Untitled Story

Chapter 1

Robert Danton stood stoically on the rough, uneven stone of the palace courtyard, bow at the ready, with an arrow nocked but string undrawn. The bells that chimed the noon hour had just ceased, and the midsummer sun stood high in the clear sky, its heat striking any who braved it with almost the force of a physical blow. Heat also wafted from the stones beneath his feet, suffusing even the thick, rigid soles of his boots. Sweat beaded on his forehead and raised forearms, and ran in uncomfortable rivulets into the sleeves and collar of his heavy tunic, but he made no move to alleviate the discomfort. He made no move except to breathe. His attention and aim were fixed on the open window where he had seen the strange bird alight, high atop a corner tower of the Royal Apartments.

Its size and bearing made it a hawk, but with plumage unlike any he had seen in his nine years as steward of the Emperor's rural estate. The questions this raised were immaterial, however; they stabbed fruitlessly at the margins of his concentration. That the bird was a hawk, and its perch not a sanctioned rookery, was sufficient. It was, in fact, the very reason he had been summoned to the palace from his normal charge, several leagues distant: to cull a nuisance population preying on the waterfowl that supplied the royal table.

Concentrating on a single task to the exclusion of all else came easily to him; it was one of the first skills he had learned in childhood. Patience, however, the determined patience that could sustain that concentration through minutes and hours of otherwise idle waiting, was a hard-earned byproduct of years spent stalking deer and boar for the royal table on the estate, and it never came easily. It still required constant struggle to ensure that concentration did not waver, that when the time for action came it would be as vital and effective as if it had been taken immediately.

The tunic he wore was rough-cut and worn. Its original color had been a muted shade of green, so dyed to denote his humble station of gamekeeper, but nine years of constant wear in harsh sunlight had bleached it to a shade barely distinguishable from gray. It was ragged in some areas, sewn and patched in others, and hardly suited for a palace errand, but he owned nothing more appropriate. The summons had been unexpected, but urgent; it would not wait on a tailor's work.

The hawk reappeared suddenly, swooping from the window in full flight, but Robert's concentration remained unbroken; he drew his bowstring, corrected his aim, and loosed the arrow as it passed overhead. The shot wasn't perfect; the hawk had swerved at the last moment as though anticipating danger, but it was true enough. The arrow pierced a wing, which exploded in a shower of feathers, and the hawk trailed more feathers behind as it fell upon a narrow strip of grass in a small garden several lengths away.

Robert scowled as he hurried to where it had fallen, replaying the loosing of the arrow in his mind. In the moment before he let fly, he was certain he'd seen something carried in the bird's talons. A mouse, perhaps? If so, it was odd that a hawk would choose to hunt indoors, where its natural gifts would be useless. Or had it been some sort of parcel? He had heard rumors of birds trained to deliver important messages. Perhaps this hawk served a similar purpose?

Robert saw no parcel when he approached, but his attention was suddenly taken with the aesthetic beauty of the creature itself. It was slightly larger than a rooster from beak to tail, but thinner and more graceful in form. The feathers on its head and back were a dark, brownish red that faded abruptly to white at the tips, resulting in a slightly mottled appearance, and a beard of mixed red and white feathers flowed down its chest. The hawk stared up at him sharply and unwaveringly, in the manner of all hawks, and its unblinking eyes seemed to make a silent accusation. Robert briefly imagined there was intelligence behind that stare, and that it really was an accusation.

This outlandish thought soon faded, only to be replaced by another notion, one nearly as fantastic: that a creature of such rare beauty should be preserved, and rehabilitated if possible. Luckily, the arrow had struck only a glancing blow to the feathering of one wing; there was no blood, and the only sign of injury was that the one wing was slightly favored, perhaps not even broken. He was pondering how to safely collect it, and hoping to stumble on a method that did not risk outright destruction of his tunic, when unexpected sound pierced his concentration.

There were triumphant shouts and guttural screams, backed by the sustained screech and clang of steel thrust against steel. He had not heard like sounds in his long years of exile, but the memory was as vital as if it were yesterday. They were the sounds of battle.

Instinct was also vital, although the weapon in his hands was not as he remembered. The injured hawk forgotten, Robert pulled an arrow from the quiver at his back, and held it in one hand and his bow in the other as he dashed into the emerging shadow of the Royal Apartments, from whence the sound of battle seemed to come. Huddled in a defensive crouch at the foot of the building and sheltered in its shadow, Robert stopped, bewildered. The sounds had been clear when he first heard them, but now they were muddled; a different strain of battle noise seemed to reverberate from each stone in the wall.

He paused for only a moment, however; even muddled, the sounds were unmistakable, rendering any further questions immaterial save for that of where. He came upright, and ran along the bare stone wall toward the tower on the far corner, away from that recently occupied by the hawk. Just around that corner, if his dim memory served, lay the main entrance to the Apartments. If battle was joined within, it would likely have started there.

Robert abruptly slowed his pace as he approached the tower. The muddled echoes had faded from the wall, and were replaced by the actual sounds of battle, nearly as clear as they had sounded as he stood over the hawk. There were shouts and screams no longer, and the screeches and clangs had become more sparse, and almost rhythmic. Robert crept around the rounded perimeter of the tower and found his guess confirmed: the battle had been reduced to single combat.

The two remaining combatants fought at the threshold of the apartments amongst the bodies of the fallen, only a few dozen lengths from where Robert watched. Both wore the unarmored ceremonial garb of the common palace guard: a fine blue coat fastened with iron buttons, with matching belted pants rather than roughly-bound leggings. They fought with broadswords of common steel, the first and primary weapon of any soldier, and matching scabbards swung at their waists.

Robert moved nearer to the combatants in fits and starts, taking a step along the wall whenever it appeared that his movement would pass unnoticed. He was no longer shrouded in shadow and the bare walls offered no cover, but he moved deliberately, readying the arrow in his bow as a precaution. Even if he was noticed, there was little danger in this battle for him so long as he remained alert, and ready to draw string and loose arrow. Neither of the combatants would risk an attack on him while joined in battle with each other, and against an unarmored foe his bow was superior to a sword in all but the closest of quarters.

When he had come within a dozen lengths, as near as he dared approach, Robert raised his bow, trying to reclaim the concentration that had come so easily when his targets were deer and birds, and waited for a sign. The two combatants were identically dressed, and fought using the same stances and techniques, the standard methods taught in the martial families. But which of them had been the aggressor, and which the guard? They were evenly matched...

They were not evenly matched. Robert frowned, angry for not having noticed before. The coat of the soldier who now stood furthest from him had a large, dark stain on the torso; he caught glimpses of it occasionally as the combatants traded their attacks. It was a bloodstain, which indicated a significant injury; draining, and perhaps even mortal. This one fought furiously and with little regard for defense, using techniques that invited reprisal if his opponent ever guessed which he would use next.

The other soldier fought cautiously; his attacks were infrequent and conservative, but also confident, as if he were toying with the injured man, waiting for his wound to drain him of any remaining capacity to fight. Robert's hands tightened on his bow, but he did not draw. It was a cowardly way to do battle, contemptible, but not definitive proof that he was the aggressor.

The injured soldier's constant stream of desperate attacks finally broke. He stumbled, his foot caught on one of the surrounding bodies, and he fell backwards. Without a word to his fallen opponent, the coward raised his sword to deliver a killing blow. It was the sign Robert had hoped for, and his arrow pierced the coward's throat before the stroke could fall. The coward dropped the sword and fell to his knees, clutching weakly at the arrow in his throat.

Robert ran forward, pulling another arrow from his quiver as a precaution, but discovered as he came near that the wounded guard had gathered enough strength for a final thrust of his sword. The point barely pierced the coward's heart, but it was enough to ensure his death. Robert watched as the injured man dropped his sword hilt, lacking even the strength to pull the blade free of the corpse, and collapsed back on the bloodstained stone, breathing shallowly.

The injured guard's eyes followed Robert as he knelt over him, loosed the buttons on his coat, and retrieved a small field dressing knife from a hidden pocket of his tunic to cut through his undershirt, exposing the injury. The smell of waste that wafted up confirmed Robert's fear, and he pulled his hands away and closed the coat back over the injury with a rough curse. The guard would certainly die, and it was better that it happen by loss of blood and be over quickly than by a painful rot that could take days or weeks.

"I am sorry," Robert said finally. "I came too late, and I could not intervene until I knew which of you was the traitor."

The injured guard parted his lips as though to speak, but coughed instead, bringing up a mix of blood and bile. He twisted his head to one side to let it spill onto the ground. His quiet, tentative reply came a few moments later, as he still faced away.

"How did you know?"

"An honorable soldier in single combat would have demanded his wounded opponent yield for questioning." Robert replied. "Did any of them cross the threshold?"

"I don't..." the guard began, then paused as another spasm overcame him. "There were four of them. Three of us."

Robert counted six dead, including the traitor he had wounded with his arrow. All wore identical ceremonial garb, differentiated only by minor variations in rank, and the individual cuts and slices each had suffered, and lay near or partially upon the swords they had wielded.

"There are six bodies here."

"And one still to come." The guard countered with a dark chuckle that ended in yet another spasm. When this one had passed, he turned his head back to stare at Robert, wide-eyed. "The princess and the heir are within. They may try again."

"They may." Robert agreed, and began to scan the courtyard for threats, looking for the telltale glint of sunlight upon steel amid the sparse buildings and welled gardens scattered across its otherwise desolate stone. That the courtyard was silent and seemed utterly devoid of life should have been a relief, but instead felt unnatural and oppressive. Robert turned back to the dying guard and spoke quickly, impatient to escape the courtyard before its silence broke, but still in need of one more answer. "From which family are you? What is your lineage?"

"There is only one family." The guard answered, his expression suddenly wary. Robert knew otherwise, however, and he had no time for the martial families' secrecy.

"If you will not answer, I will strip you naked and find the marks myself." He threatened, then paused to give the knowledge implicit in his words time to settle. "I need to know who I can trust."

"You can't trust anybody." The dying guard answered bitterly, turning his face back to the sky. "I had a cousin among them. It was why I let them come near enough to strike unchallenged. He's the one who ran me through. Check the marks if you must."

Robert shivered at this revelation. Despite the united front they presented to outsiders, the martial families had been known to work at times in pursuit of separate goals, although such maneuverings seldom approached outright warfare. But within individual families loyalty was paramount, and familial murder almost unheard of. What force could rend a family asunder such that a soldier would fight with others against one of his own?

If no soldier could be trusted, he had no choice but to rely on his own arm. Rising to his feet, he placed the unused arrow back in his quiver and hung the bow over the quiver at his back. He bent to grasp the hilt of a fallen sword, taking it from the body of the traitor he'd shot with his arrow, and lifted it, testing its weight in his hand. He heard the dying guard gasp in shock.

"You can't-"

"I shouldn't." Robert corrected, "But for her, I will."

The sword was heavier than he remembered, far heavier than the carved saplings he beat against tree trunks in idle moments on the rural estate. He swung it in tentative arcs, then in a full circle, loosing the hilt for a moment to feel it dance across his knuckles, and caught it effortlessly. He was out of practice, but memory and instinct still remained. He hoped they would be enough.

Robert turned his attention back to the dying guard in time to see his expression flicker from shock to realization, and finally to disgust.

"They will kill you if they find you." The man stated flatly. He tried raising his sword, but it moved only slightly and fell quickly back to earth. "If I could hold my sword, I'd kill you myself."

He had lingered too long already, but still Robert hesitated. The man was dying, and there was a service that one soldier could provide another, to spare him unnecessary pain on his way to an inevitable death. And though he was not a soldier, mercy demanded that he at least offer his aid.

"Do you wish to end it, soldier?" Robert asked, though he already knew what the response would be.

"Not by your hand, gamekeeper." The guard replied, spitting out the title as if it were a curse, and braced for another spasm.

The guard might have said more when the spasm ceased, but Robert was already gone, sprinting through the wide corridors and up the steep stairwells of the labyrinthine royal apartments. They were built long ago to house not only the Emperor's person, but also his wife, children, and any more distant relatives that were in his favor; potentially dozens of privileged residents. If one counted the less privileged residents as well, trusted servants culled from the noble families who lived in less spacious basement quarters, that number might rise into the hundreds. Now, however, the apartments housed only the princess and her only child, the heir. The Emperor himself was no longer in residence; maladies of age had long since driven him to take both food and rest nearer the throne.

So it was not unusual that the halls were nearly deserted; there were no soldiers posted within, and very few servants. Robert passed one during his mad dash and saw two more on the edge of his vision, but none dared hinder him. They may have been loyal subjects, but they were servants rather than soldiers, and none carried anything more lethal than a meal platter. He considered chasing a servant down to ask after the princess, but dismissed the possibility almost immediately; fear wouldn't necessarily keep them from lying, and wasting precious time. He would just have to hope that she was in her quarters, and that they had not changed in nine years.

When Robert entered the narrow antechamber to her apartment unmet and unchallenged, and observed that the polished stone benches on each side were covered in a thick layer of dust, he briefly thought his fears confirmed. Visitors would usually be met by a servant in this room, and made to sit on one of the benches until the occupant was prepared to receive them. The floor was entirely clear of dust, however, so he crossed the antechamber to the door on its far side, tested it, and found it unlocked.

The door opened into the reception hall, a room large enough to host a small banquet, or a comfortable dance for a few dozen guests. When last he'd seen this room it was dressed lavishly, as befitted a princess, with beautifully woven tapestries on the walls, and tables and chairs casted and carved by the finest artisans in the Empire. Now, however, the walls were bare except for unlit torches held in ornate iron mountings, and shuttered windows spaced widely along the far wall. One of the shutters was open slightly, bathing the room with a very faint glow of sunlight that left the corners still in shadow, and throwing a tiny sliver of concentrated light across the only furnishings in the otherwise empty room.

It was a small wooden table perched haphazardly on four thin legs, accompanied by two chairs of the same make, all of them roughly crafted, unornamented and unfinished, and of a quality one might expect to find in a peasant's cottage or servant's quarters, but not in the princess's apartment. His bewilderment lasted only a moment, however, as his attention shifted to what lay on the table: a large pewter platter that lay empty at its center, and two smaller dishes of food placed near the chairs. Robert advanced cautiously until he stood over the table, and held his free hand - the other still held his sword - directly above one of the dishes, which contained a thin cut of meat. It was fresh, and still emanated some warmth; a familiar odor tickled his senses, and he wondered distantly, insubstantially, whether this might be one of the wild boar he had slaughtered for the royal table on the rural estate.

Turning from the mystery of the table, Robert began to search the apartment. There were four doors in the reception hall excluding that which led back to the antechamber, two on each side, adjacent to the near and far walls. These doors led to narrow corridors that ran parallel to the length of the hall. Doors on the side of these corridors not adjacent to the reception hall led to further rooms in the apartment, affording the occupant a measure of privacy in their movements even when the reception hall was in use.

In his search, Robert found several rooms still decorated as befitted a princess, but these were inundated with dust, and looked as though they hadn't seen use in years. The more austere the room, the more likely he would find an open window shutter, spent candle, or some other evidence of recent occupation... but the princess herself remained elusive.

The bedchamber proved an unsettling exception to this rule. It was as well-appointed as he remembered, with a canopied bed and matching wardrobes fashioned from some dark, exotic hardwood he could not name. When Robert pulled the canopy aside he found the bed unoccupied, but with covers mussed. Hit with a sudden comprehension of something he had seen when he first entered the room, Robert looked at his feet and frowned.

In his hurry to open the canopy he had tread on scraps of drab cloth someone had spread at the foot of the bed. It was thick, and visibly coarse; almost a canvas, completely out of place in the otherwise luxurious room. A pile of the same cloth bunched at one end of the spread clinched his evaluation: it was makeshift bedding. But for whom? The princess would sleep on the bed, of course, and a servant obliged to share her quarters would have at least a cot to sleep on. Robert ignored the questions this raised, as he had with so many other oddities on this strange day, and ran to the next room, one of very few he had not checked.

It was a small, cramped room, likely meant for the servants to loiter in when their services were not required. It was furnished with only a single table, nearly identical to that in the reception hall, but upon this one were four candles in brass candlesticks. Three were lit, and arranged in a neat line near the center of the table; the fourth, nearer the far edge, was unlit. The odd arrangement begged yet another question, but before he could examine it, something - a sound, perhaps, or shadow, or perhaps some change in the air – triggered reflex, and he spun about, raising his sword at an angle across his face and chest, with the flat of the blade exposed, bracing the blade away from his face with his free forearm.

Robert readied his defense only an instant before the blow came; he did not even have a chance to identify the object or glimpse who had thrown it before it struck the blade with an ear-shattering crack, and enough force to send him stumbling back almost to the table, and splintered into millions of pieces. Debris from the shattered projectile stung Robert's cheeks; he shook his head quickly to clear the shock of the incredible blow, gathered his wits, and renewed his defense.

Dust released by the object's obliteration billowed about in a cloud so thick that it obscured Robert's sight. He squinted into the cloud at the door to the hall, from which the object had come, searching for a target. He saw a vaguely human figure outlined against the threshold of the far door, on the other side of the hall, and observed it as he waited for the dust to clear, readying himself to pursue or defend as necessary. The figure was tall, but very thin; impossibly thin, Robert might have said, had he not now been confronted with evidence to the contrary. The dust settled further, and the figure resolved to that of a woman, or a man dressed as such, and...

