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.