The Bandit King

Chapter Eighteen

My mother poured chai, her dark hair glowing. She smiled pensively, her primrose silk rustling as she leaned forward. “A little less like a caged beast, and a little more like a chivalier, m’fils.” A breeze from the garden filtered through the open windows, and the harp in the corner mocked me with its gleaming. Vianne had once touched its golden curve, running her fingers along the pegs lightly, during a laughing conversation about the perils of fashion.

I swallowed my pride and my temper, tried again. “She is in danger,” I repeated, through gritted teeth. “Where has she gone? She would not leave without some word to you. Why will you not tell me?”

“She left with some very fine Court sorcerers and handy blades. It is no less dangerous for her than it was here, between assassins and armies and what-have-you. She has her reasons.”

“Which would be?”

“My dear, I am not privy to the Queen of Arquitaine’s—”

I swore. Vilely.

My decorous dam set the silver chai-pot down and glared at me. The basket of bandages she had been sewing stood carefully aside, and the entire room made me nervous. It was so… soft.

“Tristan.” As if I were a boy again. She had not mentioned the wound to my face, but then again, twould be impolite. Especially if she gathered the provenance of the cut.

“Your pardon, Mère.” Grudgingly. “I must know. It is dangerous for her without me. Who will she look to for aid?”

“I believe Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy is capable of caring for herself in some small ways, m’fils. She is doing what she must for the good of Arquitaine.” My mother’s chin lifted. “Now come and sit, and have some chai.”

I had thought Vianne would not have disappeared without taking leave of my mother, and I further thought my mother would be easily blandished into telling me more of my darling’s plans.

My father was of the opinion that questioning servants would give us a direction, so we would at least know whither she was bound. I hoped he was having better luck.

It was odd—he and I did not speak of anything other than the task to be done, and we seemed easier with each other now than we ever had. At least he understood that to find her was paramount.

If he cursed me for whatever had caused her to take this course, it did not matter. I was already busy cursing myself. The fact that Vianne must have been planning this before I proved myself such a beast—perhaps even before Adrien di Cinfiliet whispered his poison in her ear—did not alter my self-loathing.

She is afraid. And she was the lady for catching intrigues at Court. She is playing for her life now; that sharpens her wits still further. And it makes her likely to act instead of waiting.

“Père told me she requires my presence to use the Aryx.” I dropped down in the chair opposite my mother and examined her face. Do not force me to use a Left Hand’s methods, mother mine. Not against my own blood.

She nodded, slowly. “Vianne… did mention summat of that.”

I took the cup she had poured for me. Enough. I risked a raid against her borders. “My presence, or a man’s presence, or…?”

I watched my mother struggle, her calm cracking slightly. You wish to help Vianne, you want to help me. You know how much I love her; you are a gentle creature. Another hot bolt of self-loathing speared me.

A Left Hand knows how to let silence work upon the holders of secrets. In the absence of rougher methods, it is surprisingly effective. Those who do not bend under the weight of a conscience must be approached with other methods.

But my mother was not a difficult castle to siege.

“Your presence,” she said finally, picking up the chai-pot again. A cool afternoon breeze from the garden drifted through the filmy curtains, and I thought of Vianne in this chair, as the Baroness sallied to ease her. I had watched my mother draw a shy smile from my darling, again and again. “Tris…”

I dropped my gaze to my cup.

She poured her own chai, silently arranged a plate of dainties—of course, my father would see to it that my mother had those little things she loved. The things that made her so gentle, and so unlike him.

She set the plate between us, with her usual well-bred precision. Finally, she spoke again. “She did not say much.”

I kept staring as if the spiced liquid in my cup held the solution to the Unanswerable Riddle. My face was frozen into a mask of quiet suffering, and I hoped its expression was even now wringing her heart.

“Only that the Aryx must be used to protect, and that she could not fully make it do as she wished without you. Since you are her Consort. She said it was the Blessed’s idea of a jest, perhaps.”

She must have trusted you, to speak so freely. And I wonder how bitterly she laughed, thinking of a gods’ jest. I still held my tongue. If there was aught more, she was approaching the edge of telling it.

“M’fils… you are not angry, are you? At your father?”

Of all the questions I expected, that was the last. A sigh took me by surprise, tension unstringing. My shoulders dropped. “Would it do any good? I am a disappointment, Mère. I always have been.”

“No. Never.” She moved the plate slightly, her slim fingers so soft.

Like Vianne’s. Not for them the rasp of swordhilt, or the cold and hunger of uncertainty, or the screaming chaos of battle. They were not fit for it, and without their small rooms and bright chai-pots, their gloves and curls and soft brushing skirts, what was all the rest of the unpleasantness for? Useless and worthless, unless it set a hedge around this, my mother’s sunlit room smelling of fresh air, sunshine, and a faint ghost of perfume and pastries.

My father would have preferred a different son. One more like Jierre, perhaps. One who would have never been a Left Hand. Would you, too?

His disappointment was at least expected. Hers would be more difficult to endure.

“You are so like him!” my mother finally burst out, with a toss of her head. Her peridot ear-drops swung. “I wish I’d warned her. Stubborn, both of you. It takes a light touch to manage a d’Arcenne; at least I told her that much before she went haring off—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, hellfire,” she muttered through her fingers. “Hellfire and damnation.”

My eyebrows raised to hear such language from her. It took all my control to keep my face down and my tone soft. “A light touch? She does not even need that, m’Mère. She only needs to wish for it, to set me at it, and I will—”

“Do whatever it is you think she wants, or what you have convinced yourself she needs.” My mother sighed. “You are so young. And so is she. Tristan, she has taken on a burden. It is one you cannot share, no matter what you would wish. The gods chose her for this.”

Now that was surprising. “I had no idea you were religious.”

“I am not overly religious, no. But it would take a fool not to see the hands of the Blessed in this.”

Oh, the gods. They make trained farrats and apes of us all. Or perhaps life merely does so for them. Yet I could not discount the Blessed. I had seen them at work in the Temple. On my wedding day, the face of Jiserah the Gentle blazing no less than my Queen’s—now there was a memory not likely to ease my mood.

Jiserah was the Blessed responsible for marital harmony. I wondered if her grace on my wedding day would do me much good now, did I make an offering a-Temple. “Gods or no gods, Mère, she needs me.”

“I do not think she trusts the Council.”

I went utterly still. The chair under me was far too finely carved for my comfort; it could tip me at any moment. “What?”

“Before she left, she told me in confidence…” My mother glanced at the open window. She leaned forward, the struggle she waged with herself clearly visible. “Tristan, she told me she suspects one or more of the Council are d’Orlaans’s creatures. That was why she had to leave. There was… an attempt. To kidnap her, to take her outside the walls.”

The cold was all through me. This was the missing piece of the puzzle. “When?”

“Just before the Damarsene arrived. She… the Pruzian, he fought them off. They were d’Arquitaine. Lowlanders, not mountainfolk. One said a name, but she would not tell me.” My mother’s soft cheeks were now damp, and another tear turned crystalline on her lashes, touching the fine lines at the corners of her eyes made by smiling. “The Pruzian was wounded, and Vianne… she sought to use the Aryx. It worked, but not well, and she was hard-pressed. Twas when she suspected she needed you to wield it properly.”

Dear gods. Why did she not tell me? It had to have been after she left me in the donjon. “Why did—”

“She swore me to secrecy.” My mother bit her lip. “Even your father does not know of this. She thought to protect you, m’fils, that her seeming disregard for you would ensure those who sought to harm her would attack more directly, instead of using you.”

My mother needs reassurance, to retain her as an asset for later. She will hear things I do not, and now that she has broken a confidence once, she will do so more easily again. “You have done right, m’Mère.” Slowly, to drive home that we were in unwilling league now. “A name on the Council. Did she say aught else? Anything?”

For now I would be doubly watchful of those old men. An attempt to take her person from Arcenne, and her only defense the Pruzian Knife. Perhaps he was trustworthy after all—or perhaps he saw someone else seeking to collect his eventual reward, and so interrupted the event.

“No.” My mother shook her head. “Afterward, there was the battle. She was at the walls, struggling with the Aryx.”

And now she is in the wilderness, with only a few men to protect her, and the Aryx unreliable. I forced myself to sip at my chai. It might as well have been mud, for all I tasted. Think. What concerns me most, now?

The most pressing problem was, of course, finding her. She did not wish to be found, and I was better placed to find the direction she had taken flight while here in Arcenne rather than haring about the countryside. And here, I could perhaps bait a trap for whatever treachery lurked on her Council. It would fill the time, no matter how I longed to saddle my horse, take up my sword, and go a-questing like a chivalier in the aftermath of the Blood Years.

Another thought struck me, almost violently.

She had used the Seal during our flight from the Citté, but I had not been her Consort then. A Consort, once taken, was necessary for the Aryx? Well, that was a problem easily solved, was it not?

There was no shortage of Temples within a few days’ riding. Our marriage vows were the old ones, archaic and bloodthirsty in their phrasing, from the Angoulême’s time. She could repudiate me in a Temple, but I could not divorce myself of her. I had wished it thus, so she could trust me.

You cannot be trusted, Tristan. You know as much.

And once she was at a Temple, another Consort would be easy to contract as well.

Who would she choose? And would the Blessed grant their blessing to another man, one more fit than a filthy traitor who had proven himself a beast?

Perhaps Jierre? He respected her wit and bravery. Adersahl? An older man, but steady and resourceful. Tinan di Rocham? He outright worshipped her. Jai di Montfort? He was whip-thin and handsome, and had an easy smile. Or Jespre di Vidancourt, or perhaps di Chatillon? She could have her pick. They were half in love with her already.

Who would not be?

I rocked to my feet. The chai-cup fell, splashing its contents onto a thick blue-patterned rug. My face burned, and the wound upon it twitched. My mother let out a small hurt sound, but I strode from the room.

If I stayed there longer, I would smash something.

Chapter Nineteen

The weeks that followed were stark with rage and fear. There was no word of her. The searchers failed to find any trace. Now I knew some little of what d’Orlaans must have felt when he found her missing. Except she was merely a foundation-stone for his plans, while to me, she was simply, merely, everything.

A small distinction, perhaps.

There was work to be done. The proclamations to raise an army had gone forth, and the effects began to be felt. Arcenne swelled near to bursting in the month that followed. To my father fell the task of turning the disgruntled peasants, fire-tempered noblemen, and mercenary adventure-seekers, not to mention the criminals and opportunists, into an army. The rest of the Council sought to keep themselves from boredom, and the swelling crowd soon gave them plenty of opportunity.

The only peace I found was during drill. I had been a Captain; I could have trained men to warfare in my sleep.

It takes time to make a man into a reasonable soldier, especially a peasant—time, attention, and a measure of careful brutality. You must break and rebuild a man before he will obey during the chaos of a battle, and you must train him if you expect him to wield his weapon with anything approaching minimum facility. The end of summer ripened into harvest-season, and every commander’s eye was turned nervously to the mountains. The clouds held on their peaks dropped a little farther each day. The storms of winter’s approach would mean feeding the men and their followers until spring, and even with trade through Navarre that was a daunting proposition.

No word from our Queen. Precious little news from the rest of Arquitaine. My father’s nerves stretched almost to the breaking point, and my mother grew restless and worried, organizing the stockpiling of stores in case we were attacked again—and to prepare for winter’s white siege.

I? I prowled the halls of the Keep, unable to sleep, and loosed my temper on those noblemen unfortunate enough to come seeking adventure and finding themselves under my heel as a cadre eventually meant for the protection of the Queen of Arquitaine.

Yes, I was training a new Guard. They did not measure to the task.

Then again, I had failed ignobly, too. If I pushed them ruthlessly, I pushed myself harder.

So it was after a long drill session, wet with sweat and with my fury a dim ember, that I dismissed them one long late-summer evening. The nights were growing chill, and the first etching of frost had appeared in the early mornings. It was already late, and the provinces that had declared for Vianne were busy bringing in the crops. The flood of recruits had slowed, but it would become a torrent once harvest was done.

Or so my father hoped.

I was in the dusty, stone-floored drillyard, giving one of the horse troughs a longing look, when a flicker of motion caught my attention. I flattened myself in a convenient shadow, saltwater growing chill on my skin. I wore darker cloth than a nobleman’s linen, and my doublet was merely functional—what use in destroying something fine, when all I did was sweat and curse? Every inch of fineness had left me.

He caught my attention with a furtive movement, hugging the wall on the other side of the yard’s stone-floored expanse. I went still, instinct nailing me in place.

The idiot was not paying heed, and had perhaps not even seen me in the gathering dusk. Instead, he hurried, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the door the new Guard had disappeared through. I was normally at their heels, chivvying them along, but had turned that duty over to the quickest-witted among them—Siguerre’s grandson Tieris, a muscle-shouldered oaf who might, with years of practice, eventually be able to swing a rapier without hurting himself. I did not know quite why I had lingered in the yard, unless I had caught a breath of wrongness without being consciously attuned to it.

Once a man has trained himself to look for the wrong note in a courtsong, he can hear little else. And a Left Hand is always on the alert for that single wrong note.

So I stayed, and watched, my hand loose at my dagger’s hilt. The scar on my face twitched, an odd feeling indeed.

Interesting.

Divris di Tatancourt, former King’s Messenger, skirted the edge of the drillyard with long strides. He was cloaked, and as he melded with the long shadows on the opposite end he pulled his hood up. Swathed in anonymous fabric, he was almost out of sight by the time I decided to drift after him.

One cannot follow a man too closely, especially if he is nervous. Sometimes nerves can make him blind to pursuit, but the chance of it heightening his senses and his caution is too large. Besides, I knew the city far better than he did.

Shadows gathered deeper as he hurried down twisting cobbled lanes, his cloak disappearing into failing light. My pulse beat thinly in my throat. I followed, every nerve suddenly strained and awake as it had not been for a long while.

The last time I had felt this alive, Vianne had been in my arms.

I winced internally at the thought, chose a small street that would cut farther to the west. He was bound for the Quartier Gieron, the siege-burned district that had been abandoned before refugees and soldiers swarmed into Arcenne. I did not know what I expected—this was a long way to walk for a man intent on whoring, which left skullduggery or intrigue as his possible reasons. Or, who knew? But I was curious, and so I followed.

And when he reached his goal, I was rewarded.

Laughter and cries, and crackling fires. I halted, amid the reek of their odd spices and meat stews, their odor of smithery and dry oil. Woodsmoke, horses, the scent of tinkerfolk.

R’mini.

They are dark, and fierce, and their hedgewitchery is not like ours. Furthermore, the R’mini do not settle in one place—they travel, in their brightly-painted wagons, oxen and horses pulling them step by slow step through the world. They are fine menders and blacksmiths, carriers of tales and sometimes disease, though the plague ravaging other parts of Arquitaine had not touched any province declaring for Vianne as Queen.

And you still do not believe in gods, Tristan?

They do not take to outsiders, the R’mini. But they had brought Vianne safely through the Alpeis forest and to Arcenne, and when she spoke of them her face softened. It was the only time I saw her… well, at peace.

Or, perhaps, happy.

Divris di Tatancourt was d’Arquitaine, a foreigner, and a nobleman to boot. But he was welcomed at the R’mini fire. Their women, shy and sloe-eyed, hung back, clicking their tongues. The men crowded him, and one heavyset older fellow with a red sash, a gold earring, and a dagger at his ample waist clapped di Tatancourt on the shoulder and offered him a tankard of something. Twas probably rhuma, their fiery liquor, and the Messenger took a draught with good grace. They engaged in close conversation while the rest of the company went about the evening business of dinner and tending to the camp and livestock.

Among them, I was… myself, Vianne whispered in my memory. We had been together in the dark, my hand on her hip and her breath soft at my shoulder. They did not care for the Aryx, or d’Orlaans, or anything else. I was simply V’na. And right glad of it I was, too.

I cast about for a better place to observe them from. Though the Gieron was filling as the army arrived, plenty of the buildings were unfit for habitation—so the unoccupied cottage I made my way into was a perfect vantage point. I watched through the slats nailed over a rotting, cavernous window, exhaling softly to remind myself to keep calm. It could mean nothing.

Of course it means something. Vianne traveled with the R’mini. And di Tatancourt owes her his life; else d’Orlaans’s killspell would have taken him to the afterworld in short order.

Considering that the killspell had been intended for me, there was a certain symmetry to events. I spared a grim smile at the thought.

Di Tatancourt was taken into a red and blue-painted wagon, the headman followed. The rest of the R’mini, chattering and laughing in their strange spiked language, were a whirl of color and firelight. They favor dark reds and bright blues, greens and splashes of charm-cleaned white, gold at neck and throat and ears, and the women sometimes sport thin golden rings at the nose. The gold flashed against dark skin and dark hair—their coloring has an undertone of red instead of the d’Arquitaine blue. An old word for them was noiruse, the Black-Red. For all that, they treat their children well. Any youngling is prized among them. There are stories of orphans taken into their wagons, but I do not know the truth of such.

I waited, and watched.

When di Tatancourt reappeared, he was pale and shaken. He stepped heavily down from the wagon, and the headman—for such, I had deduced, he absolutely was, the leader of their little company—leaned out, cupped his hand near his mouth, and continued speaking in a low, fierce tone.

The Messenger shook his head. He had a leather satchel. He was even paler, too, and almost staggered.

I do not know enough about what would frighten this man.

Vianne had spent hours closeted with him, questioning him of Court. Some of her questions I could see the logic behind; others, not so much. And after I had been dragged off a-donjon, no doubt she had spent much time with him as well, laying her plans.

My hands shook.

Calm yourself. Anger serves nothing.

I wanted to burst forth from my lair and catch him, beat every living shred of information out of his quivering body, and finish by sliding a knife between his ribs. My savagery did not shock me.

The fact that my self-control was so thin did. So I breathed, soft and slow. Would I turn into Chivalier di Kassath in the old courtsongs, so jealous of his d’mselle he slew a man for simply sighing as she passed?

The songs never said what the d’mselle thought of this, beyond one very pretty refrain—oh, my love, give me room to breathe.

I winced inwardly. Watched the headman of the R’mini land on solid earth, clapping di Tatancourt on the shoulder again. As he might brace up one of his compatriots who had suffered a misfortune. He said something else, and the Messenger made a wry face, hitching the leather dispatch bag higher on his other shoulder. He answered in Arquitaine, and I caught the words the Queen.

The headman laughed, kissed his fingertips, and Divris di Tatancourt swept him a bow. Then, his shoulders no less hunched and his step no less hurried and nervous, the Messenger left the circle of R’mini firelight, plunging back into the dark.

And I followed.

I chose the place with care—dark alley mouths, a ramshackle narrow street at the edge of the Gieron, very few avenues of escape. My doublet looped over my arm and my dagger ready, I waited for him—this was the best approach to the Keep if he wished to pass unremarked. Of course, he could be an idiot, and take another route.

I did not think him quite an idiot. Merely unpracticed. It takes a certain skill to move about a city at night without drawing attention. The trick is not to act with confidence, but with the correct amount of furtiveness for the street or alley in which you find yourself.

His step echoed against the brick paving. A crowd would have meant I had to kill him—I would have had to work close, slip the knife into a kidney, and take the bag while he fell. It was the tenebrous time just on the edge of full night, where dusk fills every corner with far more shadow than midnight. It is a golden time for secret meetings, assassinations, thievery, rifling a corpse’s pockets.

The doublet was intended as a baffle against knifeplay, but di Tatancourt, with a nobleman’s instinct, reached for his rapier instead of the far-more-practical dagger. So it was over his head with the doublet, the rapier singing as it was struck from his hand and hit brick paving, a ringing blow to maze his wits, and the dispatch bag’s strap cut. It was in my possession in a trice, and I kicked him twice while he was on the ground, simply to disorient him and keep him down. Snatching the doublet up, avoiding his thrashing, I was tempted to say summat but quelled the urge.

I stepped back, and it was only the long habit of watching one’s enemy even while he is aground and helpless that saved me. For I saw him lift the diabolical thing, and dove aside before it spoke with a demieri di sorce’s belching roar. The ball went wide, I vanished into the alley, and Divris di Tatancourt was left with his rapier, his Navarrin pistolerro, and his wounded pride.

Whatever was in the bag would tell me much. But however he explained his bruises would tell me even more.

Chapter Twenty

I burst into my father’s study, and Irion di Markui half-rose, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My father outright bolted to his feet, his hair ruffled, and di Dienjuste, by the window-casement, whirled and actually half-drew. A curious expression crossed his flushed features, but I was in too much a hurry to grant it much thought.

“War is upon us.” I tossed the dispatch bag onto a table choked with other paper. “The Damarsene have invaded; the next few dispatches will be full of their thundering. She is bound for the Field d’Or, to treat with d’Orlaans. We must move. Tonight. Now.”