With a surprised cry Robert fell to one knee, eyes downcast, and sword held crosswise on open palms above his bowed head in offering. She was dressed in a plain gray servants' frock that hung loosely from her wiry frame; she wore no jewelry and used no rouge. Her complexion was unnaturally pallid; she lacked the subtle tints of red and blue that marked the living, or even the dead, leaving her skin an unnatural shade of gray. But Robert still recognized her, even changed as she was, and assumed a position of absolute penitence for having raised his sword at her. It was her prerogative to pardon, punish him, or even to execute him with his own sword.

"Highness." He invoked the honorific as a statement, though with a bewildered tone; her appearance raised even more questions, not least of which was how a woman who looked as though she could barely stand had launched an attack nearly powerful enough to knock him from his feet. Minutes seemed to pass in silence before she finally spoke.

"Rise, soldier." Her voice was firm and imperious, belaying her fragile appearance. She continued as Robert rose slowly to his feet, keeping the blade of his sword at a carefully measured angle almost perpendicular to the stone floor. "Why are you wearing peasant's clothes?"

"I am a gamekeeper, your highness." Robert would not lie to her, but he hoped that mention of his current station would not trigger recognition; he counted himself lucky that she had not known him immediately.

"But you carry a soldier's sword." She countered lightly and in good humor, as though discussing a curious incongruity rather than a capital offense.

"It's... complicated." Robert returned with a wince. It was complicated, and inconvenient; she wasn't a soldier, and perhaps wouldn't respond to his crime with the hatred shown by the dying guard, but she certainly wouldn't trust him. He needed her to trust him; she could trust very few others, and none that wielded a sword. Fortunately, she did not press the question, and moved to enter the room instead. Robert stepped aside to give her access, and respectfully averted his eyes as she passed.

"The martial families would not consider it complicated." The amusement in her voice was clearer now, and Robert looked up in time to see her lift a candlestick, the only one that seemed to have remained lit amid the rain of debris, from the table. She cradled it in both hands as she returned, and nodded to him as she spoke. "You will go ahead."

Robert left the room ahead of her as she had ordered, raising his sword to a ready position once more. Merely doing so in the presence of royalty was no crime, so long as they were not the target. The princess hadn't specified a destination, so Robert moved back toward the reception hall, staggering his steps slightly, hoping to catch the sound of footfalls that would confirm she was following. To glance at the princess over his shoulder would be a grave breach of protocol, so upon hearing nothing he settled on a lesser breach, speaking without turning.

"The martial families have split, your Highness. Some in the guard made an attempt on your life."

"Indeed." The princess replied dismissively, and seemed unsurprised. With no rebuke for having spoken, and no questions forthcoming, Robert ventured a bewildered question of his own.

"You knew of this?"

"I knew that an attack would come, but I had no idea when." She began wearily. "I hoped they might fight it over amongst themselves for a few hours longer before they came for me."

"The Emperor-" Robert began in protest, but the princess cut him off.

"The Emperor is dead. Walk, gamekeeper."

He had stopped in shock on hearing of the Emperor's death, but at the princess's order he resumed walking numbly along, as questions accumulated in his thoughts. Was the death natural, or was the Emperor assassinated? When? And how was the princess so certain of his passing when the guard at the threshold seemed to know nothing? There was but one needful question in the wake of these tidings, however, and it was none of these.

"Where is the heir?" Robert asked. As the only male descendant of the Emperor, he had become Emperor himself from the moment of his grandfather's death, at least in name; a Regent chosen by the advisory council would represent his interests in court until he was of age.

"The heir is safe." The princess answered smugly, after a moment's pause. "Beyond their reach, beyond yours, and beyond mine. And that is the only answer you or any other will receive. Do not ask again."

"What are your intentions?" Robert asked tentatively after he crossed the threshold of the reception hall, turning to face the princess as she entered behind him. In less exceptional circumstances such a direct question would be perilous, an affront to royal authority, but Robert had to know if he was to protect her. If the princess intended to remain he could pile objects in the antechamber to slow their progress, do battle at the threshold of the reception hall, and fall back to the hallways and chambers beyond when necessary.

"Fetch me a torch, gamekeeper." The princess ordered, and continued to speak as Robert turned to pull an unlit torch from a nearby mounting. "Since the heir is safe, I'd planned to stay in my quarters and await them with a few gifts." She hesitated for a moment over that word, and her expression darkened as she spoke it; it obviously held special meaning for her. "Like the urn that nearly cracked your head. But now I feel I owe them something more."

She held the candlestick she carried at arms length and nodded, and Robert touched the head of the torch he carried to the flickering flame. It immediately came alight, bathing the nooks and sunken crannies of the princess's emaciated face in an eerily intense glow as she spoke again.

"Tell me, gamekeeper, are you up for a chase?" Her face broke into an expression that her words suggested to be a mischievous grin, but her sunken features in the harsh torchlight turned it into a macabre parody, a skeletal grimace that shocked Robert into silence.

Despite the princess's words, their journey along the corridors and stairwells of the royal apartments proved painfully slow. Though Robert carried the only burdens - a torch in one hand, his blade in the other, with his bow and a quiver of arrows slung at his back - the princess, strolling unencumbered behind him, set a leisurely walking pace that refused to increase with his own.

Robert remained silent, however, and bit back the hurrying remarks he might have made had his companion been any other. Time was precious, but the princess's willing cooperation was even more so. She spoke seldom, and only to direct him down certain stairs and corridors. Her instructions were unnecessary; he had guessed her intention almost as soon as she'd asked for a torch, but he could not say so. The basement passage was a closely guarded secret of the royal family; if she discovered he already knew of it, she would demand to know how he knew, and why. And if she ever learned that, Robert was certain, it would immediately sever any trust and regard she now had for him.

The apartments seemed entirely deserted as Robert and the princess descended slowly to the ground floor; there were no longer any servants to be seen. He imagined they had all fled, or were huddled in one of the vacant apartments, but even if some still lingered in the corridors the plodding pace set by the princess and advertised by torchlight and the immutable sound of Robert's heavy boots on the stone floors would give them ample time to scurry away soundlessly.

Robert turned another corner at the princess's command, and found himself unexpectedly treading the main corridor on the ground floor, only a few dozen lengths from the final stairwell that led to the basement and the passage. Much further ahead, at least the same span beyond the stairwell as lay before, sunlight streamed through the open threshold to the courtyard, the same threshold he'd crossed to begin his search for the princess.

Keeping the same maddening pace the princess had used since the start of the so-called chase, they had covered nearly half of the distance to the stairwell when figures suddenly appeared at the threshold, silhouetted by the light at their backs. There was no place to hide, no doors for several lengths beyond and before, and there was no time to rush the princess forward to the stairwell or back to the corridor from whence they came; they had already been seen.

There were four of them, all soldiers, all with swords bared. They spread to stand nearly abreast, filling the width of the corridor, as they advanced on Robert and the princess at a measured pace. Three of them were blue-coats, such as he had seen before, but the fourth, who walked slightly ahead, wore a much finer ensemble of deep scarlet with gold trim on the sleeves and across the collar. They had not come near enough for him to see it, but Robert knew the sword of the soldier clad in red would be similarly ornate, with a jeweled hilt and fine patterns etched into its blade.

In that moment, Robert knew the certainty of his death. The two blue-coats that advanced along the sides of the corridor were young, their coats lacking insignia and unadorned by medals or ribbons. They were on their first assignment, then, having just completed their training, and were likely little more than competent with their blades. The blue-coat that advanced near the center, walking just behind the soldier clad in red, was older than the rest and had several medals and ribbons pinned to his coat. He would be far more deadly; a soldier had to be more than merely competent with his blade to advance very far in the palace guard.

The remaining soldier, clad in scarlet, was the same age as the younger of his blue-coated companions; this would be his first assignment as well. His coat was also unadorned but for the trim sewn into the sleeves and collar, but no medal or ribbon was necessary; coat and blade alone marked him as Swordarm, bodyguard to the Emperor himself. It was the most prestigious first assignment a young soldier could receive, highly coveted, and traditionally awarded to the most skilled swordsman of proper temperament among those who recently matured in the martial families.

Robert thought he might manage to best one or both of the younger blue-coats in single combat, but he had little confidence that he could prevail against the veteran guard, and none at all that he could match the skill of the Emperor's Swordarm. And if they did not afford him the dignity of single combat, if they all came at him at once, he likely wouldn't even land a blow before one ran him through.

As they approached Robert noticed they were studying him, just as he had them. One of the soldier's first lessons in combat was the importance of knowing one's opponent, and observation was so crucial to this goal that it was almost instinctual. He wondered what they had learned of him thus far, and realized with simultaneous annoyance and relief that it couldn't have been much; he had barely moved since their figures had first darkened the threshold.

He moved quickly now, however; if combat was inevitable, Robert could at least choose the setting and circumstances, but he had to do so before they came near enough to rush forward into battle. He swung his torch in an arc across the wide corridor, lighting fresh torches in the sockets on both sides, and dropped his on the stone floor, where it rolled slightly to land almost at his feet. Not every soldier had the full measure of concentration, and flame could be a potent distraction to one caught unaware, though such flourishes were generally not sufficient to turn the tide of battle.

With the environment defined, a moment still remained for misdirection. Robert raised his sword, but in a rough parody of a soldier's combat stance, a stance that someone who was otherwise unfamiliar with combat might adopt after seeing a single fight. He saw the advancing soldiers' hands tighten on the hilts of their own swords in response, and was relieved when they did not raise them or rush forward, but continued their measured pace, matching the Swordarm's stride until he came within several lengths of Robert and gave an abrupt signal to stop.

"Highness." He addressed the princess first, as was proper, and favored her with a cursory bow that was little more than a nod before continuing. "The Emperor passed in his sleep late this morning, just before the noon hour. We have come to escort you to the throne."

Silence reigned for a time, and Robert wondered what the princess had observed as they advanced; she had been silent since their appearance. Would she trust them, and choose to accompany them voluntarily? What would become of Robert then? None of the soldiers seemed to have recognized him, but bearing a sword without sanction was a grave crime for any person.

"Have you, soldier?" The princess finally answered, her casual tone belied by the implicit accusation in her words. "And did the others who came before have the same intent?"

The Swordarm's expression darkened in response, whether from the accusation or merely because she had addressed him as a common soldier rather than use the more exalted title due his position.

"They were traitors, your Highness, to their family and to their charge." He answered stiffly, and shifted his gaze to address Robert for the first time. "I assume it was your arrow we found in a traitor's throat?"

"It was, sir." Robert mumbled, bewildered at this sudden turn of events. The soldiers had not attacked, and did not seem inclined to start; they held their blades at a careful, well-rehearsed neutral angle that telegraphed neither attack nor capitulation. If their intentions were as claimed, Robert thought he might even survive this confrontation, provided that he remained unrecognized. Nevertheless, he maintained his exaggerated stance and kept his expression guarded; he would yield only at the princess's command.

"Then the Empire is in your debt, bowman." The Swordarm began generously. "And the martial family as well. But your service does not excuse the unsanctioned use of a sword."

Robert said nothing in response, and held both his sword and expression steady, betraying no sign that he had even heard the pointed observation. The pause grew pregnant, then awkward, and he finally saw the Swordarm's eyes narrow in annoyance.

"Drop the weapon, bowman," The Swordarm said icily, "Unless you intend to wield it."

Robert hesitated at the ultimatum, unexpectedly torn. Serving a greater objective without regard for one's own life was an integral part of a soldier's training. As with the discipline of concentration, however, not every soldier had the full measure of courage needed to make such a sacrifice when required. Those who did became the honored dead, subjects of statues, songs and stories. Those who did not were relegated to the forges, resigned to make the armaments they would never again be given sanction to wield.

Robert was not a soldier; had not lived as one for nine years, had not trained as one for even longer. Enough of the soldier remained in him that he thought himself willing to die for a noble cause, even if that cause was ultimately doomed, but he at least had to know that his sacrifice was necessary.

"Is this your will, Highness?" Robert posed the question to the princess, standing unseen behind him, when he saw the tip of the Swordarm's patterned blade begin to rise from its neutral position. He was surprised to hear his voice ring out strong and clear, confident and unbroken; he felt as though he should be crying.

The Swordarm stilled his sword when Robert spoke, but made no move to lower it as all in the corridor awaited a response. The scowl that had crossed his face when the question was posed deepened as the silence extended to become nearly as long as before.

"I do not wish to accompany them." She said finally, and with finality.

"Then by my sword, you will not." Robert gave his oath quickly, before any other in the corridor could register protest, and with confidence he did not feel. He abruptly dropped both pretense and parody, and adopted the traditional soldier's stance, sword raised for combat. Having made a soldier's choice and spoken a soldier's vow, he would now fight a soldier's battle, if only to die a soldier's death.

The stance of a trained soldier was unmistakable, inimitable, and the response from the Swordarm and his companions was immediate. They each raised blade spontaneously, but in unison, as though responding to a single command. One of the younger blue-coats sounded an audible gasp at the sudden change, and both now seemed nearly as likely to flee as to fight. Despite himself, Robert pitied them. Judging by their startled expressions, and the tension now apparent in their stances and sword grips, this would be their first taste of an actual battle. He hoped they would survive it; he hoped they all would, impossible as that now seemed.

The Swordarm was also affected, albeit far less than the two young blue-coats had been; surprise showed plainly on his face, but not in the way he stood or held his sword. Both, Robert noted glumly, were better executed than his own. The veteran alone was entirely unmoved; there was no hint of surprise in his face or his manner. If anything he seemed amused, and oddly speculative.

"What game are you playing, bowman?" The Swordarm spat out a moment later, seeming even more furious for having been fooled by the ruse.

"Gamekeeper." The veteran guard corrected, speaking for the first time to deliver a casual observation, free of question or doubt.

"Gamekeeper! Indeed?" The Swordarm posed the astonished query to the veteran at his side while still staring fixedly at Robert, but Robert answered himself with a slight nod. The truth had been spoken; denying it now would gain him nothing.

"Robert Danton," The Swordarm began slowly, giving the family name a slight hesitation that, in concert with the note of disbelief still in his voice, made it sound almost like a question in itself. "That is what you now call yourself?"

"It's the name I was given." Robert answered cautiously, but the Swordarm dismissed this assertion with a nonverbal scoff. He no longer seemed as angry, but the expression that had replaced his scowl was a sharp, almost predatory grin that Robert found even more discomfiting.

"Watch him." The Swordarm ordered his companions, before turning his head slightly to address the veteran specifically. "And if he moves, kill him."

The Swordarm stepped back to draw even with the two young blue-coats, and the veteran moved forward to take his place in a seamless maneuver. By long tradition the Swordarm wore no scabbard, so he passed the hilt of his ornate blade to an empty hand of one of his young companions to free both of his own for the ensuing task.

"The dream of every child born a soldier," The Swordarm began as he laboriously worked the buttons on the sleeves and collar of his scarlet coat. "Is to bring honor to his family. I had just started training when I heard of your betrayal. I was only a child, and still I wondered what manner of soldier would choose to bring such dishonor to his family."

"It was fitting, then, that the Emperor would name you gamekeeper, and deny you use of a sword." The Swordarm continued, loosing the buttons down his chest. "But it was not enough. It did nothing to erase the stain of dishonor. Your father surrendered his sword - of his own volition - to work the forges these last nine years. But still it was not enough. Your mother took up your father's sword... and fell on it."

Robert listened ashen-faced as the worst nightmares of his long exile were confirmed. He had heard nothing of his family since it began; the martial families buried their failures as ardently as they trumpeted their successes. He had hoped, naively, that his parents would not accept his dishonor as their own. Tears welled in his eyes as he imagined his father's sacrifice and his mother's death, but he ruthlessly suppressed them. At any other time he would have cried, and might have dropped his sword and knelt to receive the soldiers' justice, but in this battle he could not. The princess had stated her will, and Robert had pledged to see it done; to do anything else now would only compound his dishonor.

"Did you expect anything else of them?" The Swordarm asked him rhetorically, an incredulous response to the obvious break in Robert's composure, as he peeled the coat from his shoulders and pulled his arms from the sleeves. "They were soldiers! Or did you think they abandoned honor when you abandoned yours?"

The Swordarm paused, and stared at Robert as though he could extract the answer with the force of his gaze, but Robert stared back at him defiantly; the moment of vulnerability had passed. He draped the heavy scarlet coat across the blue-coat's arm, and retrieved the ceremonial sword. Raising its patterned blade once more, the Swordarm stepped forward to stand even with the veteran as he rendered judgment.

"By wielding a sword, you have broken the truce negotiated between our two... families." He began formally, but could not disguise his contempt at the notion - a legal fiction proposed by the Emperor himself - that Robert comprised a noble family. "We are no longer bound by its amnesty."

"For what you have done before, there is no sufficient penalty in my power to assess; no sentence that would convey even a hint of the suffering you inflicted on your family and deserve to receive in return. But for what you have done today the penalty is clear: for wielding a sword unsanctioned, and refusing to disarm when ordered, you will die with sword in hand. And when you have fallen, I will take up your traitor's sword, deliver it to your father, and tell him that the stain of your dishonor has finally been cleansed."

The Swordarm came nearer, so near that the tip of his blade almost touched Robert's own, and his companions retreated a few steps to give more room for the now inevitable battle. Robert held his ground and wondered if the princess had followed suit; she couldn't have moved very far without provoking comment. He dared not glance behind, since the battle could be joined at any time, and with no additional warning; a criminal was not afforded the rights and protections of a duelist.

"You removed your coat." Robert observed morosely, his voice numbed by expectation of swift defeat. "I trust you will allow me that privilege as well." He finished, although he trusted no such thing.

"I will not, gamekeeper." The Swordarm responded theatrically, making the title as much an epithet as the dying soldier had before. "This is not a duel. I would not give you that honor. This is your sentence."

