The Baron d’Arcenne was exceeding unhappy. “He sought to kill me, and my wife, and my son,” he informed me, as if I did not already know. “I want him hanged. I want him dead, for the crows to peck at his—”

“He is remanded to my justice, Baron.” It took work to keep my tone even. I stood at the fireplace, my hands clasped in front of me. The Baroness, her hazel eyes wide and unwontedly dark, sat on a divan, her embroidery in her lap. I wanted badly to ask her if she was hurt or frightened, but Tristan’s father had given me little time. Instead, he had set upon me the moment I arrived, without even a good morn greeting.

I did not blame him, but still.

Tristan himself was outside the door, conferring with Jermain di Vantmor. I did not ask of what; I would learn of it later if necessary.

The Baron fixed me with an icy blue d’Arcenne glare. “Your justice? And just what is your justice, you silly little—”

“That is enough.” The Aryx rilled softly under my words, a tone sharp enough to cut glass. He was silenced with gratifying speed. “You will not serve Arquitaine or your Queen with a head clouded by anger, Baron. Do me the good grace to trust my judgment, since you have declared me fit to rule. I will occasionally reserve the right to make some small requests of my subjects.”

I matched him glare for glare, the air boiling between us.

“Perseval,” Tristan’s mother said, breathless. “Please.”

He looked away. I would not have been surprised had the breaking of our gazes made a sound like cords snapping. I cut my own gaze to the fire, letting out a silent sigh. The Baron was furious enough to do me harm if I argued more with him, and that would go ill for all involved.

Give him some other bone to worry at. His home was attacked, and he prides himself on its safety. “Gather the Council.” I was careful to keep my tone soft, but inflexible. “I wish Adrien di Cinfiliet recalled, I have a task to set him. I also wish a messenger found to take a proclamation and another missive to Navarrin. I will see Divris di Tatancourt after lunch, then I will see my Council.” I gathered my skirts, the black pearl ear-drops the Baroness had loaned me swinging against my cheeks. “I trust by the next time I see you, Minister Primus, you will be in better temper. Baroness, I would very much like to lunch with you, unless you are discomforted by the recent…unpleasantness.”

I sound like the King. Faint steely amusement rose at the thought. Good.

The Baroness took my cue neatly, as if we were dancing a maying ganaire. “I would be honored to lunch with you, Your Majesty. And I hope you will forgive my Consort, he is extraordinarily upset.”

“My sleep was interrupted last night, as well. I understand. And please, Baroness, address me as Vianne.” I gave a nod, and swept from the room with Perseval d’Arcenne’s anger a hot weight against my back.

Tristan sent di Vantmor away with a curt gesture. “Vianne? My father—”

“He is merely angry, Tris. Leave him be; I gave him another fox to bay at. Come, where is the Pruzian? And how does Tinan?”

“Tinan is recovering. The Pruzian is in the oublietta.”

Is that what mountainfolk call a donjon? “Good. Take me there. We will no doubt pass Guards on the way; we can send one for a scribe. Find me anyone in the Citadel who speaks Pruzian.” My skirts snapped as I strode down the hall. “And we shall have a breakfast brought to the donjon, including watered wine. We shall need Bryony, too.”

“What are you planning?”

I have an idea, m’cher. Let us see how well I cast my dice. “You shall see. Come along.”

We made our way to the deepest parts of the Keep, far away from the Sun’s eye. I held my skirts up as we descended a long flight of narrow damp-stone stairs, and the thought of the tunnel under Mont di Cienne rose in my memory, made my breathing short. Tristan led me down, and down, and down, past neat rows of stone cells. Finally, I saw more torchlight ahead—and Adersahl, whose mustache was resurrecting itself with a vengeance. He stood guard with thin, curly-headed Jai di Montfort. They both swept me Court-polished bows.

“Adersahl. Jai.” I inclined my head, accepting the honor. “How does the Pruzian?”

They exchanged a look I read all too well. Anger rose up my throat, I set my jaw and swallowed it. I cannot find what I must know if this man has been ill-treated. Why did they not listen? “Ah. I see. Di Montfort, would you be so kind as to fetch me di Yspres?”

Jai di Montfort bowed again, did not look to Tristan to reinforce the order. He merely brushed past us and his footsteps faded against stone.

I stepped forward.

Tristan’s hand closed around my elbow. “Vianne—”

“No.” I shook free, took another two steps. Looked past Adersahl and into the room.

Featureless stone, water plinking damply from a ceiling festooned with rusting chains. I did not see the Pruzian, but what I did see chilled me.

A rough hole in the middle of the floor. “Gods above,” I breathed.

I pushed the rusted gate aside with a screeching and approached the hole cut in the floor, my skirts whispering sweetly. Peered into the darkness of the oublietta. A single glowglobe attached to a rusted hanging chain overhead struggling to pierce the gloom; I saw a shape that might have been a dark-haired man lying chained at the bottom, in a blackness like night-spilled wine.

A glitter of eyes, and the dampness on him was perhaps not all water.

