined to win the argument.

“I understand your concern.” The Captain, now. “However, we will not leave her behind. If you cannot accept that, Jierre, you may strike out for whither you will. I will not leave her to be married to the Duc and deprive us of the chance to make him pay for his crimes.”

“They slaughtered the rest of the Guard.” An older male, one I did not know. I knew few of the King’s Guard, except for those often set at Lisele’s door and some of the officers. “Our fate’s likely to be the same, rebellion or not. D’Arcenne’s right. And what ails you, Jierre? What chivalier would leave a d’mselle here?”

“Tis trouble,” di Yspres pointed out. “The Duc will pursue us if we have her — but if we simply flee we may escape with our lives.”

“True,” someone else said. “But again, what kind of a Guard would we be if we left the King’s only remaining flesh and blood to a usurper?”

Only remaining? My heart beat dry and thick in my throat. That cannot be true. If it is, how did it happen — and why did I never hear of it?

“We cannot afford to be blinded by sentiment, Tristan. What says she was not part of the plot?” Di Yspres, even more resolute. “And merely waiting for a chance to betray us to the Duc’s henchmen? His spies are everywhere.”

There was a hot, prickling silence, then the sound of a chair scraping back and metal leaving a sheath. “She came down into the donjon and risked her own life to set me free.” The Captain, very softly. “She accepted my oath of service. Speak against her honor again, di Yspres, and I will have no choice but to hold you accountable.”

A long pause, my nerves winding tighter and tighter. Nobody in their right mind would wish to duel Tristan d’Arcenne, even beaten and bruised as he was. I had not ever witnessed him duel, but I had heard.

There was a reason he was Captain of the Guard, and had held the position from such a young age.

“I go south,” the Captain finally continued, “to Arcenne, to shelter in the mountains until we can gather an army and take the usurper from the throne. If the need grows dire, I will cross the border into Navarrin and petition their King for aid. And I am taking the Queen with me. You may accompany me if you like or go to the nine hells of Far Rus if you please, but if you come with me you travel as the Queen’s Guard. With an oath of loyalty taken to Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil, the true Heir to the throne of Arquitaine.”

This must be a nightmare. I eased back along the hall. All the doors were locked except the one I had come through. That room had a window — but twas painted shut, for it did not budge when I tugged at it.

I turned back to the room, searching for anything that would help. I could not break the window, and I was on the second floor. And where exactly would I go?

Dear gods, anywhere but here. This is madness. There must be somewhere—

I heard footsteps and dropped down to sit on the bed, my hands clasped together, my braid disheveled and pushed forward over my shoulder, my skirts spread prettily as if I was on a divan at Court. The last bit was habitual, my busy fingers accomplishing it without any direction from the rest of me.

A courteous knock at the door. I had to try twice before I could say “Enter, an it please you” in anything resembling a normal voice.

The door opened and revealed Tristan d’Arcenne.

He had bathed, and his face looked both better — because he was relieved — and worse, because it was now apparent he had been very badly beaten. His hair was combed back damp, and he had no red sash. He wore a white linen shirt, a black leather doublet, and a pair of breeches. The siang-stone signet glinted on his left ring finger. He had not worn it yesterday — someone must have brought it to him. His sword was in its accustomed place, his boots freshly brushed, and his gloves thrust through his belt.

I felt even more rumpled. “Captain.” I tilted my head just as I had seen Lisele often do.

Oh, but the thought of Lisele sent another arrow through my already-torn heart. My eyes prickled hotly.

“Duchesse.” Equally formal. “You heard.”

I shrugged. “I thought to come find you. Or to see if I had been left.” I sounded wistful insted of polished, so I pulled my shoulders back, giving myself a sharp mental slap.

I was Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I had to act so.

“You did not leave me to the donjon, I would not repay your kindness by leaving you here.” He examined me, and I saw he had a fall of cloth over one arm. I glanced at it, then up at him. He shrugged, blue eyes darkening. The swelling around his one eye had gone down quite a bit. “Well. One of the Guard — Tinan di Rocham. He is a slight boy, and we may belt in a pair of his breeches for you. You cannot ride in that dress. This will be more comfortable. And a group of men traveling will raise little suspicion, while a group of men traveling with a young noblewoman may cause comment.” A high flag of color stood out along his cheekbones, a novel occurrence.

I glanced again at the clothes he carried. “Tis true. I shall only be trouble to you.”

He dismissed the notion with a single gesture, his signet glinting. “Your father and mother both have bloodlines tangling with the royal tree. Did you not ever wonder why you were brought to Court?”

“My father told me twas my mother’s dying wish. I am a noblewoman of Arquitaine, and tis good enough for me. Lisele…” Grief rose again, and my eyes began to fill. I gazed at the floor, seeking to swallow the rock lodged in my throat.

The Captain swept the door shut behind him. “Gods,” he said quietly, but with great force. He strode across the room, tossed the clothes on the bed beside me, and went to his knees, taking my cold hands in his. It was highly improper, but I could not move, I seemed nailed in place. “Vianne, you must listen. Whether you will or no, you have the last drop of untainted royal blood in Arquitaine. Lisele and Henri are both dead—you are what is left. It is your duty to free us from the Duc d’Orlaans.” His eyes were burning now, and I found it increasingly difficult to breathe. “He killed your Princesse,” the Captain continued, pitilessly. “Would you leave her death unavenged?”

It was a sharp pinch in a sensitive place. I started, and stared down at him. What does this matter to you? I have nothing you want, Captain. And I realized twas not true just as he spoke again. I did have something he wanted, and it rested on a chain around my throat.

“The Aryx has accepted you as its holder. And furthermore, I need you.” A pause, while he struggled with the words. “An army will need a rallying point. If I am to somehow enlist the help of the King of Navarrin, he is a distant cousin of yours and your pretty face will put a debt on him. I ask you for duty, and for honor, Vianne. Please.”

A horrible realization dawned. Tristan d’Arcenne, Captain of the King’s Guard, had danced with me and followed me at Court to keep watch — to see if I was any danger to Lisele. If I had shown any sign that could be interpreted as ambition, I might have been spied upon more assiduously. He had been relieved to see me as he lay trapped in the donjon — not for myself, but because I was useful.

I was a way to serve the King, though the King was dead. As usual, I myself had very little value.

All my value lay in how I was to be used.

“Oh.” Fresh tears filled my eyes. I had been a fool. Thank the gods I had never said, or done, anything more foolish.

He waited, examining my face. Anger washed through my whole body, a great hot spate of it. I had been shipped off to Court at nine years of age, needled and buffeted because I was not content to simply be an empty-headed featherbrain, watched constantly because I was Lisele’s friend, and taunted because I chose to work with herbs and practical spells instead of gaudy, violent Court sorcery. Now, even a rash of death and conspiracy did not free me. I would be forced to marry a man who had murdered the King — the King my half-uncle, who had only addressed me directly twice in my life — or compelled to become a figurehead for a rebellion and a civil war that could devastate Arquitaine.

Yet in the midst of that anger was the vision of my Lisele, lying on her back on blue silk, her hair tangled and her chest full of blood. Make certain. I heard the terrible voice again. And the horrible crunching sounds as the Duc’s Guard obeyed, making certain the witnesses to murder would forever hold their peace.

I licked my dry lips. “As you like, Captain d’Arcenne.” But do not think I will always be this easily manipulated. I watched relief and fresh worry cross his face. He really was very handsome, though it would do me little good to mark it. Fair face may hide a foul heart, I heard the Comtesse Rochburre’s voice intone piously from the mists of my childhood.

She had often glanced at Arioste di Wintrefelle while she did so; the Comtesse worried for Arioste.

I could have told her not to bother. Those with di Wintrefelle’s wits and charm seldom fail to land afoot. It is the rest of us who should worry, for they tend to trample wherever they do land.

