Lochlann grabbed his sword as around them the wailing continued. Then, reconsidering the order of operations, cast it on the bed and made for his armor instead. He tugged on a padded shirt, then reached for a metal chest plate.

“Help me with this,” he said, doing up the buckles on one side.

Aaron glanced out the door, his eyes on the stairs at the end of the hallway, gauging how fast he could get back up them. Quick enough to stop what was already happening?

“Aaron,” the lieutenant snapped.

Aaron stepped over to help him, doing up the buckles on the other side. His fingers slipped once, unused to the way the straps fit together; Lochlann caught the leather, and gave him quiet, succinct directions.

“Do you have armor?” the guardsman asked, as they finished.

“No,” Aaron answered.

“Do you want any?”

“No.”

“With me, then.” Lochlann strapped on his sword and reached for his bracers. He stepped out of the room, still working to secure them.

The sounds of fighting reached them immediately. Clashes of swords overlaid the keening notes that permeated the air. They came from farther down the hall, in the main barracks. Lochlann looked that way, and clenched his jaw; but when he ran, it was towards the stairs, not towards his comrades.

“Do you think the duke’s men have turned on them?” Aaron asked, following on his heels. “Some of them were quartered there, weren’t they?”

“Do you always ask stupid questions in a fight?” the guard snapped.

“Don’t know. I haven’t been in many.”

A curt laugh of disbelief was all the answer he got for that. It was true, though: he hadn’t been in many fights. Not like this. In Twokins, if it came to a fight with more than two people, something had already gone terribly wrong.

He supposed that was true in the castle, as well.

They met other guards as they ascended. The higher ranking officers who were quartered in the tower itself, their own rooms between any enemy attack and their king. The Captain of the Guard stood on a landing, shouting orders to those who passed.

“Any below you?” he asked, as the lieutenant and Aaron reached him.

“No, sir. There’s fighting in the main barracks.”

The man nodded. “They’ll hold. Rally to Orin; let him know this is all we have, for now.”

Behind them, the captain worked with another of his men: together, they swung a heavy iron door into place and bolted it shut. To any fighters—or attackers—trying to come up, the way was now barred.

The royals’ floor did not teem with guards. Teeming implied a kind of chaos. There was no chaos here, only an ordered fury with the crown prince at its center. Men in full armor, half armor, whatever they had deemed worth the time they would lose in putting it on moved from room to room, clearing each methodically; so far, it seemed that nothing had been found.

There were Deaths, too. Some were casting odd glances at the prince. Aaron kept his gaze ahead, stepping around and past them with the same blithe ignorance with which the lieutenant walked.

“Reporting, Your Highness,” Lochlann said. “The duke’s men fight ours in the main barracks. The captain is sealing the stair. No more will come up until it’s breached; neither theirs nor ours.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Your Highness, the king…?”

“Dead,” the prince said. His eyes were not focused on the young officer in front of him; they roamed the hallway, as if to find something that those around him had missed. “Him, and the guard on his door.”

“The duke?”

“Yes. I’d some hope he was working alone, but if there is fighting in the barracks…”

“They used the banshees as their signal,” Lochlann finished.

“Yes,” the prince confirmed. His eyes roved for an instant longer; then they snapped to Aaron, and the empty space beside him. “Where is Rose?”

It felt like something cold and sharp lodged itself in Aaron’s chest. His breathing halted.

“Markus,” the prince pressed, and Lochlann gave a start at the name. “Where is Rose? She said she was going to your rooms.”

“I wasn’t there,” he said. “Have you checked—?”

“Of course I’ve checked. I’ve checked her rooms. They’re empty. I’ve checked Connor’s. He is safe; and he said to me that she was going to your rooms. Your rooms were empty. You were gone, she was gone. She should be with you. Where is she, Markus?”

It was clear by the prince’s tone that he held Aaron to blame for the missing princess. That would have been unfair, except that Aaron felt precisely the same.

“I’ll find her,” he said, when he could speak again. “I swear to you, I will find her. I’ll—”

The front of his shirt jerked forward, and the rest of him went with it. Aaron found himself uncomfortably close to the crown prince.

“Don’t panic. Panic gets men killed. Dead men are useless to me.” Orin released his shirt. Aaron’s heels touched the floor again. The prince watched with a critical eye to make sure he was steady. Then he turned, and began striding farther into the royal wing. “Besides. It’s not your fault.”

Aaron followed on Orin’s heels, taking the words as the invitation they were. Slowly, he began to feel grounded again. His feet tread solidly on the carpet; his dagger’s hilt pressed into his side under his shirt. If the king was dead, then the duke would hardly have stopped on his way to hurt Rose. Orin would have been his next target. The man had probably left the wing as soon as he could, knowing he’d be trapped if he stayed. Rose was safe. Aaron just needed to find her, and make sure she stayed that way. It didn’t matter what else happened in the castle tonight.

“Do they teach you to squire in the Late Wake, Lord Sung?”

“I may have missed those lessons, Your Highness,” Aaron replied.

“Fair enough. Lieutenant,” the prince called sharply, “with me.”

Lochlann rushed to catch up with them. They went to the prince’s own rooms. For all their luxury, Aaron couldn’t help but feel they were just a more spacious rendition of the lieutenant’s quarters. Spare uniforms, swords, and books: that’s what the room boiled down to, at its heart. Lochlann helped the prince into his armor. Tunic, chain mail; breast and back plates; bracers, greaves; bits and pieces that Aaron didn’t even know the names for. Sword. Helmet.

Aaron suppressed a shudder as the prince disappeared, replaced by this anonymous heap of steel. He’d seen men in full suits of armor before; it had never been a happy occasion. Armor had a way of rubbing against itself, metal on metal, that echoed in the caves. Armor was terrifyingly effective against opponents wearing none. Aaron hadn’t been in many fights, but he’d been hiding from rat hunts all his life.

“What now?” Aaron asked.

“Now?” Orin looked at him through his open visor. “Now, we fight.”

The crown prince strode back into the hallway, already issuing orders in a voice used to being heard over the sounds of battle.

Lochlann came up to Aaron’s side. For a moment, he simply stood.

“Say it,” Aaron said.

“Markus,” the lieutenant’s voice was a careful study in just how loudly one could shout while whispering. “He thinks you’re Markus bloody Sung? The duke’s son?”

Aaron kept his eyes on the prince, out in the hallway.

“He thinks you’re Markus bloody Sung, and he still trusts you at his back.” The lieutenant stared at him. A long, considering stare. “Have you considered dying in this fight? It would probably work out better for you, in the long run.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Aaron politely replied. “Are you finished?”

“For now,” the lieutenant conceded.

Together, they stepped out to join the prince.