Hurry, hurry, hurry nips at my heels like a braying hound.

“See that door?” She nods, watching me uncertainly. “Go through that door, then down the stairs. The chapel is there, and it is a most excellent hiding place.” And since d’Albret and his men never visit the chapel, she will be safe enough. “Who is your sister?”

“Tilde.”

“Very well. I will tell Tilde where you are so she may come and get you when her work is done.”

“Thank you,” Odette says, then skips off down the hall. I long to escort her there myself, but I already risk being too late for what I must do.

I turn back around and take the stairs two at a time. The thick wooden door on the landing has a new latch, stiff with disuse. I lift it slowly to be certain it will not creak out an alarm.

As I step into the cold winter sunshine, a bitter wind whips at my hair, tearing it from the net that holds it in place. All my caution has cost me precious time, and I pray that I have not been brought up here only to see those I love slaughtered.

I hurry to the crenellated wall and look down into the field below. A small party of mounted knights waits patiently while an even smaller party confers with that braying ass Marshal Rieux. I recognize the duchess immediately, her dainty figure poised on her gray palfrey. She looks impossibly small, far too small to carry the fate of our kingdom on her slender shoulders. That she has managed to hold off a French invasion for this long is impressive; that she has done so in spite of being betrayed by a full half of her councilors is close to a miracle.

Behind her and to the right is Ismae, sister of my heart and, possibly, my blood, if what the nuns at the convent told us is true. My pulse begins to race, but whether in joy that I am not too late or in panic at what I know is coming, I cannot tell.

Keeping my gaze fixed on Ismae, I gather up all my fear and dread and hurl them at her, like stones in a catapult.

She does not so much as glance in my direction.

From deep in the bowels of the castle, off toward the east, comes a faint rumble as the portcullis is raised. This time when I cast my warning, I fling my arms out as well, as if I am shooing away a flock of ducks. I hope—pray—that some bond still exists between us that will allow her to sense me.

But her eyes remain fixed on the duchess in front of her, and I nearly scream in frustration. Flee, my mind cries. It is a trap. Then, just as I fear I must throw myself from the battlements to gain her attention, Ismae looks up. Flee, I beg, then sweep my arms out once more.

It works. She looks away from me to the eastern gate, then turns to shout something to the soldier next to her, and I grow limp with relief.

The small party on the field springs to life, shouting orders and calling to one another. Ismae points again, this time to the west. Good. She has seen the second arm of the trap. Now I must only hope that my warning has not come too late.

Once Marshal Rieux and his men realize what is happening, they wheel their mounts around and gallop back to the city. The duchess and her party move to fall into a new formation but have not yet left the field.

Flee! The word beats frantically against my breast, but I dare not utter it, afraid that even though I stand on this isolated tower, someone from the castle might hear. I lean forward, gripping the cold, rough stone of the battlements so hard that it bites into my gloveless fingers.

The first line of d’Albret’s troops rides into my sight, my half brother Pierre in the vanguard. Then, just when I am certain it is too late, the duchess’s party splits in two, and a paltry dozen of the duchess’s men turn their mounts to meet the coming onslaught. Twelve against two hundred. Hollow laughter at the futility of their actions escapes me but is snatched up by the wind before anyone can hear it.

As the duchess and two others gallop away, Ismae hesitates. I bite my lip to keep from shouting. She cannot think she can help the doomed knights? Their cause is hopeless, and not even our skills can help the twelve who so valiantly ride to their deaths.

“Flee.” This time I do utter the word aloud, but just like my laughter, it is caught up by the cold, bitter wind and carried high above, where no one can hear it. Not the one it is meant to warn, nor those who would punish me for the betrayal.

But perhaps something has carried my warning to Ismae all the same, for she finally wheels her mount around and gallops after the duchess. The iron band squeezing my lungs eases somewhat, for while it is hard enough to watch these men meet their deaths, I could not bear to watch Ismae die.

Or worse, be captured.

If that happened, I would kill her myself rather than leave her to d’Albret, for he will grant her no mercy. Not after she ruined his plans in Guérande and nearly gutted him like a fish. He has had many days to hone his vengeance to a razor-sharp edge.

It is folly for me to linger. I should leave now while there is no chance of being discovered, but I cannot turn away. Like the rushing water of a swollen river, d’Albret’s forces swarm the duchess’s guard. The resounding clash is like thunder as armor crashes into armor, pikes break through shields, and swords meet.

I am astounded at the ferocity of the duchess’s men. They all fight as if they have all been possessed by the spirit of Saint Camulos himself, slashing through their attackers much as farmers scythe through stalks of grain. By some miracle, they hold the oncoming line, and their efforts delay d’Albret’s forces long enough for the duchess’s party to reach the safety of the trees. D’Albret’s greater number of men will be less of an advantage if they all must duck and dodge branches and bracken.

From the east, a trumpet sounds. I frown and look that way, fearing d’Albret has thought to arrange for a third mounted force. But no, the black and white banner of the Rennes garrison stands in stark relief against the crisp blue sky as an additional dozen men ride into the melee. When the duchess and the others finally disappear over the horizon, I allow myself to draw my first full breath.

But even with the infusion of new troops, it is a crushing defeat. The duchess’s guards have no chance, not against so many. My hand itches for a weapon, but the knives I carry will do no good from this distance. A crossbow would work, but they are nigh unto impossible to conceal, and so I watch helplessly.

D’Albret had only ever planned for a trap—a quick in-and-out, thrust and parry, and then return with the prize. Once he realizes the quarry has escaped and he no longer has the element of surprise, he gives the signal for his soldiers to fall back behind the castle walls. Better to cut his losses than waste any more men in this failed gambit.

The battle below is nearly over. Only one soldier continues to fight, a great big ox of a man who doesn’t have the sense to die quickly like the others. His helm has been knocked from his head, and three arrows pierce his armor, which is dented in a dozen places. His chain mail is torn, and the cuts beneath it bleed profusely, but still he fights with a nearly inhuman strength, stumbling ever forward into the mass of his enemies. It is all right, I long to tell him. Your young duchess is safe. You may die in peace, and then you will be safe as well.

His head jerks up from the blow he has just taken, and across the distance our eyes meet. I wonder what color they are and how quickly they will film over once Death claims him.

Then one of d’Albret’s men lunges forward and cuts the knight’s horse out from under him. He gives a long, despairing bellow as he goes down, then like ants swarming a scrap of meat, his enemies are upon him. The man’s death cry reaches all the way up to the tower and wraps itself around my heart, calling for me to join it.