And now the vision of Arioste’s crumpled body rose up in vivid, horrifying detail. Dear gods. Had the Blessed received her? They must — Jiserah welcomed all, she was the Merciful.

But still, I wondered, and the thought of her slumped, lifeless form—

“What’s this?” His tone had taken an abrupt turn into something like concern. “Vianne?”

Do not use my name so freely, sieur. “I must dress myself.” I sought to pull my hands from his. Much to my surprise, he allowed me. “There is little time. We may be tracked; the sooner we depart, the better.”

“I cannot argue, but why are you suddenly so pliable? I distrust your meekness.”

And well you should. He had sworn me service in the donjon of Palais D’Arquitaine, but I did not doubt he would just as easily kill me if it suited him — if I showed any sign of disloyalty. “I hate to be used, Captain. By Duc d’Orlaans or by Captain of the Guard, I hate to be used. I will accompany you and aid you however I may, because I owe it to Lisele.” I felt my throat closing with tears and denied them, feeling my eyes burn. “But do not think for a moment you can force me into anything…dishonorable. I will act as the holder of the Aryx, but I am not a Queen. Surely someone else can be found. There are royal bastards everywhere.”

He shrugged. His cheeks were pale and the bruises stood out in livid relief. “I do not seek to use you, d’mselle. I would never stoop so low.”

“You have need of me to avenge the King’s death, Captain.” I scraped together every ounce of haughtiness I could muster. And I half-believed the King when he said you favoured me. Silly me. “For your duty. I have been doing my wretched duty all my life. I intend to continue in like manner. Now, I really must dress myself. I shall thank you to let me do so.”

For some reason, his face suffused with anger and just as quickly smoothed. He made it to his feet and stalked away, his step almost soundless despite his boots. “There is hot water,” he said over his shoulder. “Bathe quickly, tis no telling when we’ll have another chance.”

I stood shakily and gathered the garments. I have never been a clothier, but I thought they might fit me. Sometimes I had envied the freedom of breeches and men’s clothing, and now I would take no joy in it.

He paused, his hand on the latch. “Duchesse?”

I glanced over my shoulder. His back was rigid, as if he was at parade-ground drill.

“Captain?” I answered cautiously.

“Why did you free me from the donjon? May I ask?”

Because I am a stupid, silly, thoughtless girl. Because I thought you would make this nightmare fade, as the nurse’s voice makes a child’s night-fears leave. “I could not bear the thought of your beheading, Captain. I am known to have a weak stomach.”

He nodded, and the set of his shoulders eased. “I danced with you at the Fête of Flowers, did I not?”

My temper almost snapped. Why on earth did he ask me? He had never danced with anyone else; surely he should have remembered the occasions! “No. At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age, and at the Festival of Skyreturn. Both times you caused quite a bit of comment. Though I wondered why, since neither were memorable occasions.” The last was an unjustified cut, and I was briefly ashamed to hear myself utter an insult so far beneath me.

“You remembered.” He swept the door open.

I wish I did not. “I hold grudges,” I shot after him.

“Tis not what gossip says of you.” With that parting sally, he closed himself out of the room.

I strangled the desire to run to the door, wrench it open, and scream something nasty after him. I looked about for something to throw, but there was nothing, and neither action was fit for a Duchesse. So I settled for hissing at the door in exasperation and carried the clothes into the watercloset.

Yet I must admit the annoyance was a tonic, and the anger made my fingers cease their trembling.

Chapter Five

I had a momentary difficulty with the doublet’s laces. The doublet was of leather and far too large, but it hid the curve of breasts and hips. I plaited my hair and found a ribbon in the bag I had filched.

I wondered if I should cut my hair to pass for a boy. One of the men could lend me a kerchief or hat to hide it, perhaps.

I struggled back into my garden-boots and dropped the Aryx down my shirt, cursing to myself as my hand brushed my emerald ear-drops. I had forgotten them completely, and now I looked at them with fresh eyes, as the survivor of a shipwreck might gaze on something that had once been a ship’s pride.

Scallops of silver, delicately whorled, filigreed around large emeralds burning dark green like hedgewitchery itself, smaller chiming bits of silver and similarly caged, tiny uncut emeralds depending from the larger gems. They were a prize, the finest work Amercio Tavanche of the royal jewelers did four years ago, and dedicated to me by the artiste. I usually preferred to patronize bookbinders and scholars, but Tavanche hailed from my home province and had presented himself — and been laughed almost into tears by no few of the ladies, since he’d tripped and landed face-first during his presentation.

Fortunately, I had some little weight with the royal jewelers, and had introduced Tavanche to the head artisan of their workshop. The ear-drops had excited no little marvel at their presentation at Court during the annual Salonne, and their gifting to me handled far more adroitly by Tavanche than his presentation had been. I wore them habitually — Arioste would say I had no other jewels, but this was not true. I merely liked these overmuch.

I weighed them in my palm for a moment, and slipped them into my pocket.

The dress I bundled up and decided to carry downstairs with my servant-girl’s bag. I hoped Arioste’s maid had survived the carnage in Lisele’s rooms. I could not remember her body, and did not want to think too deeply lest I do so. My own maid, the shy but occasionally tart-tongued Meridia, had been granted a week’s leave to visit her ailing mother, and right glad of it I was. At least away from the Palais she was safe enough, though at the time it had annoyed me to put up with the clumsy fingers of other ladyservants.

This time, I had to take a deep breath before leaving the safety of the room. I heard the murmur of voices again, and set off down the hall. Each step was more difficult than the last.

Panic beat under my ribs as I reached the stairs, and I stood irresolute atop the flight. Men’s voices resounded below. Without the protection of a woman’s skirts, what could I expect from them?

The problem was larger than that, though. Without Lisele’s protection, how could I manage in the world? I had never been on my own, safely trammeled by childhood and later by the rules of Court protocol and etiquette. I knew what was expected each day of Court, when to sit and when to stand, who was of the sword and who was of the robe, who was of the lower order; and I knew each arcane bit of manners for the festivals, feasts, and fêtes.

I was not such a fool to think this was knowledge prized outside the Palais.

I could not depend on Tristan d’Arcenne, that much was certain. He wanted his revenge and a biddable Queen Pretender; I was only a hedgewitch with an accident of royal blood.

The Aryx warmed, hard metal against my skin. I lifted my chin. Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Walk so, and speak thusly, and never forget you are of noble birth. I heard again Comtesse Rochburre’s voice as she taught a gaggle of noble girls how to behave at Court, and imagined I was sweeping in procession down the stairs into the Great Ballroom at Lisele’s side, the train of ladies behind us in their silk and velvet and jewels. After a moment’s thought, I pulled the Aryx from its hiding and settled it against my chest. Let Jierre di Yspres feast his eyes on that, and we would have no more talk of leaving me to the Duc’s mercy.

For by now, you see, I had decided I had little wish to be left so.

I came down the stairs slowly, one at a time, pausing between each as if waiting for the train of a dress to catch pace with me. By the time I was halfway, they noticed me; three steps after they were rising; when I reached the bottom of the stairs they had all removed their feathered hats. I stood on the last step and surveyed the room with the cool haughtiness of a Court lady. My gaze moved unhurried from one man to the next, and most dropped their eyes immediately. The ones that did not looked down after only a few moments.

My looks are nothing special, as the ladies of the Court reminded me so very often. But a good posture and the right expression can make any woman regal.

Of course, my Lisele had called me beautiful, but I always laughed. I knew my place. Had not I been taught it often enough?