“How did you—” di Dienjuste began, and for a moment his knees actually loosened. I did not blame him; the news was dire.

Irion di Markui, his seamed face grave, scooped up the dispatch bag with the speed of a man half his age. He had beaten my father to the table by at least a swordlength. He noted the slit in the tough leather strap with a raised eyebrow, opened it with gnarled fingers, and pulled forth a handful of papers.

Of course I had kept some few of them in reserve. Of the ones I left, their seals—each bearing the imprint of the Aryx—were broken. I had not time or patience for delicate measures.

“These just arrived?” My father leaned over di Markui’s shoulder. I saw the gray in his hair had gathered strength, and the lines on his face had whittled themselves deeper.

For the first time in my memory, my father looked old.

“After a fashion.” Do not ask me such things now. “The Damarsene have officially invaded. Sieging us was merely a feint—no wonder they only sent some thousands from border provinces to aid d’Orlaans. They have taken the Dispuriee, all the way to Diljonne and Reimelles. The Citté is preparing for siege. D’Orlaans is holding them, but not for long. He wishes the Aryx, and m’d’mselle the Queen wishes Arquitaine freed of invaders.”

“Her will alone should have held the borders for a time,” Markui muttered. “The Aryx—”

Perhaps she has not taken another Consort. It matters little. I have not hopped from foot to foot with impatience since I was eleven years old, but I was near to it now. “There is no time to waste. Every man we have gathered must march to Arquitaine’s defense.” And it will strengthen her hand immeasurably to have an army of her own.

My father glanced at di Markui. A long, considering look, two old campaigners hearing the trumpet again, speaking without words.

If Jierre had been here, and not likely to run me through, I could have had the small sour comfort of the same wordless communication. Or if Vianne had not hied herself forth to do Blessed only knew what.

Impatience rose hot and deadly under my breastbone. “Have you not heard me? The Damarsene are serious this time. No more tribute, no more being fobbed off by alliance or promises of marriage between Houses. They seek to swallow us whole, for Arquitaine’s strength is occupied with civil war. Whether d’Orlaans seeks to kill us or they do, we will be just as dead. We can fight him, or we can fight the Damarsene—we cannot fight both, and we cannot afford to let them ravage each other on Arquitaine soil. Not while the Queen is bound for d’Orlaans. She has decided; we are to execute.”

My father sighed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sagging for a brief moment. “Yes. Blessed guard us. What times to live in.”

“Sieurs.” Di Dienjuste, flushed with excitement, approached the table. “There is much to be done. We should perhaps summon the others? I think di Falterne and di Rivieri went a-taverning…”

“A-whoring, you mean,” di Markui rumbled. “Siguerre’s asleep. D’Anton is probably dicing with the Guards.”

“Wake them, fetch them, drag them from a doxy’s bed if you must.” My father’s shoulders snapped back into their usual rigidity. “Di Dienjuste, fetch the commanders. Tristan, come make some sense of this with me. Irion, old friend, do you wake Siguerre—”

“One last ride for tired horses.” Irion di Markui’s dark eyes flashed. For a bare few moments he seemed younger than all of us. “Blessed guide us.”

My heart hammered. I sought to calm myself. Vianne, stepping into d’Orlaans’s clutches with only a bare half-dozen of her Guard to protect her. Too soft to do what must be done, faced with utter ruthlessness, playing for her life but hobbled by her very decency. The false King would eat her alive, or the Damarsene would kill her to put an end to the threat she posed them.

Not if I reach her in time. The urge to be gone, riding a horse to ribbons, boiled in me.

Di Dienjuste skidded from the room, di Markui hard on his heels. The fire crackled and snapped, and a slight breeze came in through the open window, ruffling the papers on the table.

“Gather your Guard,” my father said, gathering the papers and beginning to organize them, glancing briefly at each one. “I will arrange matters here. You ride for the Field d’Or, and for the sake of the Blessed, ride hard. Tell none in Arcenne where you are bound.”

The words opened a Tiberian mirror-box inside my head, light flashing through its interior and illuminating several things at once.

Had I misjudged him? Did he know of the treason breathing among his friends? “Père.” Perhaps I sounded strange, for he paused, examining me. “There is treachery even here in Arcenne. I have been told—”

He waved one sword-callused hand, and the spots of age on the back of it were suddenly apparent. “Did you think I did not know? Patience is often the better bait to root out such things, but we no longer have time. I have my own methods, and shall use them.” A single lift of his graying eyebrow. “I shall give your farewell to your mother. Go now, and go with my blessing.”

My jaw fair threatened to drop. Even when I had gone to Court, he had never unbent so much as to grant me a blessing.

He must have seen my surprise, for he laughed. It was a small, bitter sound. “I have not dealt well with you, Tristan. It does not matter. Attend the Queen, and do take care. I like not the thought of your mother’s grief, should you… should anything happen. To my… my son.”

Should I have stayed? Sometimes I think so. Yet at that moment I was simply glad to be set free, and to have a direction, a road that would lead me to my Vianne. I saluted him, one Captain to another, and was in the hall before I realized I was running.

The large grays the Guard rides are precious. Their fields are near Tiberius’s palace at Vienciai, south and west of the Citté and under d’Orlaans’s control. So Arran was the only one of their proud number to ride out; the nascent Guard rode their own beasts. Most were of high quality, since a nobleman should know to take care with his horseflesh. But they were motley, and we had no uniforms. I would be hard-pressed to remember a sorrier-looking group of noble younglings, sober with the import of their mission and frightened to death of failure or dishonor.

Sieurs et chivalieri, we ride to the aid of the Queen of Arquitaine, I had informed them in the barracks, a few of them retrieved bleary-eyed from the fleshpots of the Quartier Salieu.

If you have any doubt of your desire to be of Her Majesty’s Guard, now is the time to express it. Any man may stay behind—there is no shame in deciding, now, that you would rather not hurry toward death. From the moment we ride forth, you are expected to comport yourself as a nobleman and a Queen’s Guard, and any man who does not will feel my wrath.

I was slightly gratified to see no few of them blanch openly at the prospect.

We left Arcenne three hours after I stole Divris di Tatancourt’s dispatch bag; I had no lee to worry of the Messenger and his fate. No doubt he would return to the Keep bearing interesting bruises.

The dark was still summer-soft, but with an edge of chill; the Road was cracked and broken from the siege. For the first hour it was a steady jogtrot, the horses warming themselves. Then I murmured to the lieutenants I had chosen—Tieris di Siguerre, the Conte’s grandson, and Antolan di Sarciere et Vantroche—and the ride began in earnest.

There are songs written about the Ride of the New Guard. None of them come close. I will say this for those younger sons of the Angoulême: Once they passed the gates of Arcenne, they rode uncomplaining, at a pace that punished mere flesh and bone, and they deserve every burst of melodic effort a minstrel can scrape together.

Two Arcenne hedgewitches rode with us, both broad peasant men unused to the saddle. To them fell the task of charming injuries and stretching the endurance of both man and beast. They started the ride with wide shoulders and bellies straining at their shirts; they ended it gaunt as the sleepless noblemen, their belts taken in notch by notch as we passed over Road and countryside as a burning dream through the mind of a fevered woman.

We did not gallop, though the temptation to do so beat in my chest like a Sea Countries clock-tower. Jogtrot and canter, cooling and resting the horses just enough, husbanding our strength as much as we dared. Fifty men and two hedgewitches—a pittance of a Guard. Henri’s had been three hundred strong, and I their leader. Now a bare half-dozen of them were left, a frail fence around my Vianne, and they would likely try to separate me from my liver on sight.

We requisitioned what we needed from large holdings or towns on our way, meeting little resistance, as we largely paid in good coin for what we took—when necessary, that is. Rumor ran rife, and I am certain no few of those who provisioned us thought us a troupe of bandits fleeing d’Orlaans’s dragoons. Haggard men with Court sorcery and finemetal blades are not to be trifled with, in any circumstance, and I was not overgracious.

Those days are burned into my dreams. Jingle of tack, the rhythm of hooves, creak of saddle, exhausted breathing of man and horse alike, Arran’s back like a coracle on an unsteady sea, and the rasping. Rasp of stubble, rasp of leather, rasp of exhaustion against the nerves. The peasant men chanting, their throats dry and their eyes rheumy, one of them passing his hands over a horse’s swollen leg, the injury retreating from a burst of green-scented hedgewitchery. Clerion di Hanvrault asleep in the saddle, swaying dangerously before Tieris di Siguerre woke him with a curse and a clout, Tespre and Luc d’Archim, brothers, sometimes singing snatches of courtsong when they had the breath. Antolan di Sarciere reporting on our supplies in a monotone, half-asleep on his feet but still sharp-eyed, his cheeks rough and thinning almost as one watched.

And I? I rode. That was all.

We took the north and eastron route past Bourdanneau, a city and region famed for its bright garnet wine and loyal to Irion di Markui. I had decided not to press too close to the middle of Arcenne held by d’Orlaans, and I deemed it the route with the best Roads; also, I thought it likely we might catch Vianne and her small group. For the R’mini who had brought the dispatches had recently come from very near Santie-di-Sorce, where the sea breathes inland and the famous cheeses are ripened in salt-crusted caves.

We struck inland on the great curve to Doitiers, and there the Roads became clogged with refugees. The Damarsene pressed hard, held at Diljonne and Reimelles at great cost. They burned as they came, and the border provinces, already ravaged by plague, were now scarred by rapine and fire. Citte d’Arquitaine was choked with those fleeing, d’Orlaans and his dragoons turning from the work of tax collection and squeezing every drop of the harvest to the more pressing problem of holding a line against the wolves of Damar. Reimelles had not yet fallen, but twas only a matter of time. An amnesty had been declared—any bandit or rebel, no matter how shameful, was offered a clean escutcheon if he came to the aid of d’Orlaans’s army, and the Hedgewitch Queen, as she was called, had been seen riding hither and yon, rallying the fainthearted.

I worried much on this account, until we reached the warren of Chauvignienne and I heard she was said to have flax-golden hair, instead of Vianne’s dark curls. Rumor, the false mistress, was merely working her mischief.

Peasants fleeing, their carts piled high and creaking; also, bloody and bandaged men, having had their fill of war already, trudging for the south and west with no real thought but to escape. The Damarsene’s reputation—and the fact that their army contained several Pruzian companies with their fire-breathing siege engines, their high horsehair-crested helms, their black armor and their refusal to retreat—only added to the general terror. There were even wild tales of Far Rus mercenaries, Polis and Hese-Arburg vassal companies come to feast on the bones their lords threw.

Our passage slowed on the choked Road between Chauvignienne and Chetenerault, impatience bursting from me at almost every stop, halting only to water our glaze-eyed horses.

One must be careful with charmed beasts; after a while their submission becomes complete and they will run until their hearts burst. It falls to the rider to conserve their strength, to ask just short of the ultimate from them. It falls to a lieutenant to ask just short of the ultimate from his peloton, and the captain from his lieutenants. We had to arrive quickly, yes—but also with enough strength to fight.

Though the question of whether we would be given a chance to fight or be simply mown down as we sought to come to Vianne’s aid was an open one.

It takes three weeks or so in good weather to ride from Arcenne to Orlaans—for yes, that is where we were bound. The Field d’Or is very near the city given to the younger sibling of the Heir to the Throne of Arquitaine, Timrothe d’Orlaans’s pride and the fount of his power, from which he rode to Court and engaged in his dances of intrigue, duel, and debauchery.

Vianne—and the men I had commanded as well as the ones I commanded now—were riding into the jaws of a dragon.

It took us six days.

Chapter Twenty-One

Night, soft and prickling as the straw-yellow wine of Anjerou. Full of the rustling crispness of harvest season, a chill sparking in the blood of every creature. Sleek fat coneys gleaning the leavings, market-squares a-chaos in every town we rode through, peasants begging us for news as we passed with haggard faces and globes of witchlight spelled in relays among the men to light our way. From Tourleon to the outskirts of Orlaans we rode against the tide, but word of our passage seemed to have spread like wildfire. I did not know whom to thank for that—perhaps my father, or merely the chain of rumor written on air that tugs on every peasant ear. In any case, the refugees sought to scatter as we passed, some cursing, shaken fists, children crying in fear. Our pace quickened, though the horses were almost reduced to bone. Arran hung his head at every stop, barely flicking an ear as I muttered to him, apologizing for this treatment and yet, never ceasing to demand.

In the distance, Orlaans lit with torches and witchfire, and the faint carillon of its towers pealing to mark the watch wafted to us on the breeze. We breasted a short rise, as a bloody, not-quite-full harvest moon heaved its bloated self over the horizon, and the Field d’Or glittered below us. Torch and witchlight, smoke from the cookfires, horses neighing in greeting and our own mounts too exhausted to reply. None of them lame or stumbled, one of the hedgewitches riding double with a Guard, the twain belted together so the peasant could sleep without fear of falling.

“Halt! Who goes there?” they challenged through the moonlit dimness, and I found myself forced to use my voice.

“In the Queen’s name!” My shout, gravel from a long-abused and dust-scorched throat, surprised even me.

But what surprised me more was the answering bellow from fifty scarecrow-gaunt young noblemen, witchlights fizzing and sparking into being as they answered. “For the Queen’s honor!”

Perhaps twas enough of an answer. In any event, there was some to-ing and fro-ing. Our horses stamped, the hedgewitches waking and tending to them automatically, several of the Guard dismounting to save their mounts’ strength. Hands rested on rapiers, and there was precious little talk. We were too tired, too nerve-strung. And too conscious of the crossbows leveled at us, not to mention the size of the breathing animal that an army becomes while it sleeps.

“Dear gods.” A familiar voice, shaking me from my torpor as I forced myself to perch, spine straight and knees tight, on Arran’s bony back. “As I live and breathe, Tristan!”

It was Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, in the familiar crimson-sashed uniform of a Guard—black doublet, white shirt underneath, black breeches, boots that had seen hard use and fresh polish. I finally dismounted, and he approached at the head of a dragoon of hard-faced lowlanders, their pikes held high and their mustaches waxed—though none so fine as Adersahl’s.

He was freshly shaven, except for said mustache, and looked as fit as hard drilling can make a man. I offered my hand and we clasped forearms. To his credit, he did not flinch at my appearance. “You look terrible,” he muttered in my ear, and relief threatened to unloose my knees.

“Where is she?” I rasped. “Is she safe? Is she well?”

“Oh, aye, well enough. Let us tend to your peloton; they look ready to drop. How did you come to be here?”

“Six days ago we were in Arcenne.” I coughed, clearing the dust from my throat. “See to them, Adersahl; they are good men and well worth it. And tell me where to find my Queen.”

“Six days?” He sounded baffled, a thing I had rarely heard. “But she only sent for you three—”

“I do not care.” Why could he not grasp that essential fact? Behind him, the pikesmen eyed us with no little trepidation. “Where is she?”

“Abed, Captain, and we are loath to disturb her. Tis late. We’ll see to your comfort—such as it is. You’ve arrived just in time.” Adersahl was pale, and his smile, now that I looked more closely, was more stretched-thin than I liked. “Tomorrow she treats with d’Orlaans. It is well you’ve arrived.”

I swallowed a venomous curse, made a sign to my lieutenants, and we followed him into the encampment.

To wake in the middle of an unfriendly army camp after a ride such as that is to truly understand discomfort.

In the moment before I lunged upright, the camp-cot almost collapsing under me—they are not made for violent movement—I thought I heard a muffled cry, or the sound of a blade drawn from its sheath. Cold sweat greased me, and I found myself with every bone aching, in a rude tent that barely kept the chill of a late harvest-season morning outside its flapping door and thin walls.

I was alone.

The wind moaned. Clashing metal, woodsmoke, nothing amiss. The sound was any army’s rising-song, made up of cursing, the sizzle of cooking, horses stamping and speaking in their own fashion, and the regimented cries and clashes of drill. One two three, get your arms up, you maggots; polearms come forward; march in time; swing it like you mean it, one two three—death doesn’t wait for chai-time, you saufe-tets, move! Move! Move!

The tent was small, no carpet but bare-beaten ground, my saddle and saddlebags on a rickety frame, my swordbelt and the cot. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, yawned, and pulled the doorflap aside to behold the familiarity of an Arquitaine army going about its dawn-waking business. My neck was stiff as bridge stanchions, my back a solid bar of muscle-locked pain, my legs numb. The rest of me did not bear mentioning. Suffice to say no part of my body was happy with the abuse it had endured.

But I forgot it all.

There was another tent, indigo-dyed and beautifully draped, its lines taut and its breadth proclaiming importance. Silver fleurs-di-lisse etched over its deep midnight, and the sight whipped bile into the back of my throat. Royal, certainly—the fleurs were the emblem of the Angoulême—but it was also too small to be a commander’s tent. It was meant for a King’s Consort, and by the Blessed, d’Orlaans had gone too far in forcing my Queen to sleep in its embrace.

Who else could it be for?

One of the flaps was pulled aside, and a nobleman emerged. It was Jierre, and he swept a bow as he retreated. Some things can be told at a distance—and I could tell, just by watching, that di Yspres was amused, a sally leaving his lips as the feather of his hat swept near the ground.

So. Is it thus? Every part of me turned scalding-cold.

My lieutenant straightened, returning his hat to its wonted, jaunty angle, and let the flap fall in heavy folds of costly fabric. Inside would be braziers to take the morning chill away, and soft rugs.

“Captain!” Tinan di Rocham cried, and I almost flinched. For Jierre di Yspres’s head came up, and the di Rocham boy, obviously hailing him, darted out of a lane of beaten earth between faceless rows of other tents.

And Jierre is Captain now, is he. Well. My hands were fists.

I retreated into the shelter of my own thin cloth walls. Stared about me, unseeing, waves of hot and cold alternating through me as if I had taken the ague. Vianne had shaken thus, when she was fevered during the long ride from the Citté.

She needs you. Jierre is too dull an instrument for what she must accomplish.

So she needed me, yes.

But what if she preferred… somewhat else?

It was then, staring at my worn saddle and feeling the itch of road-dust all over me, that I understood who I had robbed, and of what.

And I could not even blame the Blessed. I had done it without their help.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Young Siguerre was sharp-shaven, bright-eyed, and fresh as a dandille flower. Of course, he was ten years my junior, and the subtraction of those years make it easy to shake off even a ride through the underworld.

“Here,” he said, holding up a crimson sash. The weathering of our journey had been kind to him, erasing his usual pallor and the shadow of a double chin he had possessed before we started. He was lean and keen as a courser now. “I do not know where di Parmecy found these, but find them he did. At least we shall all match about the waist.”

I flicked the razor, a tingle of Court sorcery cleaning the blade. I would be haggard, no doubt, never pretty even at the best of times. But at least I would be fresh-scraped, and that gives a man a certain confidence. “Well. And enough for all?”

“Except the hedgewitches. Though I might recommend settling an annuity on both of them; I have never seen peasants behave so nobly.” A stubborn dark forelock fell over his eyes; he tossed it aside with a sharp movement that reminded me just how young he was.

Noble is rarely in the blood, chivalier. Why, look at me. “A fine idea.” If we survive the winter, I shall make certain of it. “Any further injuries?”

“No. The horses are at their feed with a vengeance, the hedgewitches standing by to make certain they do not sicken themselves. Other than di Crifort’s ankle and those cases of saddle-rash, we are none the worse for wear. They are feeding us, at least.” His eyebrows rose slightly. “Though I like not the looks that accompany the meal.”

“What is the army’s mood?”

“Mood?”

I strangled a brief flare of frustration. Jierre would have understood instantly. “D’Orlaans’s men. How do they seem to you? Willing to fight? Beaten already? Under orders to feed us before they slay us all, including our Queen? Their mood, chivalier. Have you observed it?”

“Ah.” He absorbed this. “I would say… confused. I have heard rumor among them—the coming of the Hedgewitch Queen has given them heart. No plague in her provinces, some say. Others reply, The King was crowned in the Ladytemple. Whispers of two Aryxes. One must be false, but which one? And the Damarsene.” Another pause. “If there is a pitched battle in the next week, Captain, I do not like our chances.”

I stowed the razor, wiped at my face with a silken flannel. He was slow, of course—but careful. Not much escaped the mouthful he set himself to chew.

I had not much time to teach him which bites were the most useful.

The rinsed flannel snapped, another bit of Court sorcery drying it in a moment. I could have finished this operation in my sleep. I took the sash, my hands remembering what to do with it, and looked up to find Tieris di Siguerre studying me.

“What happens now?” he asked, and I nodded as if the question was profound.

My swordbelt buckled itself on, the familiar weight of rapier and dagger comforting. At least now I was armed, and I intended to be so for the rest of this affair, however it ended.

