The door flung itself open, banging against the wall with a violence that gave my heart an ugly shock. Jierre di Yspres strode into the room, a scroll clutched in his fist. “Your Majesty. News.”

“Dear gods. What?” I gained my feet, paper shuffling on the tabletop. Tristan’s hand eased itself from his swordhilt, and I noticed how he was suddenly between me and the door. How quickly had he moved to set himself there?

“A message.” Jierre strode grimly through a square of sunlight from the open window. Tristan’s father had offered me the use of Arcenne’s library, a pleasant book-walled room that looked out onto the garden, once it became apparent the study was far too small. I was glad of it, for every day seemed filled with nothing but paper and unpleasantness—dispatches, reports, decisions to make, Councils to attend. It was small wonder the King had only rarely attended to his daughter—if he had been choked with this much paperwork I did not much blame him. “From the traitor himself, d’mselle, and addressed to you.”

What now? At least tis a scroll and not an army. I took the offending article with numb fingers and looked at Tristan. “I think your father had better hear of this.”

“Aye. Take word to my father, Jierre. Tell him to bring who he sees fit. Where is the one who brought this?” Tristan’s eyes were hard and cold as late-winter frost.

“A Messenger. Held under Guard, awaiting the Queen’s pleasure.” Jierre’s eyes were as cold as Tristan’s.

“Offer him no violence. Be as courteous as you can; I shall wish to speak to him.” I held di Yspres’s gaze for a few moments, measuring him. “Feed him, stable his horse, and tell him he will spend the night at our hospitality. Not one hair of his head is to be harmed, di Yspres, but keep him under guard.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” He assented with a small bow.

I looked at the scroll thrust into my hands while Jierre saluted and ran for the door again. It was tightly wound, sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of the Lesser Seal, two serpents twined in a dagger, with d’Orlaan’s personal device below it—another serpent, crowned.

I broke the seal, cracking the red wax.

“Vianne?” Tristan’s hand rested on his swordhilt. “It may hold some unpleasantness.”

I would smell a killspell strong enough to anchor itself to parchment, my darling. I did not say it, contenting myself with misunderstanding him. “Tis said to be for me. I might as well read it.” I unrolled it, the crackle of parchment oddly loud in the hush.

It was written in a fair, clear script, in archaic High Arquitaine.

I did not go through the list of pointless titles. “Well. He must think I am very stupid.”

I handed the parchment to Tristan, whose eyes had not moved from my face the entire time. He scanned it, twice, then flung it down on the table with far more violence than necessary.

I did not flinch. I had thought perhaps this would displease him.

“He addresses you thus, knowing you have a Consort,” he said through rage-gritted teeth. He was pale, and his eyes blazed.

I smoothed my skirts—pale green watered silk, cut to my measure by the Baroness’s eagle-eyed dressmaker; it was a never-ending relief to be clothed properly—and took measure of my Consort.

I had never seen him this livid. His eyes flamed blue, his jaw seemed made of steel, and the air around him swirled with tension.

“He cannot afford to acknowledge that I took you as a Consort of my own free will,” I pointed out. “And now he knows where the Aryx is, and how it came to me. I wonder if he truly thinks you hold me against my will.”

Tristan paled. Two fever spots of color burned high on his whitened cheeks. “He has dared insult me for the last time, Vianne. I swear by the gods I will—”

“Tristan!” I am not ashamed to report that I yelled. He stopped short, staring at me, his eyes infernos of chill blue. “Tristan, m’cher, my darling, please. Halt your tongue before you utter an ill-considered oath.”

I think it was the first time I dared to say anything of the sort to him.

Amazingly, he shut his mouth with a snap. Nodded, once. His fingers wrapped so tightly around his swordhilt I could almost feel the bloodless aching in my own hand.

I heard a slight cough outside the door—one of the Guard. From the open window came a breath of sound—shouting from the practice-ground, the clash and clatter of an afternoon weapons-drill. An idea struck me. “Does it occur to you, m’cher, that this missive is not necessarily sent to entice me back to the Citté, but to drive you into a rage? He must know that I saw the carnage in Lisele’s rooms, though he may not know you were with me when the trap sprang, and therefore I have proof of your innocence.”

Tristan started, almost as if struck, but I looked down at the table, lost in thought. “I think tis likely he considers me a pawn and you his real opponent.” I studied the scroll, lying innocently on the table over a pile of dispatches from the Baron di Timchaine, Arcenne’s neighbor shared with Siguerre. “If he ever guessed at Court you had any regard for me—”

Tristan drew in a deep breath. “It seems your open secret was royal blood, and mine was my regard for you. I thought I kept it well hidden, Vianne. I sought not to let it be used against either of us.”