The Swordarm swung his blade, and battle was joined.

He swung it in a plain horizontal arc, from just above his waist, and Robert moved his sword to block the simple technique almost reflexively, wondering at the edge of his concentration why the Swordarm would use a technique taught in the first year of combat training. He did not retaliate, however, nor did he move to counter the Swordarm's follow-up, a vertical slash that was nearly as simple. The two techniques were taught first for a reason: they were unlikely to strike, but just as unlikely to provide an opening for one's opponent.

The battle continued with simple swings and thrusts, at a pace just quick enough to keep Robert from attempting anything more than a hurried defense of blocks and dodges, and he realized that the Swordarm was playing with him, much as the traitor had toyed with the guard at the apartment threshold, testing to see how much capacity for swordplay still remained. The realization came with anger, but Robert cast it aside. He could not afford the distraction; no soldier could.

The Swordarm suddenly broke his rhythm with a feint retreat followed by a lunge, a technique taught in the second year of training, and Robert managed to deflect the sword only just before it would have pierced his neck. The Swordarm smiled even as his attack was diverted, as though anticipating a quick victory, but Robert had somehow readied a passable defense before the next came; he blocked it, and the one after that, with nearly as much ease as he had parried the first-year techniques. The Swordarm's smile faded into surprise, which itself faded into the expressionless mask adopted in heated battle by the most capable or experienced soldiers, the mask Robert supposed he himself wore.

Even with every ounce of concentration that he could muster focused on diverting the Swordarm's attacks, which became more complex and came nearer to breaking his guard with each passing moment, enough awareness existed at the far margins of consciousness to wonder how he still survived. He was, he realized, somehow anticipating the attacks before they fell, as though remembering a swordplay sequence he'd studied in his youth. But which one? Robert wondered.

He realized his mistake too late, only an instant before his adversary's sword tore a deep gash in his outstretched arm, just below the shoulder. The question had shattered Robert's concentration, and the Swordarm had taken advantage, modifying the vertical arc of his most recent swing with an almost imperceptible twist of his wrist. Robert stumbled back with a curse, clutching reflexively at the wound with his free hand, but the Swordarm stepped forward to match his movement, raising his sword to press the advantage.

Before the Swordarm could land another blow, which would almost certainly have killed Robert, he fell suddenly backwards. His arms flailed wildly but ineffectively, and he crashed to the floor with such force that the hilt of his sword flew from his grasp. The object that caused the upset rolled forward to rest at Robert's feet, and he stared at it incredulously: it was the torch he'd dropped earlier, its flame now reduced to smoldering. He gave it only a moment's attention before kicking it roughly to the side of the corridor; it had served its unlikely purpose, and would not do so again. And there were more pressing matters to consider.

Removing the pressure of his grip from the injury, he instead probed it with his fingers. The slice ran through skin and muscle and almost to the bone, deep enough that it would likely continue bleeding rather than scab over if it was not dressed. In the heat of battle, however, it did not seem debilitating; he held his sword, unassisted by the other hand, nearly as steadily as before.

The Swordarm had not yet risen from the floor. He appeared conscious, but dazed, and utterly defenseless without his sword. Robert briefly thought to kill him where he lay. It would be ignoble conduct in a duel, but the Swordarm's final words had exempted him from those strictures, if he only chose to accept them. Still, he remained torn; he had no expectation of survival, but had hoped to die honorably, if only in his own estimation. All things being equal, it was better to die honorably than to live otherwise, but the honor of the princess was an overriding concern.

When he raised his eyes from the Swordarm to take in the three soldiers standing beyond, however, he found the decision moot. They had not come forward, and would not while the Swordarm still lived unless he gave them leave, but their swords were raised and their muscles tensed, as though prepared to spring into action at any time. They would see his sentence applied if the Swordarm could not, Robert realized, and with greater fervor for having witnessed an ignoble death. Slowly, so as not to startle the young blue-coats into action, Robert stepped back and lowered his sword to a neutral position.

As he waited for the Swordarm to recover his senses, Robert finally had an opportunity to ponder the mystery that had triggered this reversal of fortune. The memory that had saved him could not have been of a swordplay sequence, at least, not one he had learned. The introductory sword training that all soldiers received focused on single techniques; those who showed exceptional talent in these common classes were assigned their own tutors, whose role was to teach how these techniques might be combined for effective combat against a skilled opponent.

They were swordmasters all, and many had served as Emperor's Swordarm themselves in their youth, but the methods they taught varied widely. Some only taught the points of connection between the various techniques, and expected their students to craft their own sequences. Others taught techniques strung into dizzying chains of attack, with elaborate flourishes and misdirections. Robert's own tutor favored short, simple sequences with no more than four techniques, to better adapt one's attacks to the changing flow of battle. He would never have used a sequence of more than eight techniques, such as the Swordarm had just employed, much less taught it to one of his students. And Robert had never met any tutor other than his own, except...

He had his answer, for what little it was worth. The Swordarm had come to his senses, twisted roughly to his side to retrieve the sword from where it had fallen, and sprang to his feet with surprising agility. He wore the expressionless mask of a soldier no longer; it had been replaced by one of profound fury. By following the etiquette of a duel, and not striking when he had the chance, Robert had bruised the Swordarm's honor in front of his fellow soldiers. Robert could not help a smile at the irony, which only seemed to enrage the man further; without so much as a word to Robert or his own companions he rushed forward to deliver a new flurry of attacks.

These were quicker and far more elaborate than any that had come before, with frequent shifts in combat stance and sword grip. Even aided by dim memory of a sparring match ten years before, each attack brought Robert nearer to where his guard would fail, with death the inevitable result. But as combat continued he found himself unafraid, and oddly expectant. Death was near, but he knew somehow that salvation was nearer still, though he did not know what form it would take. He knew better than to attempt to examine this premonition, but he felt its approach with every slash barely diverted, with every thrust barely dodged.

It came in the unlikely form of yet another furious attack, a cross-cut maneuver. This was a horizontal slash at chest level, meant to be immediately reversed with a modified grip, to comprise a single technique with two possible strikes that could segue into any of several subsequent attacks. It wasn't a particularly difficult technique for an experienced soldier, and had the Swordarm fought stoically, as a soldier should, it would not have posed any great risk of reprisal. But his fury imbued the first slash with unnatural force that carried the hilt of his sword slightly further than it should have gone. The opening this provided was small, less than a handsbreadth, and its existence was fleeting, but it was enough; having dodged back to avoid the blow, Robert lunged forward and drove his blade through the Swordarm's heart, nearly to the hilt.

He died still standing, impaled on Robert's sword. Robert saw his eyes widen in shock and his lips move as if to speak before his face suddenly went slack. By some combination of willpower and momentum, however, the Swordarm's final attack still landed; his sword cut a deep gash through tunic and leggings into Robert's thigh before falling from limp fingers to the floor. Robert pulled his own sword from the body, twisting the blade in the wound as final insurance, and the Swordarm's corpse fell heavily to the ground beside his jeweled sword.

The three remaining soldiers stood unmoving beyond, mouths agape; even the once-stoic veteran seemed shocked by the Swordarm's sudden defeat. Robert raised his sword again in challenge to any other that would approach, but the pointed tip of the blade quivered and began to waver before his eyes. The shadows in the corridor seemed to lengthen and congeal, and the soldiers' figures became blurred and indistinct. Just before his legs gave way, Robert saw one of them - the veteran, he thought - start forward with his sword raised.

"Stand down! You will not harm him!"

It was the voice of the princess, and it came from just ahead. Oblivion beckoned, but Robert forced his eyes open to find himself on one knee, leaning against the hilt of his sword, the blade of which had found purchase on the rough stone floor of the corridor. The Swordarm's blood pooled around his lowered knee, mingled with that which flowed from his own wounds, and Robert added his vomit to the rancid mix. He had seen death before, but it had never been so immediate, and it had never been at his hand.

"He is a criminal, your Highness." A soldier's voice answered firmly, and Robert did not need to raise his head to know it was the veteran who spoke.

"A criminal?" The princess protested in outraged tones, "And how is it that a criminal fought an honorable duel where the Emperor's Swordarm would not?"

"He fought with a blade he had no right to wield." The veteran insisted angrily. "By the laws of the family and the Empire, he did murder today."

When the princess did not reply at once, Robert finally raised his eyes from the floor. His body protested even this small exertion; every muscle ached as though he had run down an injured deer. He found matters as he had expected; the princess stood facing the soldiers, with Robert at her back. She had taken one of the freshly lit torches from its mount, and held it before her to forestall the soldiers' advance. The veteran stood directly in front of the princess, and was largely obscured even by her willowy form; Robert could little of him, but was relieved to note that although the two younger blue-coats held their swords raised they seemed uncomfortable with the veteran's lack of deference, and had not come forward to join him.

"If he has done murder, he will face justice." The princess ceded finally. The two younger blue-coats relaxed, and one sighed in relief, but she had not finished. "In the Emperor's court, where his guilt can be ascertained. I will not see him killed to satisfy a soldier's vengeance."

The veteran recoiled at the princess's accusation, but did not lower his sword, and when he spoke again his tone conveyed more than a mere lack of deference.

"This is a matter for the martial family, Highness, and you have no authority to intervene. You are not Emperor, and the Council has not named you Regent. Now stand aside, or I will make you stand aside."

The two young blue-coats shared an incredulous glance at the veteran's words, but neither moved to help or to hinder. With a groan, Robert struggled back to his feet and raised his sword, which quivered and wavered in his unsteady hand, but did not fall. If the veteran tried to touch her, he would face Robert's blade, ineffectual as it now was.

"Then so be it." The princess answered frigidly. Robert readied himself to intervene, but before the veteran could make good on his threat, a thin tongue of fire erupted from the head of the princess's torch and spiraled swiftly around him, engulfing his body in flames almost at once. He screamed in agony, dropped his sword, and began pawing at the licks of flame that played across his face and seemed to devour his features, but to no avail; his hands were also aflame. Two more tongues of fire erupted from the torch, and slithered around the flailing veteran like twin snakes to chase down the young soldiers, who had dropped their burdens and fled. The fire caught and engulfed them before they'd covered half the distance to the threshold, and they died in like manner; the mingled screams of the three soldiers filled the corridor.

When all was silent and movement ceased the princess loosed her torch; Robert watched it rebound from the charred corpse of the veteran, scattering ashes in its wake, and come to rest on the corridor floor, its fire spent. The princess turned to face Robert, and stared wearily down the length of his blade, the tip of which was poised only inches from her throat. He had raised it almost by reflex, but fear and revulsion kept it steady.

"What are you?" Robert croaked out the question, though he knew the answer. A witch. The princess is a witch.

The princess didn't answer immediately, but her eyes brimmed with tears, and she turned her vision to avoid meeting his eyes. Ignoring any inclination towards pity, Robert moved his sword forward, so the point rested gently against her throat. The gesture sufficed; her eyes met his, and she gave her answer.

"I am who I have always been." She said mournfully, and as soon as the last word was spoken she swayed forward - Robert withdrew his blade just before it would have pierced her neck - then back, like a blade of grass waving in a gentle breeze, and fell to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter 2

Celia awoke smiling, with an unfamiliar and inexplicable sense of fulfillment, but both the expression and the emotion that birthed it fled as she recalled what had transpired. She had left the only home she had ever known, perhaps never to return. She had lost any claim to royal authority; her cheeks burned at the memory of the old guard's contemptuous defiance. And she had used her magic to kill him and his two companions as well... as they fled. She had learned long ago that magic always extracted a price, but it had always been measured in fatigue and lost vitality. Now, however, it was supplemented by grotesque visions of charred flesh and the sound of agonized screams, memories that would not soon fade. Nor would the certain knowledge that she was responsible for their deaths.

And there was the memory of an even greater sacrifice, a loss felt more acutely than all others: Francis, her only child, whom others called the heir. She could not have fled with him, and if she had used her cursed gifts to protect him she would only have hastened his death. A pragmatic schemer might have some use for the veneer of legitimacy a child Emperor could provide, but not so much that he would tolerate the spawn of a witch, who might someday do magic himself, on the throne. There had been no other options, and now at least her son was beyond the grasp of palace intrigue, beyond even the conspirators' limited imaginings, but the logic that absolved her of guilt could not remove the pain of her loss. Francis. My child; my life. She lamented, Will I ever see you again?

She opened her eyes to utter darkness, darkness so complete that she could not see even the silhouette of her hand as she waved it across her face, and she briefly wondered if she was truly seeing darkness, or seeing nothing. Had she been captured and blinded? She felt no pain, however, only a profound weariness from having used so much magic. She lay supine on a rough, unyielding surface, and when she ran her fingers over it found the mortar-filled crevices of a stone floor, like any other on the palace grounds. She stretched her arms to either side as far as they would reach, and the fingertips of one hand brushed against a surface just as hard and cold as the floor. With difficulty she pulled herself up, and half-dragged and half-pushed her tired frame to lean against the wall as she began searching for patterns in the stone.

She had first seen them as a child, shortly after her mother died, and just before she discovered she could make sparks fly from her fingertips and objects hover above her palms. She had always known the two were somehow connected; the patterns were easier to find when she was fresh than when she was weary, and if she went a few days without so much as lighting a candle they would eventually come unbidden. It took years of fumbling, however, to learn how to touch them, and years more to understand them well enough to craft even the simplest of her own, for a gentle breeze to cool her bedchamber as she slept, or a candle flame that would not flicker or extinguish in a draft.

The search for patterns resisted reduction to the language of the mundane, and exercised levers of thought and imagination that had no word in the lexicon of the Empire. Even after years of trying, the nearest description of the process Celia could manage was trying to find what could not be seen, which hardly described it at all. She searched far longer than she ever had before, but no patterns appeared. Had she been spirited somewhere beyond the palace or to some deep, unknown chamber where no pattern existed, or was she simply too drained and distracted to find them? She had almost resigned herself to exploring blindly when a single translucent, dimly-glowing strand appeared only a length from where she sat. She focused her mind on that strand, held it firmly in her thoughts as it lengthened to cross and weave with several other strands, which materialized themselves and lengthened, revealing still other strands that ran along the walls, floor, and ceiling in patterns of incredible complexity, stretching several dozen lengths to either side.

Celia tentatively dropped her focus when the patterns ceased to grow, and sighed in relief when they lost some luminescence but otherwise held steady. When the patterns came unbidden they were a headache-inducing distraction from the mundane, but she was glad for them now. Seeing them wasn't the same as actually seeing, since anything could reside within the darkness between the patterned surfaces, but knowing at least the bounds of this space made traversing it a far less frightening prospect.

It was a wide corridor, arrow-straight and long, with no gaps in the pattern to suggest the presence of a door or intersecting corridor, save for one, the outlines of which she could barely distinguish, at each far end. Celia scowled, confused. The uncommon form of this corridor, the absence of light, and the subtle scent of displaced soil, so faint she hadn't noticed it before, all suggested one thing, but it seemed impossible. The Passage was a secret known only to the royal family. The Emperor's enjoinder against telling any other of it or using it herself except in the most dire circumstances was one of few he'd given her in his capacity as sovereign, rather than as her father, and she held it sacred because of that. She had never used it again, despite her curiosity, and had never even hinted that it existed to another soul; her association with Robert Danton, the man who had called himself gamekeeper but fought like a soldier, hadn't lasted long enough for her to begin. If this was the Passage, how had she come here?

Celia scanned the patterns again for some clue, though she thought the effort wasted even as she did; after they appeared, the patterns on the walls were always static and unchanging. She was shocked, then, to discover a flickering amongst the dense jumble of strands near one of the doors, a small mass within the larger pattern that brightened and dimmed in slow, rhythmic cycles. From her vantage, it looked like a knot or a tangle, but neither existed in any pattern she had seen before. Curiosity overcame caution, and though she lacked even the strength to stand Celia slowly began crawling toward the mass on her hands and knees.

As she came nearer, Celia found it wasn't a knot or tangle, but a wholly separate pattern that seemed to hover slightly above the larger one spread across the stone floor. It was small, but tightly woven and very complex. She pressed forward with more urgency; this pattern was the first she had seen, except for those that lined the walls and floors of the palace, that she had not crafted herself. She had gone only a few more lengths, however, when she heard a noise from the darkness ahead, and froze. It was a soft splashing sound, so brief that it had ended before she could stop to listen, but she was certain she hadn't imagined it. Her heart beat rapidly, almost audibly, as she waited for the strange noise to recur. It never did, but as she listened she became aware of another sound, this one so faint she would not have noticed had she not been listening so carefully: a sound of soft, labored breathing.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Celia called out tentatively, but there was no response from the darkness, and no discernible change in the breathing. She posed the question again, and a third time, louder with each repetition. If this was the Passage, she needn't worry that her voice would carry beyond its walls.

The pattern beyond continued to brighten and dim in the same cycle, and Celia realized that it fluctuated in unison with the unseen person's breathing, growing brighter as he inhaled and dimmer as he exhaled, fading at times almost to nothingness. He's dying. The thought was her own, but Celia could not say how she knew it, or even how she knew for certain that a man was dying, and not a woman. Casting fear aside, she crawled forward more quickly to help.

When she came within a length of the floating pattern Celia moved with more caution. It seemed to hang in empty space, a handsbreadth above the corridor floor, but she knew this was an illusion. A pattern must be bound to something substantial if it was to endure; an object, a surface, or perhaps, if her odd intuition served, even living flesh. As she carefully felt her way nearer Celia's fingertips brushed against a hard object, cylindrical and rough-textured but not as cold or unyielding as the floor. Guessing what it might be, she slid her hand gently along its length, and sighed in relief when she felt the edge of a pitch-coated cloth. It was a torch, unspent, and ready to provide light if Celia could only provide the spark.