“Now we attend the Queen.” My throat was dry, despite morning chai. I was growing to hate mince pies, but I needed the heavy fuel. And if d’Orlaans so much as twitches in her direction, my blade shall take the life of another royal.

“My father says she is a beauty.” Carefully, his tone light and nonchalant. “He says she has an effect on men.”

He does not know the half of it. “She is our Queen.”

“And you her Consort.”

“Is there a purpose to this conversation, Lieutenant?”

“Merely passing the time, sieur. You seem on-edge. More than usual, that is.”

I suppose I deserve that. “We are in the midst of an army loyal to a man who killed his own brother. Of course I am on-edge.” And my Vianne is in a tent a few paces from here, visited by Jierre early in the morn.

“We rode from Arcenne six days ago,” young Siguerre pointed out. “An army is of little consequence compared to that.”

I wish I had your faith. “Indeed. Go make everyone as presentable as possible. The Queen shall need us soon.”

“Aye.” He snapped me a salute and was gone into the morning glare. Fog hung over the army camp, the exhalation of morning and man-breath, hazed with cooking smoke.

I braced myself, put the shaving-mirror away, and sallied forth to see the woman I had married.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Fair blond Luc di Chatillon tilted his head as I approached. I caught a low murmur, which must have been answered from the other side of the flap. He straightened and greeted me with a smile that did not look forced. “Captain!”

Am I still to be addressed as such? “How fares the Queen?”

“Relieved, I am certain. You are well-come indeed.” He was always too cheerful by half, and the more unsteady the situation, the more his eyes twinkled. It was his shield, that good humor, and di Chatillon was not often seen without it.

The last time you greeted me, twas to clap me in chains. “How dire is it?”

That caused the smile to falter slightly. “Dire enough. D’Orlaans presses his suit, our d’mselle is ambivalent, and the army… well.”

“The Damarsene?”

“Still held at Diljonne. Reimelles holds, too. D’Orlaans has been pressing to see her for a full day now, but she pleads exhaustion from travel. There are other events afoot.”

No doubt. “Will she see me?” I did not like the supplicant tone I sported. Was she listening?

He reached for the flap, pulling it aside. “Of course. Pass, Captain. Thank the Blessed you’re here.”

“Aye to that.” I had not expected so warm a reception. Of course, I was prepared for a chill inside, but I nodded and passed him by.

Inside, twas dim and scented with incense. Braziers simmered, taking away the chill. A slight movement, and I found the Pruzian Knife before me, his half-ugly face set. He was in the costume of his native land, his dark quilted doublet side-slit and his dark shirt and breeches button-laced. His boots were of a kind not oft seen in Arquitaine, soft-soled for walking catfoot or stealing through windows. Hatless, with his hair oiled and clubbed, he was a figure of exotic disdain.

He examined me from top to toe, slowly insouciant, then stepped aside. The hangings in the tent fluttered lazily—to one side, a sable curtain hiding where she had slept. The rest was an open space, surprisingly airy for all its dimness, with glowrock globes on stands providing light that would not set the fabric afire.

At a map-table, her dark head bent and her supple back to me, Vianne. She reached for a winecup and took a long draught, a quill scratching as she wrote upon a sheet of thick linen paper. A candle in a filigreed glassglobe burned, shedding a circle of golden glow on the table.

“A moment, an it please you,” Vianne said softly, setting the winecup down with a click. She wore dark blue silk, and the same fleurs-di-lisse pattern was embroidered upon it with silverspun thread. I had to work to unclench my fists—had d’Orlaans commissioned the dress for her? Could she understand what an advantage she would give him by wearing it?

I could not help myself. “A pleasure to wait for you, m’chri.”

Did she stiffen? Perhaps. Silk rustled. A wooden rack to her left held an overdress, heavy sky-blue velvet worked with the flowers of the Angoulême. She would need someone to hold it as it slipped over her shoulders; it was a robe of state, and this touch also bore d’Orlaans’s stamp.

The man wanted her. For pride, of course—Timrothe d’Orlaans ever had a taste for the chase. And for position; she was integral to his plans, and perhaps even more so now that he knew beyond a doubt that she held the Seal.

Had she met with her living half-uncle yet? Had they fenced with words? Vianne against him. My hands ached with the urge to close them around the Duc’s throat.

The quill dipped, she scratched something that might have been her signature or perhaps a hurried postscript. The paper ruffled as she blew upon it, a trace of hedgewitchery drying the ink, then her quick fingers folded it beautifully, something enclosed with the words jingling. A wafer of deep crimson sealing-wax, applied with a deft hand, and she passed her palm over the letter. The Aryx sparked, a faint pleasant thrill along my nerves, and the impress of the Seal would appear of itself on the wax.

She half-turned. Her profile was not nearly the hammerblow I expected. Instead of turning me to a faint-kneed schoolboy, it simply sent an ache all through my sore muscles and bruised bones.

“Fridrich.” Her expression was cool and remote.

“Ja?” Tense, keeping me well in his sight.

“Fetch me Tinan di Rocham. He is expecting this summons; tell him tis time.” Enunciating each word crisply, in case the foreigner had trouble deciphering them.

“Fralein.” A short bow, his heels touching—were he wearing a Pruzian nobleman’s boots, the click would have resounded. He gave me one more long, considering look, and Vianne actually smiled.

There was a trace of sardonic amusement to the curve of her lips, one that had never been there before. “I shall be well enough, Fridrich. Go.”

Another bow and he left, sliding through a second tent-flap on the other side. He did it without a breath of sound, and I had little doubt that d’Orlaans had not caught sight of him yet.

She sat, straight-backed, still presenting me only with her profile. Aristocratic nose, the faint steely curve to her soft mouth. “Captain.”

I searched for an answer. “Do I still hold that title?”

Cool and calm, no breath of displeasure. Every inch the royal, now. “Unless you wish to be relieved of its burden. Is it time?”

The reel of my attention snagged. She asked me this before. “Time for what, Vianne?”

She had gained some little weight. Not much; her neck was too thin, her collarbones standing out starkly. The curve of her cheek was still beauty itself. Her braids were piled elaborately, her ear-drops swinging sapphires with pearls depending from them. A wash of her old perfume, bergaime and spice and hedgewitchery, reached me.

Had d’Orlaans brought her a fresh bottle? Had she taken the one from Arcenne?

She turned still further, bringing her knees from under the table with a graceful movement. Her hands arranged her skirts, a peculiarly feminine movement, and I found out that even miserable as my body was from a hellish ride through half of Arquitaine, I still wanted her badly as ever.

We matched each other, gaze for gaze, and it was the first time such a glance was a challenge. If it was the first touch of a duel, it was already lost on my part. I would not fight her.

Vianne’s tone turned thoughtful. “No, I suppose not. I am still useful at this juncture. Tell me, how did you come to answer my call so quickly?”

“Your instructions to Divris di Tatancourt fell into improper hands.” I hooked my thumbs in my belt, to disguise how my own hands wished to shake.

“Whose hands would those be?” As if she did not know.

Mine, of course. “I found it interesting who you addressed your missives to, m’chri. Who among your Council sought to kidnap you?” And you fled Arcenne both to put an end to the attempts and to move against d’Orlaans. Did you foresee this?

It was an uncomfortable thought. For if she were able to see the future so clearly, what need had she of me?

There is a need, Left Hand. However much she can see, she cannot bring herself to kill. That is your function.

She faced me fully now, her chin lifted, but she still did not rise. Instead, she folded her slim fingers together. The Aryx glowed against her skin, the dress’s neckline low enough to make a man sweat. She nodded, as if she had expected me to ask. But she did not answer.

It rankled.

“Very well.” I dismissed the questions she would not answer with a shake of my head. My hair had grown long as a chivalier’s fashion again, and it whispered against my collar. “What would you have of me, Vianne?”

The dark circles under her eyes spoke as she did not—of weariness, of worry, of the weight on her. Finally, she moved slightly, as if to ease her steel-straight spine. “I have a task to set you, Left Hand.”

“Say it, and tis done.” The traditional response, did she but know it. Had it ever tasted this bitter, any of the times I uttered it in Henri’s hearing?

She swallowed, her throat moving. I did not look at her mouth. “I am to meet d’Orlaans after the nooning.”

I nodded, slowly.

Then she told me, very softly, what she required of me.

What did I feel?

Regret. Relief. My heart leapt, settled into a high hammering rhythm. This was what she would ask?

She waited, as if expecting me to disagree. I nodded again. “Tis done,” I repeated. “Is that all?”

“Is it not enough?” She reclasped her hands, very prettily, as if she were on a divan at Court. “Tristan—”

So now I was Tristan instead of Captain or d’Arcenne. “Was my reply too complex, Vianne? Yes. There is my answer, and it is the only one you shall hear from me.” Unless you ask me to abandon you.

The candle fluttered inside its spun-glass holder. It touched the gold in her hair. “Even though I am asking you to—”

“Oh, you knew there would be little trouble in inducing me to this.” Did I say it to wound her? Perhaps. Her flinch scored me to the quick, and I instantly sought to reverse the damage. “M’chri—”

She recovered quickly. Far too quickly, and far too thoroughly. “It should please you that I am finally ordering such things.”

Yes, she had changed. What had she been about these past few weeks, to emerge so altered?

I finally managed to catch a glimpse of the copper marriage-ring. It glowed on the traditional finger, mellow in the dimness, and a spike of something hot and complex speared me. “What pleases me is that you are alive. Is there aught else you would have of me, m’dama Queen?”

“Not until afterward.” She tensed again, as if she expected me to cross the remaining distance and strike her. “You are dismissed until the nooning.”

I bowed. No hat, but there was no polish lacking in the courtesy I did her. “It surprises me, Vianne, that you would trust me in this matter.”

“It surprises me as well,” she returned, brittle and quick, and I retreated.

If I tarried any longer in that tent, I would have tried to touch her.

Tried? No. I would have added to the list of my crimes, and torn d’Orlaans’s gift-dress from her in ribbons. So, she had changed.

Or had I? If someone had told me that I would do half of what I had to her, I would have called him to a dueling-circle as a liar. I was not the man she thought I was.

I did not know whether to be grateful… or to curse who I had become.

A curious quiet hung over d’Orlaans’s army. It was a hush not of stasis but of anticipation and preparation. The false King wished to ride to Arquitaine’s defense—as soon as matters were settled with the Hedgewitch Queen.

Did it not occur to him that she would settle matters to suit herself? Or did he think her merely a catspaw?

The Field d’Or holds a stone Pavilion, gold leaf gleaming on its ornamental cupola and pillars of fluid sorcery-carved blue stone. That stone is not found anywhere inside our borders. Some say it is from the Angoulême’s home, the blessed Isle riven to splinters by the Maelstrom off our westron shores. Others hold that it was transported from Rus, a gift from their Zar to a new conqueror in the days when Far Rus’s borders lapped against the hedge of Badeau’s boundaries, before the bull-headed god of Damar awoke, before Polia slipped the yoke and became a blood-soaked, obstinate collection of proud rebels preferring death to slavery. Even Sirisse, safe behind their mountains, had been watchful of Rus’s power then.

In any case, the Pavilion d’Or is bluestone and gold leaf, kept safe from thieves by its air of sacredness. A round dais under its stem-legged dome, two wings curving forth and a gathering-ground of that same blue stone held in its arms, it was a ceremony-theater soaked in Arquitaine history.

Vianne approached it that day on my mother’s white palfrey, her hair lifted on a crisp wind smelling of approaching winter. Any summer-heat remaining had broken, coolness soughing across the fertile cup of Arquitaine, and in the Citté there would be relief from the oppressive clinging breath from the shores of the River Airenne.

But we were not at the Citté or the Palais. Instead, we—the fifty gaunt noblemen of the New Guard and the half-dozen or so of the Old, lacking only Tinan di Rocham—paced in honor-guard behind our Queen. Dust whirled, the Aryx’s song muted as Court sorcery threaded down our ranks, repelling the fine penetrating grit.

I did not walk with them. Instead, I held the palfrey’s reins, leading m’dmselle’s horse. The mare was sleek and glossy, and looked near to bursting with satisfaction at bearing such an august personage. She seemed to find my shoulder fascinating as well, and I held her to a stately pace.

There was not room for the entire army to see, despite the Pavilion’s crowning the highest point of the Field. There were nobles gathered, though, and the officers, lining the ribboning processional way.

It should have been Vianne on the dais, waiting for the conquered to kneel before her. Or d’Orlaans doing whatever he pleased, as long as my d’mselle and I were safe in Tiberia, beyond his murderous reach.

I took careful note of faces I recognized along our route. The closer to d’Orlaans, the higher they would be in his estimation, for whatever reason. Majesty flows from a fount, and those it trusts—or wishes to watch—are placed close to the source.

A ripple ran through them at the sight of Vianne. Not just of her straight slimness in blue and silver, but the fire on her chest. The Aryx glowed, its carved serpents shifting, and the ribbons of Court sorcery keeping the dust from us rose above her head, writhing as the Aryx did. Twas the sign of royalty, seen in many a tapestry and painting, those circle-twisting streams, and I suppressed a grim smile at the thought of d’Orlaans’s fury as he watched her so neatly rob him of legitimacy.

He thought to have her wander to him as a beggar, instead of this.

As we drew closer, the shade of the Pavilion quaked. There was a weak shimmer from under the dome, and it was with no little satisfaction that I saw the gleam from Timrothe d’Orlaans’s false Aryx stutter.

I halted Vianne’s horse before the Pavilion. Inhaled deeply, and performed a herald’s duty. “Her Majesty Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy et Tirecian-Trimestin, Queen of Arquitaine!” The charm was a simple one, to make a voice heard above a din or a multitude, and the words echoed as a cheer rose from the Guard both Old and New. It sounded thin in the hush, but the Aryx flashed, uttering a low hum, magnifying the cry until it fair threatened to shake the Pavilion. I felt it in every bone, the ache of our journey washing away under that welter of pure force.

The cupola ran with fierce golden light, tolling like a bell, and I do not know who was the first to kneel. What I do know is that the urge to bend knee caught like wildfire, and if enough in a crowd do so, it becomes well nigh impossible to halt the movement.

This will make him even more furious.

He stepped out of the Pavilion’s shade, a tall figure in a fine blue doublet, a shade to match hers. A lean man—his brother had run to fat, but d’Orlaans had not yet. His hair was only touched with gray, instead of threaded heavily like Henri’s; at his chest on a silver chain was a spot of brilliance.

Who could have mistaken that thing for the Aryx? The difference was obvious.

Had the death of Fairlaine’s Queen broken whatever was necessary for its use? His grief had driven him mad, and he had the dubious distinction of being the only King of Arquitaine to die by his own hand.

If Vianne required me for the Aryx’s use, or merely required a Consort, much hinged on whether the gods would bless whatever union she saw fit to make… It gave me much to think upon. And think upon it I had, during six days of hard riding.

D’Orlaans made a gesture. Limp white hands, rings flashing in the brilliant autumn sunshine. The season had changed overnight, as it sometimes does in the lowlands.

Perhaps we could hope for our fortunes to change for the better as well.

“Most beloved!” D’Orlaans used the same charm to make his voice echo. He now affected a pencil-thin mustache, and there were dark pouches under his sharp hazel eyes. “My dearest Consort!”

I remembered the hypnotic power of his heavy-lidded gaze, the softness with which he laid out the plot. Do you merely remove the impediment, d’Arcenne, and you shall have all you wish. I am grateful to those who aid me.

And he called my Queen “Consort,” having proxy-wed her in the Citté’s Ladytemple, the Grand Dama. My fist tightened on the palfrey’s reins.

Had the Aryx still slumbered, had my d’mselle’s wits not been so sharp, had luck not run with us… he might well be calling her Consort in truth.

Vianne’s chin raised. “Tristan,” she said softly.

So easily, she slipped my leash. Unhooded the falcon, and now I only had to stoop to my prey. There is a certain relaxation in merely obeying.

I dropped the reins, my boots sounding on the stone as I strode forward. I had the pleasure of seeing d’Orlaans recognize me, whether from the set of my shoulders or the quality of my step I do not know. I reached the stairs as he stepped back a half-pace, and movement in the shadows behind him was his Guard, their blue sashes a lighter shade than his doublet.

I could not see if Garonne di Narborre was among them, but it did not matter. Nor did it matter who else he had in the Pavilion’s shade. Those nobles he kept with him on the dais would feel the scourge soon enough.

The glove, borrowed from young Siguerre, left my hand. I’d weighted the fingers with small stones to make it fly true. It described a high arc, then landed with a soft sodden sound on the second of the four stairs. I had aimed at d’Orlaans’s feet in their dainty half-boots, but this was far better.

“You accuse me of murder, Timrothe d’Orlaans.” Each word clear and carrying, Court sorcery crackling as it spread the sound wide. And it is true, but this is a theater of politics. Let us dance upon a stage, you and I. “You accuse me of treason and treachery, and you further impugn the honor of my Queen. The insult you have offered calls for blood. Sieur, I challenge you.”

Did I imagine the indrawn breath from those assembled?

No nobleman takes such a challenge lightly. D’Orlaans stepped forward, an ugly flush rising up his throat from the snow-white folds of his ruffled shirt-collar. Royal pride, and the pride of the viper that stings from behind because it feels its weakness keenly. He was ever a duelist at Court during Henri’s life, imagining slights to remove those he took a dislike to. Or those who stood in the way of whatever he wished at the moment.

He mastered himself, the false Aryx on his chest shimmering a flat, unhealthy shine. How did he fuel such Court sorcery, for so long? Or did he merely use it for public occasions?

Does it matter? The curious comfort of being locked to a course of action deepened. There was naught for it, now, but to see how the dice landed. All else could wait.

D’Orlaans’s rings glistened as he motioned. Stepping forth from the Pavilion’s shadow came a familiar lean and hungry sight.

Garonne di Narborre bent, a trifle awkwardly, and scooped up the glove. We locked gazes, the Black Captain and I, as he straightened. He did not glance at Vianne.

I was unsurprised. Of course Timrothe d’Orlaans would not risk himself in a duel.

“Your challenge is accepted.” The false King made another gesture. “Name your second.”

I had considered the question. “Chivalier Jierre di Yspres.”

A rustle behind me. Had Vianne glanced at her new Captain? Had she warned him of this?

Was he my replacement in other ways as well?

“Name yours,” I said, the words ash in my mouth.

Garonne di Narborre’s wolfish smile spread. “His Majesty the King of Arquitaine.”

A ripple went through the assembled as they gained their feet. It was not quite meet for a man to stand second after his vassal had accepted a challenge on his behalf. Yet there was no iron-clad rule against it; if I made no objection, twas meet enough.

I did not object. To have both of them within reach of my blade was more than I had hoped for.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Madness,” one of the Duc’s foppish followers crowding on my side of the circle said behind his hand, just loudly enough to be heard—but not loudly enough to carry across the expanse of bluestone. “Should we not be fighting the Damarsene?”

“This will not take long,” di Narborre sallied, and his words were passed back through the ranks on a rush of muttering.

Finer entertainment than a fête, I wager. And no doubt the wagering had begun in the rest of the army.

I loosened the laces on my doublet. The sun was high; the dueling-circle had been drawn with Court sorcery and chalk on the bluestone pavers. Vianne was still a-horse, a statue in the golden light, her back straight, her face set and white. The ribbons of Court sorcery weaving about her, veils of scarlet, gold, and pure white, moved with their own lazy rhythm.

“What are you about?” Jierre murmured. His fierce glare was turned on the pair across the circle, di Narborre and d’Orlaans conferring, master and lieutenant seemingly at ease.

Was he asking why I had called him as my second? “If they do not kill me, you may call me to account for the wrong I have done you.” I rather look forward to it. Perhaps afterward we might even return to some manner of friendship. My tone dropped, became a half-whisper. “Do you still consider me a traitor?”

Jierre shot me a glance that could have broken a Polian shield. “Not truly. Twas necessary for all to believe I did, though.”

My jaw threatened to drop. I did not look to Vianne, though I sorely wished to. My face kept itself in its pre-duel mask—interested, open, a faint line between my eyebrows deepening as I contemplated my opponents.

“I will ask an explanation,” I murmured.

His reply was obdurate, and strangely comforting. “If she grants me leave, I shall give one.”

My heart gave an oblique pang. Did she indeed prefer him? Who knew how a woman thought, or what she would choose? And for what I had done to her, there was no remedy.

I had, at last, decided as much during our ride through the underworld. The Queen of Arquitaine was lost to me. “I consign her to your care, then, if this—”

“Avert.” He made the gesture against ill-luck. “Not before a duel, Tristan. Have you gone soft-wit?”