“Good morn to you, sieurs.” I addressed them clearly, as if I were administering the beginning of a dance. Tristan d’Arcenne stood by the fireplace, blue eyes bright with something I could not decipher. Relief that I was playing the rôle for his troupe? Perhaps. “I have you to thank for my escape from the Palais, and I hear I have you to thank for the relief of traveling to safety.”

A few of them colored, and Jierre di Yspres, in his place next to Tristan, stiffened — a movement I caught easily at the corner of my gaze.

Good.

There was a slight cough, and one of them — a slight young lad barely past his first shave — stepped forward. He had dark hair and the angular features of a mountain noble. “Tinan di Rocham, Your Majesty.” He clutched his red-feathered hat in both hands. He looked absolutely mortified, but proud at the same time. We were of a size — I am not too tall for a woman, and he was slight and young — and it was his clothes I wore.

“My thanks for the camouflage, chivalier.” Now let us see what comes of it.

His cheeks turned crimson, his hand darted down. His sword whispered from its sheath.

The rest of them tensed to a man, and that was gratifying. But Tinan di Rocham simply reversed the blade and stepped forward until he could drop to one knee at the foot of the stairs. “I owe you my service. Accept my oath, d’mselle.” He all but stuttered over the words. “I mean, Your Majesty. If I may be so bold.”

My stomach turned on itself.

But their Captain expected somewhat of me, and were I to cut the young lad now his shame would be overwhelming. So I smiled and nodded gravely, reached down to touch two fingers of my free hand to the hilt. “I accept your oath, Chivalier Tinan di Rocham. My thanks.” I sounded serious, though lunatic laughter had to be sternly repressed.

He rose, returned the weapon to its sheath, and bowed again, a Court bow that was a little jerky but surprisingly polished otherwise. “A pleasure to be in your service, Your Majesty.”

Oh, gods. Do not let him address me as such. “Tis merely Vianne di Rocancheil, chivalier. I thank you.” Faintly improper — had we been at Court, he would have addressed me as Duchesse. But I smiled prettily, giving him the compliment. It was surely not too soon to begin gathering allies.

I suspected I would need them, and shame filled me again. Cold calculation of this level was somewhat new, and I disliked it. I especially disliked that it seemed so natural.

He blushed even harder, and a murmur ran through them all.

A stocky, black-haired man with an amazing mustache — it drooped past his chin and was waxed in the Navarre style — came forward, and repeated the process. “Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, Your Majesty.” He had a clear carrying baritone of surprising profundity. “I owe you my service, d’mselle. Accept my oath.”

I repeated my acceptance. When he was finished, another came forth, and another, until each of them had knelt before me. I thought some of them might even mean it. Jierre di Yspres was last of all but one, and he gazed at the Aryx as he knelt before me, his swordhilt proffered. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I owe you my service. Accept my oath, an it please you.”

I studied him for a long moment, watched color rise in his cheeks and die away. “Very well.” I touched his swordhilt. “I accept your oath, chivalier.”

He rose, slowly. Standing on the bottom step made us almost eye to eye, and I refused to look up at him, forcing him to stoop a little. My mouth had turned dry as summer road-dust. “I shall forgive you, if you forgive me the trouble I have no doubt caused you.”

He mumbled something and looked stunned. The dress hanging over my other arm rustled a bit, and I wondered how ridiculous I looked carrying it.

But I had more to endure. Captain d’Arcenne was suddenly before me, and his sword rang free. He sank to one knee again, surprisingly fluid for one so battered. “I owe you my service, Vianne di Rocancheil. Accept my oath.”

Gods, did not you already do this? I inclined my head gracefully, touched the hilt. My neck ached with tension, and I hoped my stomach would not start loudly demanding breakfast to embarrass me. “I accept your oath, Captain d’Arcenne. My thanks.”

I did not ask him to call me simply Vianne.

He did not call me Your Majesty.

We were perhaps even.

He rose, swept me a bow, and took charge of the occasion. “Breakfast, d’mselle? You had no dinner last night, and you must be hungry.” He also took the dress from me and handed it away, and I did not ask whether twas to be hidden or burned.

It mattered little, though the cloth could be sold. If they left me without protection, I would need rather more wits than I suspected I possessed, not to mention some money, to survive.

I set my chin stubbornly, though I was famished. “I will not be a burden, Captain. Are we pressed for time?”

“Not so pressed we cannot spare a few moments.” Jierre di Yspres was thin and dark, having the lean saturnine face of the south of Arquitaine. Most of the surviving Guard were younger sons of noble families. It was sad to see only these had survived — or remained loyal.

I was soon seated at table with a bowl of porridge and a round red apple, as well as a steaming cup of chai. I concentrated on eating neatly and quickly, Court manners keeping my smallest finger crooked at the correct angle and my spine straight, my ears and eyes wide open to catch every nuance.

Our refuge was a small stone house. I heard the rumble of carts passing by, and the clip-clop of hooves. Sunlight fell in golden bars through wavering glass windows. There was no fire in the grate, and I wondered how all of them had slept. Later I learned each Guard had a bedroll rolled into a compact cylinder and attached to the back of his saddle.

I further wondered whose house this was and looked for any sign of the owner, but there was none.

Observe, Levontus of Tiberia had written in his most famous treatise, and many questions will answer themselves. Always, observe. Tis far more pithy in Tiberian, which is a language boiled down to its essence, but it is far from the worst advice for making one’s way in a dangerous world.

Some of the Guard readied the horses, others sipped at cups of chai, a few went upstairs and I thought perhaps they stood watch. Jierre and Tristan spread out a map at the table and began to confer in low tones.

“Tis a hard choice,” Jierre began. “The garrisons or the forest.”

The Captain studied the map, a vertical line between his charcoal eyebrows. I took a scalding gulp of chai.

At the Palais, judging by the fall of sunlight, Lisele would just be waking. Her morning chocolat would arrive on its little silver tray, and I would brush her hair. Lady Arioste would sing softly, plucking at her gittern, and Comtesse Rochburre would watch us all with her magisterial eye, ready to chastise for any impropriety. I would steal a scone from Lisele’s tray and perch in the window seat to eat. There would be morning jokes and laughter, chatter from the younger girls, and of a while they would ask me to tell a riddle or a tale. A wholesome tale, Comtesse Rochburre would inevitably interject, and Lisele would laugh, tossing her dark hair. Arioste would make a sharp comment, and I would ignore it, though Lisele’s eyes would flash…

I finished the porridge, but found I could not eat the apple. I set it upon the table and stared at the bloom of red and yellow on its firm skin as I sipped. I was still staring, smelling the dust of the North Tower, when I heard my name.

“—Vianne?”

The room had emptied without my notice; only d’Arcenne and I remained.

I blinked back hot swelling water. Swallowed, hard, and raised my face to his. Some explanation seemed necessary. I grasped for one. “I ate apples. Yesterday. In the North Tower.”

He nodded, rolling up the map and tucking the mapweight in a small pouch at his belt. “I thought it likely, by your look. Do you need the privy before we start?”

“I should,” I said thinly, and made it to my feet. It was passing strange to move without the weight of skirts around my legs. I had almost reached the stairs when he spoke again.

“Vianne?”

Do not use my name so freely. But I could not say it, could I. Not while depending on his good graces for my continued survival.

I half-turned, my hand on the stair’s railing. “Leave me alone.” I said it so quietly he may not have heard.

“You look…” He paused, searching for the word.

I supplied it for him, setting my foot firmly on the first stair. “The word you seek is ridiculous, sieur. I am wearing a Guard’s uniform and my garden-boots, and I will mayhap be forced to shear myself to pass as a boy.” I took another step. This one was not half so difficult, and I thought perchance they might grow easier if I simply focused solely on the one before me. Levontus of Tiberia had some very severe thoughts on the question of how far into the future one should plan. Diodoria Siclonus, of course, disagreed with him.