“Very well indeed, since I had no idea.” I still contemplated the scroll. Calm him, Vianne. “Why on earth did you dance with me, Tristan? I have often wondered.”

“I could not stay away.” His hand eased from his swordhilt. “At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age—you wore the red velvet. You looked…” Now he dropped his gaze to the floor as I glanced at him. “And the Festival, I tried to summon the courage to ask you for a favour. I failed miserably.”

I smiled, unable to stop myself. The smile faded as I continued to gaze at the scroll.

“What are you thinking?” He sounded worried. “Vianne? You have that look again.”

What look? But I suddenly glimpsed another turn to this labyrinth. I leapt to my feet. “Where would the Guard hold him, this Messenger?”

“Probably in the barracks under the West Tower.” He fell into step beside me. “Vianne, what—”

Do you not see? “I have the Aryx,” I said. “If I free the Messenger to return to d’Orlaans, he runs the risk of one more person who has seen the truth of the Aryx with his own eyes. He will kill the man, or has—”

“—already laid a killspell on him,” Tristan finished, and swore. I ran for the door.

I am certain the Guards did not expect to see me bolt past them and down the hall, Tristan close behind me. He snapped an order over his shoulder and such was the accord between us that by the end of the hall he said, “To your left, up the stairs,” and continued to guide me through the maze of Arcenne. I had explored no few of its corridors, but not yet all, and was glad of his guidance.

I was breathless and aching from a stitch in my side as we arrived at the barracks under the West Tower, and Tristan flung the door open. I skidded in, for once cursing my skirts, and several Arcenne guards rose hastily. Some were at table, others at a card game—and there, by the fire, sat a man in the blue surcoat of a King’s Messenger, gold braid on his sleeves, a tall Arquitaine with thick dark curls long as a chivalier’s.

I barely paused. Flung out my hand, tasting the beginnings of the peculiar sour flavor of Court sorcery meant to kill, triggered by the presence of its intended victim. I recognized it, as well—wet fur and sour apples, a poison killspell to match the one laid on the Minister Primus.

The Messenger straightened, his face blanching as he saw Tristan behind me, my Consort’s eyes blazing, hand on his swordhilt.

The Aryx let loose a welter of sound, and a wall of hedgewitchery and Court sorcery smashed outward, catching the killspell as it struck, a flare of silver light jetting from my outstretched palm.

The noise was incredible, and a table between me and the Messenger exploded into matchsticks, smoke and wood whickering away to strike the walls and pepper the onlookers.

The killspell snapped, recoiling on itself like a gittern string stretched too far, splitting and shredding. Another door inside my head, flung open, showing me a far country of magic lying thrumming and obedient to my will.

The drowning sense of being swallowed alive was slightly less this time. I held fast to the only thought that could survive the riptide overpowering my senses.

Tristan. The killspell is meant for him. Protect him, just as he would protect you.

Screams, shouts, the thick reek of poison and fear, Tristan’s voice raised to a battlefield shout. I came back to myself slowly, standing, holding the glowing ball of sorcery that was the killspell in my palm, draining the power from it. The Aryx sang a slow, sleepy, sated song. Tristan touched my shoulder. “Vianne?”

“Not merely a poison killspell,” I said dreamily, “but a spell designed to kill someone with him when triggered.” I blinked, returning to myself. “Twas set as a snare, Tristan. You were its target.”

There was a murmur of sound. I looked, and found one of the Arcenne Guard had the Messenger at swordpoint. The others stared at me, men I recognized, now kneeling on the stone floor.

“Put that away, Stefan,” Tristan barked, and the guard, slightly shamefaced, sheathed his sword.

The Messenger, fever-pale, stared at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. I leaned into Tristan, grateful for his strength.

Grateful, too, that the thought of him stayed with me even in the devouring maelstrom of the Aryx. “One crisis averted,” I managed, through numb lips and a sand-dry throat. “Tristan.”

“Your Majesty.” Was that awe I heard in his voice as well?

Please, no. I cannot bear it. I pitched my voice loud enough to carry through the room. “Stand, chivalieri, an it please you. Sieur Messenger, would you be so kind as to accompany us? I think it best to speak to you sooner rather than later.”

One by one, the Citadel Guard rose. I saw the open adoration on several faces, and wished it had not been necessary to use the Aryx. The Messenger stammered something, and two of the Guard stepped forth to accompany him.

Tristan gave a few quiet orders to bring lunch to the library, then ushered me out into the hall. He said nothing else as we retraced our steps, the Guards behind us with the Messenger. I would have dearly loved to speak to my Consort, but it was impossible with the others watching. “Are you hale?” he asked me, quietly, as we rounded a corner.

I had to use the Seal again. My head ached, and I hoped I would not fall prey to the half-head. “Hale enough. Tristan, that spell could have killed you, had you decided to question him alone.”