“Many years ago. When you arrived at Court with an introduction, and—”

“Saufe-tet.” But there was no heat to it. “Di Narborre attacks with the tierce. But you know that.”

“Yes.” Did I feel better or worse, knowing he would watch d’Orlaans for foul play? Knowing that he had struck me, playing his part to a fare-thee-well, and I had not suspected? Or perhaps she had called upon him to dissemble, and…

I could not tell, and now twas useless to care.

This has gone long enough. I stepped into the circle, and the onlookers stilled. A furious ripple went through the back ranks as the oddsmakers noted I was eager to begin. Heralds cried, following the ancient formula of trial-by-combat. Did I fall here, I would be ajudged guilty. Did di Narborre, twould be a sign of my innocence—and once his vassal had fought, if I challenged again, d’Orlaans must step forth to answer.

Would Vianne watch? She was known to have a weak stomach at Court, always turning away after the first exchange of blows. Yet this iron-backed woman who had left me in a prison cell and was even now playing me against d’Orlaans for a besieged kingdom… she was not the Vianne di Rocancheil I had known. No, this woman surprised me. Intrigued me even more than her softhearted former self.

Even if I had lost her, I would still die for her.

But hopefully, not today.

Garonne di Narborre stepped into the circle. D’Orlaans, waited upon by a group of a half-dozen pages, took a glass goblet of something from one of them and quaffed it. Another, a slim honeyhaired youth in that same sky blue, fanned him with a perfumed paper contraption. But the false King’s gaze never left me, hazel eyes cold and intent, and I braced myself as I drew and saluted, the ruby in the hilt of my sword—my grandfather’s, passed to me at my Coming-of-Age ceremony, for we kept to the old ways in Arcenne—flashing a bloody dart.

Di Narborre swung his blade twice, whipping the unoffending air, and saluted perfunctorily. We both paced forward, drawing our daggers, and the Black Captain did not bother to hide his sneer.

A rapier is a fine-wrought weapon, and much depends on its temper. But a duel is not merely fought with steel.

D’Arquitaine rapiers are broader and heavier than the weapons the Sievillein in Navarrin sport with. A filigreed cage for the hand, a whisper-thin blade, Sievellein duels are more dance than deadly. There is a panel of judges, of all things, and the winner is not him left breathing but he whose score outweighs the other’s.

Cowards.

A d’Arquitaine rapier also has a shield-cage for the hand, and flexes slightly as it cleaves air or flesh. A nobleman may request l’petitte, which is a duel fought rapier-only, to the first blooding. Most questions of honor are resolved thus.

But for the Black Captain and me, twas cri di combat. Rapier and dagger, no baffle over the arm, and no cri mirci. No judge but the gods, and no proof but blood admitted to this court.

“D’Arcenne.” Di Narborre, no sneering now.

“Di Narborre.” None on my part, either. We were both catspaws, after all. He was a Hand for his liege, and I for mine. Except he had never betrayed d’Orlaans.

At least, not where any could see.

He attacked entierce, of course, blade flashing as he tested my defense. Batted aside with contemptuous ease, I moved forward in an oblique line, all uncertainty falling away. First blood was mine, a stripe along his upper arm, he slashed low and wicked with the dagger and I leaned back. Court sorcery crackled as it wove between us, the Aryx singing like wine in my veins. The sorcery to fling light at an enemy’s eyes swiftly opposed with my counterspell, breath coming hard and ribs tearing as sweat wrung from both our foreheads—true combat brings the saltwater much earlier than drill. No respite, blades slitherclashing, quarto, ensiconde, Signelli’s defense and Caparete’s gambit, an overhand cut and I had him against the circle…

… and I cut away, letting him regain his breath.

Di Narborre shook sweat from his brow and narrowed his eyes. “That will not buy you quarter, d’Arcenne.”

We were not merely dueling here. We were playing to the gallery of the army, and Vianne’s Consort could not be seen to be less than honorable. My father would have approved—finally, we were in agreement about appearances. “I need no quarter from your kind,” I spat. “Killing unarmed women has dulled your blade, sieur.”

I sought to anger him, and half-succeeded. Court sorcery closed in earnest this time, spell and counterspell, savage bits of the Angoulême’s inheritance meant to blind, to lame, to kill. Would he, that survivor of storm-wrack and conqueror of hedgewitch peasants, be shamed of what his noble children had wrought?

We closed again, and again di Narborre chose the tierce. Caparete’s gambit again, then the reach of the rapier keeping his dagger at bay as he pressed me; we had watched each other duel too many times. Sorcery kindled, I averted the blow but my hip turned momentarily numb, my leg threatening to give as he surged forward with Antorieu’s thrust. The dagger turned it, there was only one possible avenue to salvage my defense and I took it, a fast brutal jab-and-turn I had learned in alleyfighting where the quarters are close and the length of a rapier sometimes a hindrance. It restored the balance, and my hip returned to normalcy—that charm is short-lived, and can be used for a horse as well. If one does not mind killing an innocent animal.

Shuffling, grit under bootsoles providing traction, the smithy-ringing of a flurry of light, testing blows, both of us panting for breath. A cup of glassy silence descended over our dance. Warmed and loosened, blood dripping from my left arm and a smear of bright crimson on his face and dappling his sleeve, the steel whistling deadly-sweet courtsongs. Another jab for my eyes, a dart of sunlight harnessed and turned to ice, countered as the Aryx passed a thread of melody under my skin.

Is she watching?

The space inside the circle crackled and buzzed with stray sorcery. Normally a duel is done in four passes or less, inexperience or brutality forcing an opening. We may have been evenly matched, di Narborre and I—except for the breaking of the duel-circle, d’Orlaans shrieking as his false Aryx burned with unholy radiance. The poison killspell he flung was familiar—it reeked of apples, wet dog, and vileness. He had laid the same spell on Minister Simieri, the day the conspiracy broke loose and Henri met his death on my blade.

It was faint comfort to finally have the question of just who had sorcelled Simieri answered to my satisfaction.

The true Aryx matched his cry, a crystal-rimmed goblet singing as it is stroked by a damp fingertip, and the medallion on his chest cracked under the noise. My foot slipped, I lunged, di Narborre attacked again—

—but not with the tierce. No, he attacked ensiconde, and his blade slid past my guard, punching through muscle and lung, ramming out through the back of my shirt and doublet with a sound like the earth itself breaking in half.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bubble of warmth on my lips. The blood ran down my chin. I stared at di Narborre, who wore a tight thin smile. My left arm extended, my dagger punching through muscle, slipping between ribs, and I had what seemed an eternity to think, How strange, we are both dead, before the pain began. It broke in my chest, a monstrous egg, and my legs sought to buckle.

No. Not yet.

Di Narborre folded, oddly boneless. For a moment I was in the Rose Room again, a King on my sword and the world about to fall to pieces. I twisted the dagger, but my hand was oddly weak.

The Black Captain’s gaze dimmed. A candle, swiftly carried down a dark corridor. Fading to a spark, then vanishing.

I cannot die.

He perhaps thought the same.

The world tilted. The dagger tore free of my nerveless fingers, buried in his heart. A pity that he had one. None would believe it.

A high, retching cough spattered more bright blood from my lips. Silence, holding me in vast, feathery, cupped hands.

I cannot die.

It was too late.

I died.

Glare of white light. Bergaime and spice filling my mouth. Slick fabric against my tensed fists, handfuls of scratch-embroidered material. Copper-gummed blood dry on my lips, scabs coating my throat. I tasted blood with every breath of my salvation.

I was told afterward of Vianne’s cry as di Narborre’s rapier threaded my chest, a needle in the fingers of an enthusiastic sempstress. Of the Aryx’s blaze, a crack of darkness in its heart as the serpents spun, their metal flowing like living scales. Of d’Orlaans’s swift attack after he had called forth the poison killspell, his foul sorcery calling down a blight upon the stones, cracking and scoring them, a line of murderous intent swerving at the last moment, failing as my d’mselle opened herself to the Seal completely.

There was an orb of brilliance, hung in midair. Silver radiance outshining the harvest-season sunshine. Those who witnessed it—and every man afterward told roughly the same tale—found himself on his knees. A great silence, broken only by a rustling, as of a vast wheatfield brushed by the wind’s caressing, invisible fingers. And somehow, every man of d’Orlaans’s army saw Vianne, her arms about me, my head on her silk-draped lap as I choked my last, reaching with bloodstained fingers to touch her cheek.

Jiserah, some of them breathed, as if that queen among the Blessed had come to earth. Perhaps she had.

The brilliance shrank, a pinprick of white-scorch intensity, and the rattling whistle of tortured breath echoed amid the rustling. My foolish body jerked, striking out with fists and feet, but Vianne did not flinch.

A knife of ice through my chest. Bubbling clear fluid spuming from nose and mouth as she rolled me aside, the torrent fouling her skirts. I convulsed, and the force of that seizure cracked me open.

Mercifully, I remember little of it. Merely the pain, and even that fades. My cheek against cold cracked bluestone, Vianne’s hands strengthless at my shoulders, plucking weakly at my doublet. She tilted back her head and screamed, a cry of utter negation.

And I… lived.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Weak as a newborn kitten. There was a cup at my lips—broth with bitter herbs; I drank. Sought to grimace at the foulness of whatever medicinal properties the draught had. Cursing, a lake of broth spilling over my face, a familiar voice answering my oath with an equally improper one.

“Do not drown him, lackwit!” Young di Siguerre grabbed at the cup, and a foreign voice cursed him roundly.

I found myself on a camp-cot, gracelessly sideways, my boots scraping at carpets as I recognized the fabric. Indigo, rich and expensive.

Vianne.

“Where—” My voice would not work properly. Burning invaded my cramped limbs. I coughed, harshly. A gobbet of something foul lodged in my throat, I retched, and the Pruzian cursed again, this time cheerfully, as a basin appeared to catch the bloodclot. Cold air stung all the way down, then, and I was suddenly exquisitely aware of the simple act of breathing in a way I never had been before.

“Son of a donkey-loving whore,” he finished in Pruzian, spitting each syllable disdainfully. “I am playing nursemaid to a babbling Hekzmeizten so weak I could knife him with no trouble—”

I jerked, twisting, and his harsh caw of amusement scraped my ears. “I jest,” he muttered. “The fralein, she left thee in our care. Ease yourself, friend, the Hekz takes a toll even while it heals.”

A Pruzian Knife, calling me friend? I blinked crusted blood and other matter away.

Young Siguerre cursed as he lifted my legs, managing to slop me onto the cot in passing-fair fashion. “There. You weigh a dray-and-cart, d’Arcenne, and you smell none too fresh either. You are to rest, and the hedgewitch is fetching something for tisane—”

Hedgewitch? “Vianne…” I sought to raise myself. Managed it shakily, but the tearing in my chest forced me to cease. “What in the name of the Blessed—”

“You are to rest, she said. We follow her as soon as you may travel.” Di Siguerre’s young face was graven. “She rides for the relief of Reimelles with those who did not follow the Duc d’Orlaans. He escaped, and no few went with him. Methinks he goes to join the hounds of Damar, or some other such black treachery. Much joy may they have of him, too, wherever he lands. The Queen let him leave with his life.” It was awe behind his gaze, I realized, uncomfortable but evident. “She says we will drive back the Damarsene. She says the gods have spoken.”

Reimelles? The world had gone mad. I stared at him, forcing my wits to work through a cotton-fog. Damn the woman. Will she never stay in one place?

But Reimelles was one of the first defenses on the road to the Citté. If the Citté fell, Arquitaine was lost. Had Badeau, that ancient hedge against attack from the north and west, granted passage to Damarsene armies? If they had not, there was a faint chance—but Badeau could not hold out for long, and the Damar might simply march through their territory first and ask forgiveness later.

That had happened before, and tis said to be the reason why those of Badeau are ever nervous.

“Gods. What have they to do with Reimelles?” I tested each limb in turn. My chest was a cracked egg of tenderness and aching, but I could move.

“I do not know.” Young Siguerre took the basin and blood clot from the Pruzian. “You were lung-pierced, Captain. She healed you. The Aryx broke d’Orlaans’s… thing, whatever it was.”

“He studied long on sorcery,” I managed, gaining another deep breath. Lung-pierced. Such a wound was likely a death sentence unless one had a greatly skilled physicker immediately by, but I was merely tender all through. And strengthless, my limbs heavy and inert. And he was never very careful of method. Only of results.

Oh, twas possible, I supposed. The dark half of Court sorcery is fueled with blood and pain, and tis not meet for a nobleman. Nor is it quite safe—those who take the Rose Path, as it is known, risk the thorns and sores of sorcery-sickness, not to mention insanity.

I did not think d’Orlaans would cavil overmuch at the risk.

Di Siguerre shrugged. “Good riddance, whatever twas. Here’s the hedgewitch now.”

Twas Coele, one of the pair who had tended horse and Guard during our ride. His broad face was familiar, and his phlegmatic mien doubly so. He thrust a cup of something thick, foul-smelling, and sulfurous under my nose. “Drink, an it please you, sieur.”

I had no choice, unless I wished to drown.

“He coughed this up. Should we worry?” Di Siguerre managed the impression of a fretting old maiden auntie tolerably well.

“Clears the lung.” Coele nodded, one arm under my shoulders. I sought not to splutter the contents of the cup. “See the charm, there? Fine work. A goodly scar to tell the d’mselles of.”

The Pruzian glanced up at the tent’s interior, then back to me. His quality of silence was the patience of a man who knew how to wait—perhaps the most dangerous sort there is.

When the hedgewitch finally took pity on me and removed the cup, I found myself breathing again with deep, disbelieving gratitude. “Reimelles,” I croaked. “We must ride.”

“Not yet.” Coele immediately gainsaid me. “M’dama gave orders. Charm will tear if you ride now.”

“How long?” I sought to rage, could only rasp. “Blessed curse you, vilhain, how long am I abed?”

“Longer you thrash, longer it takes.” The man nodded to di Siguerre. “Sieur. I’m off to mix more tisane; back in an hour to charm him afresh.”

“Very well.” Siguerre was left holding the basin; he made a face at it and stamped out of eyeshot, the bowl clattering as he placed it somewhere.

The Pruzian leaned over me. “Rest,” he said, in his unlovely mother tongue. “I shall be watchful, m’Hier. She suspects.”

I would have inquired just what he meant, but Siguerre returned to my bedside. “Di Sarciere’s half of the Guard went with Her Majesty, Captain.”

“How many left with her? Who commands at Reimelles?”

“The Old Guard, half the New, more than half of d’Orlaans’s forces gathered here. Of the command of Remeilles… I do not know.”

Jierre would have known. I could have cursed at him. Instead, I merely closed my eyes. I had attempted what she asked of me—yet I had miscarried. D’Orlaans still lived. I had not gained the chance to challenge him afresh after di Narborre fell.

And here I was, lung-pierced, sedated by a peasant hedgewitch, and useless, while she rode with an army perhaps full of treachery. Much would depend on who commanded the forces at Reimelles, whether twas one of d’Orlaans’s creatures or a noble who cared little for the erstwhile Duc. There would be much to do, and much she would not think to ask for or on. I racked my brains, but I could not think of who had been enseated at Reimelles during the last year.

It was perhaps not possible for her to turn back the Damarsene with a ragged army of possibly-treacherous men, and she must guard against d’Orlaans even more carefully now. Relieving him of the burden of ceremony and protocol meant that he could strike from the shadows at any moment—and she had none at her side capable of anticipating or turning aside such a blow.

At least she had her new Captain. Jierre, showing a depth of dissimulation I had scarce thought he possessed. Had he been pretending to think me a traitor, or was he pretending to think summat else now? Either way, he was showing subtlety.

Vianne could make a man into whatever she wished, did she but realize it.

She knew what I had done, and perhaps hated me for it. Yet she had spilled from her palfrey and come to me. She had held me. Had even cried aloud.

Because I could not stand the thought of your beheading, Captain, she had informed me, archly, once.

Could she still not stand the thought of my death? Twas another small mercy, one with thorns. But I took it, and fell into a drugged, twilit sleep.

The Field d’Or was deserted. Yellowed grass, stamped-bare dust, the charred remains of fires, the Pavilion standing lone and dark against a gray-clouded sky. Stray dogs nosed among the smoking midden-heaps d’Orlaans had left behind.

Packhorses and plenty of provisions were left for our small band. Perhaps Jierre had seen to it. Tents had been left as well for my nursemaids, and the large blue embroidered monstrosity as well. I shall not need it, Vianne had said to young Siguerre. Let him rest in comfort, for once.

Other than that, she had left no word for me. Nothing but the scar on my chest, angrily red and tender, and a matching scar on my back. Di Garonne had done his work well. The mark on my face did not count, for twas healed already. But still I felt it, plucking at my expression as I lay exhausted and fretting.

Coele did his level best to keep me down and drugged, but the second day after the duel I grimly hauled myself from the cot, barked at di Siguerre to fetch my shaving-kit, and cursed the hedgewitch roundly when he sought to dose me with a sedative draught again. The Pruzian found this amusing indeed, to judge by his sardonic grin.

At least he had not knifed me while I lay abed.

“No more sleep-herbs, by the Blessed,” I snapped. “Dose me with aught else you will, hedgewitch, but do not blunt my wits. They are blunt enough.”

“Aye to that, sieur,” he snapped in return, flushed and irritated, clutching the rejected cup in both hands. “The charm is fragile; it may tear and you will bleed out in a heartbeat. Or drown in your own claret. M’dama said you were to rest—”

“She is my Queen, not my nursemaid. I serve her better thus.” I forced my legs to straighten, pushing myself up. To stand made my chest ache in a wholly different way, but twas bearable.

Just, but bearable.

“She said—”

“She is not here,” I pointed out. “And I am determined, sieur physicker. Turn your attention to mixtures that will not send me to Kimyan’s realm, and I shall take charge of aught else. And eat something,” I called after him as he stamped away. “I shall need you hale!”

“Idiot,” the Pruzian commented, pleasantly.

“He keeps muttering in that foreign tongue of his.” Siguerre, his thumbs in his belt, stood slim and dark and maddeningly young at the other doorflap. “What does he say?”

“Oh, he oft insults me. Mayhap he thinks I do not notice. Son of a monkeyfaced dogsucking fishmonger’s collop-rod.” The little filth in Pruzian managed to vent some of my spleen.

The Knife actually laughed, a surprisingly merry sound. “I begin to think you a worthy brother, m’Hier.”

“Which does not explain why you are here, and she without your services.”

He shrugged. “She is remarkably persuasive.”

“What does he say?” Young Siguerre looked uneasy. I had noted he did not turn his back to the Pruzian, which said well of him.

I did not give it much thought, being too occupied with keeping my unruly body from toppling. “He remarks that the Queen is marvelous persuasive when she makes requests of her subjects. So I have found, indeed.” Has she found it easy to outplay me? She was wasted as a lady-in-waiting. “Did you bring my shaving-kit? Ah, good man. Tell the men to cache whatever we cannot carry; we leave for Reimelles at the nooning.”

“Not another ride,” he groaned, with feeling, and I was surprised into a grim laugh.

“We have a slow-moving army two days afoot of us. I think we are capable of catching such a beast without injuring your tender backside further.”

“Dear Blessed”—he addressed the tent’s indigo-dyed roof—“did our Captain unbend enough to jest with me? Surely the Riving of the Maelstrom is nigh.”

He was young, after all—and he had earned some small right to jest at my expense. Jierre would have had harsher words for me—and he still might, did he survive Vianne’s next adventure.

So I chose judicious severity, leavened with praise. “If the hounds of Damar break Reimelles, it may very well be. But with us in the field, Tieris, Arquitaine is safer. Your grandfather would be proud.”

He all but flinched. “If he is, Captain, twould be the first time. We shall leave at the nooning.” A nobleman’s salute, and he ducked through the flap.

Well. That is interesting. I blew out a long, frustrated breath. When the body will not obey, despite all a man’s cursing and will, tis almost as maddening as following a foolhardy woman across a war-torn country as she flings herself into every danger she can find.

Almost.

Fridrich van Harkke was suddenly at my side. He even smelled foreign, some odd combination of oil and tanned Pruzian leather, a bitter undertone as of young dandille greens. He braced me, and murmured something in his harsh tongue. Sorcery tingled along my fingers and toes. Twas merely a simple warming-charm, but its oily harshness scraped my skin.

“You will kill yourself.” His Arquitaine had improved immeasurably. Even his accent was better.

“I cannot die.” I have too much to accomplish. “The gods will not let me. Not as long as they wish Vianne to be Queen.”

And should they change their Blessed minds about that, they shall see what a descendant of the Angoulême can do to gainsay even them.