I brought myself back to the present with an effort. Keep your wits, Vianne. “I know very well I am only the silly, gawky, hedgewitch provincial that lucked into Court because her grand-dam was lightskirted. I know very well what I look like, Captain d’Arcenne. Please do not remind me.”

With that, I swept up the stairs and left him standing. Twas satisfying to have the last word for once.

I emerged blinking into morning sunshine, wishing for a kerchief to hide my braided hair, and found myself in a small stone bailey. Jierre di Yspres and a tall blond Guard were already mounted, but Tristan was engaged in a last-minute conference with the young, slim Tinan, who broke away to present me with his hat. It had a magnificent feather, but was a touch too big for me. However, when I coiled my braid atop my head, it fit a little better.

“I suppose I look a fool.” I glanced at the youthful chivalier, to gauge how idiotic I seemed. He grinned and ran his hand through his shoulder-length dark hair.

“Oh, no, d’mselle. You look, well. Very beautiful.”

He uttered it in a tone of earnest reverence, and I was hard-pressed to swallow a laugh. I had tucked the Aryx inside my shirt, but I thought I could still see it reflected in his eyes.

“My thanks for the compliment, chivalier,” I replied gracefully, offering my hand. He took it automatically and almost dropped it once he realized what he’d done. I covered for him as a lady could, moving forward, and we ended up ambling across the bailey as if on promenade. “I must say I disagree. In any case, it matters little. You are of Rocham?”

He nodded, his chest rising with pride. “My father’s people are the riverfolk, but I favour my mother and she’s mountainfolk. Our House is on the bank in Rocham, white colonnades and a red roof. My mother hates the roof, she says tis not well-mannered, and my father says tis well-mannered enough to keep the rain out and she should not complain. Then my mother remarks something, usually under her breath, and my father usually smiles, and—”

This time a thin, nervous laugh did escape me. It was not so amazing; he was very charming and I was exhausted, though I had slept so heavily. My laughter had the quality of a weary old cane being used for the last time. Hard on its heels the image of Lisele rose up, still and bloody while I was breathing, and I sobered.

Di Rocham saw this. “You look troubled, d’mselle.”

And you are not, young man? We should all be troubled, the more the better. But while you think me distracted, let us gather some information. “Where are we?”

“We are on the outskirts of the Citté, a house di Yspres bought some time ago. The Captain believes in planning for every possible contingency.”

“If it pleases you”—Captain d’Arcenne’s tone cut through the morning hush—“we have wasted half the day, and must be setting out.”

Tinan dropped my hand with a hurried bow and mounted his horse. He and Jierre trotted to the bailey entrance, and the tall blond Guard — his name was Jespre, I remembered, like the stone — followed, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. I was left alone with Captain d’Arcenne.

I regarded him. There I stood in sunlight, foolishly dressed in a man’s shirt and breeches and my garden-boots, which were good supple leather and waterproof but hardly dainty, and Tinan’s hat perched firmly atop my braid, covering my hair. I sought the first cut of the conversation, since the scholarly Juen Servanties of Navarre’s arid Erágon held it as a rule that to hold the offensive, in any verbal battle, was an advantage not to be thrown away. “Well. I suppose I am afoot, unless you have found me a horse.”

“Buying a horse would attract attention, and stealing one would not be meet.” He indicated his mount. Now I could see it was a large gray warhorse, and I felt my throat dry again. I was used to placid mares and occasionally a sprightly gelding, not the massive beasts the Guard bred and trained. “This is Arran. Come and meet him, Vianne; he is honored to bear the Queen.”

I folded my arms. “Please, Captain. Do not name me something I am not, I pray.”

His tone turned brusque and cool. “You are more our Queen than d’Orlaans is a king. What did I do to earn the sharp edge of your tongue today?”

The sharp edge is the only edge you shall receive, sieur. To think I believed the King’s jest. “Time is wasting, Captain. Am I to walk, and the rest of you can trot along in front of me? A pretty sight that will make.”

He moved forward, caught me by the waist, and lifted me as if I weighed nothing. My foot found the stirrup and I was in the low saddle in a trice, my entire body protesting. I had spent more time yesterday a-horseback than I had in the entire month previous, and my knees and shoulders were deeply bruised. But I would gift myself to the Duc wrapped in Festival silk before I showed Captain d’Arcenne any weakness.

I kicked free of the stirrups; the Captain swung up behind me. I held myself stiffly away from him as before. I did not know how long I could do so — but do so I would, for as long as was required. At least the saddle did not have a high back, which would force him to perch on the beast’s rump. It had to be uncomfortable.

I found the thought of his discomfort pleased me.

“You will wear yourself out,” he said in my ear as he twitched the reins.

Arran had a smooth gait, thank the Blessed, and I felt a little more secure when we trotted out of the bailey and joined the others, taking our place near the middle of a loose file down the cobbled street. The thunder of wagon wheels and voices rose in a wave, breaking over us. We were on the quays of the River Airenne, which explained the arrangement of the small stone house. It had in all likelihood been a boarding house for riversailors at one time. Nobody took notice of us — we could have been any noble hunting party, bent on hawking or riding down prey in the copses and woods around the Citté.

The Captain was taut and alert, almost starting every time a barge driver shouted or a riversailor cursed. He remained tense as we went along the river, making for the King’s woods, and a tide of beggars and human flotsam scattered in front of the Guard. They moved with an alacrity that bespoke familiarity with parties of noble-blooded hunters — for as the proverb says, Whips sting when a noble hunter is hurried.

Jierre di Yspres led the file, and he turned onto the road that pierced the wood. The sound of the quays faded slowly behind us. The horses picked up their pace to a steady trot.

I had thought I could lean away from the Captain all day, but I was simply too tired. By the time we reached the woods I had begun to sink. Besides, the saddle was too small, even if its back was low enough to perch on.

“Ease yourself, Vianne,” he said in my ear. “We have a long way to go, and twill tire you. Best just to rest.”

I did not believe he cared if I rested or not, but if I dropped dead of exhaustion it would slow him further and cost him his pretender to the throne. And there was little harm in it now, surely. The world had ended like a carriage overturning; we were merely wandering through the wreckage.

So I sank back ever so slightly and watched the countryside of Arquitaine pass on either side. We had been riding for perhaps an hour when a low whistle trilled from somewhere behind us.

As if by Court sorcery, the Guard faded back into the trees on either side of the road. The Captain took our horse to the side, behind a screen of sprawling lauryl bushes going wild. The horse stayed absolutely still, and I drew in a deep breath, held it until the world turned to a painted screen splotched with whirling colors.

“They will not see us.” He sounded so sure, and I caught a whiff of Court sorcery, blending with the hedges to screen us from view. The charm was so slight it would escape notice, unless our pursuers were going slowly and using a showing-spell.

I strained my ears, heard nothing.

Then, hoofbeats.

They came down the road at a gallop, and at their head rode thin, hungry Garonne di Narborre, angular and intent in a blue doublet. They wore the embroidered surcoats of King’s Messengers though any fool could see they were not, for they wore swords. The surcoats held black braid meaning a King had died, and gold braid meaning a new King had been crowned.

But the Duc does not have the Aryx. At the coronation, he will have to produce it. Ah, that is why they gallop.

I touched the hard warm pulsing of the Aryx, pushed under my shirt as an afterthought. It gave a double beat, and I felt an odd shifting inside my head. I was only a hedgewitch, not a well-practiced Court sorcerer like di Narborre, who was rumored to have dueled more than one man with Court sorcery and killed him. The King had been angered after one particular duel, but had not done anything except put Garonne in the Duc’s service instead of his own, since the Duc was such a Court sorcerer himself.

Now I wondered what more there was to the tale of di Narborre and murder, and what else the King might have done that rumor spoke not of.

