There's a chill in the air. The first tickle of dawn threatens to highlight me on the deep amber shingles. I determine two priorities: escape before twilight's end, and find some warmer clothes.
I carefully follow this roof to the right, which I judge to be east. I manage a leap across a small cobbled courtyard onto another steep, shingled roof running north-south. From this new vantage, the castle looms high and wide to the north, all spires and turrets. To the south, a surprisingly low wall cuts off the buildings a mere hundred meters or so away from me.
I head that way at my best speed, keeping my eyes open for courtyards and windows, skylights and rooftop guards. I see none. Even the wall seems unpatrolled.
Scrambling up it, there's no alarm. Giddy with excitement but suspicious of the ease of my escape, I flit across the stone walkway to the low wall and crenellations on the far side.
I suck in air and backpedal immediately. The wall, low on this side, is built on the top of a cliff. Below me, a vast, dark landscape of mists spreads out below me, dizzyingly far down. The ground, the marshes, are all invisible. Other steep outcrops of stone peek their heads above the rolling hills of cloud, each with their own Calatian city slathered across the top. In the hazy distance, the ring of mountains encircling the Calatian valley can be seen.
The wind from the valley is extreme on the edge. No wonder no guard walks these walls; it was all I could do to push myself to the edge in the lee of a crenellation. I don't think I could jump off if I tried. I drop off the wall to a rooftop to think.
A faint clamour sounds from the halls and courtyards below. It occurs to me to wonder how, or if, grandmother covered my escape, and I realize the precariousness of my position.
I swing back onto the wall and push myself to the edge again for a moment. Instead of admiring the dark vista, I crane my neck to look east and west. The castle and cliff curve back north; this crag must be huge, larger than the curve of the castle wall that I could see from within. The town is north. I drop onto castle rooftops again.
Guards start to swarm from buildings and through corridors. With a Sheikah's grace, I make a beeline due north, toward the towers and high halls of the keep. Here on these short buildings, I could be mobbed from all directions as soon as I'm seen; the steep roofs ahead should be impassable for anyone without my training.
One tower stands out, and I aim for it. Frequent arrow slits make for an easy climb, if your hands are small enough to fit. They also imply a heavy guard…
I scale the tower with urgency, almost flinging myself from hold to hold. I hear no sound from inside, and don't pause to peek in. Circling as I climb to stay out of sight from the courtyards behind, I reach the top floor. Broad windows face out in all directions, giving the occupant a fine view of the castle grounds and distant peaks – a survey of everything but the town itself. One is cracked open to the morning breeze, and I'm in like a whisper to catch my breath and regain stamina lost to the climb.
A luxurious bedroom encases me. Wardrobes and bookshelves fill every corner, and a grand four-poster bed takes up nearly half the room. The bed's curtains are drawn back, showing a shock of messy blonde hair under the green coverlet. I freeze.
The figure doesn't move.
Slowly, I release my breath and thank my luck that this lordling is such a lazy boy.
I'm no thief in the night, but I've also never had any compunction against walking into strangers' homes and looking around. Maybe it comes of being a nomad and entertainer. This might be a good place to find warmer clothes, and this princeling surely wouldn't begrudge the loss of one outfit.
First, my curiosity carries me to the writing desk near the foot of the bed. In seconds, I scan a pair of letters on the desktop. They are between Prince Link and one Archduke Dragmire. Link inquired when it would be appropriate to go on a royal tour of the kingdom. Dragmire assured Link that he would bring the topic up with the king, but that it would take some time as there was much important imperial business that must take priority. A reply from the prince lies, barely begun, on top. This must mean that I am in the prince's bedchamber! I can't linger.
Several beautiful vases decorate the desk, and an irrational urge to smash them almost overwhelms me. Judging by the fragments in the waste bin, the prince had the same urge and couldn't resist it.
Hurriedly, I dig through the nearest wardrobe. Near the back, I find something that will do very nicely: a deep blue riding outfit that seems hardly worn. Everything else in the wardrobe is a shade of green; perhaps this simply isn't the prince's colour?
With a speed born of a thousand costume changes, I slip out of the prison rags and into new clothes. I find a pair of supple leather slippers in a jumble on the floor of the wardrobe that will keep my feet warm and safe, while still letting me climb. Sturdy but flexible trousers in a serviceable earth brown go underneath a fitted, thigh-length tunic in midnight blue with swirling black embroidery. The prince must be quite slight, for it's nearly a perfect fit. Over it all, I tie on a half-length cloak in the same blue, fine but not embellished. The cloak has a hood with a small, pointed peak. I don the hood and examine the effect in a full-length mirror.
Behind me, the figure on the bed rolls over, murmuring, and opens his eyes. Our gazes lock in the mirror, blue on blue. For several seconds, all is still. The alarmed sounds of guards ring from the courtyards below.
Without turning, I dash for the window. In the mirror, I see a flash of movement as he sits up, reaches a hand out to me. The north window opens; I seize the gutter and swing myself up and around onto the roof. With a running start, I plunge across the open space between this tower and the wall of the keep itself. A narrow window, hardly wider than the arrow slits of the prince's tower, is just wide enough to admit my desperate, wriggling self into the cool darkness of Calatia Keep.