She breathed deeply and tried to clear her mind of distractions. Normally it would be easy to make a spark; after the patterns, the ability to generate them at will had been the first manifestation of her gift, and it remained the simplest. The magic she'd used in the corridor had so drained her, however, that she tried several times before a single tiny spark flew from an outstretched fingertip and began to drift lazily to the floor. A small pattern would have nurtured it into a flame, and kept that flame alive indefinitely, but Celia lacked the strength to craft it; all she could do was focus on the spark and will it to persist as she tried to maneuver the head of the torch where it might fall. The patterns that persisted from her earlier focus were now forgotten; they shimmered, flickered, and finally winked out of existence in the instant before the torch ignited.

Celia shaded her eyes from the brightness with an indelicate curse, and quickly thrust the torch to the side of the wide corridor, beyond her sight, as she surveyed the scene ahead through slitted eyes. The man lay lengthwise along the corridor, prone, in a shallow pool of blood that covered almost its entire width. His head lay in the space where the pattern had hung, not far from where she knelt; his feet were nearer the door. He wore a pair of rough leggings and a tattered tunic, the bits of which that were not soaked in blood a familiar shade of faded green. The bow and quiver that hung half-off his back, their ends dipped into the pool of blood at his side, were also familiar. It was Robert Danton, the gamekeeper.

Celia's breath caught in her throat. Her final memory before waking in this dark corridor - that it was the Passage she now had no doubt; even the spacing of empty torch mounts on the walls was familiar - was of crying on the point of his sword. Had they then reconciled? Had she led him here? If she had, how could she recall the interrogation so vividly but the reconciliation not at all?

A bundle of brilliant scarlet fabric lay near his body, and Celia recognized it as having lately served as the Swordarm's coat. The head of another fresh torch protruded from the bundle, along with the gilded and jeweled hilt of the ceremonial blade the Swordarm had carried. More fresh torches were strewn across the stone floor nearby, jarred loose when the bundle had fallen. Celia crawled among the scattered torches, and continued reluctantly into the pooled blood to see if anything could be done for the dying man. She was not a doctor or a surgeon, and she knew of no magic that would heal, but the education of a scion of royalty was broad, and she hoped that somewhere in her mind might exist knowledge that would prolong his life.

The wound on his arm, the first she'd seen him take in the corridor, was bound with a strip of crimson cloth also torn from the Swordarm's coat. As Celia loosened the makeshift binding she felt an odd heat from it, as though rot had already taken hold, but when she slid the moist cloth firmly down his arm she neither saw nor smelt any sign of it. The wound gaped open slightly but bled very little; the blood on its margins was dry and fell into the pooled blood in tiny flecks as she pulled the split edges of the tunic apart. The binding had done its work; the wound would need to be sewn if it was to fully heal, but it would not cause his death.

The wound on his hip was left open and untended, and a quick inspection revealed why: the Swordarm's final blow had struck true, severing veins and splitting organs, and cutting even into the viscera. The injury was clearly mortal; a team of surgeons could only have bought Robert the excruciating days it would take for rot to claim him instead. That he had survived long enough to witness Celia's magic and interrogate her was notable. That he was strong enough afterward to reach the Passage bordered on incredible. That he survived even now she could only attribute to the pattern woven about him, and whatever strange protection it granted. But its protection, she knew instinctively, was neither absolute nor eternal; Robert Danton would soon die, and the pattern that he carried and the answers he might have would die with him.

It might have been instinct that drove what Celia did next; it might have been an unfocused curiosity born of preoccupation. Whatever the reason, her hand reached out, and her fingers touched the wound. The heat she'd felt from the injury on his arm emanated doubly from this one, but she did not at first perceive it. Nor did she perceive the tingling sensation in her fingertips as she touched it, even as it became a prickling, then a mild stinging. When she finally snatched her hand back and threw herself away from Robert with an unmoderated scream, her fingers throbbed as though they had rested in a bed of coals. She saw no injury to them in the dim torchlight, however, and the pain faded even as she examined them. It was obviously magic of some kind, almost certainly a manifestation of his pattern, but to what end?

Celia discovered the answer when she returned her attention to the wound. She watched in rapt amazement as torn flesh knit itself neatly together, as though sewn with invisible thread and impossible care. At first there was only a hairsbreadth of fused skin on each side of the wound, but it had grown to a fingersbreadth when the process began to slow, and to nearly the breadth of two fingers when it finally came to a stop. Most of the wound was still open, but where it had fused only a thin scar remained of the trauma that had been before.

It was a healing enchantment, but one unlike any she had imagined, bought with pain rather than vitality, its workings somehow directed by the pattern itself. Had the price been vitality, the briefest touch on his wound might have killed her, but pain was a sacrifice she could better afford.

Sacrifice. The word reminded Celia of something her father once said as he trained her to serve as Regent for her son: "When the people suffer, the Emperor must be first to sacrifice." She was not Emperor, and if the old guard had spoken true she'd been denied Regency as well. She had no one for whom to sacrifice, except perhaps the man who fought for her in the corridor, who somehow accompanied her to the Passage, and who now lay dying.

Celia crawled back into the pool of blood to kneel above him once again, and extended her hand deliberately this time at the wound. There were no preliminaries now, no tingling or prickling or stinging; the burning began as soon as fingers met flesh, but Celia did not recoil. She bit her lip in determination instead, closed her eyes, and turned her face away from the pain. Her fingers gripped the flesh like talons as the burning intensified and spread through the joints of her fingers to engulf her palm, her wrist, then her entire forearm. A roar filled her ears as the pain intensified even further. It seeped past her elbow, engulfed her shoulder, and sent thin tendrils of pain across her throat and chest before it finally stopped its advance and began to fade and recede, leaving a deep and abiding ache in its wake.

Celia drew a ragged breath when the burning faded from her fingertips, and was surprised to find her throat raw. The roaring sound must have drowned her screams, or perhaps had been some manifestation of her screams. Celia slowly pried her hand from where the wound had been, finger by finger, joint by excruciating joint; the pain had so petrified her grasp that she could barely change it now. Her fingertips left lasting, pale impressions in the skin when she pulled them away. As she gingerly straightened her fingers, and clenched them into a brief experimental fist, she was relieved to note that her suffering had at least not been in vain. Where the wound had been was now unblemished flesh, with no trace of scarring, and when Celia glanced at Robert's arm she found that it had healed perfectly as well.

Celia lingered for a time over his unconscious form, but though his breathing eventually became deeper and less labored, he did not stir. The limb she had used to heal him still ached, and would bear no weight; she cradled it against her chest as she dragged herself laboriously beyond the pool of blood to lean against the wall of the Passage, near where the torch she had lit continued to burn. Once situated, she tried to find the patterns, hoping to discover in them some clue to Robert's condition, but this time they would not appear no matter how long she searched.

The unpleasant sounds of choking and retching jolted Celia from her accidental slumber. The torch that lay nearby now burned feebly, and threw only enough light to reveal a silhouette of Robert's body. He had risen to his hands and knees in the pool of blood, but quaked so violently with each new sound it seemed he might collapse again at any moment. Celia grasped the torch and lifted it to faintly illuminate the scene as the quaking finally ceased.

She watched in silence, with baited breath, as Robert lifted a hand from the floor, and turned it to stare at the palm as he flexed each finger in turn. His expression was unreadable, lost to the dimness and layers of blood caked over his features, and Celia wondered if he was feeling echoes of the pain with which she'd purchased his life, the ache of which persisted in her own arm. He made no further movement and seemed almost frozen in form, but when Celia ventured a tentative exhalation, so soft that she barely heard it herself, he whipped his face toward her and rose quickly to his haunches.

His face was half-covered with dried blood; it clung to his skin in uneven brown clumps like a grotesque mask, so thick in spots that it sealed one eye shut. The eye that remained open searched her out beyond the torchlight, and when it found her, widened in an expression of surprise that sent cracks throughout the mask and freed his other eye to open as wide as the first.

"You!" Robert's voice was thick and gravely with disuse, but both fear and bewilderment were plainly evident in his tone. "What did you do to me?"

"I saved you." Celia replied with difficulty, as her own voice had not fully recovered from its earlier exertion. Even as she said those words, however, doubt invaded her thoughts. If she could not even understand how she had healed him, then how could she know for certain that healing was all she had done?

"Saved me? Y-" Robert parroted incredulously, but abruptly stopped, and his jaw slackened in amazement as he finally seemed to comprehend what had happened. He shifted his gaze to his shoulder, while a hand quested for the wound on his hip. Both found skin unbroken, but when he looked at Celia again he seemed even more frightened and repulsed than before.

"You don't know wha-" He raged, but seemed to catch himself with a visible shudder. He stared at her sullenly instead, and though Celia held his gaze impassively as he moved to stand on unsteady legs, her emotions roiled. Both here and in the apartments he had viewed her magic with fear and disgust, as any loyal citizen of the Empire would do. If he had been enchanted, it had obviously been without his knowledge or consent, and he had none of the answers she sought.

"I wielded a sword." Robert stated numbly, and Celia broke her reverie to find that he stared no longer at her, but at the jeweled hilt that protruded from the scarlet bundle at his feet. "Broke the Emperor's amnesty. Killed a man." He bent to grasp the hilt in one hand, and instead of withdrawing the blade sliced neatly up through the knot that secured it within the bundle with a deft, seemingly effortless turn of his wrist.

"For a witch." He concluded emphatically as he turned to face Celia again. He seemed more regretful than angry, however, and kept the tip of the patterned blade pointed at the floor as he continued to speak. "I willingly surrendered a gamekeeper's life for a cause I thought greater than my own, but I was deceived. You deceived me. And by saving me, you denied me even a soldier's death with what little honor I had left."

Robert's hand tightened visibly on the sword hilt, and the tip of his blade quivered momentarily above the stone floor, but he did not lift it. Instead, he bent again to pull at the blood-stained fabric that had been the Swordarm's coat, scattering several smaller items that had been bundled within. A fresh torch lay among them, and he retrieved that as well.

"I have left you provisions for two days." He said coldly, flinging the ruined scarlet coat over one shoulder, and he casually lit his torch from the flickering remains of the one Celia held limply in her hands. "What you do with them and where you go are your own affair."

"And where will you go?" Celia asked him softly. Her voice quavered, and she was surprised to find herself on the verge of tears for the second time that day. She had no real need of him; in two days she could recover much of her strength, and use her magic and the Passage to haunt her foes, make them rue their betrayal. Why then did the prospect of his departure so upset her?

"To find a guard." He began. "Tell him exactly who I am, and how I killed the Emperor's Swordarm." He shrugged the shoulder on which the scarlet coat hung as proof of his deed. "And then we will fight, and I will die with sword in hand. A soldier's death." He concluded casually, turned, and walked away.

"No!" She pleaded reflexively, involuntarily. Her voice broke, and tears fell despite herself. It defied logic, but she felt as though his leaving would deprive her of something crucial, something as necessary to her existence as food, water, or breath.

Robert paused, but did not turn to face Celia as he delivered his parting words. "For your father's sake, I will not tell them where to find you, or what you are." There was no longer any trace of anger or revulsion in his tone; only apathy and regret. When he finished he resumed his retreat, walking as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him.

Celia called after him, first commanding him to stop, then pleading with him to stop, and finally begging as tears rolled down her face, but Robert did not even slow his steps. When his torch was little more than a bright speck at the far end of the Passage, Celia turned to magic in desperation. She improvised a charm of air, a reversal of sorts of the one she used to propel the urn in her apartment, when she mistook him for an assassin. She had little time to craft it, however, for when he left the Passage he would be beyond the reach of her magic.

Celia felt the pattern manifest, felt it leech from her nearly all the vitality she had recovered as she slept, and waited nervously on its effect. If she miscrafted it or if it misfired there would be no other chance. The bright speck of Robert's torch disappeared, and Celia thought she heard him yelp in surprise, but before she could react the wind came with a roar that drowned all other sound in the Passage. It was impossibly strong, stronger than any natural wind she had ever felt, and it plucked the dying torch from her fingers like a flower from the ground, and sent it tumbling end-over-end down the corridor. Had it blown for more than the briefest of moments it might have upset Celia as well, and sent her tumbling after her torch.

The wind died almost the same instant it had come, and the Passage returned to silence. Of Robert Danton there was no sign; not even the faint echo of his heavy footsteps on the stone floor remained. He had gone; her charm had failed, and the result of its misfire guaranteed he would not return. Celia was again in darkness, and again uncertain she could summon strength to throw a single spark to light one of the torches scattered around her. She slumped back against the wall of the Passage and sobbed.

Celia had ceased crying long before and her tears had long since dried when she heard the echo of returning footsteps. She panicked briefly, wondered whether Robert had broken his vow and the footfalls were those of an adversary come to collect or kill her, but she quickly dismissed that notion. She hadn't the faintest idea of all the forces arrayed against her, but she knew they would not dream of sending only one man for her, particularly if they even suspected her of magic.

The wind generated by her misfired charm had deposited a torch against her thigh, where it remained fresh and unlit. Celia thought she might throw a spark to ignite it, but doing so would reveal her presence to the unseen intruder. She began searching for the patterns instead... and was surprised when they winked into view almost immediately, showing once again the full extent of the Passage, and revealing as well a dense jumble of strands that seemed to float freely in its midst, resolving into a familiar pattern as the footsteps came nearer.

A loud clatter interrupted Robert's final approach, and Celia heard him curse quietly; he must have stumbled over a torch or some other bundle that had escaped the wind. When his footsteps resumed they were lighter and more tentative as he navigated nearer by feel... and by sound, Celia realized when she saw the pattern halt, then tilt slightly; she had a distinct image of him cocking his ear to the sound of her breathing.

He perched against the opposite wall, still a few lengths distant from where she sat but near enough that she heard clearly the faint scrape of steel against stone as he settled himself, signaling that he still carried a sword. He did not speak at once, so Celia used the opportunity to study his pattern for the first time since she had healed him. It seemed woven exactly as it had been before, and still flickered with each breath, but only subtly; it never approached fading so completely as when she had first seen it. She waited for instinct or intuition to provide some further insight into his condition, but none came. She assumed - hoped - that meant he was indeed fully healed.

"Do you intend to overthrow the Regent?" Robert asked from the darkness, eschewing formalities and pacing his words as though he dreaded her response, and Celia could not quell a bitter laugh. She was a witch to him now, no longer a princess; he must think her full of nefarious schemes and capable of any atrocity. But if he truly believed so, why had he come back? And for that matter, why was she so joyful and relieved at his return?

"My intentions are those of any mother." Celia replied eventually. "To protect my child, give him everything to which he is entitled, and destroy those who would do him harm."

"Do you intend to rule?" He pressed further, and she frowned at this new question. In other circumstances she would have sought the Regency, but Robert spoke as though he feared she would name herself Empress. There had been only two in the long history of the Empire, and both reigns were marked by chaos. Even if the nobles wished to chance a third they would not accept a daughter of the West, particularly in circumstances as troubled as these.

"It wouldn't matter if I did." Celia answered, skillfully evading the vagaries of his question. "The nobles would never allow it now. At least four soldiers have died, three burnt to a crisp, and the fourth the Emperor's Swordarm. The martial families would sooner rebel than think him disloyal."

"Was he disloyal?" Robert mused hollowly, and Celia suddenly understood at least a portion of his turmoil. "He was arrogant and impulsive, unworthy of his blade, but-"

"When you first learned of the Emperor's death," Celia interrupted mercifully, "What was the next question you asked me?"

"I... I asked you about the heir." Robert recalled slowly, and his tone changed to wonderment as the significance of the answer dawned on him.

"You asked about the heir." Celia confirmed. "Did you wonder why the Swordarm never did the same? He seemed so eager to take me to the throne room that he gave no thought to the one in whose name the Regent would rule."

"He might have forgotten." Robert still seemed uncertain.

"Perhaps," Celia conceded, "But consider his reaction when I refused to follow them to the throne room. I do not know your crimes, gamekeeper, but no matter how you provoked the martial families I cannot think that any soldier would dare oppose me so openly unless he were already resolved I would never hold authority over him... or have sway over anyone who did. So take heart! You may have killed a man for a witch's honor," she concluded, "But you may be assured he was not innocent."

Robert did not respond, but the sound of his breathing become labored and erratic. Was he crying? Celia heard no other evidence, but she kept a respectful silence as the episode passed.

"It's not safe here." Robert observed worriedly some time after his normal breathing had resumed. If he had cried, no trace remained in his voice. "I bled when I brought you from the apartments. If they follow its trail to the basement, it will lead them here."

Celia smiled smugly into the darkness. With these words he had answered one of her lingering questions. She knew that he had known somehow about the Passage, and brought her here after her collapse in the corridor, but he clearly did not understand its properties. Given the fear of magic he had shown before, she doubted he would have used it otherwise. How much of it could she reveal? Would the mere thought of it make him flee? She could not know for certain, but Celia thought she might illuminate the possibilities with a small display of magic, if she had recovered enough to see it through.

"I doubt that will be a problem," Celia hedged cryptically as she prepared her demonstration, grasping for the handle of the torch at her side. When she found it, she continued with careful flippancy as she raised it from the stone floor. "There's a fresh torch here." Before Robert could respond, Celia lifted the torch in both hands and, while squinting against the anticipated brightness, sent a tiny lick of flame from a raised fingertip spiraling up the handle to ignite the pitch-soaked rag at its head.

