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“Which way?” Mann said.
“I don’t know. Wait. To the right. That leads to the outer walls.”
“And the left?”
“Does it matter?”
“Oh, yes. It all matters.”
From above came the clamor of voices. More voices echoed down the passage to their right. Another moment and the guards would trap them. Mann, covered in mud and slime, laughed wildly. He drew a sword she had not realized he possessed. “Go,” he shouted. “Go find the council. Find Lord Alberich de Ytel. Tell them what you know. And do not argue.” Still laughing, he turned back to fight off their attackers.
* * *
“HE IS BLEEDING,” Marte said to Olivia. “He cannot walk.”
“Will he live?”
Duke Kosenmark lay panting on the ground as his daughters examined him, with an impersonal efficiency he found particularly maddening. Agony twisted his guts. One leg burned with white fire. A guard had smashed a truncheon against his knee. Olivia had dispatched the man before he could do more. Kosenmark had plunged his own sword into the next guard before he collapsed.
He dimly recalled the rest of the guards falling around him, like so many trees driven down by unrelenting winds. He whispered a prayer to Lir and Toc to send these men and women, who had vowed their allegiance to the king, to a more merciful life.
Olivia poked his leg. He grunted. “Find me a physician and I will live. And stop pretending I cannot hear you.”
One of his daughters laughed. Marte, he thought.
Together, they raised him to standing. Heloïse slung his left arm over her shoulder. His other arm hung limp. Only now was he aware of the throbbing in his shoulder, the pain lancing through his chest. More injuries, taken while he had charged like a young bull at those guards.
“I am not dying,” he breathed. “Not yet.”
“Oh, certainly not,” Marte said. “Else you would not complain so much. Olivia?”
“The passage ahead is clear,” Olivia answered.
“Less than a mile and we are free,” Heloïse added.
She did not mention their brother, but all three sisters thought of him.
* * *
ILSE VAULTED DOWN the last six steps to the prison quadrant. Guards attempted to block her passage. She glared at them. “I come in the duke’s name.”
“These are the king’s domain. You need his authority—”
Ilse did not wait for him to finish. She gathered up the magical current and flung a fistful of fire at the guards. They all fell to the ground, writhing.
Her stomach twisted, but she could not pause for sympathy. She leapt over them and sped down the corridor, to the next intersection, down a second flight of stairs, where she veered to the right and Raul Kosenmark’s cell.
Too late.
That was her first thought when she saw a knot of guards in the corridor. Four men, with swords drawn.
She slowed to a walk. If the king had decreed Raul should die, they would kill him before she could stop them with blade or magic. She had to delay them long enough for her to convince Armand himself.
One guard swung his head around. He spoke to his companions, and they all turned to face her, their weapons held ready. She drew closer, her skin alight with a fire of nerves.
“My lady,” said one at last.
Ilse stopped. “My name is Ilse