“True. And you, m’chri?”

“If you were questioning the Messenger, it might have looked as if he had murdered you, with steel and magic. I would be unlikely to view such an event, being an empty-headed Court frippet.” My tone was less calm than I would have liked. “What does he hope to gain? He must know the Aryx—”

“The Aryx was sleeping from the time of Queen Toriane’s death. He has no way of knowing it has awakened. Despite the sudden strength of Court sorcery returning…” He sounded thoughtful, and I looked up at him, my hands moving automatically to gather my skirts.

I kept my tone low, conscious of the footsteps behind us. “But how can he not feel the Aryx is awake? He uses Court sorcery!”

“I do not know, and it will take some time to find out.” Tristan now sounded calm, the furious killing calm of revenge.

I halted, and he stopped short as well. “I need your wit, not your anger, Tris.” The footsteps behind us drew nearer, we had outpaced the Guards.

“Aye.” His eyes were near incandescent, and if his jaw clenched any harder he might well injure his own teeth. “Give me a few moments to compose myself, m’chri.”

“I need your wit now,” I said, inflexible. For I was badly shaken, and I steered myself by his northneedle. I understood that if I let him go much further into rage he might well swear an oath he would regret. And something about his fury perplexed me, obliquely frightened me.

Something was not right.

He slanted me one flaming-blue glance. “You sound like Henri,” he murmured, and was the Tristan I knew again, his fury reined, his face smooth and interested.

I shall choose to view that as a compliment. I blew out between pursed lips. “Good.” You almost frighten me, beloved.

The Guards and the Messenger rounded the bend in the corridor, and we had to hurry to stay a stride ahead. But Tristan walked more slowly, and by the time we reached the library he had regained control of his temper. Barely, but enough.

I pointed the Messenger to a chair. “Sit, an it please you.” I motioned the Guards away. “You may leave him with us. I will be safe enough.”

The Guards for once did not glance at Tristan, simply obeyed me. I picked up the parchment from d’Orlaans and smoothed it on the table. “Your name, sieur?”

“Divris.” The Messenger’s throat worked. “Divris di Tatancourt.” His cheeks were pale, and from the way he sweated and glanced at Tristan, I guessed he was uncertain of his survival.

Still, he is alive. The killspell was meant for him, too. “Get him some wine, Tris, to bolster him.”

“As you like.” Tristan crossed the room to the sideboard, but kept the man in sight. His hand strayed near his rapier’s hilt more than I liked, but he seemed in control of his temper, at least.

“Di Tatancourt.” I mused over his name, threading it through my memory. “Your younger brother was in the King’s Guard, on duty the day Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin was murdered.”

Di Tatancourt’s gaze flicked toward Tristan, flinched away. “The tale is that the Captain of the King’s Guard caused the Princesse and her ladies to be slaughtered in a rebellion against the King. After he slew the King himself.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Tristan was with me that day, chivalier. I myself witnessed Garonne di Narborre and his men moving from body to body in the Princesse’s quarters, making certain Lisele and her ladies were slain.” The memory rose, taunting me. I closed it away with an effort. “You have seen me use the Great Seal of Arquitaine. Do you doubt me?”

He shook his head, running his fingers back through his thick dark hair. “No, Your Majesty.” Quietly, but with great force. “I do not doubt you. I know a plot when I see one. And I have been asking inconvenient questions of the manner of my brother’s death.”

Hence, the killspell. Two birds netted in one snare. I swallowed bile. “I wish I could have saved him, sieur. I truly do. He was courting Lady Arioste.” And not having any luck with it, I might add, for she was after bigger prey. Or at least, prey with deeper pockets, for she had expensive tastes.

Di Tatancourt’s mouth twitched, amusement and bitter memory combining. “Aye. That he was.”

Tristan handed him a cup of wine, his other hand resting a-swordhilt. “Here, chivalier. Drink, and be welcome.”

The door banged open, and I whirled, my hip striking the table. Baron Perseval d’Arcenne strode into the room, and I found where my Consort had gained his cold fury from.

“A killspell!” the Baron raged. “Does Timrothe d’Orlaans never tire of seeking to murder my son?” His blue eyes flamed, and my mouth was dry.

Well, d’Orlaans killed the King, blamed Tristan for it, is still seeking to kill him and turn me against my Consort. It is enough to unsettle even Jiserah.