Celia heard Robert's gasp followed by a sudden clatter as it flared, but continued to hold the torch steady before her. If she hoped to keep him calm, she could not betray her own trepidation. Once her eyes adjusted, she was relieved to find that though he now stared at her warily, and kept a white-knuckled grip on the jeweled hit of the Swordarm's sword, Robert had not fled. His face was more like that of a man now; the larger clumps of blood had fallen from his cheek, and the brown stain that remained was broken by tear tracks. He still had the Swordarm's coat as well, now in tatters from ill-use; it lay knotted across his shoulders, where it nearly obscured the quiver of arrows that peeked over his back. The bow that once hung there as well was absent.

Still watching Robert carefully, Celia braced her legs against the floor of the corridor, testing their strength. She thought she might be able to stand now with some effort by bracing her back against the stone wall, but it suited her purposes to pretend otherwise.

"Would you mount this torch for me, gamekeeper?" Celia asked, exaggerating the weariness in her voice.

"You lit it with magic." Robert answered flatly, a statement of fact rather than accusation, but made no move to fulfill her request.

"I used magic to light a torch!" Celia countered. "Like any other torch. It will burn until it is spent, and then it will die. It is no different now than the one you carried in the apartments."

"But magic is evil! It-" He began, but Celia interrupted with words long rehearsed, words she desperately hoped to be true.

"There is no more evil in magic than there is in... a candle," she extemporized, then noted a more apt example on his person. "Or your sword. They are tools, to be used to honor or dishonor. Good and evil reside in the hearts of those who wield them."

Robert sat in silence for some time, but eventually her argument seemed to have swayed him, and he rose to his feet and haltingly crossed the corridor. He still held the sword in one hand, but kept it pointed at the floor. Celia hoped that honor would keep him from striking without warning, even if he thought her only a witch; if he did choose to attack, she did not think she could stop him. When he came near enough, Robert reached for the handle of the torch with his empty hand, but though his fingers touched it, they did not yet grasp.

"And am I just another one of your tools?" He asked instead, a remnant of the former bitterness in his tone.

"Only if you choose to be." She answered carefully, and Robert finally grasped the torch and pulled it from her hands with a resigned sigh. He gripped only the end of its shaft and held his arm fully extended, keeping the flame as far as possible from his body as if he still believed it might suddenly rise to engulf him. His grip was firm, however, and the torch did not shake as he turned and stepped back across the corridor to place it in the most convenient mount.

When it was seated he turned to stare at her defiantly, and Celia realized he had seen her request for the test it was. In that moment she resolved to tell him of the Passage, though he still might flee. If she desired Robert's help with all that would follow, it was a risk she would have to take.

"Very well, gamekeeper" Celia began tentatively, searching for the most innocuous phrasing for what came next. "I used magic to light a torch, a torch like any other. I could have enchanted it, made its flame eternal, or made it throw sparks like a festival favor, but I did not. It remains a torch, like any other torch. The Passage-" Having finally come to the heart of the matter, she was still hesitant to proceed. "This passage is a corridor... but it is not like other corridors."

Robert's expression immediately became tinged with panic, but Celia continued swiftly and calmly, hoping her unruffled tone would settle him as well. "We are safe here, safer than we would be anywhere else in this palace, and I will tell you all there is to know of it."

"But first," she said more severely, "I wish to know who you are, or who you were, and why my father trusted you with a secret he commanded me never to tell."

"You truly have no memory of me? Not a single recollection?" Robert asked Celia disbelievingly.

He now sat across the Passage, almost directly beneath the torch he had just mounted. He seemed outwardly calm, but Celia observed that his fingers were still tightly clenched on the hilt of his sword, and he leaned his body away from the stone wall at his back. Despite his apparent nonchalance, he was still frightened. Then why has he not fled? Celia wondered to herself. And why did he return at all?

"No." To his question there were several answers Celia might give, but she chose the simplest, and she hoped the most truthful.

She had no memory of having seen him before, and no image she could conjure in her mind, but from nearly the moment she had glimpsed him in her apartment she wanted to trust him. She had resisted the impulse at first, as he knelt before her and offered penance; her father often said a traitor would bow deeper than an honest man ever would, but she had resolved to trust him despite those misgivings. Was it merely impulse that made her do so? Or was it an instinctive recognition, shadow of a memory that had long since faded?

"Nine years ago," Robert began his account, "I was a soldier just finished training, on my first assignment to the palace. I wore this." He said, plucking at the remains of the Swordarm's coat tied across his shoulders, and though his voice was without affect Celia thought she saw the ghost of a smile cross his face at the recollection, a remnant of the pride he must have felt as he wore it. "When the Emperor was stricken, I became more than just his guard." He continued haltingly. "He trusted me with small matters at first, then with larger ones. I think he even came to consider me a friend."

Celia thought otherwise, but remained silent. Her father might have loved her mother while she lived, but since her death he had shown little regard for anything other than the Empire and the perpetuation of his line on its throne, to the extent that Celia wondered sometimes if he saw even her as anything more than a means to that end. If her father had shown any special kindness to his Swordarm, it was because he expected some favor in return. When she did not respond, Robert continued his recollection hollowly.

"Late one evening, the Emperor suddenly banished everyone from the throne room. All of his ministers, physicians, and guards, all of the members of his court. Everyone except for me. He ordered me to bar the door after them. He was in pain-" His voice quavered, and he paused to collect himself before continuing. "He was in great pain even then, and I feared he would order me to exercise the soldier's privilege, and end it."

Celia dimly recalled the practice he spoke of. A soldier with certain wounds deemed inevitably mortal could ask another for a quicker, more merciful death. Made in good faith, with the requisite injuries, it was a request no soldier could deny. The Emperor had no such wounds, and was not a soldier in any case, but if he had commanded Robert to do so...

"I was relieved," He continued his story, interrupting her thoughts. "When he commanded me only to help him hobble through the adjoining chambers, and down a stair I hadn't noticed before to the cellars below. He took me to a small alcove in one corner, and made me swear never to reveal what I would see. Once I was sworn, he showed me this passage."

The story rang true; Celia's father had shown her the Passage in nearly the same way, with a similar oath. Robert's account was incomplete, however, missing the most important detail.

"Why? Why would my father trust you with one of the most precious secrets of royalty?" Celia erupted when she realized his silence was not a temporary pause, but his sole response was to lower his eyes to the floor and shake his head slowly from side to side. "What errand did he have for you?" Celia gambled, and saw her guess confirmed when Robert suddenly jerked his eyes up to stare at her.

"So it was an errand, then!" Celia confirmed smugly. "What errand could the Emperor have had for a soldier in the royal apartments?"

"I cannot say." Robert muttered, staring again at the floor.

"Because of an oath you swore him?" Celia guessed again, but this time he did not react. "The Emperor is dead, gamekeeper, and the dead have foothold in the world of the living. You needn't be bound by your oaths." The challenge was subtle, and it was not quite an accusation of cowardice, but it was enough to momentarily crack Robert's composure.

"I'm not-" He began heatedly, but quickly caught himself. When he spoke again his tone held no anger; his voice was serene, yet firm. "I will not say. I would not tell you if you were Regent. I would not tell you even if they crowned you Empress."

It was not the response she had sought, but it gave Celia an answer of a different sort. Robert was not merely hiding what the Emperor had wished hidden, but was keeping the knowledge from her, specifically. Had she been involved in this errand?

"The Emperor sent a soldier on a secret errand to the royal apartments... nine years ago." Celia ventured, thinking aloud. If the errand had been nine years ago, perhaps it fell within the several weeks surrounding Francis' birth, time of which she had little recollection. It might also explain why Robert had so expected she would remember him. Were the errand and her pregnancy somehow related? She couldn't expect an answer from him, but two events of such rarity could hardly happen so near each other by coincidence. Was she still pregnant, or had she already delivered? Or perhaps... Celia shivered at the horror of her next thought; it was almost too repugnant to consider, but seemed too apt to discard unexplored.

"Was I still in labor?" Celia asked quietly, and she thought she saw Robert flinch at the question. "Did the Emperor send you to trade his daughter for an heir?" She pressed further to no avail; he gave no other response.

Her strength already depleted by worry and fatigue before it began, Celia's labor had taken four days, or so she had been told later; she remembered none of it. She had heard that the physicians feared she might die from the exertion, and that her child might die as well. She had often wondered how her father had felt during those dark days, with all of his dreams for the future of his lineage resting on her frail shoulders, and whether he had spared any worry for her amidst his ambitions. Now, she thought she might finally know.

"Tell me I am mistaken!" Celia demanded of Robert. "Tell me that I have misjudged him!"

"You are mistaken." He answered finally, but his hesitation and hollow tone both belied his words. With all her heart Celia wished to believe him, but she could not; almost despite herself she continued to find confirmation for the errand as she imagined it in what Robert had said before. The Emperor sent a soldier on this errand because it was a soldier's errand; there was killing to be done. Its delicate nature demanded the speed and secrecy of the Passage. And it explained Robert's refusal to tell her. It was from pity rather than duty, a desire to spare her the pain of her father's betrayal.

Robert still stared at the stone floor; he had seldom taken his eyes from it since she first began to inquire about the errand. Celia abruptly pushed herself away away from the wall and crawled toward him across the corridor. The arm she had used to heal him still ached terribly, and verged on collapse whenever she placed her weight on it, but she ignored the pain. It was not enough for him to say it; he had to swear to the truth of his words, and she had to look him in the eye as he did so. Only then would she believe him. She hoped she would believe.

Robert did not raise his blade at her movement, and did not start when she grasped his arm to steady her balance when she came near. He did not even resist when she placed two fingers under his chin to tip his head upright. He trembled slightly; she felt the faint tremors of his shaking on her fingertips, and his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

"Swear it!" Celia insisted with quiet, desperate urgency. "Swear it to me on a soldier's honor."

"Gamekeeper." He muttered brokenly in return, shifting his eyes to avoid her gaze. Tears loosed by this movement made fresh tracks down his cheeks.

"I saw you fight a soldier's battle in the apartments, Robert Danton." Celia corrected, her tone almost accusatory. "You fought with honor when your opponent refused to do the same. If you swear on that honor that I am wrong, I will believe you."

Robert returned her gaze once again, and seemed to gather himself for a moment before speaking.

"I sw-" He began strongly, almost defiantly, but he could not seem to finish the strangled syllable. His trembling became more marked; Celia felt it now through the hand she'd placed on the arm of his blood-caked tunic, and his tears flowed freely. "I cannot." He finally whispered helplessly. "I am sorry."

She was correct, then; her father had tried to have her killed. She had long suspected that he did not reciprocate her love in full measure, but to have his disregard confirmed so explicitly was still an excruciating blow. The world seemed to tilt before her, and her vision became blurry; she found herself crying for the umpteenth time in this long day of tears. She had already grieved her father's death; now she grieved the desecration of his memory.

Were you really that desperate for an heir, father? Did you even love me at all?

Celia had emerged from her private misery by slow degrees. First had come the sensation of being held and comforted, and for a long while this was all she cared to know. Next, the ironic realization that Robert Danton, the soldier once tasked with killing her, was who she now leaned against. Finally, after an even longer span, and with her tears nearly stilled, Celia's modesty had reasserted itself, and she had pulled away from him to crawl back to her previous perch, leaning against the stone wall on the opposite side of the corridor.

Robert's touch had been a great comfort as she cried, but even now Celia recalled it with some embarrassment; she had not been held in like manner since her husband had vanished. She colored at an unbidden recollection of their intimacy, and immediately scolded himself for it. Jain's was another memory that had been tarnished by recent events, and dwelling on him now would only invite other, more painful thoughts.

Robert had left his own seat in the awkward silence that followed her tears. He had taken an extra torch, and she could see him now by its light, rummaging among the provisions that had been driven against the door at the nearer end of the Passage by her foolish, miscrafted charm of air. He was only a few steps removed from that door, and freedom if he wished it, but though she could not explain why a loyal citizen of the Empire would choose to help a witch, Celia knew somehow that an escape was no longer in his plans. The Swordarm's ceremonial blade, the one with which Robert had once hoped to forge an honorable death, lay on the floor where he left it, seemingly forgotten.

When Robert returned, Celia saw he had found his bow; it was once again slung over the quiver of arrows at his back. He carried some of the smaller bundles as well; they nearly overfilled a sling he had fashioned from the remnants of the Swordarm's coat, which was now so tattered and stained it was barely recognizable as such. The torch he had taken still burned near the door, where he had mounted it as he worked.

"We have provisions for two days." Robert announced, gently laying the sling on the stone floor by his side as he resumed his previous seat. "If you can stand warm cider and half-rations of bruised apples."

Celia's stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of food, and Robert smiled at the involuntary response, but did not comment. Instead he pulled a small knife with a squat, oddly-shaped blade from a pocket of his tunic, and reached his other hand into the makeshift sling to withdraw a spherical object that shone a muted shade of red in the dim torchlight: an apple. Robert wielded the knife with surprising finesse, quickly removing the peel in slices so thin they seemed translucent as they hung from the blade and fell to the floor. Once peeled he cut the apple into halves, and weighed them in his hands briefly before offering one to Celia in a hand extended across the corridor.

The craving was unexpected and inexorable. In her privileged life Celia had never known such hunger as she did now, and since Francis' birth her condition was such that eating itself had become another bodily function, as free of enjoyment as those of breathing and elimination. She had seldom had an appetite at all in that time, and certainly not the sort of craving she felt now. Her pride battled with the powerful urge for only a moment before surrendering; she crawled quickly forward to snatch the fruit from Robert's grasp, and began to devour it while still returning to where she sat.

"I am sorry that I deceived you." Celia said eventually, some time after she had finished her meal by licking the juice from her fingers. She stared at the floor, and her checks burned from the spectacle she had made and the apology she now gave.

"What?" Robert asked, confused by the sudden turn in subject.

"When you woke after..." After I healed you, Celia thought but did not say. "After the apartments, you told me that you killed a man because I had deceived you."

He had also spoken of breaking the Emperor's amnesty, something the Swordarm had mentioned as well before their duel in the corridor, but Celia would pursue each matter in its own time.

"I was angry." Robert shrugged, and fidgeted uncomfortably where he sat. He seemed at least as embarrassed to have occasioned her apology as she had been to make it, but Celia pressed forward anyway.

"You were correct." She insisted. "I did deceive you. But I did not mean to. Magic was never something I chose for myself; it just began... happening one day, and once it had I could not stop, no matter how I tried. I could no more put it away from me than you could your sword." Robert flinched at these words, and Celia knew she had guessed correctly.

"I no longer possess means to repay your sacrifice, but since I am responsible for the loss of your title, I will address you by your given name both now and in the future. I lost my own title when the Emperor died and the Heir did not ascend the throne, and I may never hold another. But in any case, both now and in the future, you may address me by my given name as well."

If she had still possessed the power and position of her former title both would be considered great honors, the second perhaps the greatest she could bestow. Royalty seldom called their subjects by name rather than title for fear of becoming too familiar and earning their contempt, and they let reciprocate only their betrothed and those to whom they owed their very lives.

Although she had renounced her claim to royalty in nearly the same breath, Celia meant her words as tacit admission she would have died without Robert's intervention, and implicit appreciation for her survival. He said nothing in response, but from his expression she knew he had understood; he blushed himself, and seemed deeply and genuinely touched.

It was exactly the reaction Celia had hoped for. The apology had not been feigned, but neither was it made without expectation of return. She had more to learn of him, of the Emperor's amnesty and how a soldier named Robert, born in the port city of Anton on the Empire's eastern coast, had become the gamekeeper Robert Danton. She had more to tell him as well, secrets of the Passage she had vowed to share but that still might make him flee when he learned them. If she could obtain a measure of his trust before revealing them, then so much the better.

Now that she had an opportunity, however, there was another question she could not help but to ask instead.

"I promised to tell you of the Passage," Celia began, and saw Robert start as though he had forgotten the prior revelation of its enchantment. "If you said first why my father had trusted you with its secret. You have met those terms, but there was one detail left unsaid. If-" Celia hesitated. It was far easier to speak of him as the Emperor, and even to think of him as such, than to reflect on how her father had tried to orchestrate her death. When she continued, her voice quavered despite herself. "If the Emperor sent you to the royal apartments to... to kill me, how did I survive?"

"I was indecisive." Robert answered, and to Celia's surprise he smiled slightly, as if recalling a fond memory. "Emperor's Swordarm was my first assignment; I had barely seen battle when I was named, much less ever killed anyone. The Emperor asked me to start by killing his only daughter, a defenseless innocent in the midst of childbirth."

"Even then," He continued. "You were the only one who lived in the apartments. The soldiers were stationed at its threshold, and none patrolled the corridors. I met servants on the way, but they all fled when they saw I held a sword - the Swordarm wears no scabbard." He explained unnecessarily. "No one hindered me until I reached the door to your bedchamber, where you were still in labor. The surgeon met me there; it seemed as though he already knew of my errand, and he blocked me from entering with his body as he begged for your life, pleaded with me to allow you a few more hours to birth an heir before I cut it from you, and I agreed to wait until dawn."

"Francis was born on the morning of the fourth day of labor." Celia said flatly, reciting what she had always been told. "At the crack of dawn."

"Yes." Robert nodded. "I waited in the antechamber until I saw the first rays of sunlight streaming through the door. I knew then that I couldn't delay my errand any longer, but when I approached your bedchamber, prepared to cut the surgeon down if he still interfered, I heard an infant crying and saw he cradled the heir in his arms."

"Would you have really killed me?" Celia asked.

