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.”