“Baron,” I said, calmly enough, “I present to you to Messenger Divris di Tatancourt, sent to die because he was asking inconvenient questions about his brother’s death. His brother was assigned to guard Princesse Lisele’s door the day I left Court. Would you be so kind as to draft a reply to Timrothe d’Orlaan’s recent missive?” My fingers found the parchment, held it up. “I wish to inform the Duc d’Orlaans that he is stripped of his titles and styles forthwith, and that he shall remand himself to my justice immediately. I wish a proclamation drafted, and diplomatic letters sent to Navarrin.” It seemed someone else was speaking through me, someone with a voice as crisp and clean as new steel. “And I wish to know exactly where Garonne di Narborre is, or as near as we may,” I added, as an afterthought.

The Baron’s jaw set. “As you wish, my liege.” He took the parchment from me. “I will have a proclamation and the letters drafted in a matter of hours.”

“Good.” I looked at Tristan. “Fetch me a scribe, as well. There are other letters to write.”

“D’Orlaans will know his killspell failed.” Tristan folded his arms, but his tone was not combative.

He will. “He will only know it did not kill anyone, not a whit else. It is the more imperative we move quickly. I will hold a Session this afternoon, Baron, of all members of my Council that are here. We may fill the vacancies later.”

The Baron nodded. The crackling anger in his tone had smoothed. “I will send a scribe and gather the Council. Is there aught else, my liege?”

“Not at this moment. My thanks.”

He turned on his heel, nodding to his son, and was gone just as swiftly as he’d entered.

Tristan took a long gulp of wine, perhaps to bolster himself.

I settled myself down in my chair, forcing calm. “Now, Chivalier di Tatancourt. Tell me of Court, and of d’Orlaans. You are a Messenger, so you will know what is of import.”

He nodded, and took a swallow of wine. His cheeks were still flour-pale, and he trembled just the slightest bit. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“No thanks necessary,” my new, brittle voice told him. Who am I? Who have I become? I no longer knew. “Now, we shall start with the Court. Tell me, what is the latest gossip?”

Tristan opened the door, and I leaned on his arm, stepping inside his sitting room. “Gods above. Another day like that, and I may save everyone the trouble by retiring to a convent.”

He laughed, then kicked the door shut and took me in his arms, resting his chin atop my head. I fell into the safety of his body, sliding my arms around him. He moved slightly, restless, and I felt his readiness, a hardness against my lower belly. He looked almost giddy with relief. “I seem to always be thanking you for saving my life, demiange.”

That made me shiver. “Do not name me so—it might attract the attention of one.”

“Which would not be a bad thing—you seem to need more protection than I can provide.” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. “My darling Vianne. Do you have any idea how utterly magnificent you are?”

“I thought Lord Siguerre was going to pop when I told him to hold his tongue, and that I shall have no war before spring. He is a disagreeable old stoneshell turtle.” I could have picked many another term for the man, but none were fit for a noblewoman’s mouth.

“He is tactics-wise, and organized. And he holds the adjoining province. Enough of business.” He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, then crushed me to him again. “I wish to hold you.”

“You could comb my hair.” I laughed, a weary chuckle, as his fingers fumbled with the pearls the Baroness had insisted I wear. He swore good-naturedly, and the pearls finally came free. He threaded his fingers in my hair, kissed me deeply. I turned to water against him. He picked me up and twirled me once, then twirled me again as if he could not help himself. Yet a thought struck me, and I had to voice it. “Tristan, why did your father say Navarrin is no true ally? I thought you always planned on seeking help from Navarrin.”

He groaned. “Must you always speak of business, Vianne? I am beginning to think you torment me for sport.”

“Oh, never that.” I traced the line of his jaw with one fingertip. I knew of the first flush of love and hoped it would not fade too soon, and also hoped that we would be friends after the sweetness had passed. “I do not seek to torment you. I would never be so unkind.”

“I know you would not.” He changed between one moment and the next, his face gone serious, his mouth a thin line. He cupped my face in his hand, the pearls his mother had pressed upon me smooth and hard against my cheek. “What are you thinking, m’chri, my beloved? Your eyes are dark, and that is a sign of trouble.”

I am merely curious and unsettled. Something does not seem aright to me. “I am thinking of Navarrin and how I wish my curiosity satisfied. And how do you know my eyes go dark when there is trouble?”

“I have watched you enough to tell, and I shall satisfy any curiosities you care to voice to me. What else?” His thumb stroked my cheek.

I blushed at the entendre. “I am only uneasy.” I would have looked down, but he did not let me. “Truly, Tristan.”

“What of, m’chri?”

Of everything. Of all this madness. “Merely…I thought when I reached Arcenne this would be over. I thought I could give the Aryx up to someone and—I do not know. Go about with…something. My life. I thought I would be free, d’Orlaans would fall, this would make everything right again.” The truth rose to my lips and would not be denied. I could not produce more than a whisper. “I suppose I thought it would bring my Lisele back.”

Tristan kissed my forehead again. He was silent.

