Chill metal settled against my skin as if it belonged there. The Aryx began to throb, softly, taking on the quality of a heartbeat — my own heartbeat, rapid and thready as it was in my own ears. Strangely, it comforted me to have that warmth against my skin.
I ate an apple, and my hands ceased their trembling. The window set high in the wall let westering sunlight through, making golden motes of dust dance in the air. I thought of Tristan d’Arcenne locked in the donjons, and hoped they would not torture him. I thought of him because otherwise I would have to think of Lisele, and her blood on my hands.
I ate another apple, and wiped at my cheeks with a bit of my green velvet dress. Then I combed out my tangled hair and braided it back, weeping afresh because I had twisted Lisele’s hair so many times. I had taught her to braid in the style of di Rocancheil too, and it had been quite the fashion when we were eleven together. By then we had been fast friends, and Lisele had come to trust me as much as a princesse could trust a confidante of noble blood. She was my Princesse and my lady, and I bound to serve her, but she was also my friend, and I tried to be discreet and trustworthy for her.
Yet I failed her when she needed me most. Had I not been standing uselessly, feeling d’Arcenne’s lips on my forehead, I might have been able to…
Do not be ridiculous. They would have killed you as well, and found the Aryx to take to the Duc. You did what you should have, Vianne.
But oh, I did not believe it.
Chapter Three
I did sleep, a thin troubled slumber broken by restless starts whenever I thought I heard a footstep or a mouse scratching. It would not be long before the North Tower was searched as well.
And I dared not sleep too deeply lest I waste the night.
When darkness crept slowly through the windows, I wished I had brought a candle. Yet if I had one, or if I practiced my limited Court sorcery and used a witchlight, how would I wend my way to the donjons without being seen? And if I could reach the warren of prison cells without being remarked, what chance did I have of setting d’Arcenne free? Did the keys he’d given me include a donjon key among them?
I waited in the darkness for what seemed like ages, until the clock in my head — probably thrown off by shock, but the only measure of time I had — told me twas the hour of the planned banquet. Court dines late in summer, and only a touch earlier in late spring; besides, the Duc would be anxious to bring the Palais under his control. I wondered what tale would be given to the Ministers, and to the lords and pages and chivalieri. The women who had not seen the attack on Lisele, of course, would be dead or taken somewhere, whisked out of the way for their own safety. I wondered grimly who would be blamed for the afternoon’s events, where the Duc would pin the conspiracy that had left him King.
He is not King without the Aryx. I left my green velvet dress on the divan and covered it with the dust cloth. The disturbed dust would not hide where I had spent the afternoon, but I felt compelled to conceal what I could.
I used a dry abandoned watercloset to relieve my aching bladder and crept through the North Tower to the servants’ door, again. I listened, my ear pressed against cold wood, for a long, agonizing time, before I unlocked it and stepped out.
The hall was empty.
Now I had only to reach the donjons without being seen.
I had mulled the matter long and hard, and decided I would use the Sculpture Hall, since it ran almost the whole length of the Western Palais and was rarely guarded, being completely enclosed by the King’s Pavilion. There were plenty of niches and passages to hide in. Lisele and I had explored the Palais as children, and I knew not all of it, for there were some places children and women did not go, and passages both secret and forgotten. Yet I knew enough to possibly pass unseen if I wished to devoutly enough.
The Sculpture Hall proved to be under heavy guard by the Duc’s blue-sashed men, so I was forced to use a different route — a dusty garret over the north end of the Sculpture Hall leading to a jumbled, confusing patchwork of servant’s passageways. I kept my ears tuned and had to hide once or twice, and was almost discovered by a fumbling pair of servants eager to find a place for their assignation. From them I learned the whole Palais was at sup in the Coronation Hall, the Court putting on a brave face over the tragedy of the King slain by his own Captain, Tristan d’Arcenne.
Who was scheduled to be executed tomorrow, beheaded after his tongue was torn out. My stomach turned over afresh when they dropped that choice morsel of news.
I held my breath while the lovers fumbled to their niche, and I passed by them silently as they were engaged in their congress. I was not innocent of the ways of lovers, but this brought a silly flush to my cheeks. I seemed to feel lips against my forehead, and to smell leather and steel.
I slipped unseen through the Palais, helped by a generous portion of luck, until I reached the entrance to the donjon in the west wing, tunneled into the rock of Mount di Cienne, which loomed over the Palais and the Citté. Its dark mouth yawned; there was only one entrance and a single Duc’s Guard at it. Everyone else had perhaps been called to duty elsewhere — searching for me, and serving in the Coronation Hall.
Why are they seeking me? Will they blame me for Lisele’s death, as they are blaming d’Arcenne for the King’s? What could they want with me?
I tucked myself into a niche down the hall, wondering how I would get past the guard until I noticed him leaning back in his chair, almost certainly asleep. A leathern skin dangled from one limp hand. As I watched, the skin slipped from his fingers and thumped on the floor, but twas drained enough not to spill.
Wine. I sniffed quietly. D’Arcenne’s Guard would never be caught sopped on duty. Then again, a new King was cause for celebration, even if the old King had been slain. D’Orlaans needed his Guard loyal and satisfied, too.
It took far more courage than I thought I possessed to step from my hiding place. I moved soundlessly as I could, halting and trembling like a rabbit whenever the guard snorted or muttered, slipping past him and through the half-open gate. I did not recognize the man, but he wore a blue sash. His feathered hat tipped down over his face and his chair leaned back precariously. I had a moment’s mad desire to kick the chair and spill him onto the stone floor.
Trembling so hard my ear-drops swung, I found myself in the donjon.
Luck was with me again. Torchlight ran red over stone floor and bare iron bars, and Tristan had not been thrust into one of the deeper cells. No, he was in the third cell to the left, and he was alone. The other cells were empty.
Of course — the Duc’s Guard might have killed everyone else, but they needed a public beheading for Tristan. I felt almost sick at the thought, and at the cold logical way my mind ran now. Had I ever been this calculating before?
They will tear out his tongue before they kill him. Cannot have him speaking, of course. And that is the traditional punishment for traitors, is it not?
I sank to my knees by the door of his cell. I could see him through the bars, flung down on the floor, his red sash half torn off, his dark hair lying on stone. He still had his boots, but his swordbelt was gone. “D’Arcenne,” I whispered.
He did not stir. Had they killed him already?
“D’Arcenne.” A little louder. I felt for the keys in my pocket and drew them out, as softly as I could. “Captain!” I nearly wept again, I was so distraught. “Captain, please!” I almost forgot to whisper.