“All men can die.” Fridrich was pessimistic. “Here, I help you shave.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Following an army’s tracks is normally an education in misery. From the Field d’Or to Amielles, though, the Road was empty. Twas eerie—the fields were stripped, the Orlaanstrienne quiet and its game blinking in surprise at our passage. Smallholdings and tiny villages met us with blank doors and not a sign of life. Amielles itself was very quiet, and twas there we learned what was afoot.

Arquitaine had risen.

The peasants had stayed long enough to bring in the crops. Then they swelled the ranks of the Hedgewitch Queen’s army, with whatever weapons were to hand. Scythes, flails, bows, a ferment of peasant unrest. D’Orlaans’s tax-farmers and his invitation to the hounds of Damar were viewed as the reason for the plague, the scars of which could be seen in every village. The carrion had feasted well this year—crows sleek and glossy, young hawks circling hopefully, stray dogs and feral porcines avoiding the tramp of boots and shod hooves. Communal graves lurked on the outskirts of every ville, some marked with small shrines that would someday perhaps be expanded into Temples.

The Blessed ride with her, a few scarecrow-thin old women left in Amielles told us. The children who had survived the plague were big-eyed and fearful, peering at us around corners. The plague flees as she approaches. May it strike Damar down instead.

Indeed.

I clung to the saddle, my scarred chest fragile-sore. Coele cursed me steadily and roundly at each stop. We could not essay much more than a jogtrot, as if we were on promenade, and near it killed me with frustration. At least we were not far behind the Hedgewitch Queen’s motley army, its ponderousness still moving at a clip that kept it just out of reach.

The Pruzian rode sometimes at the rear of our column, sometimes in the middle. Every night as we camped, he vanished; every morning I woke to find him standing guard at my sleeping-roll. I did not ever find him resting, and I wondered that I had grown so easy at the idea of such a man near me with a knife while I lay unconscious. Of course, he had been within reach of my shaving-razor and had not done me any ill. It was not as if I could gainsay him, weak as I was. I was mending, yes, charmed at every halt and filled to the back teeth with tisanes. Yet rage simmered in me. Helpless, just when I needed speed and strength most.

I had much time to think, and much time to curse myself for not expecting di Garonne’s thrust. He had the habit of attacking entierce, true—but ensiconde was a child’s ploy, and I had fallen foul of it. Wherever his shade was resting now, it was probably still having a hearty laugh at my expense.

At least he was among the shades, and I among the living. For now.

And while I was, there was much grist for the mill in my head. She suspects, the Pruzian had said, but I could not induce him to sally further. My father had a potential traitor in his sight as well, but I could not spare any worry for him. If Jierre could act the jilted soul so successfully with me, what could he not convince Vianne of? I knew enough of Timrothe d’Orlaans to suspect he had a plan, as well. What might it consist of—and how could I guard Vianne against its tentacles?

Early on the fourth day we passed through Nemourth. From there to Bleu-di-Font was a short day’s ride, and my command to press on was almost gainsaid by a mutinous di Siguerre. You will kill yourself, he snarled.

I have already been dead once, I snarled in return, but until tis a permanent state you are not free to treat me as your lackey.

Nor are you free to treat me as such, was his sharp reply, but we left the matter there and continued riding. Evening rose in swathes of blue and orange, the sun dying over the westron horizon, and the shapes on the Road ahead resolved into creaking, brightly-painted wagons threading along single-file.

Twas a traveling band of R’mini. The wagons were drawn by horses instead of oxen, and a small flock of goats wandered on the hedge-side, tapped along by a slim youth with a slouching cloth cap. He touched the back of one goat with his crookstick, singing a wandering melody in a high piping voice.

“Tinkers.” Di Siguerre glanced at me. “Come to strip corpses, no doubt. Shall we move them from the Road?”

A fresh pang went through me. “Merely pass by.”

Some of the Guard made avert signs as we passed them. The R’mini did not call out a greeting, simply watched the band of crimson-sashed noblemen trot past. Their horses did not even seek to whicker at ours. The women were mostly inside the lumbering coaches; the men drove, some of the younger ones atop the wagons’ carved roofs.

The head wagon’s driving-seat held a R’mini headman and his lean dark wife, both of them gazing straight ahead. The headman’s proud nose jutted; his dark curly hair lay in sleek-oiled profusion. A red sash tied about his ample waist, a red kerchief about her luxurious fall of redblack hair, gold at her wrist and throat and ears swaying as the wheels turned.

My fingers tightened on Arran’s reins. He merely flicked an ear, and we continued on into the twilight, the pinprick-lights of the Bleu in the distance a welcome beacon.

I remained passing thoughtful, and more than a little unsettled.

When last I had seen that R’mini headman, we had both been in Arcenne.

Some days later we found the war.

Merún is a day’s ride from Citté Arquitaine. I had planned that we would swing north and east, taking the Road that strikes for Spire di Tierrcei; from there the Road was a river to Reimelles, and our chances were good of catching my Queen’s army.

Or so I thought. We breasted a short broken rise; twas the last of the rolling ridges before the vast basin the Citté lay cupped like a pearl in—called Paumelle d’Arquitaine, after the hollow of a woman’s hand—and halted, staring down.

Merún, the town of lacemakers, the royal seat of the White Kings before the Caprete line had failed and Tirecian-Trimestin became the next branch of the Angoulême’s line to wear the Aryx, Merún of the narrow streets and the Merúnaisse, as its inhabitants are called for their lace ruffs, Merún one of the seven gateways to the Citté, was burning.

The hounds of Damar had not been held at Reimelles after all. Later I heard of the frantic retreat to Merún, of the shattered remnants of the defenders of Reimelles meeting the Hedgewitch Queen’s ragtag force and causing panic as they fled. I was told of Vianne’s rallying them, riding forth on her white horse, the Aryx fiery on her chest—what had that fire cost her?—and the Guard, both old and new, behind her seeking to stem the tide of panicked retreat. Her Captain, di Yspres, commanded a rearguard action that gave enough lee for Merún to be hastily fortified and held.

I was grateful for that, though hearing him called her Captain sent a bolt of hot rage through me to match di Narborre’s thrust.

If she was within Merún, I had finally caught pace with my Vianne. There was merely a Damarsene army, fortifications, and a few leagues of war-torn land between us. And if she required me for the Aryx to fully perform its function, how could I help her from here? Was she even in the city?

I could not know. The moment is one that still brings me to cold sweat. Uncertainty is almost worse against the nerves than disaster.

Arran stamped as we hastily backed down from the ridgeline. The Damarsene did not look to be setting patrols here; they were occupied with the town. A pillar of crimsonlit smoke hung over their efforts; their siege engines were busy. If the wind shifted, we would perhaps hear the rumble of battle.

“How did they break Remeilles? Or did they simply invest the town? Is that possible?” Tieris di Siguerre swore, his fist clenched, looking very much as if he wished to strike empty air in the absence of a better enemy.

“We cannot know at this juncture,” I answered absently. “Peace, lieutenant. Hold a moment.”

Sharp-faced Jaicler di Tierrce-Alpeis fidgeted. “If Merún falls, the Citté will too.”

“Peace.” I held up a hand. They were all so young. “Give me a moment to think, chivalieri. This is merely a riddle, and one we shall solve.”

“The Damar.” Thierre di Sanvreult shuddered. “Their god drinks blood.”

They were at Arcenne’s walls not so long ago, and handily dispatched. Of course, it had only been some few thousands, not this mass. Arran stamped again, catching the scent of nervousness among the men. “The time for faintheartedness was before we left Arcenne.” My tone was harsher than I liked. “I asked for a moment, chivalieri.”

There was no murmur of discontent, but I could sense their courage waning as evening filled the sky, Jiserah loosening her robe and Kimyan tightening hers. But tonight would be a night for Danshar the Warrior, sword flashing and shield lifted, or his bow drawn back to his ear.

No. Not Danshar. He is not subtle enough.

Cayrian, then. God of thieves, god of traders and the silvertongued minstrels, of tightfisted merchantwives and those who live by the knife. He had married the Old Blessed goddess of justice, and oft made a mockery of her. Still, Elisara his wife—the blind boonsister of Alisaar, Elisara the goddess of honest measurement and swift retribution—always won out in the god-tales and teaching-rhymes. For Cayrian so loves her he cannot bear to truly cheat her. Besides, Alisaar’s curse would descend upon him should he dare to do more than mock, and she is not merely the goddess of love, but of attendant pleasures most are loath to risk. Her wrath is to be feared.

Of such gods the d’Arquitaine are fond. Their weaknesses bring us easier sleep at night.

Had I been a more religious man, I would have offered to Cayrian once I was Henri’s Left Hand. Of course, had I been more religious, I might have sought to win Vianne by another method. Who could tell what I would have done? I was faced with what to do now.

On his dun horse, under a spreading willum tree, the Pruzian’s gaze met mine. He nodded slightly, and I cursed myself for being so slow and so transparent.

“Sieur van Harkke.” I spoke as if I had my riddle ready, more decisive than I actually was. “Tell me you may enter yon city undetected.”

A single shrug. All things should be so easy, that shrug said. “I am a Knife.” The guttural Pruzian was far too harsh for a cool-turning-chill harvestwinter eve. Twas a night for cider and a bonfire, peasants dancing and nobles at a fête—possibly the Fête of Moonrising; twas the season for it.

Oh, there will be bonfire aplenty. Merún already burns.

“That you are,” I murmured in Arquitaine. “Now, my Guards, I shall tell you what we will do.”

They trusted me, those younger sons. Their faces, turning to shadow under hatbrim and dusk, turned to me as if I were their father. Perhaps I was; if the drillyard makes a soldier, the man who shouts and curses—who trains the muscle and sinew upon it—is a father of sorts.

Which made them all my sons. May the Blessed, old and new, forgive me for how harshly I led them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dawn was merely a gray intimation on the horizon when Coele shook me awake. At least I had slept; some of the Guard were perhaps not so lucky. A cold night, for we could not risk a campfire’s breath being remarked, did no wonders for anyone’s mood.

I ignored the grumbling. And I did not ask where di Siguerre had procured the farglass he handed to me as I approached him behind a screen of hollisa bushes. Their berries were soft and fermenting now, a heady, sharp scent in the morning chill. In the lowlands they use such late berries to flavor their mead, if they can manage to collect them before the birds do.

I lifted the farglass, peered through. Merún lay dark, the fires extinguished and its walls featureless at this distance. The city’s Keep was a pile of antique stone, defensible perhaps in the White Kings’ time, but sadly ramshackle now. Outside the walls—at least they were strong, those sheer sorcery-carved graystone curves—the Damarsene swarmed. Blocks of their dark tents strung behind the inward-facing circles of their trenches and earthworks, marring the fields and network of holdings and hamlets lapping against Merún’s walls. No few of those holdings had been torched and sent up their own thin threads of smoke to add to the haze.

Their owners must have resisted the quartering of Damarsene officers. The standard practice in such cases is to burn and level, even if it robs said officers of shelter for the night. Damar prefers obedience to comfort.

Perhaps that is why they ever seek to invade Arquitaine’s fields and orchards, to steal what they do not think to make for themselves. Or perhaps they are drunk on war, craving it as the birds crave fermented berries or those with alesickness crave nothing but the next draught of oblivion.

Sourness filled my throat. Even the shacks of the city’s poor had been cleared from their wall-hugging, the slum burning just as fiercely as the estates of petty nobles farther out. There must have been much butchery among those who could not gain the safety of the walls soon enough.

The Keep slumped dispirited under a pall of smoke. Was Vianne awake? Had the Knife managed to slip into her presence? Was I right in sending him?

Tieris could not contain himself. “Any sign?”

If there were a sign, I would have said so by now. “Not yet.” I kept my tone light. “Break fast lightly, and acquaint them with their routes one more time. Every man to check his weapons. We are not armored enough for a full cavalry charge; speed and lightness must be our priority. Leave behind anything that will weigh us down.”

“Aye.” He paused. “Captain…”

I thought him merely nervous. “Ease yourself, di Siguerre. We have come this far.”

“We have indeed. If I were to…”

Was Vianne inside that city? If they broke the walls, would she suffer a woman’s danger at the hands of the Damarsene? Taken prisoner, she was a valuable playing-piece, and they might force her at swordpoint into all manner of things.

Politically, and otherwise.

I shook the idea away. It would not help. “If you were to what?” Irritation, sharp as a splintered bone lodged in my throat.

“Nothing, Captain.” He stepped away smartly, to take my orders to the rest of them. I focused on the besieged city through the farglass and swore under my breath. As a method of relieving tension, it left much to be desired.

I watched for another hour as dawn strengthened, the sun bleeding as it threatened to rise. Red streaks clutched the horizon as if the Sun’s chariot needed claws to heave itself free of night.

Perhaps it was an omen. We could not be lucky enough to avoid shedding blood ourselves, even if my plan succeeded.

I had just rested my eyes, rubbing at the bridge of my nose, and replaced the farglass, when it happened.

On the highest tower of the Keep, motion. I waited, unaware of holding my breath until the need for air grew dire and black spots danced before me. I sucked in a deep breath, twisted the farglass’s largest lens slightly, and my heart rose inside my bruised, aching chest as the flag unfurled.

Twas red. Red as the dawn, red as the sash of her Guard, red as the blood in my veins.

Vianne was in Merún. The Knife had reached her, and she had agreed to my plan.

I snapped the farglass into its leather case. My jaw set, and the sudden calm of a course of action descended on me. Now I did not need to worry; I needed only to do.

Tis amazing, how such a small distinction eases a man’s nerves.

Horses stamped nervously. I gave Coele the purse. It should take him home handily, plenty of coin for his comfort and his trouble, and a request for my father to settle an annuity on him and the other hedgewitch, should that man return alive. The Blessed knew they had earned it. “Stay off the Roads.”

He gave me a withering glance as he handed the small bit of crumbling earth to me. “I ent stupid, sieur d’Arcenne. Mind they have a hedgewitch physicker reinforce that charm, now.”

The dirt-clod reeked of hedgewitchery, and I held it carefully. “If we gain the city safely, I am certain I shall have no trouble with that.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Blessed guard you. I shall miss your tisanes.”

He snorted, and clicked his tongue to the packhorse. They disappeared into morning mist on the other side of our camp-clearing. The young Guard, muffled in layers of cloak and greatcoat, sparked with stray sorcery. Each layer of cloth would hold its own particular turn-aside or defensive measure, to be shed as it was expended or as need dictated. They were all at least acquainted with the basics of Court sorcery—I had made certain of that—but they were by and large lamentably unpracticed.

“Hold up the hilt thus.” Jaicler di Tierrce-Alpeis flicked his fingers, and a complicated webbing of pale blue sorcery descended down chased metal, gathering in the steel, coming to a crackling point at the tip. “Then, thus—” A swift flicker, and the blade was sheathed. “And when you draw it, so. A burst of air, capable of knocking a man down. My brother and I used to surprise each other with this.” A soft, remembering tone. “How m’Mère would scream.”

“Watch the man before you, and ware your feet,” Tieris di Siguerre repeated. “They will seek to cut your horse from under you, do you break your sorcering.”

“We know, Mother,” someone chanted in a singsong, and there was a muted ripple of laughter. A group of men bracing themselves for battle are apt to laugh at anything—or nothing. Tis a different manner of armor than the plate a chivalier used to be required to maintain.

“Chivalieri.” They straightened at my tone, hounds hearing the keeper’s silent whistle. “Dawn strengthens. Let us begin. You know your routes?”

Grave nods from every quarter. They were haggard, some unshaven, and in their dark eyes blazed the flame of the Angoulême. A nobleman’s fire, kindled in the face of impossible odds. A d’mselle to rescue, a Queen to be of service to, such things were courtsong-worthy and proud honors to be worn. They were young enough to still believe such things ended with a blaze of glory and renown.

I had fostered that idea on the drillyard, seeking to give them a reason to fight—at least, a reason beyond pettiness and jealousy.

I succeeded all too well.

“Then let us begin.” Creak of leather, jingle of tack, we pulled ourselves into the saddle once more. I gained Arran’s back a trifle gingerly, my chest aching from the damp chill. The dirtclod, cupped in my free hand, crumbled a bit more. “Separately or in pairs, chivalieri, and mind you do not speak once I have laid the illusion.” I paused. “In the Queen’s name.”

“For the Queen’s honor,” they answered as one, softly but with great force.

I tossed the dirtclod, hard enough to shatter it. The hedgewitchery inside flashed green, and from its pieces thin traceries of vapor rose. Then I closed my eyes and invoked Court sorcery.

Twas easier than ever to pull at light and air, shaping it to my will. Did Vianne feel it, as I felt it in every nerve when she used the Seal? I was perhaps too far away. In any case, the illusion rose in fine threads, spinning about each rider.

One cannot build multiple perfect illusions. What one Court sorcerer can do, however, is blur the outline of multiple forms, a subtle shifting and shading so that a casual observer sees only what he expects to—for example, fellow Damarsene in their distinctive high-collared dark tunics and blackened half-armor with its high-curved shoulders. The hats became low-sloping, unfeathered things, ugly and shapeless.

Each of them murmured the word that would take the illusion from my control. I felt the snap like a crystal wineglass breaking inside a muffling cloth, and opened my eyes to find that Coele had wrought true. The hedgewitch’s charm poured mist from the ground like a fountain, and di Tierrce-Alpeis let out a long sharp breath, not quite a whistle. Hedgewitchery and Court sorcery blurred together, and the fog thickened. It washed past us, a heavy autumnal mist gathering strength as it drew from the fields and trees and open sky. The breath of wind di Siguerre’s Court sorcery provided sent it down the hill toward Merún. The sun would burn through the covering vapor by midmorn, but while it lasted we were even more heavily shrouded.

Like ghosts, we vanished into the fog, indistinct shapes. By ones and twos we threaded our way toward the Damarsene, hoofbeats muffled and our horses—appearing dun nags by now, since their ugly cobs bear no resemblance to the grace and beauty of even the humblest d’Arquitaine horseflesh—wearily plodding inside the woolfog their world had become.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The north face of Merún’s walls was not quite as high as the others, but still sheer. A culvert and a water-gate pierced it, with archers poised to make the culvert’s valley a ride to the underworld for any attackers. Fine thin threads of Court sorcery refracted through hanging water-droplets—the fog had surpassed my expectations. Of course, morning cloud-along-the-ground is common in the lowlands, so the sorcery did not have to work against the grain. It merely had to help things along, like Mithin the Physicker in the old limericks.

Arran stood, stolid and patient, at the edge of the culvert. The Damarsene suspected something was afoot—their call-challenges as the guards went about their rounds were increasingly sharp. I was not the first to arrive here—a dozen indistinct shadows ranged in front of me. The defenders above had not opened fire, though I knew they were there. One had coughed not too long ago, and the scrape of a crossbow-stand as the weapon atop it swiveled had fallen like an iron ingot into the silence below.

They came singly or in pairs, and as soon as I deemed it safe I extended one gloved hand. A small gesture, and the shell of illusion on me folded aside, bursting like a soap bubble. A tiny thread of Court sorcery touched the web of triplines stretched across the water-gate. They flushed, shivering, and the sudden silence was ominous.

A throatless, chill whisper from above. “The Fête of Flowers.”

Why did you dance with me? I’ve often wondered.

I found my mouth was dry. “No. The Festival of Sunreturn.” She had been in dove-gray velvet, the oversleeves and overskirt slashed to show crimson and orange silk, as a sunset on the shores of the Mare Mari, where demianges sing amid the waves. I should not have danced with her—by that time, it was suspected that I had a weakness in her direction. But she had been rosy, flushed with cider and laughter, giggling behind her carved sandwood fan as the Princesse sallied a remark or two, and I had not been able to stop myself. When she spun, the skirts belled, and she became a flame.

“Hurry,” the voice overhead whispered. The filaments of Court sorcery drew aside, and the water-gate had been eased open.

“Go,” I said softly. Hooves rang against stone and I winced. Splashing, the indistinct shapes rode down the slope and into the water, loud as cannonfire to my straining ears. I counted—one, two, three.

Eight. Nine. Where were the rest of my men?

Twelve. Thirteen.

Fifteen. Here came another through the fog, the set of his shoulders reminding me of soft-faced Sarquis di Pothefeil. I could not be certain… but I thought twas he.

A pair looming through the grayness. Seventeen, one without a protective shell of illusion. Twas di Tierrce-Alpeis, grimacing as he held his shoulder, and my chest constricted. The scar twinged sharply, as if remembering the touch of steel.

“Go,” I whispered fiercely.

He nodded, and they vanished into the culvert’s dark mouth. The sound of their steps vanished too, cut off cleanly as if with a knife.

Nineteen, twenty. Four more of them threading through the Damarsene, with only their wits and such a thin protection of airy cloud and illusion.