“I do not wish this burden.” As if telling him a terrible secret. “I thought Court was so awful, I hated it there. Yet I wish to go back. At least there, I…I do not know.” At least it was familiar. And I am still terrified of you wasting yourself for your duty to a dead King, Tristan. I cannot stand to lose you.

But though I could admit to much, I could not say that to a nobleman. A noble’s honor would make him stubborn as a Scythandrian horse, and Tristan d’Arcenne had more than his share of prickly d’Arquitaine pride. To speak to him of danger would merely make him rash.

He rested his forehead against mine, closed his eyes. “I am sorry. I was too late.”

“You did what you could.” I tried to smile, but it felt unnatural. A mask. “I do not mean to hurt you.”

His mouth tilted up, a charmingly lopsided grin as his eyes came out, surprising me again with their blueness. “Come.” His arms tightened, he picked me up and half-dragged me over the stone floor. I let out a blurt of surprise, and he tossed me carefully on the bed, following me with a sigh. A moment’s worth of rearranging ended with my head on his shoulder, my hair beginning a tangle on the velvet coverlet. Lying down only made me more acutely aware of how weary I was.

“There.” Tristan scooped up my free hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Better? Speak to me of what you will, m’chri. I do not even begrudge your perpetual obsession with dispatches.”

“I know you would prefer—,” I began.

“I do not think you do. Speak to me, Vianne. Weave me a tale.”

“But you must—” I bit my lip. It was not a thing a lady should say.

“You think I am dragged about by my breechclout, my liege? I am occasionally capable of chastity, am I not? You have no idea what it was like, sharing a saddle with you through half of Arquitaine. I thought I would die of frustration.”

Indeed? “Really?”

“Do you know how lovely you are, dear one?” He raised my knuckles to his lips. “You could make Danshar himself forget his sword and think of bedplay. But tis your quick mind, I think, that makes you so alluring.”

“I do not recognize this picture you paint,” I laughed, and breathed into his shoulder, smelling leather and male and the indescribable that made him. “I rather wonder that you think to court me now.”

“Making up lost time. Now listen, Navarrin is a greedy marketwife, but she does not demand tribute payment from Arquitaine. Partly because the Santciago House of Navarrin is related to Tirecian-Trimestin by both blood and marriage, and also because the Passes Cirithe, not to mention the Thread Pass, are both too narrow to supply an army through without holding the mountain provinces. Besides, Arquitaine menaces Rus and Torkai to the east, acts as a buffer against Damarsene, Pruzia, and Polis, balances against Tiberia for trade interests. And more. So. Were Navarrin to come to our aid, their lines of supply would be stretched thin, and tis no inducement for them unless a weak Arquitaine will no longer hold back Rus and the Damarsene. The tribute payments to the Rus’Zar are bad enough, but Rus knows Arquitaine can field an army at need and come to the aid of any of the client-states, or the Principalities if necessary, and be richly rewarded. But north-and-eastward, closer to our borders than the Rus…that is what troubles me. There was news in that quarter having to do with the conspiracy, but I had not ferreted it all out yet, being too busy seeking the killer of the King’s line before he struck you down.” His tone was careful, almost overly so. I wondered why he chose his words with such delicacy.

“Hm.” I thought of old maps, straining my brain to think of dangers from the east. “Pruzia. And the Sea-Countries, and Haviroen in their mountains. But the Havi are traditionally neutral. Anyway, Pruzia. Oh, and the Damarsene.” A cool finger of dread touched my nape, remembering Adrien’s suspicions. That the two of them would worry over the same country for different reasons was thought-provoking, to say the least.

“Yes, Damar. Where most of the tribute goes, since the King’s Consort died so mysteriously.” Tristan’s lips touched my knuckles again. “Only now that the Aryx is awake, perhaps tribute will become a thing of the past.”

Enough of this. I sighed, settling myself further at ease into his shoulder. “I am glad to have you, Tristan. I pray the Seal will choose someone else eventually.”

“I do not think it will. For good or for ill, you are the Queen.” His tone changed. Was he sad?

“I do not wish to be.”

“I know.” He stroked my shoulder. “My poor hedgewitch darling.”

“Tristan, do you think…” I touched his jaw, felt the roughness of stubble. “After you no longer find me so attractive, will we still be friends?”

“Is that what this is about?” He kissed my knuckles again. “Hmmm.”

Now I had offended him. I trailed my fingers over the plane of his cheek “Well?”

“I adore you, Vianne.” His tone had grown serious, but he sounded relieved. “You think me faithless?”

It scored me to the quick, that he could think so. “Of course not.” Who was loyal to me, if not him?

“Then do not trouble yourself with thinking I will suddenly lose my taste for you. Do you think a man who has watched over you for years, dragged you through half of Arquitaine on his saddle without touching you, and has gone grey worrying about the trouble you fling yourself into will tire of you after a few nights?” He laughed, stroking my hair, except his merriment was not pleasant. “You have such a low opinion of me after all.”