I turned on my heel. “Bring Bryony now,” I said tightly. “Tristan, go fetch him. Adersahl, come help me.”

“Vianne.” Tristan. “He is a Pruzian Knife.”

“Do as I bid you, d’Arcenne!” I snapped. I did not glance at him, for if I did I was afraid my tongue and my temper would both perform feats they would regret.

Adersahl approached. I heard Tristan’s footsteps recede, unwillingly.

But he obeyed.

“D’mselle—,” the stocky Guard began.

Enough of this. You thought I would be biddable? No. The game has changed, and I am no longer content to let any of you do as you please when I have made a simple request. “Help me. How do we get him out?”

“Tis an oublietta. You do not stroll forth from one alive—Vianne!”

I halted at the very edge. It looked a very long fall, though it was no more than two bodylengths. “Undo your belt.”

“What?” He stared as if I had gone mad.

Tis a simple enough request, to match my first. “Undo your belt. Now, chivalier.”

He slowly unbuckled his belt. “I do not think—”

“Be silent. I do not care what you think or do not.” My skin crawled at the thought of what I was about to do. “You will have to lower me down.”

“Tristan will—”

“I do not care.” My voice bounced off the stone. “Either you will lower me, or I leap and break my leg like a foundered horse. Choose.” I leaned forward, and Adersahl twitched.

He had gone pale, and the gray in his hair reflected the glowglobe’s weak shimmer. “Why do you do this? D’mselle, why?”

Must you ask? I would have thought it obvious. “Because I will not be the Duc d’Orlaans. I will not be made a monster because we are faced with the problem of defeating one.” My hands closed around the end of his belt. “You may tell them I leapt, Adersahl. I shall not blame you if you do.”

“If you are determined to be insane, so am I. Hold fast, be careful now.”

I wrapped the tough leather around my right hand and trusted Adersahl to lower me down. My slippers slid against the damp stone, my dress hanging, and for the first time in a very long while I wished to be wearing breeches again. This would ruin the fabric.

A horrible smell rose to greet me. Oh, gods above. The glimmer of a naked skull atop a jumble of ivory thrown against the wall leered at me, and I pushed down a swoon. How long ago did the Baron last use this thing? Does he know there are bones? It is a donjon, yes…but think of dying here, alone, in the dark.

It would not do to think on it for very long.

I dropped the last four feet or so, landing with an impact that jarred my teeth.

The Pruzian moaned. His eyes were almost swollen shut. He was naked, and his hands and feet were chained together. “Gods.” I looked in vain for water, for food. Nothing. “Adersahl, a waterskin. A cambric—no, I have one. A waterskin, for the love of the Blessed.”

“Be careful, Vianne.”

“I do not think he is a danger. He is chained and beaten near to death.” I knelt by the Pruzian, pinching my nose shut against the smell.

Last night he had been a figure of terror. Now he was merely broken.

The glimmer of a hedgewitch charm began on my free hand’s fingers, the Aryx moving sleepily to obey me. I had spent so long fighting; it was no longer necessary. The Great Seal did as I asked with only token resistance, without trying to force the doors of magic open and propel me through them.

I was still in danger of drowning, but at least I was learning to swim.

Jaryana had taught me this charm, one to still a fever and bolster a sick man’s strength. It took a new depth of power from the Aryx, and I had to take care lest the sudden flow of sorcery harm the life I sought to save. I wished suddenly that I had known what Jaryana and Risaine had taught me before. I might have been able to stave off death from Lisele, and save her from the Duc as well.

Wishes will not stop the tide, nor will they bring the dead back to life. Ware your work at hand, Vianne, not what you wish could have been.

The man’s skin was fever-hot under my fingers. He moaned. I saw marks on him, terrible marks, and my heart compressed itself with a pang. He lay curled into a ball like a child, his long dark hair tangled and matted with blood.

I repeated the charm, the magic sliding through my fingers and into his flesh. The Aryx, muttering, sank back into quiescence and I was left with merely my own power to charm. Twas enough, now that I knew what I was about.

I could not hold my nose clamped shut forever, and the fresh green scent of hedgewitchery mixed uneasily with the reek of rot, stone, pain, blood, and foulness.

Above me, I heard returning footsteps.

“Where is—oh, no. Vianne!” A horrified cry bounced off stone. The Aryx muttered, spilling fresh force through me, and I had to throttle the flow lest it drown my patient.

I returned to myself slowly, the tide of sorcery retreating. “I am safe enough, Tristan,” I called up. “But you shall have to find a way to bring us both out. He is sorely injured. Can you lower the waterskin, Adersahl?” I brought my square of cambric out. “And are there keys for these cuffs?”

Tristan’s face appeared at the top of the oublietta. His eyes were alive with blueness. “Vianne.” His cool, soft dueling-tone; as if I were an enemy. “He is a Pruzian Knife. Get away from him.”

Do not order me about. I bit the words back, chose summat else to say. “He is chained and beaten to a pulp. I suggest you turn your wits to finding a way to get us both out of this hole if you are so worried for me.”