"Yes." He stated immediately, without pride or regret in his tone, and though she knew what his answer must be Celia was still shocked by how soon he gave it. "A soldier is not given leave to question his orders, and this one came from the Emperor himself. I would have agonized over it, delayed for as long as possible, but I would eventually have killed you and carved the heir from your body."

A soldier's value to the Empire lay in his capacity to follow orders, blindly if necessary; to expect or hope anything else of one was foolish. Celia knew this at least as well as Robert did, but still she struggled to withhold a bitter reply.

"What became of the surgeon? The man who saved my life?" She asked instead, carefully keeping anger from her tone.

"I cannot recall." Robert replied after a pause, and suddenly seemed profoundly uncomfortable, in marked contrast to the comfort with which he had discussed her potential death. "After the heir was born, I became... distracted for a time." He hedged. "He left the palace, I think; the Emperor must have dismissed him for insubordination."

"Perhaps." Celia replied shortly, then lapsed into silence herself as she tried to decipher the meaning behind his words. He said he had been distracted, but by what? She could use guilt, or trust, or some other lever she had placed to pry the truth from him, but they might be destroyed in the process, and she might need any or all of them to retain his help once he learned of...

The Passage. Celia sighed in resignation. There was nothing left to do now but to tell him of it, and hope he would stay when she had.

"When the Emperor showed you the Passage, what did he say of it? Tell me exactly." She ordered crisply.

"He said it was an escape route," Robert started slowly, and his gaze became distant as he searched for exact words. "He called it a direct passage from the foundations of the throne room to those of the royal apartments."

"It is that." Celia agreed. The Passage was that and much more, but by saying only that it connected the throne room and royal apartments the Emperor had guaranteed that Robert would not discover otherwise while on the errand, or even if he chanced to use it afterward. She admired the simple ingenuity of his strategy... until she remembered again that he had used it in an attempt to kill her.

"The Emperor told you the truth, Robert," Celia began coldly, as she could no longer keep bitterness entirely from her tone. "But it might as well have been a lie for what he left unsaid. The Passage is an escape route, but it does not lead only between the apartments and the throne."

"There are... doorways to the Passage," She continued, "Scattered throughout the palace, from the deepest foundation of every stone building on its grounds. There are hundreds at least, perhaps thousands; I doubt anyone has ever surveyed them all. One may enter the Passage from any of these, and after walking its full length and leaving from the other end will find himself at another doorway, nearest to where he wishes to go. It led you to the apartments on the Emperor's errand because it was where he told you it led; you could not have had another destination in mind."

"Two doors." Robert murmured, and shifted his gaze from one end of the Passage to the other, where lay the heavy wooden doors that led to its various entrances and exits. To Celia's relief, however, he seemed more bewildered than panicked, and certainly not on the verge of flight.

"Yes, there are two doors here." Celia confirmed gently, hoping her calm would again help to reassure him, "But they can take you anywhere you wish to go. Anywhere within the palace, that is."

"There is more." Celia continued in part to distract Robert from considering the critical question, the one that unsettled even her whenever she chanced to think of it. "Even so many years ago the Emperor was ill, and very weak. It must have been difficult for him to show you to the Passage himself. Did you wonder why he did not just tell you where it lay?"

"He said he wa-" Robert began, but Celia interrupted before he could finish.

"He lied. The Emperor did not tell you because he could not." Celia explained. "The doorways to the Passage cannot be told, or even discovered for oneself; they are enchanted so that one can only learn of them by seeing them used, or using them oneself. So unless we were seen entering, or the Emperor shared its secret with another, we are safe here, Robert, for as long as we choose to stay."

"Which is fortunate," Celia continued speaking as much to herself as to Robert, who still appeared preoccupied with what she had said before. "Because I intend to remain here as long as possible."

"Why?" Robert surprised her by breaking his reverie almost at once.

"Because whatever force lay behind the plans that you foiled is now missing both a princess and an heir," Celia explained. "And the Regent sits before an empty throne. Whether they hoped to keep my son as a puppet or kill us both, they cannot risk that he will someday reappear to claim his inheritance. I suspect they are searching the palace for us even as we speak."

"So we will stay here until they quit searching?" Robert ventured hesitantly.

"They will never quit searching." Celia replied with cold certainty. "Not with the Empire itself as prize. But I do believe they will eventually conclude we must have already fled the palace with him, and move their search beyond its walls. We must hope they do so before we leave."

"What will you do then?" He pressed, and although she had her next move vaguely defined, Celia gave the question some thought before responding.

"They must believe that I still have him with me, or I at least know where he is. If I could, I would flee the palace myself, and let them chase me across the Empire for my supposed secrets, but I cannot." Celia concluded gloomily. "The Passage will take us only to the gates, which will be heavily guarded, and even if I knew some magic to blast through them," She shivered slightly at an unbidden memory of the soldiers' charred flesh in the corridor, "Doing so would exhaust me, and even you could not protect me from what would follow."

"If I cannot retreat, then I must somehow attack." Celia leaned forward and spoke eagerly, far more animated as she approached the crux of her decision. "But I cannot attack until I know my enemies, and discovering them may prove difficult; the noble families have made high art of palace intrigue. There is one obvious place to begin; perhaps too obvious, but I see no better option. Fortunately," She said with a smile and a meaningful glance toward the door at the far end of the corridor. "We are going there already."

"The throne room." Robert surmised, and when Celia confirmed this with a nod he posed a worried question. "You will question the Regent?"

"Yes," Celia answered. "If you will help me."

"Will you kill him?" Robert asked sharply, and both question and tone recalled his earlier fear that she intended to overthrow the Regent and rule in his stead.

"Given the magic I'll need to invoke just to grant us an uninterrupted audience, I doubt I will be able to harm anyone." Celia replied dryly. "But if he confesses betrayal, I confess I may try."

"Betrayal of the Empire, or of yourself?" Robert pressed further, his tone no less sharp.

"Betrayal of my son's birthright, and my fa-" Celia responded, stopping herself just in time from using the title he no longer deserved. "And the Emperor's will."

"Very well," Robert said after long deliberation. "If you will do only what you have said, I will help you question the Regent."

They passed their remaining time in the Passage alternating scattered snatches of fitful rest with small meals of the apples and cider Robert had brought from the basement of the apartments. They spoke very little, since there was little to speak of that did not invoke the Emperor in some way, and Robert seemed nearly as reluctant to breach that subject as Celia was.

Robert would occasionally rise to replace a torch nearly spent, and eventually, when it appeared one might die while he still slept, Celia did so herself, coming unsteadily to her feet to touch the head of a fresh torch to the glowing embers of the old. She could risk no more whimsical use of magic; crafting a barrier that might give them time to question the Regent would require nearly all of her strength, if she could do it at all. For their escape she would need to rely entirely on Robert's sword, and hope it was enough to see them safely back to the Passage.

They had just finished the cider when Robert pulled one last apple from the final bundle at his side. He offered it to her whole, holding it across the corridor in one extended hand, the empty bundle dangling upended from the other. Celia's stomach growled again, as it had with each apple since the first, but this time Celia managed to suppress the base urge.

"You should eat it yourself." She allowed instead. "We must leave here soon, and more food will not help with what I must do next."

"Are you certain?" Robert asked doubtfully, keeping his hand extended, and such was her appetite that Celia nearly reconsidered her generosity. The patterns had come unbidden when last she woke, however, a sign she interpreted to mean her capacity for magic was full. Eating the apple herself would only blunt her hunger, but leaving it to Robert might give him enough strength to battle a few moments longer, perhaps long enough to see him back to the Passage. He might yet survive their deed, even if Celia did not.

Once assured of her blessing, Robert ate the apple with no further protest, and when he had finished stared warily at her for a time before he finally ventured to speak.

"Is it time?" He asked gingerly, and Celia sighed before answering with nearly as much reluctance.

"I believe it is." Celia began, and shifted uncomfortably against the wall. "We gain nothing by delaying longer."

"Then I have three questions to ask you before we go." Robert stated, and his tone allowed no argument. "You fight for your son, to guard his life and avenge his throne. If I am to risk my own life for that cause, then I will at least have my curiosity satisfied first. That is my price."

"Very well," Celia agreed after only the slightest hesitation. "You may ask any three questions you care to name, and I will answer them as best I can."

"Truthfully?" Robert pressed.

"Of course." Celia replied, and hoped his questions would not make a liar of her.

"Where is the heir?" Robert's first question was one she had both expected and feared, and she had no ready response, no lie that would seem even as plausible as the impossible truth.

"A perilous question," Celia began imperiously, but she abruptly changed her tone upon seeing the germ of Robert's reaction. "But a valid one. I will keep my word, and answer it if you insist, but you must first let me try to convince you to withdraw the question. Will you agree to that, at least? For him?"

"Yes." Robert muttered reluctantly, as though he thought doing so would make capitulation a foregone conclusion.

"The heir is safe from his pursuers because he is where they cannot fathom." Celia explained patiently. "If they learn otherwise, they will immediately give chase, and they will not stop until he is dead, with anyone who helped him, and any who might even suspect his true identity and birthright."

Having said this Celia lifted her right hand from her side and, gazing at Robert defiantly, struck the pad of her index finger against that of her thumb, generating a spark at the point of contact that flew a few handsbreadths into the air before fluttering downward in lazy arcs, like a feather in the still corridor. As it flitted near her hand at the apex of one of its arcs, Celia gracefully scooped her palm beneath it, catching the burning speck directly in its center.

Robert had started at her demonstration, and he now stared openmouthed as the spark burned brightly atop her palm, which began to smoke and smolder with its influence. The pain of this burning was negligible compared to that which had accompanied the healing of Robert's wounds, but sufficient in itself to twist Celia's expression into a grimace and cause her eyes to tear as she tried to remain silent. Finally, when she felt as though she couldn't restrain herself any longer, Celia closed her fingers atop the spark, extinguishing it.

"I can burn myself to ashes with only a thought." Celia said weakly, gazing at Robert with eyes blurry from unshed tears. "It would be painful, as painful for me as for any other, but I would endure it a thousand times over before I would dream of telling my son's location to those who would harm him."

"You may be ready to do the same." Celia continued. "But you cannot silence yourself with only a thought, and if we become separated and you are captured your secret will not survive the Empire's questioning."

"So will you forego this knowledge? For the heir?" Celia finished, and she saw the struggle of the decision reflected in Robert's eyes for some time before he nodded sullenly.

"Thank you." Celia exhaled in relief. What might she have done if he had answered differently? Would she have told him the truth, or simply refused his help?

"What is your next question?" Celia asked, her serenity outwardly restored.

"What happened to Prince Jain?"

It was another question she had expected, but Celia still fought to remain composed. A truthful answer to this question would render her silence on the previous matter moot, if not in Robert's thoughts than certainly in those of any who tortured him. This lie came easily, however, as she had been obliged to repeat it endlessly when she believed it to be true.

"I do not know." She said, with cadance and inflections almost memorized. "When Prince Jain disappeared from the palace he vanished from my life as well. There are rumors in the Empire of magic residing among the people of the South, just as there are rumors of my mother's people, but if he ever did magic himself I never saw it, and he never told me."

Robert seemed crestfallen at her claimed ignorance, and Celia understood his disappointment. Even nine years after he had seemingly vanished from a locked room, the question of Prince Jain's disappearance was on everyone's lips, discussed openly among the noble households and in the martial encampments, and even among the commoners, albeit in more muted tones.

"And your final question?" Celia asked, serenity still intact, and Robert looked piercingly at her for a moment before responding, perhaps having heard some unintended note of relief in her tone.

"Is there anything... important that you have not told me?" He asked astutely.

"No." Celia lied again, and managed to keep from flinching even as the pattern that hovered in Robert's head unexpectedly reappeared with those lining the Passage, as if in direct response to her denial. With his disdain of magic, how would Robert react upon learning of his own enchantment, and not even knowing its nature? Would he blame her?

Robert held his piercing gaze on Celia for a few moments longer before it softened, and he came roughly to his feet, with the Swordarm's patterned blade again in his hand. He strode purposefully across the corridor to where Celia leaned and held his free hand down to her, offering his assistance.

Celia had won Robert's trust with two lies, a misdirection, and none of the truth he had sought. A princess was not a soldier, but royalty had their own form of honor. Hers cried out for redress, but Celia ruthlessly suppressed it. She would live or die in dishonor if it meant that her son might live.

Without a word, Celia reached up to grasp his hand, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Celia had moved gingerly at first, testing the balance and strength in her legs, but her confidence had grown with each moment and she now trailed only a few steps behind Robert, nearly matching his pace as they walked the length of the Passage, only brushing the fingertips of one hand lightly against the stone wall for quick purchase if she should falter.

As before, when they had fled her quarters in the royal apartments, Robert carried the only burdens: a sword, a newly lit torch, and the bow and quiver slung over his back. His sword was no longer a common soldier's blade, however, and he no longer carried it in his hand. It hung instead at his waist, in a makeshift belt and scabbard he had fashioned from what little remained of the Swordarm's coat.

Robert finally stopped, and Celia stopped behind him, before the heavy wooden door at the far end of the Passage, and after a moment's hesitation he pulled it open to reveal a scene foreign to her expectations as she peered cautiously around his wide shoulders. The room that lay beyond was no small alcove, but a wide, dark chamber of rough-hewn stone.

"I don't recognize this place." Robert said nervously, and he hoisted his torch a few handsbreadths higher to better illuminate the scene.

"Nor do I." Celia admitted quietly as she surveyed the chamber herself. The light from Robert's torch seemed strangely muted beyond the threshold, throwing odd, angular shadows of the room's contents against the wall beyond. The shapes that cast those odd shadows were indiscernible, and the patterns gave no clue except to confirm the chamber's breadth.

"Was this what you saw when you left the Passage before?" Celia asked. If it was so, then at least the puzzle of Robert's return after she had tried to entrap him with magic would be solved in this one's birthing.

"I never left." Robert began distractedly, still peering intently through the threshold into the dark chamber. "I wanted to, but you were crying and-" He stopped abruptly, and Celia thought she saw his face color. "I sat near the door and waited."

Celia sighed at this revelation, and at the new mystery it presented. Each mystery seemed to birth two others, which were always easier to find than to solve. The mystery of the dark chamber that lay beyond the threshold was particularly grating because although Celia couldn't begin to grasp the various magics that gave the Passage its special properties, she thought she at least understood what those properties were. If Robert's sole expectation on entering the passage was to find the throne room at its exit, then how could it have led him differently?

The answer was so discomfiting that Celia shivered when she finally stumbled on it. Robert had carried her to the Passage after she had swooned in the corridor of the Royal Apartments. If they crossed its threshold together, then might this odd destination have been taken from her while she yet slept? But what manner of errand could she have intended in that state?

Acting on impulse, and now fully assured of her balance, Celia withdrew her fingers from the stone and ducked quickly around Robert. She heard the germ of his protest from behind, but the noise ceased almost instantly as she crossed the threshold of the Passage. The chamber beyond was nearly as dark from within as it had been from without; Celia could distinguish few details, and when she glaced through the threshold behind her she saw the light of the torch Robert held seemed muted from here as well.

His face was sufficiently lit to distinguish movement, however, and Celia realized that he still spoke, though there was no sound accompanying the movement; It was yet another property of the Passage that sound would not cross its threshold. Celia beckoned him through with a raised hand instead, and without waiting on his response turned back about to see if she could discern any other facts about this chamber.

The formless shadows she'd seen before had resolved into long, squat, rectangular objects, meticulously arranged in a close, claustrophobic grid that nearly filled the chamber and left very little room to walk between. Each box was precisely aligned with its neighbors to each side and those beyond and before. Struck with a sudden familiarity, Celia reached toward the nearest one, and her fingers met a rough surface of stone or plaster, with what felt like ornate patterns carved into its surface. Her breath caught in her throat as Robert's torch entered the chamber, finally casting enough light to confirm her suspicion: the objects were caskets, of a quality reserved for nobles and scions of royalty, each one covered in engravings depicting scenes from the life of its occupant. The Passage had brought them to the Burial Hall.

"-ledge me-" Robert's pained voice became audible in mid-sentence, moments after his torch illuminated the chamber, but it ceased again nearly as abruptly when he too saw the rows of neatly-aligned sarcophagi. "Are those..."

"They are caskets." Celia responded when his voice trailed off, and continued as if to herself as she examined scenes carved on the nearest of them. Part of her education in the history of the Empire had been the study of scenes featured on the caskets of previous Emperors, which were much the same as these in proportions, though far larger, and usually encrusted with gems and gilded with gold. "Minor royalty and favored nobles. Perhaps a few honored servants, as well. Many generations old, judging by their style of dress."

"The Burial Hall." Robert stated grimly as fact; it was the only place in the Palace where caskets would be found. "But why are we here?"

"We are here to say farewell to- to my father." Celia responded, stumbling slightly over the innocuous title she now detested. "The Passage pulled this errand from my thoughts when you brought me through from the Apartments."

To Celia's relief, Robert seemed to accept her explanation with only a grunt. It was a true answer, but not to the question he had asked. While a final farewell was undoubtedly what she'd sought when she had entered the Passage, before learning of the Emperor's betrayal, her intentions now were somewhat changed. She knew she might find answers here; some she had sought from the Regent, and perhaps others as well... If she could locate the proper casket, and if she could bear to look upon The Emperor's corpse.

Celia's eyes swept the wide chamber. The stone walls to either side lay well beyond even the substantial space illuminated by Robert's torch, but there were patterns to be read wherever there was stone on the Palace grounds, and they sufficed where sight failed. Here, they revealed a wide, open arch on each side, just as she had expected to find. Celia might have never seen this particular one before, but the accessory chambers of the Burial Hall were largely identical in form. Beyond each arch would be a small stair, just wide enough for a cadre of Bearers to descend with a casket, and at the top of each stair would lay the Great Corridor, where the Emperors themselves rested.