The women of the Court were sometimes cutthroat ambitious, and the dancing for station never ceased. Some of the ladies even played Court men against each other, for privilege and position. I had been drawn into more than one game and usually acquitted myself well. Not only that, but twas my duty to catch intrigues meant to trip my Princesse, and I did a fair job of it.

There had been a particular affair involving my Princesse, the Lady Courceline Maritine, a batch of silly love letters, and a Duc’s Guard named Arrebourne. The letters could have forced a scandal, and Lady Maritine was merely misled instead of overambitious, but it had still taken much thought and care to retrieve the letters from Arrebourne’s clutches. Of course, there had been an odd thing or two about that affair, and now I wondered who Arrebourne had been reporting to. I had consigned that question to the realm of mystery and Kimyan’s Riddles long ago, and been well rid of it. But now…had there been a deeper intrigue I had saved Lisele from, all unknowing?

I took in another deep, jagged breath, and the Captain’s hand clapped over my mouth.

My temper snapped. How dare he? I forgot myself entirely, and I suppose only the shocks of the previous day could have made me do what I did next.

I bit the Captain of the King’s Guard. I sank my teeth in and worried like a trained terrier.

His arms tightened, silently. He whispered, a breath of air brushing my cheek. “Do you truly wish to be dragged back to the Duc, wedded and bedded in less than a night? Being d’Orlaans’s Consort might make you wish you had stayed in the North Tower, Duchesse.”

I sank my teeth in harder, past caring. How dare he? I had gone straight to the King instead of planning to blackmail the Captain, though twould not have mattered an hour later what I had seen and whyfor. I had even rescued him from the donjon, by the Blessed. And he accused me?

How could I have thought he fancied me?

The Duc’s Guard passed us by, and Captain d’Arcenne took his hand from my mouth. I had not broken the skin, but I had come close, and on his bruised hand besides. “Now, what was that, Vianne?” Very softly.

“What did you think I was about to do?” I whispered back fiercely, turning my head, suddenly very aware of his arm around my waist holding the reins. “Scream for rescue from the Duc’s hired murderers? They killed my Princesse, Captain, and I am afraid they will do the same to me — or worse, if I can believe your warnings. And yet you think — you think I would—” I was almost too furious to speak, though I whisper-hissed.“You swear me obedience, you give me your oath, and then you act thus? Some Captain you are, no more loyal than—”

“Careful, d’mselle.” The same quiet tone, even and without temper. “Be careful what you brand me as.”

I subsided into silent seething, so furious tiny red speckles danced a pavane before my eyes, but long years of Court training made me loosen my limbs, seeking control. A lady should be languid even in anger, I heard the Comtesse Rochburre say in her low, adamant tone. If you are angry, you cannot plan your revenge.

I schooled my face and my trembling hands, and forced my shoulders down. A fine tremor ran all through me. “I should have left you in that donjon,” I muttered, unwilling to let him have the final word.

“Your pardon, d’mselle.” The low conversational tone was gone. Did he now sound surprised? I was past caring. “I have no doubt of your loyalty — I simply thought the sight of di Narborre would be a shock to you.”

Speak softly, Vianne. You need this man’s protection. “You thought aright. But if I cried out at every shock I would not have lasted long at Court.”

“True. Forgive me.”

“Perhaps.” I fell into stiff silence. Why would you crave my forgiveness? It will do you no good, and me even less.

After a long while there was another low whistle, and we moved out onto the road again. Jierre di Yspres rode back, brought his horse next to Tristan’s. “We could have slaughtered them, Captain.” But there was no heat to it.

Nor was there in the Captain’s reply. “And warned the Duc of our exact direction? We shall strike off the Road soon enough.”

“How does she?” Jierre’s dark eyes moved over me. “You look pale, d’mselle.”

“I am extremely unhappy, chivalier. I wish I were home in my herb garden.” It was impolitic, though, to anger them. So I let the corners of my mouth curl up into a bright Court smile. “But if I am to be pursued the length of Arquitaine, I cannot think of better company than the King’s Guard.”

Di Yspres blinked, and swept me a correct little half-bow over his pommel. “We are glad of your company, d’mselle.” His eyes met the Captain’s. Meaningless, Court-pretty words, and if they thought me a liar, well, they were half right.

I felt the Captain’s shrug. “We have far to ride today, and we must be doubly careful now. We shall leave the road on the outskirts of Tierrce-di-Arbon.”

Jierre nodded. “So be it.” He wheeled his horse around and trotted for the head of the Guards, who were waiting patiently. They fell into line behind him, Tristan taking a place three-quarters of the way back. They were silent, the more-or-less half-dozen, now my only defense against…what?

A shiver jarred me when I thought of the Duc d’Orlaans’s ring-laden, manicured hands on my flesh.

I would kill myself before I let that happen. And after yesterday, I might well consider it a mercy. Sometimes a noblewoman’s only avenue was to take refuge in the Blessed…but that was a terrifyingly bleak thought.

Instead, I turned my mind to methods. I wondered if I would have the strength to use a knife — or a hatpin, like the Lady di Courcenne in the courtsongs. I was no Tiberian, and the idea of opening my veins turned me decidedly weak in the knees.

Yet a knife was not the only way. I could mix a poison draught; any hedgewitch worth the name could do so. And I was a fairly good hedgewitch, even if I was a very bad Court sorcerer. All I would need was a moment’s freedom in a garden and a few moments more in a stillroom. Or, were I pressed even further, a window high enough and the open air, and a stone paving below. That would require no hedgewitchery. Nothing but enough momentary courage to fling myself to freedom.

If I had strength enough to wait in the North Tower for darkness and creep into the donjons to free a captive, of what else might I be capable? I had done so many impossible things in the past two days I was fast losing count.

Tristan waited until we were farther into the small woods before speaking again. “I misjudged you. Your pardon, d’mselle.”

“Misjudged me?” I could hardly believe my own senses. When did Captain d’Arcenne misjudge anything? And then a hidden meaning to those words arose, and cold sweat suddenly bathed me. Misjudged me — and was I now superfluous?

If I was, what would be done to me?

But he perhaps took my sudden silence for anger, for he spoke again. “Twas wrong of me to think you would cry out to the Duc’s men, even for a moment, for any reason. Forgive me.”

The sound of Tristan d’Arcenne begging my pardon again was gratifying, but less gratifying than it would have been a week ago at Court. I sighed and took my hand away from the pommel to rub delicately at my aching eyes, even if it would ruin my looks. Relief threatened to unstring my nerves. “Forgiven, Captain. Do not trouble yourself further.”

“Why so formal today, Vianne?” As if we were not fleeing for our lives, riding double on a Guard horse because a palfrey could not be bought or stolen. The absurdity of the situation rose up to choke me, and I had to wrestle down the pained sound seeking to escape my lips. Leaf-dappled sunlight made the line of horses and men a very pretty painting, one I would have passed without thought in a gallery or at the yearly Salonne.

How could I answer him? Formality was my refuge, and he would not cease using my name so freely I had all the more reason to use it. “You watched me at Court.” I felt him tense again.

He reached up with one gloved hand as if he needed to scratch at his cheek, and I leaned away from him. He replaced his hand on the reins, and I relaxed slightly.

“I did,” he admitted. Did I imagine him tensing again?

“To see if I showed any sign of ambition, to see if I was a danger to Lisele.” You do not know me. She was my only anchor. My Princesse.

“Is that what you think?” Thoughtful, as if I had just posed him a riddle.

I watched the sunlight move fluidly between leaf-shadows. Twas a beautiful day, but Lisele’s eyes would never see it. Had they laid her in the Royal Tombs under the Ladytemple, the Great Dama? She would have wanted black velvet sewn with pearls, and I had not even been able to braid her hair one final time. Instead, I had left for my early-morn digging in the garden with a jest, lightly and laughingly promising to return with an armful of stinkcabbage for a nosegay.