I wondered where his bitterness came from. There was still so much I did not know of him. “Oh, cease. I have a very high opinion of my Consort, I shall have you know.” High enough that I do not ask you what lies between you and Adrien di Cinfiliet. High enough that I have given myself to you.

He still stroked my hair, gently, lifting a few strands, playing with them. I shut my eyes.

“You still surprise me, m’chri. Every time I think I have your mind mapped, it takes another turn.”

“Di Yspres said you have had a hard life,” I found myself saying. Sleep threatened, now that I was abed and motionless, and I could not ask him of Adrien. “Is that true?”

“Jierre said that? No, I am fortunate. Twas hard to leave home and go to Court, but I had reached my Coming-of-Age and it was my duty to do what I could. Father needed someone to make certain the border provinces were heard at Court, and the Guard is a good way for a young man to make himself. And then…”

“Then what?” The sound of him telling a tale soothed me.

“Then I caught the King’s eye and became the Captain, and four years later the Left Hand. It seemed there was nothing I could not do. Except court a King’s half-niece. I tried, but you did not see me, and I doubted Henri would let…then the conspiracy was afoot. I suddenly had no time to worry, being very busy indeed with death in every corner of Arquitaine.” He took a deep sharp breath. No doubt twas unpleasant to think on.

“When did you try to catch my notice?” I was suddenly very curious about this, even more curious than I was about Navarrin and Damarsene and the thousand worries outside our chamber door.

He laughed again. This time it was not so bitter, and I was glad of it. “I haunted your steps like a demieri di sorce, Vianne. I finally acquired a habit of leaving you books instead of nosegays.”

Oh? My sixteenth birthday, just before you became Captain. I remember this; it went on for months. “That was you? I thought someone had lost them, and I tried to return them to the Palais library.”

“There was no end to the merriment among the Guard when you did so.” Now he sounded wry. “I finally admitted defeat. It was not safe for either of us. My Guard was loyal, but a man in his cups can speak ill-advised words. I had to pretend not to care.”

“When did you…” Again, not something a lady could ask.

He answered anyway. “I was seventeen, it was my first night at Court as a Guard. You and Lisele played riddlesharp, and after a few games you let her win. Then she wished to dance, so you did with good grace. It was the first time I ever saw you dance, I think I was lost that very moment. You wore green silk, and you looked one of Alisaar’s maidens come to earth. I fell, and have never been free since.”

I barely remembered that dress; I had only been thirteen. “I did let her win at riddlesharp, but I had to be careful not to let her think so.” She was prickly with her pride, my Princesse. She could not know I let her win, but if I looked amiss while doing so she would guess, and then it would be unpleasant.

“Hm. That sharp mind of yours.” His touch was soothing. My head was so heavy, and it ached. “Rest, Vianne.”

Now I could ask; the idea was lain gently in my brain as if the gods themselves had whispered in my ear. “Tristan?”

“What, m’chri?” He stroked my cheek, touched my lips tenderly.

“Why do you dislike Adrien di Cinfiliet?” I sounded half asleep even to myself.

His hand tensed. “It does not matter.”

I fell silent as he stroked my hair, but I did not sleep for a long while. He would not speak of it, and I could not ask. I lay thinking as his breathing deepened, and wondered why I felt so suddenly bereft.

Chaos. Crashing. Tristan’s oath, deadly quiet, as steel chimed.

I sat up, clutching the covers to my chest. Ducked as something came flying, sensing more than seeing it in the blackness; I was lucky whatever it was did not strike me. My skirt slid against the sheets—I had fallen asleep in my clothes.

“Get down, Vianne!” Tristan yelled. The cry propelled me out of bed on the opposite side, almost hitting my head on the night table. Clashing chime of steel, a horrifying, bubbling gasp.

What is that? An injury; a lung-cut. Oh, dear Blessed, let it not be him—

Silence. The room was dark, the fire banked and a moonless night outside, not a candle lit. I wondered if I should use a witchlight.

“Come forth,” Tristan said, softly. I flinched to hear that tone. “Come forth and face your death.”

I stayed where I was, shivering, my skirt tangled around my knees.

Another clash of steel, and a solid sound of flesh being carved. I shut my eyes, my heart in my throat. Tristan?

Light bloomed, ruddy through my eyelids. I peeked over the bed.

Tristan stood, his shirt bloody and his sword in hand, surveying the room. His blue eyes were cold as death. The lamp’s wick, guttering into life, burned with the peculiar blue flame of a Court-sorcery lighting. “Tristan?” I could not speak louder than a whisper.