"The Regent will wait." Celia said finally, as though it were a decision just made, and turned to face Robert for the first time since he had left the Passage. "Did the Emperor ever tell you of the Burial Hall, or the Great Corridor?"

"No." Robert replied nervously.

"Then you should ready yourself to learn more secrets of the Empire." Celia said, and could not resist a brief smile of anticipation that seemed to unnerve him further. "But first," she continued quickly when sobriety returned, "There are some other properties of the Passage to discuss now that we are beyond its confines."

She nodded then at the wall just behind Robert, and he turned and started visibly upon noticing that the heavy door to the Passage, made half of wood and half of the chamber's stone, was suddenly shut.

"I didn't hear it close." He said uncertainly, and appeared to search carefully for a seam or some other indication that it had even been there. As ever, however, there was none; even the patterns would not distinguish between a normal stone wall and an entrance to the Passage.

"No." Celia agreed. "The Passage seals of its own accord whenever it is unwatched, and there is never any sound or sign that it has done so. But once it has, any who have used it or seen it used before may open it again at any time. You can do it yourself if you wish."

"I don't-" Robert began to counter, but even as he spoke, Celia saw him reach instinctively for the proper stone. When his hand touched it the stone seemed to retract slightly, and a portion of the wall surrounding it abruptly swung forward, revealing the Passage once again. He pulled his hand back and stared at it in disbelief for a moment before turning back to Celia.

"It was as thoughtless as pulling a latch, wasn't it?" Celia asked Robert amusedly, recalling the wonder she'd felt when her father had showed her the same. In the next instant, however, the fond memory was overtaken by the more vital thought of his betrayal. She could hardly think of him now without risking tears, but if this errand was to succeed she would need to open his casket, and see him again in the flesh. She wondered, briefly, whether she might rather face the dangers of the throne room instead.

"The enchantment will allow us to open the Passage again on our return," Celia spoke crisply once she had regained her composure. "But it will not help us if we lose it entirely. We must mark our way carefully as we leave." Celia scanned the chamber briefly before she noticed the obvious candidates for the task slung across Robert's back. "Two arrows from your quiver will suffice, if you can spare them."

Celia placed one arrow on the stone floor, directly below the loose stone that would trigger the opening of the Passage. She still grasped the other in one hand, the same she had used to heal Robert when he lay dying, as she led him through the nearer of the two arches. With her other hand, and the arm that did not ache so horribly or threaten collapse when she lifted it from her side, Celia held a torch to illuminate the way ahead. The foot of the stair that would lead up to the Great Corridor and the caskets of the departed Emperors lay to their right as they passed through the arch, opposite a plain stone wall that was bare and unbroken except by empty torch mounts placed at regular intervals. Just ahead, well-illuminated by torchlight across the narrow width of the stair, lay an arch like the one they'd just crossed. Celia gestured toward it with the head of her torch as she spoke, throwing dim light on the caskets within.

"Another chamber of caskets like the one we just crossed," Celia began, her voice reflecting the monotony of the concept. "Followed by another stair, and with yet another chamber beyond that. And each one the same as any other except for the caskets within. But they are not the ones that we seek. Come, Robert," Celia beckoned as she turned to walk up the stone steps. "The Emperors lay above."

The Great Corridor was just as dark and unrevealing to sight as the chamber had been, but when Celia climbed the stairs the patterns revealed its extraordinary scope, ornamenting the high, vaulted ceilings and the walls that stretched far into the distance to either side. She had walked its entire span only once before, escorted by the Bearers - the hereditary wardens and scholars of the Burial Hall - from the jeweled and gilded casket of her grandfather near its entrance, to a series of caskets fashioned of rough, ungilded stone at the far end, carved not with images but in a script that not even the Bearers could decipher.

"Welcome to the Great Corridor." Celia addressed Robert, who had mounted the stairs behind her, his progress betrayed by the sharp clack of his heavy boots on the stone floor. She raised her torch high in the air, in an attempt to reveal at least the height of the space, but it threw only enough light to show the foot of each rib of the vaulted structure.

"Is that..." Robert began to speak, but his voice faded quickly into an uncomfortable silence. Celia glanced behind to see him gesturing, and looked where he pointed to find a rectangular object barely lit by the torchlight, its color a deep golden brown, with indeterminate images carved thereon. Celia had not noticed it before amidst the jumble of strands in the pattern, which lay so thick here as to crowd out sight even at close range.

"The casket of an Emperor." Celia noted brightly, and knelt to place the arrow on the stone floor near the stairs, where it would be obvious on their return, before moving nearer. "But it is not the one we seek. An Emperor's casket is only gilded and sealed when it has been carved, and the carvings can take many years to complete."

When she came near enough to examine in detail the images carved on the casket, Celia frowned in recognition. "This casket holds the remains of Tiber III," she noted grimly, tracing an inscription that said as much on the casket's lid. "Beloved of the people and the last of his name; a man who wished for the peace of the Empire above all else, and died for it, murdered by a conspiracy among his most trusted advisors. Odd," Celia continued more to herself than to Robert, "that the Passage would deposit us near this casket, of all others."

"The more recent generations should lay here." Celia said aloud, gesturing down the length of the Great Corridor opposite Tiber's casket, and began walking in that direction without another word as Robert fell into step behind her. Another casket came into view within a few dozen lengths, and in a dozen more she'd come near enough to recognize the images on this one as well. "Urius, the sole Emperor of his line, who held the blade that killed his liege." Celia observed, disgust for the traitorous occupant mingling with her relief at having chosen the proper way. "The casket we seek should lie ahead... but we still have very far to go."

As they passed this gilded casket and a succession of others just as luxuriously appointed, Celia began to recall the history she had learned from the Bearers of the Tiber dynasty, the short, bloody reign of Emperor Urius, and finally the ascension of Emperor Marus, who had originated many of the structures and practices that now defined the Empire.

"Did they teach you any history in the martial families?" Celia called a question to Robert, who plodded loudly behind her.

"Some." He replied. "Mostly of war campaigns and tactics, and the deeds of the great generals."

"Then you must have at least learned of Tiber the Great, the first of his name, who finally conquered the Western Marshes." She surmised.

"I know the campaign... but it was the martial families who conquered." Robert insisted proudly. "They had won the lands to the north and south with unstoppable columns and unbreakable lines, but the marshes defied such tactics. Each marsh-family fought as its own battillion; they would attack from the shadows with arrows and knives, then quickly retreat back to their strongholds hidden in the depths of the marshes where the soldiers could not follow. The tide of battle only turned after the martial families invited people of the Southern Fens into their ranks, and learned from them how to move and fight in the wetlands."

"Your knowledge of the subject is... impressive." Celia noted dryly, somewhat awed by the enthusiasm of his account, which was more detailed than even she could have given.

"The fen-people were my ancestors, Hi-" He began happily, but his excitement swiftly dampened when he stumbled over the title Celia had renounced, and began to struggle for a better one. "Pr- Lady Celia." He finished dejectedly.

"Only Celia." She corrected gently, "Unless you wish me to call you Lord Robert. Were you taught anything of the Tiber dynasty, of Emperor Urius? Anything of how the title of Swordarm originated?"

"No." He answered shortly, and seemed offended even by her mild rebuke.

"It is a long tale, but a worthwhile one, and I believe we will have time to finish it before we reach the Emperor's casket." She said, and immediately began.

"The noble families did not always send their children to fill every position in the palace. In the reign of Tiber I, called Tiber the Great after his death, grandfather to Tiber III, the Emperor whose casket we first saw, the lowest of chores were left to commoners. They would clear tables, wash floors, and change bed-linens; tasks that no self-respecting noble would dream of doing."

"When it came time for the Emperor's eldest son and chosen heir to select a bride from the ladies-in-waiting, favored daughters of the noble families, he refused. When his father asked him why, he replied that he had already chosen a wife: Janus, a commoner who worked in the kitchens as a scullery maid."

"It was not the first time such a thing had happened, and the Emperor did what had always been done before: he had the commoner removed from the Palace, warned her never to return on pain of death, and forced his son to wed his own favored candidate of those who sought his hand: Lydia, a daughter of the martial families. She was chosen, the bearers believe, to reward them for their success in the Western Marshes."

"And they never taught you any of this?" Celia interrupted her account to ask the former soldier.

"No," Robert replied finally, "I've never heard anything of it before."

"I thought not," Celia nodded to hear her suspicions confirmed. "It ends in shame and dishonor for most, but the martial families bore more than equal share."

"The Emperor's strategy to give his heir a wife of proper stature seemed to have worked perfectly." Celia continued her story. "He mourned his maid for a time, but duly married the bride his father had chosen, and by all appearances their union was a happy one... but it was not fruitful. The Emperor could order the union to occur, you see, but he could not manufacture passion by fiat to invigorate it."

"Years passed without an heir born of that union, but neither party would relent. The Emperor knew his nobles would not long suffer children of a commoner on the throne, and his son refused to have an heir of his own except by love. And that was the way of things when Tiber the Great suddenly took ill and died."

"The nobility did-" Celia abruptly paused her story when she saw the influence of her torch suddenly appear to wane, and realized that the change she had known might occur, and had hoped Robert might witness, had begun. The Corridor was slowly brightening, its walls, floors, and ceilings becoming visible to by sight as well as by pattern. Light did not pierce or flood, as though through a window or aperture, but appeared to filter smoothly from every stone in the wall and ceiling, with an intensity that gradually increased until the full expanse of the corridor was illuminated.

It was neither the greatest nor the most important secret of the Imperial Palace, but it was the most impressive by far. Celia only realized she had stopped to better witness the Great Corridor's unveiling for herself when her companion plowed unwittingly into her back, nearly knocking her to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Robert muttered dazedly after a moment, his words barely coherent. "I was- How?"

"Dawn has come to the Palace, and to the Burial Hall as well." Celia noted mirthfully, and nearly danced across the Corridor to place her torch in the nearest mounting she spied on the stone wall. "Yet another secret of the Empire."

"More magic." Robert observed, but there was more awe than distaste in his tone as he observed the extraordinary scale of the Great Corridor for the first time.

"Yes, magic; an enchantment confined to the Burial Hall." Celia confirmed. "But not the only enchantment. Have you noticed how far we have walked from the Passage?" She saw Robert's eyes widen as he considered the implications; he stared bewilderedly for a time at the expanse of corridor ahead, before turning to stare at the even greater expanse behind. When he faced Celia again his complexion was pale, and he seemed nearly as shaken as when she had revealed the first secrets of the Passage.

Robert did not protest the impossibility of the space, however, though it was longer than should exist if not for magic, longer than even the greatest width of the entire Palace grounds. The reality of magic, Celia noted absently, had very quickly stripped him of any notion of the impossible.

"Only the Bearers and Carvers are allowed in the Burial Hall, except by the Emperor's decree," Celia explained, "And the Carvers work in darkness, by torchlight, and under the Bearers' supervision to keep them unaware of its secrets. The people are told this is because the resting place of Emperors is sacred and hallowed, and it may be both of those things... but its secrets are kept because if they were ever to become known it would be inconvenient for the Empire."

"The Empire abhors magic!" Robert finally exploded in protest. "It is a crime to even mention it! How can the Empire tolerate such things in its midst?"

"The simple answer is that it has always been this way." Celia responded wearily. "And thus perhaps always will be. If you mean to ask me why this is," She continued, and her tone now reflected the unease she felt whenever she considered the matter for herself, "I do not know. Even the Bearers could not say."

"We must continue forward." Celia stated brusquely, as much to change the subject as to state truth. "The Bearers will come soon if they are not here already, and if the martial families have split I cannot assume anything even of them."

"I chose to tell you the story of the Tiber dynasty for a reason." The two had gone several dozen lengths and passed three more caskets when Celia next broke silence, but she spoke as though she had hardly paused. "Tiber the Third was murdered for the same reason they tried to kill me."

"He also did magic?" Robert asked dryly, and Celia did not dignify the facetious question with a direct response.

"They murdered him because they feared him." She answered instead. "He was the child of royal and commoner, raised to be the first such Emperor there was. They fear me because I am a child of the Empire and the West, and they fear my son because he is the same, and a child of the South as well."

"Tiber the Second forsook his wife from the martial families," Robert began slowly, as though considering the matter in his own mind as he spoke. "To marry a commoner. But where is the dishonor for the martial families in that?"

"The nobles were nervous when Tiber the Great died," Celia continued her story where she had ended it, seeming to ignore Robert's question. "Leaving his eldest son as the immediate heir, but with no clear prospect beyond. In that time, however, there was no Council to formally resolve such matters of birthright and succession, and in its absence it sufficed that he was firstborn of the previous Emperor. Even the most skeptical of the noble families didn't dare try to deprive him of his birthright publicly."

"Tiber the Second, as he was called after his ascension, did not immediately search for Janus, his former beloved, when he became Emperor, even though he could now vacate his father's command. The Bearers believe this meant he was considering following his father's will of his own volition, and having an heir by his wife for the good of the Empire."

"But when Lydia became pregnant and claimed to carry an heir, he insisted he knew nothing of it, and knew nothing of her. He renounced their union and banished her from the Palace, just as his father had done to his Janus."

"Lydia." Robert repeated the name thickly, testing it on his tongue as though he hadn't heard it before. "It is not a common name in the martial families."

"No, it probably would not be common now." Celia nodded in agreement. "But I expect it once was. Who in the martial families would choose to name a child for one who had brought them such scorn?"

"Scorn?" Robert asked, and seemed genuinely shocked. "Then it was not the Emperor's child?"

"No," Celia responded impatiently "The son she birthed was not the Emperor's, but that is not why they came to despise her. Now where was I? Oh, yes..."

"No one said the Emperor lacked authority to cast aside his wife, especially for the facts he claimed, but his decision nevertheless caused great unrest in the noble families, even among those most attached to the ideal of unfettered imperial rule. The martial families, who had lost most dearly, were especially furious and for a time it seemed they might actually rebel, but one day, without explanation, their protests suddenly ceased."

"So Lydia returned to the families in at least nominal disgrace, and Tiber the Second was free to pursue the love he had lost. He found Janus just beyond the palace, unmarried still, and working in one of his advisor's kitchens. He brought her to the palace and named her his wife that same day."

"Janus bore him two children, both male, in quick succession. They were raised in the combined tradition of royalty and commoner, and grew to possess humility, and an understanding of the sacrifices of both, that was otherwise absent in the nobility of the time. The noble families did not relish the prospect of an heir of impure blood, but respect for name and office kept them silent while Tiber the Second still lived, and even after his death... but only for a time."

"He lived long enough to see his eldest son to maturity, but became ill and died himself before he could plan a peaceful, smooth transition of power. Nevertheless, Tiber the Third, as his firstborn styled himself, ascended to only muted protests in the wake of his father's unexpected death, and might have reigned without further incident if the Western Marshes had not sensed weakness and rebelled."

"An Emperor with less regard for his subjects would have met their rebellion with swift retribution, but Tiber the Third sent emissaries instead, hoping to reach a treaty that would grant them some autonomy, but preserve the honor of the Empire and the martial families, who had sacrificed much to conquer them before. His advisors, adjuncts from each of the most powerful noble families, uniformly opposed this option, fearing it would encourage other recently annexed regions of the Empire to consider their own rebellions, but the Emperor proceeded despite their protests."

"The adjunct to the throne from the martial families was a soldier named Urius, who had served the Emperor's father in that capacity as well. When it seemed a treaty with the Western Marshes would soon be reached, he quietly informed the other advisors that the families would sooner rebel than see any settlement, and that any who did not join their insurrection would see their own houses dispersed in its aftermath. Fearing the vengeance of the martial families, the other advisors lent him their support and were all sworn to secrecy."

"The martial families led a rebellion against the Empire?" Robert concluded, and disbelief in his tone made it unclear whether it was question or statement.

"They claimed otherwise later," Celia answered in any case. "When Emperor Urius had died and equilibrium was restored they pleaded ignorance and said he had acted on his own behalf, without their knowledge. But they did not protest at the time, though it was widely known even then that Urius had ascended by murdering Emperor Tiber as he sat on his throne. His treachery had finally given them influence over the throne they had long sought, and been denied with Lydia's exile. The other noble families were also silent, for fear of the martial families and because the new Emperor's first official act was to rescind diplomacy to the Western Marshes and ready for war."

"The people of the Western Marshes had no true desire for war, least of all against an Emperor from the martial families. They sued for peace almost at once, and surrendered without terms. When the war had finished, however, Emperor Urius became as merciless to his own people as he had been to the enemy. Tiber was dead, but his mother Janus and younger brother Marus had been forewarned of his treachery and disappeared, and now Urius upended his Empire to find them. He arrested and executed the advisors who had supported his rebellion, believing the one who had given warning was in their midst, and he sent soldiers to the farthest reaches of the Empire to question and kill even those most distantly related to the former Emperor."

"Eventually, when their soldiers failed to find Tiber's surviving family, even the martial families were not spared Urius' paranoia and wrath. He feared they planned to dethrone him, and were hiding Marus to ensure a swift succession afterward. Hoping to forestall such a gambit, Urius summoned Lydia back to the palace with her grown son Gaius, whom he openly acknowledged as his own child and named heir."

"Was he really the father of Lydia's child?" Robert interrupted.

"Yes, by his own admission." Celia responded. "And Lydia never said otherwise, even after his death."

