“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.