Dawn had come and left, and the Sun, false friend, was strong. Twould be a perfect late-harvest day, mild enough for the ladies of a Court to accompany a hunt. Picnicking in the royal woods outside the Citté, easy riding sidesaddle for them, the Guard in their finest accompanying. A vision of pretty grace and easy laughter, and suddenly I realized I would give up anything I could call my own, even my nobleman’s name, to see Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy smile during a picnic again.

But the fog was already thinning, and it was discernibly warmer.

A cry went up. Another of my Guard loomed out of the vapor, a hoarse whisper-cry as his illusion-shell breached. Twas Antolan di Margues, his hat gone and his dark curls draggled. “Ware! They come!”

Twenty-one. I motioned him for the dark mouth, and his horse slid down the stone gully with a clatter.

Alarums began, muffled by the fog—but not nearly enough. I breathed a curse, since my shell was already broken. The Damarsene roused themselves, a roiling anthill. A breath of sulfurous sorcery—Graecan fire, simmering or newly ignited.

The Sun would not have to burn the rest of the fog off. Another fire would do just as well. Cracks of green like morning-vine tendrils curled through the warp of the fog, and the stink increased.

Four more. Where are they? “Come,” I muttered, without meaning to. “Come, my boys, do not dawdle.”

The green vines flushed with red. I smelled charcoal, and salt.

Clashing steel. Cries. Hoofbeats, and a roar as of some gigantic creature prodded rudely from its dreaming.

“Tristan!” The voice from above, a thin thread of sorcery used to disguise it, but it could not hide the frantic hiss in the middle of my name. “Tristan, for the love of the Blessed, come inside!”

An exquisite stroke along every nerve I owned. The Aryx, close. Delicate living green fought the harsh red for control of the fog, which thinned and tore, unable to serve both masters. More clashing steel, ringing hoofbeats.

One more, his horse bloody and foaming; his illusion-shell was breached as well. I flung out a hand, pointing, as Sieris di Montalban clattered down into the culvert and splashed through the darkness. He was a fine horseman, controlling even a pain-maddened animal so.

Steel ringing like a smithy. Another hoarse cry. Chill touched my nape. I dismounted, caught Arran’s bridle, and gave him to understand what I wished.

When I let loose of him with a “Ha!” he shot down the slope, into the culvert’s mouth. They would do well by him inside.

I drew my rapier. Settled my dagger along my other forearm, ignored the repeated plea from above. “D’Arcenne! Do not be a fool! Come!”

Jierre di Yspres had held the survivors of the Old Guard on the slopes of Mont di Cienne, waiting for me to appear, those many months ago. I could not do less for the men under my care now.

Never too late to begin becoming the man she once thought you were. Ware now, they come.

Great gaps tore in the fog. Through the thinning screen, an absurd three-headed shape. Twas d’Embrail and di Haseault, on foot, with Tieris di Siguerre slumped between them. Blood dripped, and he hung in a sodden mass. Their illusion-shells were gone, and they had all shed layers of protective cloth. Tieris was all over mud and missing his hat.

And behind them, the Damarsene. Just four pursuers for now, and gaining on the men carrying their wounded lieutenant.

“Move!” I barked, and the echo of the drillyard acted as a tonic. Their heads rose—except Tieris’s. They hastened, and I lengthened my stride, ignoring the cry from the tower above. Was it Vianne, watching this?

All the more reason to do what I must, then. I set myself, ignored the aching in my chest, and broke into a run.

Chapter Thirty

In Damar, those who fight afoot are largely peasants, and trained for it. The officers are a-horseback, and noble, since only a nobleman can afford a horse. It used to be a crime for any of the lower orders to own horseflesh. Oxen for plowing and pulling carts, horses for war and pleasure, is still their custom. Their peasants fight with pike and sword, and had I been facing four pikes twould have been a much different battle.

But these were officers, one could tell by the quality of their swords and by the half-armor they had been laced into. The extra weight would tell on them—or so I hoped. One let out a watch-cry, and the fog about us roiled afresh.

Behind me, Tieris and his helpers struggled down the stone slope, boots clattering. A short cry of pain before they began splashing, damnably slow, and I closed with their pursuers in a furious spatter of chiming steel and a short-snapped word of Court sorcery.

When you are faced with one-against-many, speed and maneuverability are your watchwords. My chest flamed with tearing pain, but it did not matter. The battle-madness was upon me, and in that fiery glow it did not matter that the wound might reopen, or that my limbs were leaden and weak, or that the fog had shredded and the Damarsene had realized what we were about.

Inquatorce, half-thrust, my rapier darting for the throat and I faded aside, shuffling, as two of the attackers tangled with each other. They are not normally bumbling idiots, but awakened roughly and forced to battle afoot in the heart of their own camp does tend to maze men used to discipline and a-horseback charges. Even the hounds of Damar trained from childhood to the martial.

My dagger left my hand, buried itself in the throat of another—he was not quick enough, and fell a-gurgling. The next I took intierce, his blade slid aside just slightly as I turned, inside his reach and thrusting, the rapier ramming into his lower belly where the half-armor was cut away for freedom of movement while horsed. Pulling it free with a twist, my hand searching for another knife and finding it behind my hip—not dagger but poniard, more suitable for throwing, but I had already tossed one knife and been luckier than I deserved. More choking, more cries and running feet. The fog lifted, flushed with red, the green tendrils shrinking as they folded into the earth’s embrace. More splashing behind me, grunts of effort.

A crossbow quarrel bloomed in the chest of my third opponent just as I slashed at his arm. His sword fell with a clatter, but the fourth had recovered his wits and I was almost lung-pierced again. I saved myself by lunging aside, chest tearing afresh and sick liquid heat in my throat. A line of tents before me blocked us from view, but that would not last. Already I saw motion, the fog retreating in rivulets as the crimson Hekz ate at it. There was no longer truly “fog,” merely patches of thin vapor as if a cloud with mange had fallen to earth.

Coele deserved far more than a purse; twas a charm well-wrought. I had no time for the thought, twas there and gone in a blink. I braced myself, moved forward, the intended strike countered in a flicker, and now I was faced with just one man to kill as two of his companions gurgled their last and the one with the bolt to his chest lay drumming his heels in futile nerve-death, the body not knowing quite what had befallen it.

The fourth was a stocky Damarsene youth, his dark hair cut in the bowl-shape their chivalieri fancy, ghosts of the skinspoil still on his cheeks. He had not even achieved a respectable beard, such a thing being a mark of virility among them. Wisp-fuzz touched his cheeks, but for all that, he was strong and quick, well-trained. And he had perhaps shaken off his amazement, his wits fully engaged in the fight before him.

Which meant he had to be killed quickly, before he thought to raise another cry and bring more of his fellows a-running.

The splashing behind me cut off. They were through the culvert. His eyes narrowed, and he lunged inprimier, a textbook-perfect move.

That is the trouble with the young. They still think “correct” in a book is always correct in a fight.

I flung myself forward, my blade-tip circling and the edges grating. Sparks spat as he flung sorcery at me—but the Damarsene Hekzen is inelegant and ineffective on a personal level, and he did not have the Aryx singing in his veins and bones and breath. I batted it aside with a countercharm, reflexively tilting forward as my blade-tip caught the shieldcage around his hand and stung him. But twas the poniard, flickering forward and burying itself in his throat, that did the murder. I wrenched it back and forth, the sudden gush from the artery bedewing my face and hand. I wrenched back as my chest cracked afresh, glanced at the battlefield, and turned to flee.

Smoking with blood, slipping, stumbling, I splashed through cold thigh-high water. Shouts behind me, and a cry from above. The crossbows hummed, quarrels streaking overhead. Twas cover, and I was grateful for it, even though my feet shot out from under me and I fell into the water. Floundering, desperate, clumsy as a newborn colt, I plunged into darkness and safety.

The hedgewitch—a heavily pregnant peasant woman with a wide face and grave dark eyes—shoved my shirt aside. Her blunt callused fingers tested the charmed wound.

I jerked as the scar twinged sharply. “What are you doing, whittling it deeper?”

“You have breath to complain,” Jierre retorted. “Count yourself lucky, sieur. That was a fool’s job, d’Arcenne.”

“He’ll live,” the other hedgewitch—a man with a heavily bandaged foot and a crutch—said, straightening from the side of Tieris di Siguerre’s cot. “Tis merely bloody, and that arm will pain him in the winter. I’ve put him asleep. He needs boneset and charming; I shall return with both.”

“Very well.” Jierre nodded. He was even leaner than he had been, gaunt and worn, but his face had changed little. Set and imperturbable, his hair haphazard and dark with soot, he was much the worse for wear. “Thank you. Find some food too, Aranth.”

“Too much to do,” the limping peasant said cheerfully, and stumped away. Jierre sighed.

The woman nodded and mumbled to herself, burying her chin in her dirty lace-ruff. This time the charming was a mass of razor spikes, twisting at my heart and lungs. I choked, hot water rising to my eyes, and was glad my face was a-filth with blood and muck to disguise the tears.

“Serves you right,” she finished, and took her hand away, flicking her fingers as if to rid them of foulness. “Am’mist tore the charm clear through. Are you mad?”

The Merúnaisse are known for speaking their minds. And a woman bearing may speak as she pleases, rank and station be damned. They are sacred to Jiserah, those heavy with new life, and that gentle Blessed’s only curse is reserved for those who injure them.

“Not mad,” I countered, when I had gained enough breath to speak. “Merely stubborn, m’dama. My thanks.”

She heaved herself to her feet, cupping her belly with one hand and ignoring Jierre’s proffered hand. “There are other wounded to tend to. I canna answer for’im, sieur; it could take a bleed any moment.”

“I shall tie him to his bed and set a guard, Heloese.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a familiar movement when he was restraining himself. “My thanks. Go to your rest.”

“Canna. Others to tend to.” And with that she was gone, with the peculiar gait of a pregnant woman, sailing with skirts swishing and one hand clasped to the lower back.

The temporary infirmary was in a warehouse, bales of wool and spun linen pushed aside and piled to make walls. Groans and sometimes screams punctuated the morning hush. I met Jierre’s gaze. “The men?”

“Hale enough. The worst is the youngling there; he showed a fair measure of steel.” From di Yspres, this was a high compliment, and I hoped di Siguerre knew it. “What news do you bring?”

News? “Vianne? Is she well?”

“Well enough.” But his jaw set. “Why are you here? You were left with—”

“Nursemaids and tents, while you came to have a war without me. I cannot let you have all the maying about. I was fit to ride, and so I came. What ails Vianne, Jierre? Have I not some small right to know?”

He sighed. Ran stiff fingers back through his dark hair, disarranging it, and for a moment I saw age settle on him. Soon we would be my father and Siguerre, old warhorses, with a common bond, whether we were quite friends or not. And would Vianne be my mother, safe in the Palais with a harp and her garden, and a library of Tiberian philosophy and history stuffed to the brim?

I could only hope. “And we have unfinished business,” I reminded him. “There is the little matter of you believing—or unbelieving—me a traitor.”

“You do not know what I believe.” Yet he merely sounded weary unto death. “We cannot hold this city, Tristan. The walls will crumble before long. She says help is coming; she says the gods have spoken. But she is… you do not know. You cannot understand.”

I watched him. This was summat new, practical hardheaded Jierre speaking so oddly. “You try my patience. Pray try my comprehension with this riddle, too.” Dried blood and drying mud cracked as I grimaced. My chest was a tender egg, the scar deep-aching. Once the fever of battle is over, one feels the weariness, and the muscles one has misused.

“At least Tristan is safe, she said. At least I have accomplished that much. Now you are here, where it is not safe, and she is fretting herself dry worrying on what dire tidings could have brought you to risk your life so.”

I almost winced. “No tidings I can give you, Captain.” Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the title.

Perhaps it was ill-natured of me.

He shrugged. “She required it of me.”

I could not help myself. “And what else does she require of you?”

Did he turn pale, eyeing me? It seemed so. “That,” he said stiffly, “is between myself and Her Majesty. Sieur.” A half-bow, and he whisked himself forth as I cursed internally.

He did not tie me to the cot after all, or set a guard. But he did not need to. My body finally rebelled at the demands placed upon it, and after seeking to haul myself upright and failing twice, I lay there and waited, listening to the screams of the wounded and Tieris di Siguerre’s labored breathing.

Chapter Thirty-One

Confused motion. My fist came up, my hand caught and wrist deftly locked, and I opened my eyes to see Fridrich van Harkke grinning like a madman. He was unshaven, his cloth sadly the worse for wear, and looked very pleased with himself. “Son of a potbellied sow,” he greeted me. “Thou sleeps as one dead.”

“Can you blame me?” I muttered in Arquitaine, twisting my wrist free of his grasp. “What is it?” My head was clear, at least, and I felt… not exactly strong, but wonderfully rested.

“The fralein calls, my friend.” His grin broadened a trifle. “I trust this is welcome news.”

I had fallen asleep covered in filth, and now I felt it as the Pruzian helped lever me up. This time my legs held me. “I do not suppose there is time for a bath.”

“If you like.” This time he spoke in Arquitaine, though he could not handle the vowels as gently as they require. “She will not be leaving us behind again.”

I glanced at Tieris’s bed, but twas rumpled and empty. “How does the rest of the Guard fare?”

“Attending to the city’s defense.” He shrugged. “Tis only a matter of time.” The fey smile widened. “Then we shall see what it is to die like men.”

I have no intention of dying, sieur. “Very well.” I am certain my expression spoke more loudly than my courtesy.

His laugh, for all his grinning, was mirthless, and we sallied forth into dimness reeking of blood, sickness, and wool. The infirmary was abuzz—hedgewitches working grimly, the quiet eerie. They had the set gaunt look of those who understood that there would soon be more wounded to attend to, and the faraway, closed gazes of those who must shut away their compassion if they are to provide aid effectively.

I gripped van Harkke’s arm. “No bath, sieur. But I do need the privy. Then take me to her.”

The small round room was full to overcrowding, tapestries doing little to soften the harsh stone walls. Messengers came and went, a table littered with dispatches and other paper, and Adersahl di Parmecy seeking to retain some sort of order among the press of those seeking entrance or audience.

“The west wall. Take this to the archers; they will see to it,” Jierre was saying as he strode from the door toward the crowd at the back of the room. A stolid, soot-covered Messenger next to him wrung his hands, seemingly unaware he was doing so, but he took the message with a half-bow and spun, shoving for the door.

The din was overwhelming, candleflames in sconces along the wall adding to the oppressive heat. The Keep slouched above; this small audience chamber was reached easily by means of the large, drafty greathall, full of other supplicants and men awaiting orders.

Twas chaos, and my chest gave a flare of twisting scorch-pain. The scar on my face twitched as well.

She stood behind the table, listening and nodding as another hedgewitch spoke rapidly, shaking her finger for emphasis. It appeared the woman was taking my Queen to task, and Vianne…

She looked even frailer, her plain gray dress lacking any ornamentation, the Aryx humming against her chest. But it was not the smudges under her eyes or the hollowing of her cheeks that sent such a hideous shock through me.

Her gaze had ever been soft, before, even in the midst of her anger. Even when she took the tone of chill brittle royalty, a man could see the weeping in her. If he knew how to look.

The softness was gone.

The Hedgewitch Queen’s gaze burned. Her eyes were just as dark as ever, but they pierced swiftly and seared all they lighted on. Something had changed, and the woman inside her slender frame was no longer merely Vianne. Something inside her had unfurled, something bright and honed as the rapier at my side.

Was this what I had fallen in love with, so many years ago? Or was this a new woman? It did not matter. Every nerve in me sang like a harp at a skilled minstrel’s touch at the mere sight of her.

She leaned forward, touched the angry hedgewitch’s elbow. A few words, and the woman, her head wrapped in a scarlet kerchief, appeared satisfied. She nodded, her shoulders easing. Vianne bent to a stack of fresh paper, dipped a quill, and wrote a few swift words. The Aryx sparked, the serpents writhing about each other lazily, and Vianne folded the paper, gave it to the woman, and beckoned the next supplicant forward.

The Pruzian pressed through the throng. Twas hot as the Torkaic underworld here, and there were short tempers in every corner. A messenger burst in.

“More fire in the Quartier Sothian!” he yelled, and Adersahl collared him neatly, beckoned to a waiting soldier, and sent them both out the door to collect aid from the throng outside.

Vianne’s glance passed over me, with no sign of recognition. No, she looked past me, to see the result of the commotion at the door. The next man, his arm in a sling, began shouting over the din—something about the workers given over to making crossbow quarrels and their materials.

Jierre stepped around the table to Vianne’s side. He listened, gave a crisp order, Vianne nodded, and the man turned on his bootheel and began forcing his way out with alacrity.

I saw di Yspres lean toward Vianne, whose dark head bent. Her braids were disarranged, curls springing free, and no ear-drops swung glittering to tap at her cheeks. She tucked a strand of her hair back, listening, and made a quiet remark to him. There was no heat between them, no indication that he had taken on any role but that of adviser.

Fridrich shoved past a knot of merchants in soot-stained doublets. “Ach, prettybit, look what I bring you!” he announced, his gravelly rasp cutting the din. “What more do you need?”

Vianne looked up. Her face did not change. She merely nodded absently. “My thanks, Fridrich. Tell me, have you supped?”

He shook his head, his clubbed braid swinging. “Had enough. Where am I needed?”

“Luc di Chatillon is above the gates; he may need relief. If he does not, bring me word of how he fares and how long he thinks we may hold.” A slight smile, she offered her hand; I saw ink had splattered her sleeve and a fine crystal dewing of sweat on her wrist. “I do not know how I should fare without you.”

“Flattery, fralein. I serve.” He bent over her hand, nodded to Jierre, cast me a single still-amused glance, and was gone.

Her hand fell, and she regarded me. “Sieur.”

The world threatened to fall away and leave merely us, my Queen and me. I met her gaze and found that the relief of knowing she possessed my secret, that I had precious little to hide from her, was as sharp as it had been before.

Whoever this woman was, whatever had lit inside her like a maying fire, she was still Vianne. The idiot stubbornness in me knew only one thing: she was still mine.

I bowed—a trifle stiffly, to be sure. My chest twinged, the Aryx sparked again, and she winced slightly. The Seal’s power stroked along my body, and I wondered that every Arquitaine in the room did not shiver in response. “At your service, d’mselle. Command me.”

“I require merely your presence. Captain, fetch him a chair—yes, my thanks.”

I had twitched at the Captain, but twas Jierre who dragged a chair from the end of the table and settled it beside her.

“There.” Vianne pointed.

“It is not meet that you should stand while I take my ease. Your Majesty.”

“Tristan.” Irritation, sharp as a rapier point. “I do not have time to argue with you.”

I navigated past Jierre, my back to the stone wall, and lowered myself gingerly onto the uncomfortable horsehair cushion. It fair killed me, but I kept my mouth firmly closed. She nodded briskly, and I set myself to listening.

Merún was holding, but only just. Some supplies were reaching the city, for the Airenne’s cousin-river, the Marrenne, flowed past and the wharves were out of siege-engine range. The Damarsene had enough troops to choke the Marrenne to the east, and the river was low as usual before winter storms swelled it. All supplies had to come laboriously against the current from the Citté, which had its own troubles, between the panic of the Damarsene and the added panic of the false King’s disappearance. Word of the trial-by-combat and the breaking of the false Aryx had spread swiftly, helped no doubt by messengers dispatched by my Queen, but that would not stop the ferment while she was trapped in Merún.

“We must only hold a short while. Have faith.” She said it many times, in many ways, and those who sought her command or decision welcomed the certainty. They went on their way heartened. Twas impossible not to believe, when she turned that burning gaze upon you.

Yet I did not hear what relief she expected. Was she merely heartening them to stave off the inevitable?

Then we shall see what it is to die like men. How very Pruzian of him. Would he dare say such a thing to her?

The Harbormaster, broad-shouldered and weathered, stinking of tar, appeared. Not quite peasant, but definitely not noble, his unease in the face of her quality was marked. Vianne actually smiled—a tight, thin grimace, but still lovely. “What news?”

“Two days. Then, Your Majesty, you must consider—”

“What of the wounded? Can more ships be brought upriver from the Citté? I do not know much of the Marrenne and the ways of ships, nor do my counselors.”

I know some little, but I have not been here to ask. I kept the words behind my teeth. I did not know enough to be helpful, though I suspected the Citté would not send ships upriver. Twas too much of a risk, and why should they if they might need them soon to flee down the Airenne, away from Damar’s advance? The Maelstrom itself might be preferable to the pillage the Damarsene would wreak.

The Harbormaster spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. Unshaven and red-eyed, the deep weathering of his skin and his squint marking him as a riverman of long standing, he looked surpassingly ill-at-ease. His city was sieged and his ships in danger; twas enough to make any man blanch.