I brought myself back to the present with an effort. Even the small spots of sunlight jabbed at my tender head through my burning eyes. “I have no doubt it fits neatly into your plans for revenge to have a bastard royal with the Aryx at your side, no matter how unsatisfactory she may prove to be. I further have no doubt you would kill me, King’s Captain, if I showed any sign of second thoughts.”

He had no easy reply, and there the matter lay. Tears rose again, and I denied them. I would weep no more. I swore it to myself, as I rode in front of the Captain with my heart aching and my throat full of terror and grief. Court had held few friends, but I had Lisele’s protection; the open friendship of the Heir not something to be derided. Now…

Now I was adrift, and who knew what I would be required to do in order to merely survive?

Chapter Six

We left the Road after a hurried lunch of bread and cheese near the blue-roofed town of Tierrce-di-Arbon, famous for the quality of its woven cotton cloth, and struck out across fields and rolling plains toward the great forest of Shirlstrienne. The small stands had begun to run together in larger groves, and there was one large enough to shelter us from sight.

I was too exhausted to care by the time the Captain lifted me down from the horse’s back. My feet met solid ground and I stumbled, but he righted me gently and led me to the fire one of the younger Guards had started by flintstrike. I collapsed to my knees, then eased gratefully down to sit, biting back a small moan. Tinan appeared, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. A cup of sweet red traveling wine was deposited in my hands by a whip-thin Guard with dark eyes and a neatly cut mop of light brown hair. I searched for his name — Jai di Montfort — to thank him, and he swept me a bow the envy of any courtier. I took off di Rocham’s hat and let my braid down, sighing in relief.

I sipped at the wine and watched the Guard make camp, thanking the Blessed I did not have to find a convenient tree to serve as a privy yet. The Captain would probably insist on setting a guard over me while I did so, and that potential embarrassment seemed a final, ultimate humiliation. Why having to relieve myself in the woods was such a horrifying prospect after all I had so recently endured I have no idea, but so it seemed at that moment.

I finally settled myself with my legs to the side, on dry leafmould with no skirts to worry about and the weight of them sorely missed. I drew the blanket about me, cupping my hands around the wine. Even though twas late spring, the night would be chill.

I wondered where I would sleep that night and gazed at the fire, just now taking its form as a merry blaze. One of the Guards set a tripod over it, and another brought a cauldron filled with water from the brook just to the south. I gazed into the flames and took a deep breath, finding my hands shaking again. Tears welled up.

Woodsmoke, horse and leather and males, spring greenery and the flat tang of mineral water from the brook — it was very pretty, and had we been a Court party out for a firefly fête or a night picnic, I would have no doubt enjoyed myself immensely.

I was occupied trying to swallow treacherous tears when Jierre di Yspres approached me carefully, and swept his hat off. He made a graceful movement and ended up sitting next to me, far more lightly than I had collapsed.

“D’mselle?” Cautious, he did not glance at me while he spoke. “May I have a word?”

I stared into the fire, kept a sob suppressed in my chest, and could only give him a nod.

It was not polite, but he accepted it. “I know I cannot be your favourite person right at the moment, Your Majesty.”

I managed to speak. “Oh, for the sake of every god that ever was, address me as Duchesse, or even Vianne. Please.” Majesty was Lisele’s title, and I would not wear it. Not unless forced.

He paused. A tear trickled down my cheek, but I dashed it away and swallowed the rest with a gulp of wine. I would not cry. “Vianne, then. If I may.” It was the first time I ever heard him sound anything other than disdainful of me. “I must beg your pardon, d’mselle. The world has turned upside down for all of us, and we know not whom to trust. I did not seek to make you my enemy, I merely wished to help Tristan. He is a fine Captain.”

“No doubt.” I stared at the blurring fire. The urge to weep retreated; I was simply too tired to sustain it. “I keep no grudges, sieur chivalier. I have had too many held against me.” I offered my hand. “A truce between us, then?”

He nodded gravely and bent over my fingers. “As you say, d’mselle. Might I offer you counsel?”

I took my hand back, decidedly. Ah, so he has a purpose. Caution, Vianne. “If you like.” Someone made a comment on the other side of the camp, and there was laughter — raucous but well-disciplined.

“The Captain seems harsh.” Jierre seemed to search for proper words. “He has had a strict duty since he was a boy, and takes it seriously. He has sworn you his oath and means to keep it, d’mselle di Rochancheil. If his method of keeping it is not to your liking, I beg of you to remember that he has…well…”

I watched the flames twist as Jierre paused. I finally sighed, taking pity on him. I almost laughed at the turn events had taken. Truly the world had tipped sideways, like a smashed orrery.

“Lieutenant,” I said, with all the gentleness I could scrape together, “tis not necessary to make apologies or excuses for the Captain. He is merely doing his duty to the King. Such loyalty is to be commended.” There. I took a sip of the wine. Foul, too harsh, and unwatered, but what could one expect while fleeing? Now will you leave me alone? That is my only wish.

“Tis not his duty to the King now, d’mselle Vianne. Tis his duty to the Queen. Like it or not, you are the sole blood royal left not tainted by regicide. The rest have been assassinated.”

The meaning of his words penetrated a fog of exhaustion. I stared at his lean dark face, my jaw suspiciously loose. “What?”

“For the last four years, the…ah, hidden branches of the King’s line have been falling prey to unfortunate accidents.” Jierre dropped his voice and leaned close to me. I felt my fingers grow even colder. “Simeon di Rothespelle fell from his horse — someone cut his saddlegirth. Trecie di Colbreux et Vantcienne and her brother were both poisoned; killspells were suspected. Marquisse di Faintroy fell from a casement to a stone bailey — and she had a visitor that day none can identify.” Jierre nodded as I felt comprehension cross my weary face. “There were others, but that was enough to convince me — and convince the King, too. Tristan has been hunting this conspiracy for years now, and had a watch set over you at Court, lest an attempt be made on your life.”

My jaw no longer threatened. It had dropped, but I closed my mouth hurriedly. It did not do for a lady to gape as a fish. What else? The Moon will surely turn to cheese in the sky, and pigs begin to sing. Yes, impossible things were coming thick and fast now. “But I never saw—,” I whispered.

“Of course you never saw.” Jierre’s low voice turned dark. “Do you think the Captain that inept? And everyone knows he—”

I do not wish to know. “What more could everyone know, that I do not? No, do not tell me. Please, sieur. I can stand no more.”

“I am sorry, d’mselle.” I do believe he was. “I beg you, and it please you, to be kind to him.”

Kind to him? “I loosed him from the Palais donjon. He requires more kindness from me?” I had not meant to say as much aloud. Attending Court does mean one is required to do much one would rather not; I knew my duty and had always performed it to exaction. What more could di Yspres want? What more did any of them want?

“True.” Jierre shifted closer, his voice dropping still further. “Yet there is another donjon holding him, d’mselle. And you hold the key to that one.”

What, the man is playing riddlesharp with me? I am not the opponent I once was at that game, sieur. But, miserably, I knew what he meant. Jierre sought to tell me d’Arcenne would kill himself avenging the King’s death or seeking to put me on the throne — and his faithful lieutenant did not like the thought.

I did not blame him. The thought of d’Arcenne’s death sent a strange panicked bolt through me. I had to find a way to loose the Captain from the chains of his own sworn oath. And not so incidentally, loose myself from this nightmarish conundrum.

Dear blessed gods, what am I to do now? But I am well used to planning; one cannot sponsor a fête or an entrance at the Salonne without overcoming some practical obstacles. One furthermore cannot hunt an intrigue, manage a small independence, or stock a stillroom without overcoming obstacles and stumbling-blocks, either. Or deal with a fractious Princesse.