"Marrying Lydia and naming their child heir was among Urius' final acts; he died soon after. What killed him is not known for certain, as it was never written in a book or inscribed on a casket, but the Bearers believe it was poison or some other subterfuge, and that Lydia or even Gaius himself may have been the killer. Although he was heir, Gaius refused to ascend after Urius died. Instead, he called himself Regent, sat only at the foot of the throne, and redoubled the search for Janus and Marus, who he called the true Emperor."

"They surfaced soon after in the palace dungeon, clothed in rags and at first indistinguishable from its other residents. On learning of the plot against his life Tiber had put them there himself, knowing it was the last place Urius or any other noble would think to find royalty, and they had remained, fed the same ration given any other prisoner, for the duration of Urius' reign."

"The nobles begged Marus to take the name of his dead brother and ascend as Tiber the Fourth so the name Urius would be quickly forgotten, but he refused. The name of Tiber, he said, had ended with his brother's murder, and would not come again. He did not sanction the noble families for their betrayal, however; he thought the Empire had been punished enough by Urius' bloodshed."

"Although the martial families claimed ignorance of Urius' intentions, they were widely mistrusted in his wake and effectively removed from the sphere of imperial influence for generations. They were further embarrassed when Lydia revealed that factions within the martial families had known Urius was the father of her child even as they protested her exile, having urged her to become pregnant by him when it appeared their chance of having some influence over the throne might otherwise be lost."

"Embarrassed and infuriated by her revelations, the martial families ordered Lydia to return, but she ignored them. They ordered Gaius to return as well, but he refused and said he intended to remain in the palace indefinitely to guard the Emperor's person. The coat and sword came after Gaius' death, when the martial families subverted his act of defiance into a trophy for their youth, but he was the first Swordarm."

"Emperor Marus' first act upon ascending was to solemnize his informal advisory council, and charge them with overseeing the succession, and choosing a Regent when necessary. He hoped that giving the noble families a public forum in which to discuss their concerns without fear of imperial retribution would stunt the palace intrigue and private consultation that had facilitated Urius' rebellion."

"The noble families had their own solution for what they considered the root cause of Urius' rebellion; less formal, but just as permanent. In that generation, and every generation since, they have ensured that scions of the noble families are present to fill any position in the palace, to do any task, no matter how menial."

"We're here." Celia noted extraneously. Her story had brought them within a dozen lengths of the first and most recent casket in the burial hall, an unfinished block of rough stone, in stark contrast to the progressively more ornate sarcophagi they had passed before. Nearly the same distance beyond this casket was a tall, open arch, wide enough for three men to enter abreast, that led to the entrance chamber of the Burial Hall and the doorway used by the Bearers, Carvers, and any others the Emperor gave leave to enter.

Celia heard a break in the rhythm of his steps, and glanced behind to find Robert now carried his sword in hand, and gazed warily at the proximity of the arch as they approached the casket.

"We should be safe here." Celia said unconvincingly, as she herself was not certain. "The Bearers are pledged to-" She stopped herself, for she had come near enough to see that the lid of the casket had been cemented unevenly and inexpertly to its body with some sort of plaster, and a bucket of the same still lay at the side of the casket nearer the arch, where it had previously been obscured.

"The casket has been sealed." Celia observed shakily as she extended a hand to touch the margins, and discovered with some small relief that the plaster therein had not yet hardened. If she and Robert could somehow lift the lid of the casket themselves, she still might see the Emperor's body. "The Bearers are pledged to remain unbiased observers, to neither help or hinder in succession. If we had met them, they would not - should not - have hindered us. But this," she said grimly, gesturing at the clumsily affixed lid. "They would not have tolerated. The casket of an Emperor is only sealed once it has been carved, and just before it is gilded."

"The Bearers have been imprisoned or- or worse." Celia concluded, stumbling over the words as she shivered at the thought. The hereditary office of Bearer had existed at least since the Empire had its present form, forming an unbroken chain of wisdom and memory spanning hundreds of Emperors and thousands of years. Even Urius, as vile and craven a man as ever existed, had accepted the Bearers' pledge of neutrality and left them largely alone during his bloody reign. In murdering them, if they were in fact dead, the conspirators might as well have killed the Empire itself. But who would do such a thing? Celia wondered. And for what purpose?

"We must hurry." She said urgently to Robert. "But I need to see my father's body before we leave."

The lid of the casket was a wide, unbroken slab of solid stone that fit neatly within recesses carved in its sides, such that one could not even grasp the lid to remove it without first levering it from its setting. Even with that done, the lid would still be far too heavy to lift with her magic, so heavy that Celia doubted even Robert could lift it unassisted, or with what little help she could provide. She could try to crack or shatter it instead, but doing so would risk injury to what lay within, and destruction of any information she might glean from it. Furthermore, even after having learned of the Emperor's betrayal Celia was surprised to find that she wished no more injury to his body, no more desecration than she had already been forced to do.

"Your sword!" Celia seized desperately on the only likely tool either of them carried. "We can use your sword to pry the lid."

"It's not strong enough." Robert argued. "The blade would warp or crack before-"

"Then give it to me." Celia ordered, but he only stared at her in disbelief. "Please, Robert." She added, belatedly making it a request instead, but he still did not react. "Trust me." She pleaded finally, and Robert slowly turned the sword about in his hand, and - while holding it carefully by the crossguard - offered her the hilt.

Celia grasped it with her good hand, and the arm that did not ache, but immediately had to employ the other as well to steady her grip. She had not held any sword before, and it was far heavier than she had estimated, heavier than the Swordarm's intricate use of it in the apartment corridor had led her to believe. Royals were not forbidden to wield swords themselves, as were commoners and most nobles not in the martial families, but they were not usually schooled in their use.

Celia held the sword not to wield it, however, but to enchant it. She stared at it for a time while twisting it slowly in her hands, noting the exact contours of its blade and curvature of its crossguard, and feeling against her hands the minute bumps and ridges of the precious stones embedded in its hilt. She closed her eyes and, forming a precise image of the sword in her thoughts, began to work. A shining thread appeared on the curved base of the hilt - or more precisely the image of it that existed in her mind; the pattern would not manifest until she had finished it - and began to wind its way diagonally up the sword, twisting around the crossguard before continuing up the blade. A second thread soon joined it, crossing the first several times on its own journey to the tapered end. A third thread appeared, then a fourth, then more and more until she finally lost count. Their paths still remained on the image fixed in her mind, however, and that was all that mattered.

Finally, when she thought the image complete, Celia loosed it from her thoughts and was relieved to feel the pattern manifest at once. She opened her eyes and saw that it sheathed the sword like a silken veil, but its threads were rigid and static. A misshapen pattern would often not manifest at all, and if it did, would quickly unravel with unpredictable and potentially dangerous results, like the wind in the Passage. This pattern was crafted carefully, however, and there were no faults in it that she could see. It might persist for hours yet, or days, or perhaps, like the best of her patterns, even for weeks.

The sword felt heavier now, but it was not from the pattern itself - which carried no weight - but from the strength it had leeched from her body as it manifested. She turned the sword about in her hands as she had seen Robert do, nearly stumbling as she did from the shift of its heft, and offered him its hilt.

"It will not bend or break anymore." Celia asserted confidently, and Robert hesitated for a moment before taking the sword from her grasp. She watched suspicion turn to doubt as he lifted it, and found its weight and balance unchanged; he could not see the pattern that now fortified it. "Please, Robert." She added, recalling her plea from before. Implied, but left unsaid, were the words that had followed: trust me.

With a resigned sigh Robert turned, placed only tip of the blade in the recessed gap between casket and lid, and experimentally bore back on the hilt with his weight. To his obvious surprise the thin, tapered steel gave not at all, and the edge of the massive stone lid rose a few hairsbreadths with a soft creaking sound. Thus assured, Robert directed more force on the hilt and the lid continued to rise, its creakings and groanings mingling with his own grunts of effort, until the edge was fully removed from its recess, and the patterned blade of the sword, still as straight as it had ever been, lay almost parallel to the stone floor.

"Finished." Robert said finally, the word made almost indecipherable by the accompanying grunt, and he rested for a time, still keeping weight on the hilt of the sword to retain the progress he'd made, and breathing heavily even from that effort. "The edge is free, at least, and I think I can-"

Before Celia could protest, he transferred his grip smoothly from the hilt of his sword to the edge of the casket lid and began to lift. She had not thought him strong enough to remove it himself, and had hoped to improvise some magical means of assistance, but to her surprise the lid did not immediately settle back into its recess. It fell only slightly, stopped, and slowly began to ascend with his efforts. At first the movement was nearly imperceptible, then it rose by hairsbreadths as Robert's teeth clenched and his grunting became a sustained groan. The sword, no longer secured by the weight of the lid, fell unwatched with a clatter nearly obsured by the sound of his struggle. The movement accelerated further as the lid ascended past the diagonal and came upright.

Again before she could protest, the lid tipped in the other direction, toward the arch that led to the entrance chamber, and fell upon the bucket of plaster. It broke in two with a loud crack, so loud it was almost painful, that echoed in the Great Corridor and must have been heard in the entrance chamber, and perhaps even outside the Burial Hall.

"We should probably-" Celia began, now staring warily herself at the arch through which soldiers might pour at any moment, but stopped when she noticed that Robert was speaking as well, and had been speaking almost since the lid had fallen.

"Celia!" He beckoned urgently. It was the first time he had used her given name without title or modifier. "Look! The Emperor... he's alive!"

Celia forced herself to look down, to gaze on his body for the first time in several days, for the first time since since she discovered his betrayal. The skin was drier now, noticeably chapped, and the wrinkles on the face deeper and more defined; they seemed almost on the verge of cracking. The skin was more pale, as well, having lost some of the color it had before. But in all other respects it was exactly as it had been when she left it; the lips moved occasionally, and the chest rose and fell slightly in a ceaseless rhythm. A familiar rhythm. A rhythm she herself had established.

"No, Robert. The Emperor is dead." Celia responded, staring sadly at patterns only she could see, patterns that breathed air into the lungs and beat the heart, made pulses on the neck and wrists she had hoped would fool even the best physicians in the Empire. She had assumed that they had finally unraveled, and the Emperor's apparent death had precipitated the day's events, but the patterns remained as sturdy as when she created them. She now unraveled them herself, however, sensing with the dissipation of each one the restoration of some vitality that had been so long absent she had not missed it.

"Necromancy!" Robert growled angrily behind her. Celia knew his rage, and even shared it somewhat. If doing magic was an affront to the Empire, then doing it upon the dead was even worse, an affront to nature, and to life itself. "You couldn't simply let the Emperor die." He snarled. She somehow felt rather than heard him take his sword from the floor, sensed as he raised it above his head, and knew clearly when he brought it down, intending to split her skull.

The blade clanged against an impenetrable wall of solidified air, hastily conceived but still strong enough to withstand his blow, and rebounded backwards, the hilt nearly flying from his hands. Celia pushed the the wall of air away from her with as much strength as she could muster, and it knocked Robert from his feet and forced him and his sword a few lengths down the Great Corridor before dissipating.

"Do you think I wanted to?" She rounded on him furiously as tears once again threatened to fall. "He was my father." He was and always would be, she realized now, despite his betrayal.

"If I hadn't," Celia continued, only slightly more composed. "If I had let him... rest, they would have killed me days ago, and Francis as well. I needed... time," She finished softly, her eyes no longer seeing Robert as she recalled what she had done and why. "I thought that with a little more time I could convince the Council to make me Regent. And then Francis became ill, and I..." She paused for a moment to collect herself, but before she could continue Celia heard a surprised shout from behind.

She turned to find that two young soldiers, both blue-coats, and each with sword in hand, now occupied the space between the arch.

"It's her!" One shouted when he saw her face, an equal measure of surprise and disgust in his tone, and both soldiers rushed forward with swords raised.

Having been immersed in her sadness Celia was now paralyzed by shock, and might have remained so even as they killed her if Robert had not placed a strong hand on her shoulder and shoved her roughly behind him, raising his Swordarm's sword to meet the guards as they came near.

"Run!" He urged raspily, his breathing still labored from the blow he had taken, but with eyes firmly planted on the two soldiers, who had slowed to better coordinate their initial attacks. "Celia, run!"

As she turned to obey Celia heard almost at once the first clangs and scrapes of steel against steel, and Robert's labored grunt as he blocked and deflected their blows. She raced back along the Great Corridor, retracing her steps through the history of the Empire, and passing casket after casket as the sounds of battle began to fade. When they had ceased, she could not say for certain whether the battle had ended, or simply passed beyond her hearing.

Her quick pace did not flag as she ran, and Celia wondered dimly at the origin of this unknown reservoir of vitality, and how she could run so effortlessly now when for so long before it had been a struggle merely to live. She thought of Robert as well, wondered if he had somehow prevailed against the two soldiers. She did not dare slow her steps for him. He had won in the royal apartments, but that had been single combat, and luck had played nearly as great a role as skill in that victory. She knew it was at least as likely that one or both of the soldiers followed instead.

She had passed ten caskets more, and the smoldering remains of the torch she had mounted earlier, when she heard the rhythmic clack of pursuing footsteps on the stone floor, and spared a glance behind to discover to her relief that it was Robert, and none seemed to follow him. Celia slackened her pace to facilitate his approach, but as he drew even he spurred her forward again with a hand on her back, at an even greater pace than before.

"Faster! We must go faster!" He gasped after a moment, and seemed to struggle for the breath to say even those few words.

"You. Survived." Celia responded in time, struggling for each word herself at the new pace. If she had been running before, then this was an all-out sprint.

"Unharmed." Robert answered eventually, pausing often for breath, but with pride somehow still evident in his strained tone. "They... did not... expect... a Swordarm."

These were the last words spoken for some time, since gathering the breath to speak required too much effort for either to try. They passed many more caskets in silence as the aching in Celia's legs and the burning in her lungs became more pronounced. Her steps slowed several times without conscious thought, but each time they did Robert would place his hand again at her back, spurring her to even greater speeds.

Distantly, for it was difficult to even observe anything except the pain that suffused her lungs and legs, Celia thought she recognized an image on a casket as they passed, and suddenly Robert gripped an arm and pulled her down a stairway to the accessory chambers, still moving so quickly their descent nearly became a freefall. The enchantment that lit the Great Corridor did not extend below, but some of its light was still filtered and reflected down, making the chambers dim, but not dark.

At the foot of the stairs, balance still reeling from her near tumble, Celia came to an obstinate halt, and would not be dragged further.

"Soldiers." Robert protested when he had sufficient breath to form the single word, but in the next instant Celia noticed the faint clack of boots against stone that made his explanation irrelevant. Despite what she had observed, Robert had been pursued, not through the Great Corridor, but in parallel, along the chambers at its side.

She no longer resisted as he pulled her from the stairwell and into the dim chamber, to where she had marked the position of the door to the Passage with an arrow. As Robert fumbled in the dimness among the stones in the wall above it, Celia gazed through the arch at the chambers that lay nearer the entrance to the Burial Hall, and saw their pursuit, still several chambers distant: two soldiers, blue-coats, both wielding swords; perhaps the same two as before.

"They are alive?" Celia asked, having recovered only enough breath for those words.

"If you wish them dead... you can kill them yourself." Robert replied tersely, still fighting to catch his own breath as instinct finally led his hand to the proper stone, and a portion of the wall swung inward to reveal the Passage again, exactly as they had left it... but not where they had left it. Although they had exited before from the far end of the Passage, the doorway now opened to the nearer, where torches blown against the door by her earlier magic still lay scattered.

Robert crossed the threshold as though heedless or uncaring of the change, and pulled Celia in after him. As he pushed shut the door to the chamber, thereby plunging the Passage into total darkness, she grasped for the nearest of the scattered torches and, once in hand, sent a small lick of flame spiraling up the handle to ignite it.

"We made it." Robert exhaled, and by torchlight Celia saw that he leaned against the wall, almost doubled over, breathing heavily.

"No." Celia responded, shaking her head. In the moment before she crossed the threshold herself and the sound ceased, she had heard clearly the beginnings of a shout of recognition. The soldiers had observed them using the Passage, and regardless of the distance that lay between its enchantment would allow them to follow. "They saw us."

Celia led Robert by a sleeve of his tunic as they stumbled wearily down the Passage, nearly tripping over the scattered torches and bundles they had left. They had gone more than half of its length when she first heard the echo of pursuing footsteps, and were only a few lengths from the far door when she stopped, pulled her hand from Robert's tunic, and turned to await them.

"I... I have to-" kill them, she began speaking and finished in thought, still breathless. The soldiers had seen the Passage, had used it themselves, and if they survived to tell others it would become useless to her, and could even be used against her.

She tried to ready a familiar pattern, one she had used once before, and practiced so often before that on candlesticks, but the image of the torch kept fading from her thoughts, replaced by memories of the carnage it had wrought in the royal apartments. When she saw the soldiers dimly by torchlight, Celia knew it was too late; even if she could create the pattern in her thoughts, she no longer had time to do so. She threw the torch at them instead and turned to run for the door, but stumbled and fell with a sharp pain in her ankle.

Suddenly she was back on her feet, scrambling again toward the far door. Robert ran at her side, supporting and even half-carrying her as they covered the final few lengths, and when they reached the door he flung it open to reveal... nothing. Or at least nothing Celia could discern; only darkness. The approaching torchlight reflected from its surface, illuminating waves and eddies that rolled over it as though it were liquid, but did not penetrate its depths.

"Something's-" wrong, Celia began to protest, but finished again in thought. Robert had pushed her through the threshold and into the darkness, and she no longer possessed lips with which to speak.