“The Marrenne is low. Which is good to bring the ships back—less current. But bad, because they must hold to the bank opposite. Not much room to maneuver, and upriver… well. The Damar could send rafts down, I suppose. So we’ve a watch, but…”

“Yes.” She considered this. Jierre handed her a paper, she glanced at it. “Here is a list of hedgewitches among the wounded. Two on each ship, for greater safety. Damar does not like our hedgewitchery; they are the best protection we can offer. The Citté will do what seems fit to them as far as more ships, no doubt. Your captains are brave, sieur, and you set them a fine example.” She paused. “Continue evacuating the children and elderly. Make certain the younglings have their mothers, should they be too young. Should there be… difficulty, with men who doubt our strength, notify Chivalieri di Sarciere and di Montfort immediately.”

In other words, should there be a panic and men seek to storm the ships, Antolan and Jai are to restore order. Di Sarciere is too young to do such things, but he may hold if di Montfort does. And di Montfort is not a man who forgives cowardice easily. Very canny of you, my Queen.

The man nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. Please listen. Consider a ship for yourself. The Citté is better guarded; we may have you safe in less than—”

He halted in confusion, for her face changed. Twas not the almost-pained expression she had been using for a smile, but an honest smile like sunrise. It shone through the weariness and dishevelment on her. “Here is where I am needed, sieur Kaeth.”

The man mumbled, his fingers working at the brim of his hat—lacking a chivalier’s feather, an imitation of a nobleman’s like so many of the trading classes—and his weathered cheeks suddenly stained with red. “Arquitaine will need you at the Citté, Your Majesty. If I may be so bold.”

You may not, sieur. But I happen to agree with you. “He has a point,” I offered mildly.

Jierre shot me a glance I found I could read with little difficulty. Twas profoundly grateful, and without meaning to, I found my mouth stretching in the half-smile that would mean rueful acceptance of the responsibility of an unpleasant truth spoken to royalty.

I had never asked what di Yspres thought of Henri. Perhaps I should have.

“He does,” Jierre agreed.

“Here is where I am needed, sieurs.” Her smile did not falter. “Thank you, sieur Harbormaster. Go now, and waste no time.”

He did.

So she was determined to stay. I caught Jierre’s glance again, and found with some relief that he and I were in accord on one question, at least. She should not be allowed to persist in this folly.

The trouble would lie in convincing her so.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“There is nothing more to do at the moment.” Jierre took the quill from her fingers. “Should there be an emergency, I will send for you.”

Her mouth turned down, doleful and weary at once. “Tis all an emergency. The walls are—”

“They have held so far, they shall continue to do so for a short while. Di Chatillon and di Vidancourt are working wonders in your name, d’mselle. Go and rest, so you may be ready for the dawn serenade.”

Another face, her nose wrinkling. She swayed, and I was up from the chair in a heartbeat, my hand around her arm. Jierre had caught her too, from the other side.

“I am well enough.” She sought to free herself of Jierre’s clasp first, and that sent a flush through me. The reclaiming of her arm from my hand was just as decided. “Cap—ah, d’Arcenne.” She did not flush, nor did she glance directly at me. “My thanks for your company. I shall send for you anon.”

“Vianne.” I could not help myself. “I shall go with you.” Twas difficult to strike the right tone—firm but not commanding, asking but not pleading. I wondered too late if outright begging, perhaps on my knees, would be more likely to secure me a measure of forgiveness.

“I require you for the Aryx, sieur. That is all.” Coolly, as she might address an overbearing swain at Court. Jierre had averted his gaze, studying the mess of paper on the table. The room was not quite quiet—Adersahl was at the door, and beyond that barrier there was much shuffling and murmuring. I could not tell what hour it was. Late, I suspected, and the Damarsene gathering their strength for tomorrow. Should they send scaling-parties, twould be knifework and grapple-sorcery on the walls. Dark work, requiring much nerve and wit.

My temper all but broke. “Do you plan to reduce me to begging? I wish to be at your side; do you not understand?”

“I suppose if I sent you away I would merely wake to find you looming over me again.” More trembled on her lips, but she pulled the words back with a visible effort. “I do not have the strength for this, d’Arcenne.”

“Then use mine.” Memory threatened to choke me. I had told her this before.

“Yours carries too high a price, chivalier.” She slid past Jierre, her skirts brushing his knees. He did not move. “Do as you please. You will in any event; I cannot gainsay you. Jierre, my thanks.”

“D’mselle.” His cheeks were red, too. But he offered nothing more as I made it to my feet and followed her. The pain in my chest was not merely the wound.

Still, I followed as she brushed past Adersahl. He fell into step behind her, and the swelling whispers through the crowd outside her door mocked me. She looked neither right nor left, her hands at her skirts to keep them free of her feet, and such was her air of royalty that even those desperate for audience gave way.

The Keep was drafty and ramshackle; Merún’s liege was di Roubelon, and he had spent most of his time at Court. He was perhaps in the Citté, either writhing at the thought of the damage to his rents and tithes, or glad he was not enduring the discomforts of war. Either was equally likely. He would no doubt present a bill to the Crown if the miraculous occurred and Arquitaine freed herself of the Damarsene. Otherwise, he would turn himself to being agreeable to the conquerors.

The quarters given to Vianne’s use were… adequate. This had perhaps once been a queen of the Caprete’s line’s bedroom, its window-casement looking onto a sadly bedraggled garden of roses gone to rot and wither. It must have hurt her to see it so neglected; any hedgewitch would feel a pang to see such disrepair.

The bed was wide but its curtains were stiff-dusty, its linens threadbare, and dust also lay on heavy graceful antiques last fashionable in King Archimvault’s time. The watercloset worked, however, and fresh clothing arrived for me. At least, I think twas intended for my use, and I took the stack from a young wide-eyed pageboy who attempted to peer past me into the room. Vianne was safely in the watercloset, the sound of splashing and an occasional rushing spatter as the ancient fallwater inside choked on fluid spilling through uncertain pipes. Twas lucky water was not rationed; the Marrenne had not fallen very far this summer.

Merely far enough.

When she emerged, re-laced into her dress and her hair merely damp, her eyes were red-rimmed. She gave precious little evidence of weeping, merely crossed to the bed and dropped down with a sigh. I was left, still filthy with blood and ditch-muck, holding a stack of linen and doublet that might have been intended for another man, pointedly ignored by the woman who turned her back to the room and pretended immediate slumber.

My throat had gone dry. Again. I was hungry, but that was of little account. The scar on my chest burrowed deeper, green traceries of hedgewitch charming almost visible to Sight as my strength waned.

“Vianne.” Hoarsely. “Please.” Forgive me. If you will. If you can.

She did not respond.

It strikes at a man, that brand of a woman’s silence. Not quite as a mailed fist to the gut, but close enough—and a little lower, as well.

“I could not stay away.” As an explanation, it left much to be desired. “I still cannot.”

Did she move? No, twas merely a flicker from the dim glowglobes in their wall sconces. She retired still-gowned, so she could be dressed when fresh crisis arose. Ever practical, my Vianne. But she should not have to be, not in this manner.

“Merún will fall,” I continued, quietly. “They cannot hold. You must be a-ship and away before that happens. Must I drag you?” Would her temper rise?

It did not. The silence stretched. Her breathing evened itself. She could perhaps be truly asleep. Exhaustion is a wondrous aid when one seeks to ignore a man, I suppose.

Finally, I stamped into the watercloset. Most of the filth had fallen from my boots; twas a joy to have a real fallwater again, even if it did choke with alarming regularity. The clothes could have been meant for me—the breeches a trifle loose, the shirt and doublet a trifle too large, both plain and dark.

And there, folded into the middle of the shirt, a red sash. Which did not solve the riddle of quite whose clothes these were.

I cannot gainsay you.

How right she was. I could stride into the bedroom, shake her awake. Strike her. Make her respond. She was only a woman, despite the Aryx.

And what was I?

The slice of looking-glass over the sink was ancient and cracked. I touched it, fingertips scratching and still faintly stained with grime. Hard riding does not wash out so easily. I turned away, not wishing to see the dusty ghost of my reflection. Stopped in the watercloset door, gazing at the bed’s stiff brocaded draperies.

Only a woman. I could do what I liked. Truly, who was there to halt me or say me nay? She needed me, by all appearances far too much to do more than leave me behind with nursemaids. I had won her once; I could win her again. Patience and time—but my patience was sorely lacking, and there was no time.

Was it not just this morn I had resolved to make myself into a man she could be proud of? And now, simply look at what I contemplated. There was a word for it, and it was not noble.

I stood in the ashes of my dreams, in the midst of a city that would suffer the sword in a short while. I had betrayed my King and my family, brought unimaginable suffering to my land, and drove the woman I loved into a Damarsene hell.

I had done this, and none other. I had even died for it. Were I more religious, I could consider everything before that moment a stain washed away.

But I was not, and there was no water for the stain on me. There was not enough even in the wide salt seas to cleanse the first layer of dirt smirching my self, and I had applied every inch of it myself.

Did I even truly love her, if I would use her thus? And yet she had not let me die, and had believed in my innocence until I had riven that belief with the truth.

I am not fine enough for you, Vianne. I have not ever been.

The gnawing suspicion that I would not ever be was familiar. That emptiness had always been within me, and it had led me to do the unthinkable and unspeakable, thinking it would earn me what I coveted.

The room was dim and quiet. You could almost imagine no battle outside, a d’mselle from a courtsong sleeping as her chivalier stood, loath to wake her. I had sworn her my service not once but twice, she had touched my rapier-hilt and accepted both times. I prided myself on being her Left Hand—and yet, look at the pass I had brought Arquitaine to.

If I had left Henri alive, what would have happened?

Such a question is useless. Think on what must be done now.

Well, what was to be done? I could hope not to make aught worse. And most likely fail in that, too.

There was one chair in the room—a rickety ironwood thing, carved with ancient spikefruit and possessing a mouse-eaten cushion. It looked decidedly uncomfortable, and I cast another longing glance at the dusty bed. The tapestries hung rotting on the walls, hanging in a stasis that would continue until their threads frayed and they folded to the floor in puffs of dust. By that year, would there be songs of how I betrayed my King? Would I be a footnote in the secret archives, my name blackened?

She would be buried in the chapel of royalty, and I… in a nameless hole, perhaps, my bones crying out for hers as they moldered.

What would the man she could love do at this moment, Tristan d’Arcenne?

When I opened the door, a familiar face met mine. Jierre paused, crouching, caught in the act of unrolling a sleeping-pad on the opposite side of the hall. He gazed at me dully, exhaustion plainly written on his gaunt face. “Robierre di Atyaint-Sierre and Adersahl have the reins.” He turned back to the pad, smoothing it down. “They shall send for us, if there is need.”

Us. Does he mean “Vianne and me”? Or does he mean all three of us? Or, even, “Captain, you and me”? There was no way of knowing save to ask, and I did not feel like asking.

I closed her door softly. Leaned the chair against the wall, dropped into it, my sword to the side. The ache in my chest would not cease. Was the charm holding? It had held through a short vicious fight, but that was no indication.

“You have done well, chivalier.” I leaned back, propped my head against the wall. “I owe you my thanks.”

Sound of cloth moving as he settled himself. The witchlight torches hissed slightly—no glowglobes here in the hall, too expensive for merely a passageway. “Merún will not fall tonight.” Flat, monotone. “She should take ship for the Citté. She has some plan; she keeps its particulars close. Tinan di Rocham was sent, to do I know not what. She says we shall not leave Merún, that relief is nigh. I fear she may have gone mad.”

“Not mad.”At least, not yet. “Now you see the steel in her.”

“I could wish she had less steel and more sense.” He sighed, and perhaps twas exhaustion that made him so unwary. “Tristan?”

Are you about to tell me I should hang myself to spare her pain? I might. I settled myself, seeking any comfort I could in the chair. There was none to be found. I had slept in worse, though, and though I had done nothing but sit and watch through that long afternoon, I was fair worn through. “Aye?”

“I do not think you a traitor. I never did.” His tone was harsh, but the lie—if twas such—was kind.

My eyes squeezed shut. Do not break her confidence. I sighed. “It matters little now.” And I cannot tell if you are misleading me.

“It matters.” He paused. “If we die here, I wish for you to know.”

“We will not die here.” I sounded as certain as she did. Had I not just been standing in her bedroom, thinking of the lies I had told to bring us to this place? And yet, if Jierre’s faith were shaken, he would not be half as effective in her defense. “I promise you that, di Yspres. We are simply too marvelous to die.”

His weary laugh rewarded me. “What was his name? Arkaeon dev Kadat. A petty chivalier of Badeau.”

“Only outnumbered eight to one, we were.” The memory brought me a grimace too pained to be a smile but too cheerful to be a frown. When one has survived such a thing as the Battle of Lithielle, tis the only possible expression to wear.

“You sent back the herald to say you would wait, and he should bring back another four hundred of his kin to make the battle even.” Jierre moved again. “Adersahl was near to killing you himself.”

“He enjoyed it. And the reception from the town afterward left little to be desired.” In fact, that had been the only time I had allowed every member of the Guard to become blind-sotted at once. They had deserved it, after all. Arkaeon dev Kadat had never troubled the north-and-west of Arquitaine again. And Badeau had taken quite a more reasonable tone with Henri afterward, parrying Damar’s requests for trade concessions that would sting Arquitaine’s merchants.

Jierre’s weary laugh was balm and a fresh scoring all at once. “Di Montfort and the m’dama of the pleasure-house on Rieu di Chier. I am a hero, woman! And her reply.”

“You are a sot and a base rogue, and a boylover beside.” I could still remember the woman’s very tone and the stained kerchief knotted about her head, her broad fist raised.

His tone dropped, an imitation of di Montfort’s broad north-coast accent. “I care little what I bugger at this moment, m’dama, and you look fine enough.”

A laugh startled me. Thin and inexpressibly weary, my chest gripping and aching as the pale shadow of merriment took voice, answered by his. “And the sourhead afterward. Twas lucky Badeau did not think to field an attack while you were all recovering.”

“Aye to that.” The old comfortable silence fell between us. Jierre’s breathing took on the rhythm of sleep, and I rested my left hand on my rapier-hilt. I longed for slumber, but Kimyan’s gift was long in coming.

Honest men were faithful, and Jierre even more so. I never did. He had played his part well, for Vianne’s sake.

I was not honest. Perhaps twas too late to become so, as well.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I woke to shouting, and my rapier cleared the sheath before I blinked and found myself spilling out of an uncomfortable chair, while Jierre pounded on Vianne’s door. “Wake!” he yelled, and twisted the knob, striding through. His hair stood up in spikes and his eyes blazed, and fair blond Luc di Chatillon had just skidded to a stop, out of breath and pale as a woodchopper faced with demieri di sorce.

“The Gate!” he choked. “All that could be spared! Damarsene—”

I needed to hear no more, spun on my heel and followed Jierre.

Vianne was already upright, her hair a tangled glory. “The dawn serenade,” she said, and laughed bitterly. “At least it interrupts my dreaming. Quickly, now!” She brushed past me in a breath of skirts and the smell of her, hedgewitch-green and spicy, filled my head. “Come along!” And, wonder of wonders, her hand closed about my wrist.

I remember little of the stumbling behind her, still mazed with sleep, the tearing in my chest familiar and so, pushed aside. I remember even less of the wild ride a-horseback through Merún’s burning streets. A predawn attack, and it blurs together in my dreams with Arcenne and the Graecan fire. At least I had resheathed my sword, and someone had saddled Arran for me.

Hooves sparking on paving-stones, flames and the stink, Vianne’s tangled head bobbing as the white palfrey bestirred herself to a gallop she had rarely been called on for in Arcenne. The slope of the ramparts behind the gate, switching back and doubling on itself to provide the horses with enough footing. Silvery witchfire crackling around the Hedgewitch Queen as she rode, a globe of protection forming even as she pulled her horse to a halt atop Merún’s eastron gate and flung out both hands, the Aryx’s singing reverberating through my body like the tramp of boots on a stone bridge, a harmony that could crumble granite.

A shattering rumble, hedgewitchery burning like a green flame and the witchfire surrounding her brightening. Arcs of Graecan fire halting, spinning, smashed aside, Merún’s walls shuddering as sorcery plucked at them.

Behind us, the cup of the city smoked and fumed, alive with screams. Massive orbs of Graecan fire, smears of deadly orange-yellow on the hush of the darkest portion of night—the long dark shoal of fourth watch, when the old die and the living feel their blood slow if they are unlucky enough to be waking—poured up in high arcs from the siege engines massed below the walls. The white horse standing frozen as a statue, and the high whistling sound is coming. I cannot stop it; I know what comes next, as dream and reality twist together in a fevered braid.

For I was fevered. The weakness in me was infection, always a risk with hurts newly mended. The charm holding my chest together had not frayed much, but perhaps the ditchwater had done the work d’Orlaans could not finish. I fell from Arran’s back, the tearing in my lungs becoming a river of hot acid in my throat. I spat blood, stumbled as the whistling became a scream—

—and the crossbow bolt pierced the still-building shell of witchfire, shrieking like a mountain-spirit, burying itself in Vianne’s shoulder.

The Aryx, bell-like, tolled, almost throwing me to my knees. I skidded, caught her as she spilled from the horse in a gray blur. Her cry was lost under the noise of the Seal screaming its distress and the howls of Graecan fire, now rising unchecked and falling in long slow liquid streams into the city.

Knees hit the stone flooring of the walkway, jarring through me. She was paper-white, her mouth moving slightly, perhaps praying. My hand closed around the shaft of the bolt. Get it free, then staunch the blood. And hope tis not poisoned.

Twas a fine time to wish I were a hedgewitch. The bolt was an ugly thing; she would be lucky to escape a shoulder-halt. My lips moved as another bubble of warmth broke on my lips, Court sorcery flaming against my fingers, the bolt shivering. It had not gone all through, the barbed tip grated on bone, and I twisted, wood suddenly flexible in my hands and the metal of its head giving out a low note of distress unheard in the cacophony.

Jierre was suddenly there, ashen, his hand under her shoulder as she thrashed. Her skirts tangled, her hair curtaining her face as she sought to breathe, a double shock of pain and sorcery she should never have had to bear. More warmth ran down my chin. I let out my own frantic cry, Jierre’s Court sorcery stinging my fingers as I pulled the suddenly-drooping bolt free. Weakened by sorcery, it bent instead of breaking, and did not tear muscle and skin overmuch.

I clapped my hand over the wound. “Hedgewitch!” I screamed, blood spraying from my lips and dripping down my chin. “Fetch a physicker!”

Vianne’s head tipped back. The Aryx boiled with light, silver blazing from its writhing curves. Shadows leapt, there was a breathless moment of stasis as they reloaded the siege machines below. Archers from our walls let loose, and the flaming city behind us convulsed.

Her hand came up, clamped over mine at her shoulder. Her blood, slippery and hot against my fingers, sent a flare of nausea and weakness through me.

Merely a nightmare. I will wake and find this a dream.

But there was no waking. Her hair brushed the ground; I bent over her as her fingers bit with surprising strength. The Aryx spoke again, and her entire frame stiffened, the heels of her familiar pair of garden-boots digging into stone.

The body will seek to escape mending from such a blow, if possible. It will thrash with surprising strength, thinking the charming is a fresh assault. I held her, and Jierre shouted something over my head. I turned my face to the side, coughed out a mouthful of hot copper, seeking not to foul her hair.

She sagged, and the moment of breathlessness ended. The Aryx twinged sharply, power shaking me as a trained farrat will shake a caught mouse. I folded over, her only shield my aching, wound-racked mess of bones and meat, the scar on my face shivering madly as if I had the falling-sickness.

Hands on me, seeking to draw me aside. I denied them until she twitched, her hair finally falling back as she shook her head as if to clear it. White as flour, two spots of hectic color high on her gaunt cheeks, blood spattering her face. Was it mine or hers? Mine, I hoped. The thought of her bleeding would unman even Danshar himself.

She struggled against my grasp. I let her go and slumped aside into someone’s embrace—twas a hedgewitch, I caught a blur of green and a shocked face under a glaring, bloody head bandage. My chest was afire, and I coughed yet more blood.

Vianne surged to her feet. Jierre lunged upward and caught her elbow, bracing her. She shouted something, pointing at me, and stumbled for her horse. Her dress flapped at her left shoulder, pale skin underneath.

She had charmed the wound closed, and even now caught up her skirts. The horse sidled nervously, but Jierre laid hold of its reins and Vianne had the saddle-horn. She mounted with more determination than grace, wincing as she pulled herself into the saddle, cinders raining from the dark sky.