I calculated swiftly and cast my dice. “Then I will need your help, Lieutenant,” I whispered. “Can you make a horse ready for me, not tonight…Mayhap tomorrow night?”

Jierre gave me a strange look. His eyes narrowed.

“I do not seek d’Arcenne’s death, either.” I could swear his jaw dropped at my words. We were trading surprises, the lieutenant and I. “He will kill himself for what he thinks is duty. I think I can free him of it — but I need your help to do so. I can give you the Aryx and ride south for the ports, draw off pursuit and buy you time to take the Seal elsewhere.”

He stared at me as if I were mad. “D’mselle—”

“Your Majesty?” It was Pillipe di Garfour, looming over me with a bowl in his hand. “Tis stew, and hot, even if it is not Court fare. Tinan is not a very good cook, but he is better than some.”

“Damn me with faint praise,” Tinan called from the fire. “You had half the cooking of this, di Garfour, if tis gone wrong you share the blame.”

Rudely recalled, I reached up. Di Garfour almost jerked his hand back, as if my touch singed him.

Jierre di Yspres made it to his feet. He stared down at me with something like astonishment. It struck me di Garfour and di Rocham sought to make me smile, so I dutifully gave them my bright, interested Court expression. “I am sure tis well enough. I am hungry, I did not have my chai yesterday.”

My stomach flipped. I tasted the stew, and found it was hot and probably nutritious. That was all that could be said for it. But I took a few bites, and they all crowded around and began their sup, loosely grouped around the fire, some of them sitting on their saddles.

The Captain appeared at my side. “Blessed gods.” A rare bit of humor lightened his beaten face. “You must be brave, d’mselle Vianne, to eat Tinan’s cooking.”

A general shout of laughter rose. The young Guard flushed, and I pitied him. “Well,” I managed diplomatically, “tis not the worst I’ve had. Amys was preparing eels yesterday.” I bit my lip, remembering the cook. I set my bowl aside, and tried to put a bright face on it. The art of conversation requires making oneself agreeable, amusing where possible, instructing gently other times. “I loathe eels, but I would always have to try them. She would always ask me how they were, if they needed more salt or chivin. Imagine my surprise when I found she thought I loved eels — someone mischievous had told her they were my favourite delicacy.”

That caused more laughter, and di Rocham grinned at me gratefully. My heart lightened. The boy was charming, and he would have quite a career…if there was ever a Court he could return to.

The Captain settled next to me; I leaned away as subtly as I could. For some reason di Rocham hurriedly glanced away, his face falling as if he had seen something amiss.

I had done my duty and they did not look to me to amuse now. So I pulled my knees up and let their conversation drift around me. It was the closest to merriment I had heard from them, and with good reason. But they seemed easier now, and if I stayed silent and looked into the fire they might forget my presence a little.

“Tis not to your liking?” The Captain’s hand fell to his side. Had he been about to touch my shoulder?

Startled, I did not flinch only with an effort. “What?”

“The stew. I will admit Tinan needs practice, but tis not so bad. Not like Jierre’s cooking.” His blue eyes were shadowed, and firelight made the sharp planes of his face softer. You could almost miss the marring from the beating he’d been gifted.

“Tis well enough.” I touched the bowl with two fingers, decided I could not force myself to do more. “I simply have little appetite, Captain.” My voice broke on the last syllable, and I cursed myself. This was no time to be a blithering idiot. “My life has taken a rather surprising turn, of late.”

He nodded thoughtfully, looked down into his own bowl. “Try to eat, Vianne. You will need your strength.”

I nodded. Hunger is the best sauce for any stew, but even hunger could not force me to swallow more than I already had. “I beg your pardon, Captain. I do not mean to be a burden.”

Did he wince? It was impossible to be sure, dusk was gathering rapidly between the trees. “You are no burden, d’mselle. You’ve borne up with far more grace than any other Court dame would have.” He raked his dark hair back from his face with stiff fingers, and I saw the shadow of stubble along his chin. Of course, he had not had time to shave. A few of the Guard sported mustaches in honor of the King, but Tristan was clean-shaven.

I wondered what that roughness would feel like under my fingertips. Surely it did no harm to wonder, as long as I remembered he would not, did not, care for me. “My thanks for the compliment. I feel a burden and a fool. If I had not been in that passage—”

Did the smoke sting his eyes as it stung mine? For he blinked, quickly. “Twas luck, Vianne. Or fate. Had you not happened along, you would have been with the Princesse, and taken or killed.”

“If I had not been in that corridor, mayhap I could have saved Lisele.” I touched the bowl again, running my fingers along the metal rim.

“One unarmed woman against men who slew two of my Guard, then killed the Princesse and her ladies? You will drive yourself mad if you think such a thing.” Shadows now leapt away from the firelight. Night falls swiftly with no candle or witchlight to hold it back, even in spring.

“I wonder if madness might not be a comfort,” I said bitterly. My feet ached; the boots, however sturdy, were not made for this abuse. Nor was the rest of me. “I was not with Lisele when she needed me.”

“You could not have saved her. You rescued the Aryx, and freed me from an iron cell.”

Did he seek to ease my conscience? It was gallant of him, but I did not wish any comfort from his quarter. Still… There is another donjon holding him, d’mselle. And you hold the key to that one. “I would free you from your oath, and you could find service with another Court. Navarrin, perhaps, or even Badeau. They would be glad of you.” And their borders would keep you safer than most. The Damarsene would not take you, the Pruzians would kill you, and the Torkai, barbarians that they are, who knows what they would do? The image of d’Arcenne in the turbaned Court of Torkai, spreading himself on the floor to bow to their King, would have been highly diverting once. Now it merely irritated me.

“A man accused of killing his own King?” His mouth drew into a firm line. “What folly are you speaking?”

It is not folly if it saves a life, Captain. I gathered myself. “Think practically, Captain. There is no hope of success. The Duc has been laying his plans for years, if what sieur di Yspres says is true—”

An almost-violent start bumped his shoulder against mine. “What else did Jierre tell you?” he broke in, rudely.

I pulled the blanket closer. The night would be cold, a coolness already touched my cheeks. “He told me those with royal blood, however begotten, have been dying for four years now. It does not take a bludgeon to make me see truth. If you arrive at a foreign Court, you can find a position for yourself and your men. If I may find a safe place to leave the Aryx I can perhaps trade on my smile and my knowledge of riddles and charming companionship to make my way in the world until I find a means to make the Duc pay. In any case, his rule will founder of its own weight without the Aryx. I am asking you to be released of your oath, and to cease your determination to throw your life away.”

I had not realized my voice had risen dangerously until I finished, and heard the ringing silence around the campfire. All eyes were on us. “Look well upon me, sieur d’Arcenne,” I continued. “Do I look anyone’s idea of a Queen? Court protocol stifles me, games of politics and rumor disgust me even when I must play them for my Princesse’s safety. I was taught to have no ambition. The lesson’s held well enough everyone who conspired to teach it should be proud. An accident of blood — so my grandmother dallied with a King? What of it? Plenty of ladies have done both more and less; tis not my fault or failing. I do not want this — and I care not if you do kill me; it would be a blessing to die after what I’ve seen.”

My voice broke, and I was perilously close to another fit of weeping. Instead, I rose blindly to my feet, dropping the blanket. “Look upon me!” I cried, and they did to a man. “Do I look a Queen? Nonsense. Am I dignified? Regal? I caught you at your game in that passageway because I was covered in mud, Tristan, is that a very queenly picture? And I crept down to the donjon to free you because I believed a King’s idle jest. Very well, I am a fool, a provincial little fool, punish me for it! I have spent my life smoothing and covering the mistakes others have made and I am sick to death of it!”