Three black-clad shapes lay twisted on the floor. Tristan crossed the room, checked the watercloset, came out and paced toward the window. “Stay down, Vianne.”

“What is happening?” Although I could guess—murder, in the dark. But aimed at whom? And so soon after the killspell-laden Messenger, too.

If there were assassins here, twas more far more dangerous than I had ever imagined. It would mean d’Orlaans had begun a different game, and I would need to find the rules and the disposition of the board quickly, in order to outwit him.

“As you love life, Vianne, stay there.” He checked the window from the side, to rob a projectile of its target, nodded to himself. Paced to the chair near the bed and was in his boots in a trice. I stared, almost-witless with surprise. “Whatever you see or hear, stay there until I come for you.”

I cannot, do not ask me to wait, this might as well be a tree in the Shirlstrienne, with di Narborre coming to kill us all. “But—”

“Trust me, Vianne.” He gained his feet in a rush, wrenched the door open, and was gone.

I do not like this. I hunched beside the bed, let out a shaky sigh. My hands would not cease moving, plucking at the coverlet’s edge. Had they come for me? And now, long as I lived, I would have to worry. Knife in the dark, poison in a cup, treachery and deceit. I wanted no part of it; I had seen enough of treachery to fill me to the back teeth. Enough of blood, of death, of pain to fill the Maelstrom’s sea itself.

I pushed myself up to stand, mindful of the danger even in silence. Three bodies. Each in a pool of blood, each masked with black. The stink of death rose. I gagged. He told me to stay here.

Gods, no, the rest of me wailed. I cannot. Oh, please, gods, no.

My hands fisted in my skirt. Pale green silk rustled. I heard the wet crunching sounds again—Make certain. Make certain none still live.

A small, helpless sound died at the back of my throat. I eased away from the bed, stole toward the door on bare feet against cold stone.

The hall outside was deserted. Where had Tristan gone? I heard raised voices and the clatter of booted feet.

Instinct took over. I darted across the hall, to a window-couvre wrapped in red velvet. A few moments’ worth of work hid me between the wooden couvre and the floor-length drapes; I made certain my feet were hidden as I peered out through a tiny gap in the drapes. My heart pounded in my throat.

A shadow drifted along the other side of the wall, slipped into the bedroom. A man dressed in black, his face masked, a clubbed tail of dark hair along the back of his neck. A wicked curved dagger showed in his right hand, gleaming as he slid with oiled grace through the door.

The drumming of booted feet drew closer. Shouts. I closed my eyes, forced them open. I had to look. Had to see.

A deathly silence from our chamber. Who was the man in black? An assassin, definitely—but for whom? It did not seem likely that a d’Arquitaine would do such a thing—but then, a man had tried to kill Tristan by stealth in Tierrce d’Estrienne.

“Vianne!” Tristan’s. The corridor echoed with the din of alarm and suddenly-awakened men.

I bolted from the couvre and ran down the hall toward the noise, my bare feet soundless. Snapped a glance over my shoulder just as I rounded the corner and ran headlong into the Guard, their unsheathed swords reflecting glowglobe and torchlight. Jierre caught at my shoulder, pushed me toward Tristan, and hurled himself past, vanishing around the corner.

“Assassin!” I gasped. “He has a knife Jierre take care!”

Tristan’s fingers closed, ruthless-hard, around my upper arm. “I told you to stay!”

A howl of pain from down the corridor made the color drain from his face as the rest of the Guard surged past; I caught a glance of Luc di Chatillon with his rapier out and his young blond face suffused with anger, Jespre di Vidancourt with his hair wildly mussed and his lean face ashen.

Tristan kissed my forehead, bruisingly hard. Embraced me so hard the breath left my lungs in a rush. He was bloody and sweating, his shirt dappled with crimson and flapping as his ribs heaved. “Vianne,” he said into my hair. I shook, a small cry of distress wrung out of me. Cursed myself for being so weak. “Vianne.” He held me at arm’s length, looked me over for damage.

I was very glad I had fallen asleep in my clothes. The idea of facing this chain of events in a shift—or, Blessed forbid, without a stitch to cover me—was, for a moment, more daunting than what had actually just occurred.

“I am unharmed. There is someone in the room, Tristan.” My voice trembled to match the rest of me. “He had a curved dagger. And his hair was in a tail bound with black ribbon—”

“A Pruzian Knife.” He still examined me, from my soles to my crown and back again, his gaze roving over my dress, my face, my shoulders. “Three to attack me, three to attack my father. If you saw another one, there are two left in the Citadel. We shall find them. Come, let us bring you to safety.”

“A P-P-Pruzian Knife?” I actually stammered. He drew me away, his boots clicking and my bare feet soundless. “But they’re myths!”

“No, they are very real. And very deadly, not to mention very expensive.”

