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 moun
tain 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 tr
ouble,” 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?
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