Now I was weeping, after swearing not to. My eyes were blind with hot water, and I restrained the urge to stamp my feet with an effort that left me trembling yet more violently. “I should have died in her place!” I cried, aware only of the silence cloaking the firelit group of men. “My only friend — my only friend — and I was not there to save her! She gave me the Aryx by accident — and you call me a Queen. Queen of fools, perhaps. Queen of idiots.” Twas as if all the words I had ever refrained from were rising up to betray me, a torrent of what should not be said. A breeze blew smoke from the fire, made the branches sough. “Now you ask me to be responsible for the death of you and your men. You could have left me to the Duc’s tender mercies, and no doubt most of you wished to. But you did not, and I am most grateful, it would be poor indeed to repay you thus.”

The effort not to scream left me gasping. I turned on my heel, stalked to the edge of the firelit circle and sought to master myself. My fingers clutched as if I still possessed skirts and could use them to hide my fists. I addressed the night beyond the circle of fireglow. Here was as good a place as any to cease this madness.

“I will not be the cause of your deaths. The Duc cannot rule without the Aryx. All I must do is keep the Great Seal from his hands for long enough and his rule will crumble, and there will be no need of any more death. I have seen far too much of death already.” I shuddered at the thought. Make certain. The wet, crunching noises. The blood. The smell. “I will not be the cause of more.”

“Vianne.” Tristan’s voice.

You presume great familiarity, chivalier. “Hold your tongue, Captain d’Arcenne,” I snapped. “I will not be the cause of more death. I refuse.”

Silence, except for the crackling of the fire. I swallowed the lump in my throat and wiped at my streaming cheeks, wished I had a kerchief. I could have thought to bring one instead of a comb, twould have been more useful.

I took a step, another. A third.

“Where will you go, then?” It was not the Captain, it was Jierre di Yspres. “Tonight is no night for traveling, d’mselle. Stay with us, an it please you. Morning will make things look less bleak.”

“Aye.” Tinan di Rocham, grave and quiet. “We are all stunned at the death we’ve seen, d’mselle Vianne. We laugh and banter to keep from weeping. There is no shame in it.”

Oddly enough, the words salved some of the aching in my chest. I dropped my head into my hands and stood, wishing the earth would open and swallow me, lightning would strike from the heavens and incinerate me. I should not have said even a quarter of what I had just flung at d’Arcenne. The black fit of sobbing threatened to drown me again, and I wondered if I would ever learn to be strong, and not such a sodden mess of weeping.

Like a heroine in a courtsong. Dark, unhealthy amusement rose at the thought. I will dissolve in a puddle of salt, and there will be no more discussion of Queen this and Aryx that and the Fate of Arquitaine the other.

“Then why do I feel so ashamed, Tinan di Rocham?” Muffled by my hands, I was amazed he heard me.

“Because you are breathing, and one you love is not.” At least he was truthful. “Tis a common thing, to feel shame at surviving. I felt it when my brother died, and near it killed me. My mother pleaded with me…” He trailed off, uncomfortably. “Please, d’mselle. Do not do something rash now. There’s time enough between here and Arcenne — if we reach the mountains whole, that is — to decide with clear heads what to do next. We are proud to have you with us. At least I am.”

“And I.” This from di Yspres. “It was no mean feat to rescue our Captain, d’mselle, or to hide in the Palais itself when you knew the Duc was searching for you. You are as brave as any Guard.”

“Aye to that,” Pillipe di Garfour echoed. There was a murmur of assent that fair threatened to break my heart in its well-meaning eagerness.

“Braver than any one of us,” someone said — perhaps Luc di Chatillon.

I do not need empty words, sieur. I need a hole in the earth wide enough to swallow me. The strength ran out of my legs, and I dropped down again, put my head on my knees. It was no use. I had nowhere to go. I sat like that until someone brought the blanket, wrapped it around me, and sat near enough I could feel a friendly warmth.

There was not much talk after that. At least, I did not hear much before I fell asleep sitting up, leaning into someone’s shoulder with my face buried in my knees.

I half-woke in darkness. Someone had removed my boots, and the ground was hard though I lay on something that sought to cushion it a trifle. There were two blankets over me. It felt very late, and the fire had burned down to a low glow.

“…garrisons,” Jierre said softly.

“Or we risk bandits in the forest, yes,” Tristan replied, and sighed. A faint rasping, as if he rubbed at his face. “Tis no pretty choice.”

“The bandits will likely do us less harm. We are well armed, and can travel swiftly.” This was Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, the stocky one with the fine mustache.

“What of the d’mselle?” Jierre, now. “Her strength may not hold if we ride much harder.”

“True,” Adersahl said. “Have you ever seen such spirit, though?”

Mock me, I thought sleepily. I have no means of stopping you. Do as you please. I care little. A stone dug into my hip, but I did not chance moving.

“Aye to that.” Jierre sounded anxious now. “Tristan?”

“The question is, the low route, or the road through the forest?” Tristan, oddly sharp. The fire crackled, banked and low. I longed for my own soft bed, a servant closing my door and taking away an empty glass of wine; I longed for the two leather-bound tomes on Tiberian history I had been reading and the small jeweled statue of Jiserah at my elbow as I dimmed the witchlight and settled back with a sigh, the door to Arioste’s closette and the other door to Lisele’s sleeping chamber wide open so my Princesse had only to call and I could attend. Most nights she would steal past Arioste’s narrow bed — Lady Wintrefelle rarely woke, and for all her beauty she snored like a pig — and we would fall asleep in my bed, giggling or quiet with the silence that comes only after you have known someone since childhood.

I stirred uneasily. They were mute for a long while, and I had almost fallen back into sleep’s black softness. The darkness behind my eyelids held shapes I did not care to examine too closely. Crumpled shapes in bloody dresses, lying so still.

So, so still.

“I would say through the forest.” Jierre, finally. “Bandits are a lesser danger to us at the moment.”

“I agree.” Tristan sighed. “Did I go amiss, Jierre?”

There was another long, uncomfortable silence. “I would not presume, sieur,” Jierre replied. “You acted honorably. I was wrong to doubt you.”

“Tis not what I meant.” Tristan sounded amused now, and bootleather creaked. “Gods above, this is a mess.”

“Aye,” Adersahl coughed, but it did not cover his laugh. “I never thought I would live to see this turn.”

“Many thanks, Adersahl,” Tristan said drily.“You are enjoying this courtsong?”

“Of course not,” the older man returned. “I wish you luck, tis all.”

Tristan cursed, but it was good-natured, and they all three laughed softly, so as not to wake the others. It was shared merriment, and I envied it.

Stealthy footsteps, going to different parts of the firelit clearing. Someone settled next to me, and I could not hold my peace. “Is something wrong?” Slow and sleepy, as if I dreamed.

“No,” Tristan d’Arcenne said very softly. “Sleep, Vianne. We are standing watch.”

“Captain?” I wished him to speak again. For when I heard him, the ugly visions faded somewhat.

“Try to rest,” He did not sound angry.

Say something diplomatic, Vianne. My tongue was thick with fatigue. “Your pardon, Captain. I was not kind to you.”

“Kind enough.” He sounded amused. “You needed to lance that wound. I was beginning to worry.”

“You never worry.” I sought to wake myself. He laughed, catching the sound back as if it pained him somewhat. “D’Arcenne?”

“Hm.” An affirmative sound. I watched the fire’s glow through my heavy, heavy lashes.

I wanted to ask him so many things, but I could not seem to make my mouth work. Instead, I fell back into the darkness of sleep. Before I did, someone’s fingers smoothed back a loose strand of my hair. It was a gentle touch, and I welcomed it.