Expensive? How does he know? I did not care at the moment. I had a more pressing concern. “How b-badly are you h-hurt?” He has blood on his shirt, he’s bleeding. Dear Blessed, he is wounded.

“I am well enough,” he said grimly. “Come quickly, Vianne.”

Shouts, more clattering feet. Tristan pulled me aside into a shadowed hall, pressed me back against the wall. Several more of the Citadel Guard passed at a run, Tristan shook his head. Pressed another kiss onto my temple, through the fraying mat of my hair. He swore, in a low shaking voice. “Nine knives,” he whispered. “Nine. This rather changes things.”

I was about to ask again how badly he was hurt when he clapped his hand over my mouth. I looked past him, out into the running torchlight of the hall, and saw the two remaining assassins, each masked and dressed in black, their hair in tails clubbed and bound with ribbon. They drifted in the wake of the clattering Citadel Guards, deadly shadows. The Guard was making enough noise to warn even a deaf man of their passage.

Tristan moved away from me. His gaze met mine, a silent warning; words and breath died in my throat. No. No, stay here with me, where it is safe.

Yet I could not tell what was safe. If there were assassins boldly trailing after a pack of Guards, could more not be hiding in this passage?

Oh, gods…

His sword whispered free of its sheath, and the two Pruzians froze.

Tristan attacked.

If I live a centuriad I will never forget that sight, Tristan d’Arcenne dueling two Pruzian Knives in the hall of the Citadel. I understood then why he was Captain of the Guard.

He fought as if the blade was a part of his hand, forgotten until the hilt met his palm, the steel weaving in a complicated pattern that kept the Pruzians at bay. He backed them away from the mouth of the darkened hall, their longknives sorely unprepared for the reach his rapier gave.

One of them actually flung a knife, and I gasped. But Tristan ducked and lunged, his boot sliding along stone and his knee grating against the floor, and in the same movement had run one Pruzian through. Blood whipped free of his blade as he flung himself backward, somehow on his feet in one sharp movement, the rapier describing a complex movement I do not have the knowledge to name even now. The black-clad man dropped without a sound, and Tristan faced the last Pruzian as the sounds of the Guard returning grew louder.

I bit down on the soft fleshy part of my hand under my right thumb, unaware that I had covered my mouth. Tristan, oh be careful, gods, please—I could barely even pray. The fear threatened to smash me as the Aryx did, robbing me of myself.

The Pruzian’s gaze, dark and narrow above his mask, flickered toward me, but Tristan lunged at him, both men moving back toward Tristan’s room, out of my field of vision.

Thus it was I did not see the end of the duel: the Guard coming from Tristan’s chambers with a bloody but unbowed Jierre at their head, the last flicker of the knife, Tristan moving in on the assassin and smashing the knife away with a contemptuous movement, his hilt-armored fist blurring in to crunch at the man’s masked face. The Pruzian dropped, and Jierre told me later Tristan looked sorely tempted to run him through, but halted himself. “Strip him, bind him, and chain him. Then put him in an oublietta and wait further orders.” His voice was quiet but harsh. “But before you place him in the pit, Jierre, teach him a lesson.”

They dragged the Pruzian away past the darkened hall I cowered in, Jierre favoring his left shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt, and his eyes wore a fey glitter that warned me not to speak. I stood there stupid and useless, biting down on my hand. Four of the Guard remained; there was shouting in other parts of the Citadel. Every room and corridor would be searched now.

Tristan’s voice. “Vianne? Are you hale?”

It took a fair bit of courage to step out. I bit down harder, afraid I would start screaming if I loosed the pressure of my teeth. I did not dare to look to see how badly Tristan was injured. Luc di Chatillon knelt by the fallen Pruzian and made certain he was dead by the expedient of sinking a dagger in his throat with a meaty crunching sound.

I swayed. Make certain. Shoved the thought away. I could not afford to keep it.

Tristan caught me, his fingers coming up to gently free my hand from my mouth. “Gods.” His voice had lost its hurtful edge. “You need a physicker, d’mselle.”

I almost choked on the final crowning absurdity. He was bleeding, and Jierre too. And yet he said I needed a physicker for a hand bruised by my own teeth. I summoned every scrap of my wit that remained. “I have never seen you duel before.” I sounded faraway and strange even to myself.

He shrugged. “Peasants armed with knives. You are pale, m’chri.”

“Should not I be?” It was a faint witticism, but he laughed. Took my right hand in both of his, gently.

“Come, to the hedgewitch with you, Your Majesty. The rest of you, take care of that…thing.” Faint disdain colored his voice. How could he be so calm? I was only holding to my composure by a thread. “Burn it. I wish a report in less than a candlemark. I want every corner searched and every person in the Keep accounted for.”