The charm on my chest gave a burst of spiked agony. I coughed more blood and fluid; the hedgewitch rolled me aside. I cared little—I could still see Vianne, twas all that mattered. The Aryx flamed, and the globe of silver witchlight shimmered into being around her again. This time twas stronger, and her chin rose. The siege engines below released their cargoes of fiery death—and Vianne’s hands lifted.

In the east, the first faint gray of dawn was rising, along with white veils of fog.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dawn came up red as blood, again, through a screen of ground-cloud. The white horse stood braced, her head hanging, and Vianne looked at least as weary. Quiet had fallen, only a few whistling bolts from below, answered occasionally from one of our crossbows. Jierre conferred quietly with a haggard blond Luc di Chatillon—there had been another attack on the southron side while we had been occupied here. Ladders and grapples, and a swarm of men. They had been thrown from the walls with a vengeance, but di Chatillon was not sanguine about success on our side should another night such as this one pass.

Tieris di Siguerre crouched easily at my side. He had come to bring word of the fires—still raging in a third of the city, there simply were not enough hedgewitches to corral them. Also crouching over me was a young peasant boy—a hedgewitch with a bandaged head and a torn, much-mended lace ruff, his hand glued to my chest as he repaired the torn charming. Every so often, coughing and shuddering would rack me. At least I had ceased spitting blood, and the fever was receding.

Vianne, atop the white palfrey, clutched at her right shoulder. Morning breeze played with her dark curls, and she gazed down at the fogbound Damarsene army, expressionless. The silver protection-globe was pale in the morning light, drops of water vapor scintillating as it shifted. At least they had ceased to shoot at her.

She dismounted, awkwardly and unremarked. I ached to help, but my limbs would not obey me. “Tieris,” I croaked, my throat slick and foul. “Attend her.”

He rose in a rush and was at her side in a moment. “Your Majesty?”

She handed over the palfrey’s reins. “My thanks.” Hoarse and weary. “Find someone to take her to stable, an it please you, and Tris and Jierre’s horses as well. Treat them well; they have endured much this dawning.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Was it worship on his young face? No doubt. “Is there aught else I can do?”

“No, sieur. I thank you for your pains.” She still clutched at her shoulder, and Jierre broke away from di Chatillon as she swayed.

“D’mselle—” Jierre was pale, too.

“The city?” She did not look at him. Instead, her dark gaze lit upon me. Twas welcome, even if I was filthy with soot and blood, not to mention struck to the ground and unable to rise.

“Fully third of it burning. We shall not last another such serenade. There is a ship prepared to bear you to the Citté. Please, d’mselle—Vianne. Please.”

A slight, weary smile. She was still looking at me. “There is no need, Captain. I shall remain here until we are relieved. Continue evacuating the children, the old, and the wounded.”

“There is no relief,” he pressed. “Were there hope of one, we would know by now. The Citté—”

“The Citté is safe enough for the moment. Here is where I am needed, else this collection of wolves will descend upon the heart of Arquitaine. We must merely hold a little longer.”

“D’mselle.” Luc di Chatillon approached. Bloody, singed, but unbowed, his golden hair grimed until twas near as dark as Jierre’s, he made as if to bow and she waved the courtesy away. “Jierre has the right of it. We will not hold another night, and their strength has not diminished. If anything, they have received reinforcement from their fellows in the Dispuriee. I am loath to flee as any nobleman, but—”

“Here is where I stay, chivalieri. Do you wish to seek refuge downriver, I release you.” She dredged up a smile, and it took the sting from her tone. “If you do not, there is much work to be done to ease the suffering of those under our care.”

Di Chatillon was no match for her, but he still tried. “D’mselle. I would beg you to take more care with yourself.”

“And take my ease?” She shook her head. Even now, her hair loose and tangled, drying blood a river down the right side of her dove-gray dress, she was, in a word, magnificent. “Or flee when I have asked them to hold? No, Luc. The gods have spoken. If you would be of use, find some breakfast and return to your tasks.”

He accepted the rebuke and the command with equal grace, swept her a bow, and was on his way.

Jierre sighed. “I suppose if I were to ask…”

I waited to hear what he would ask of her.

Her weary smile broadened. “I would tell you that I know, and it is enough.” She winced, peeling her fingers away from her shoulder. The hedgewitch next to me muttered, and a fresh wave of coolness slid through my body from head to toe. “Mauris, is it?”

The boy nodded, his attention all on my chest. “Aye, tis. The fever’s down, but the charm here unravels ’lessits refreshed. Fine work, but he’s torn it to shreds.”

“He is most enthusiastic, yes.” She approached, slowly. Jierre offered his arm, and she accepted with a grateful glance. Then she was beside me, looking down, a ghost of amusement in her worn, beautiful voice. “I begin to think I should lock him in a donjon cell to force him to rest, but I have proof twill not work. Here, sieur, let me help.” She bent to touch his shoulder. “Take what you need.”

I opened my mouth to protest—she was well-nigh dead on her feet, as were we all—but the flood of sorcery roared into me, the spiked mace in my chest receding. The unhealthy heat of fever faded, and I shivered, suddenly aware I had been lying on damp stone for hours.

If I survive this, I shall not stir from a comfortable bed for a month. Twas a comforting thought—I had it at least once each time I found myself exhausted and in danger.

Her knees buckled. Jierre braced her. She opened her eyes and lifted a hand, touching her forehead as if unable to quite credit her head was still on her shoulders. “Jierre?”

“Here, d’mselle.” Hushed and respectful.

“See to his comfort.” She gained her balance and stepped away. “I will be here.”

“But surely, breakfast and—”

“You may send breakfast up with Adersahl; I would speak to him. Something to drink would not be amiss either, I am parched.”

“Vianne,” I croaked. “If you stay, I stay.”

She looked about to command me to close my mouth, then visibly checked. Our gazes locked, and the hedgewitch next to me muttered something about a tisane. He seemed supremely unconcerned otherwise.

We eyed each other, my Queen and I. Flat on my back was not a position to bargain from, but I would not be carried hence without some protest.

Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Send something more comfortable for him to rest upon, Jierre. And, Mauris, tell sieur di Yspres what you require for tisane.” And she turned away, making her way to the edge of the wall. She took care that her head did not show above the parapet, though, and I held my peace.

The fog was a living thing. Muffled clanks from the Damarsene below, closed in its thick white curtains, billows of ground-cloud snaking through the city. The walls were patrolled, the river-harbor under heavy guard, and Vianne leaned with her back against the parapet, safely hidden behind stone. The witchfire shield had drained away, and she closed her eyes. Did I not catch her peering out from under her lashes, I would think she slept afoot like a weary horse.

In a little while, braced on a stack of sleeping-rolls, I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of foul tisane. The hedgewitch boy, Mauris, spoke little, and moved with amazing precision for one half-asleep himself. There is a certain point of exhaustion at which a man will simply act, doing what is needful and no more, slack-faced and absent. The youngling in his torn Merúnaisse ruff had passed that point and was grimly hanging to consciousness, determined not to miss a single event.

Adersahl had brought mince pies, hot broth, and waterskins. Vianne had gratefully drained a skin, and I had attempted the other. Now twas used to dilute the tisane, and I was glad of it—except dilute meant more to swallow, and I was not glad of that. It tasted of donkey byre and burning pathweed.

Adersahl paced, well back from the parapet in the event of odd bolts from below. Midmorn came and went, the fog thinning slightly. The guards patrolling this section of the wall gave us a wide berth.

“Unnatural,” I finally rasped.

Adersahl halted, glanced at Vianne. “The fog?”

“Aye. And I should know.” My voice evened as I used it, though my throat still tasted foul. Mauris blinked sleepily, pouring out a fresh measure of tisane.

Adersahl stroked his mustache. He looked remarkably fresh, having had a chance to clean himself before bringing breakfast. Still, his eyes were red, and another decade’s worth of lines had graven themselves onto his countenance. “Mayhap they shall attack the harborage. Tis what I would do.”

And I. “Except they would pay for it in blood, and they have the rest of Arquitaine to subdue afterward. Easier simply to starve us, perhaps?”

“Your optimism fills me with hope.” He glanced at Vianne again. “The Dispuriee is ravaged, of course. There could be another army marching through.”

I settled myself a touch less uncomfortably. “Their banners are not just from the border provinces, as those in Arcenne were. Most are from Thuringe and Hessanord. Which means…”

“What does it mean?”

I spoke not merely for his benefit, but for Vianne’s. “Which means the royal House did not send any of its provincial units. We may be viewing a way to cause havoc and clear some of the troublesome nobles from Damar. Which will give us leverage, do we find some means of defeating this army.”

“Which will be just as easy as setting cats at cream?” A bitter snort of laughter. Adersahl resumed his pacing. “I am all agog to hear how we will set about doing so.”

My friend, I have no idea. Perhaps Vianne will hear reason in this, though. “Not here. The Citté, perhaps. If we can hold there long enough for my father to bring an army… perhaps. I do not know.”

Vianne stirred slightly. Her hand still cupped her right shoulder, though she had shown she could move her right arm and hand with little discomfort. Perhaps she was thinking of how close the bolt had been to piercing something else—her chest, perhaps. Her head. Was she trembling at the thought?

Good. She is not made for this. She should listen to Jierre and Luc, and take ship. “The Citté is a far better place to hold them, though. And did we leave, they will still have to invest Merún. Twill bleed their strength.”

The boy next to me said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Of course, a Merúnaisse would not take kindly to the thought of their city left so.

Vianne pushed herself away from the parapet. She approached, dangling the empty waterskin in her right hand. Flakes of ash clung in her hair, and two of her side-laces had broken. The neckline slid aside, showing a slice of her shoulder; more flesh was visible through the rent made by the bolt. “Take heart, Mauris.” Her tone was gentle, and she halted before me. “These fine gentlemen may take ship to the Citté, but I’ll not leave until we are relieved. Just a little longer.”

He made no answer, swishing the tisane in the heavy wooden goblet that had been found for his use.

“The Queen speaks, boy.” I sought to sound menacing.

“Leave him be, Tristan.” She winced. The Aryx, still glowing, writhed on her chest. “When I wish for you to bludgeon younglings in my honor, I shall inform you of the event.”

The Blessed know I have done much more in your honor. But to say such would not do well. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” Quiet and brittle. You are being a fool, my tone said.

No more than you, she replied silently, with a fractional lift of her eyebrows and a slight movement of her mouth. She might have been tempted to say more, but she halted, her head tilted slightly.

“Vianne?” I cursed my weakness. The hedgewitch boy proffered the goblet. I pushed it aside, and, irritated, he slapped my hand down and put the cup to my mouth.

Vianne turned. Her shoulders came up. The fog flushed gold, the Sun showing his face with a vengeance. Adersahl’s pacing ceased. I gagged on the foulness of tisane.

“What is that?” di Parmecy asked, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My fingers sought my own, but I was half-drowned, swallowing as fast as I was able, thin trickles of the brackish concoction sliding against my stubbled chin.

Vianne straightened. Her hands fell to her sides, and she dropped the empty waterskin. It made a slight sound against the paving, and there was a different noise intruding on the morning hush.

A rumble and a clashing, as the fog steamed and thinned, pulling aside.

“What?” Adersahl asked again, and she turned to him with a smile of such utter radiance I choked.

“Tis aid, my Guard.” Her eyes lit from within, and in that instant every echo of the lovely girl she had been and the beautiful woman she had become was left in the dust. Now she was purely splendor itself—ashen and bloodied, disheveled and draggled as she was, still the most glorious thing I have ever witnessed.

Thus it was that I was gagging on tisane when she looked to me, joyous and half-disbelieving. “Tis aid,” she repeated. “We are relieved.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

They fell upon the backs of the Damarsene like ravening wolves. Instead of one thin screen of fog to mask them, they had a whole contingent of hedgewitches reinforcing several charms to hold the morning’s vapor and thicken it. They had marched long and ridden hard; they were not so large as the besieging force, but they had the advantage of complete surprise.

The hounds of Damar are well-trained, and they fought well. Yet by the time the fog vanished completely, showing the dimensions of the battle, twas too late. They struggled to move the siege engines, struggled to form and re-form their shattered lines. The Pruzians struggled as well, for they do not retreat easily—if at all.

Yet the fourth charge broke even the horsehair-crested Pruzians, and though much is sung of the Battle of Merún, none of the songs speak of the cries of the dying. Or the smell of the field after twas soaked in blood and fouler matter. There was precious little difference between the screams of the city under siege and the cries of the Damarsene and their fellows falling beneath the blades of the army flying the devices of Arcenne, Siguerre, Timchaine, Markui, and other provinces that had declared for the Hedgewitch Queen. Peasants with pikes and scythes were also much in evidence—but the measure that tipped the balance was the detachments of ragged Shirlstrienne bandits and less-ragged Navarrin under a strange device, a simple red flag.

And who should be riding at their head but Adrien di Cinfiliet?

Adersahl and Mauris held me up, the boy openly weeping, Adersahl’s cheeks wet as well. The walls were full of cheering men, the crossbows hummed, bolts laden with death-sorcery crackling into the mass pinned close to the walls. When the Damarsene broke into full flight, harried away from their trenches and the walls, abandoning their siege engines and supplies, another massive cheer went up. Even a fool could have seen the battle was over. The Temple bells of Merún rang wildly, peal after peal, and I was told later that the scenes of joy at the quays were almost as dangerous as the melee outside the walls.

Vianne did not weep. For some while she stood on the battlements, motionless, watching, her face colorless and her hands fists in her skirts. She sent for Jierre, left orders that I was to be taken to the infirmary, and retreated to the Keep to begin preparations to welcome the relieving army.

Thus it was that I did not see the scene at the battered Gates of Merún, where the old Conte di Siguerre, in armor that was older than his grandson Tieris, swept the Queen a bow and greeted her with fine flowing oratory. I also did not see when Adrien di Cinfiliet rode to the Gates, dismounted, and my Vianne ran to his arms. Their embrace caused a round of fresh cheering, and the bandit and the old Conte were the heroes of the day.

No, I was in the infirmary. It was there that Bryony, sunburnt and dusty, found me. The hedgewitch, my childhood friend, sent the Merúnaisse boy from the room with its walls of wool-bale, and examined the charm on my chest.

“You are a right welcome sight!” I had actually been laid atop a couch made of wool-bales, and I must say, twas more comfortable than any bed I had been possessed of lately. “How does Arcenne fare? How did you come to be here?”

“Arcenne still stands.” He looked grave, but I thought twas because he was peering at the scar on my chest. “You have been seeking to kill yourself, as usual. Dear gods.”

“How did you—”

“I bring word. One message from your mother—she says to take care and sends her regard. One from… your father. Divris di Tatancourt was found on Rieu di Heifors. He had been set upon and stabbed several times. Your father thought it best to ride with what army we had gathered.”

“I last saw di Tatancourt in the Quartier Gieron.” I thought on this. “Stabbed?”

“Aye. Your father… Tristan.” He ceased poking at my chest and looked up at me. “I bring news.”

Outside the wool warehouse, the entire city was still pealing and cheering with joy. Even the wounded and burned packed among the bales sought to cheer instead of moan with pain. “Well, out with it, Bry!”

He stepped back, spread his feet, and clasped his hands together. “There is no easy way to say this…”

“Bry, for the love of the Blessed, simply spit it forth. I must be fit to ride in short order, and have little time to waste.”

“You will not be riding soon, sieur, with that charming on you. I bethought myself to find you first. You will be seeing Siguerre soon.”

For a moment I thought he spoke of Tieris, and I made an impatient movement. “Of course, but what…”

I suppose twas then that I knew. The words halted. I lay, near to witless with shock, and stared at him.

“Conte di Siguerre has your father’s signet.” Bryony took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself. “He… Sieur, your father has fallen. He fell at Bleu-di-Font. D’Orlaans was there, with some Damarsene from the Dispuriee. The false king was riding for the Citté; we gainsaid him. Your father…” The hedgewitch swallowed hard, his dark eyes suddenly full. “Your pardon, Tris. I was not able to… there was no… He fell against d’Orlaans.”

I stared, unable to quite credit what my ears heard. Surely there was a mistake. This was a dream brought on by fever and foul tisane. It could not be true.

“D’Orlaans.” My mouth shaped the word.

“In a tumbril, kept under guard. Siguerre wished to kill him outright, but the Conte di Dienjuste said twas the Queen’s pleasure he was remanded to. Di Dienjuste was left to guard him; he follows our army within a day or so. I am… I am sorry, Tris.”

“Tis not your fault,” I said, woodenly. “I thank you for your pains, Bry.”

“We sought to save him. Twas… there was nothing—”

A nobleman does not strike an underling for bringing ill news. My father had oft quoted the proverb, usually with a grim smile and his hand to his rapier. “I understand. Ease your mind, my friend. If he could have been saved, I know you would have done so. Please, withdraw a little.” I would not unman myself with an audience.

He nodded. Unwilling pity and relief warred on his countenance. “You are Baron now. We have not sent word to your mother. Siguerre did not think it wise.”

“He was right,” I said through the numbness descending on me. “She has enough to bear. My thanks, Bry. Leave me.”

He did.

My father. I tried the words inside my head. They refused to form. Is dead. Someone is dead. It cannot be him.

He had told me to take care as I left him in Arcenne. Had even granted me his blessing, and now…

Now what?

I did not know.

My eyes were dry, and burned fiercely. I could not even weep. I lay on the bales, looking at the ceiling beams, smelling wool and foulness and my own unwashed illness, as around me a city celebrated deliverance.

Twas a day and a night before Conte di Siguerre appeared. At least I had lee to stand, and could wash myself. I was moved from the infirmary to a drafty but more comfortable room in Merún’s Keep, and attended by Tieris and a new hedgewitch physicker, a wide-hipped dame with the sharp face and blue eyes of Arcenne, a newly arrived and most welcome addition to the physickers. Beadris was her name, and rarely have I had a more grueling commander. I would mend, she announced, and she would see to it, for she had been commanded to do so by the Queen herself.

Tieris found this highly amusing.

The Conte tapped lightly at the door, on one of the rare occasions m’dama Beadris was off mixing ever-fouler concoctions to pour down my throat. Tieris opened the door and stepped back quickly as if discovering a coiled serpent. “Enter, an it please you.”

His left thigh was bandaged, but his gaze was still keen, and Conte di Siguerre did not hobble overmuch. He merely moved stiffly, showing his age. His hair had whitened considerably, and the Sun had touched him with bronze. His doublet was blazoned with Siguerre’s device—the crag-ram, with its curling horns and stubborn hooves, rearing in defiance.

He nodded shortly at Tieris. “P’tifils.”

Tieris bowed. He had gone pale. “Granpère.”

“D’Arcenne.” The Conte’s gaze turned to me. At least I was clean, and shaven, and had the benefit of fresh cloth. Including a new red sash. I was still of the Queen’s Guard, perhaps only until she could find enough time and attention to formally deny me the honor.

Or perhaps she did not mean to. Hope is a drug, and I could not give up the habit of its use. If I had proven myself unfit to be called noble or honest, at least I had also proven a protection against Graecan fire. How many times would I shield her with my own body, or my own lies?

And yet, I had failed to shield her where it mattered. And now, here was my father’s friend, and my father… dead.

I still could not fathom it. “Conte,” I greeted him. “Pray forgive me that I do not rise. Your arrival is most welcome.”

He waved the pleasantry aside. “Wait until you hear my news.”

“I have been told of my father’s demise.” I had practiced the sentence. There was no betraying hitch in the rope of words, no indication of the rock in my throat. If a man can stand, he can weep in the privacy of a fallwater, or in the dark. I must have been hardened beyond measure by my sins, for I could not weep even in that safety. The tears refused to come.

I had no acquavit to render me insensible, and my physicker could not be induced to bring any. Tieris di Siguerre could not be so induced, either.

I gather he thought I might harm myself.

“It does not surprise me.” The old turtle hunched his shoulders. “I know twas not my grandson, for I did not inform him.”

“Your grandson is a fine Guard.” I shifted a little, seeking to ease an ache in my hip. Bed rest wears on the body almost as much as battle.

He waved the question of Tieris’s fineness aside, irritably. A glitter in his hand resolved itself into a fine silver chain, threaded through a heavy ring. Twas a siang-stone signet, the mountain-pard of Arcenne clawing, its jaws wide in a silent roar. My carnelian signet was the Heir’s, and grime had settled into its fine carving. Many times over the years I had been possessed of mad thoughts of returning it to my father with a curse.

Now I would never have the chance. Nor would I have a chance to… what?

What would I have said to my father, had I known? Was he watching as his son continued in a manner to blacken his proud name? Did he curse me from the golden halls of the gods?

Oh, tis very likely. No more than I curse myself, though.

Old Siguerre was not to be deterred from giving his tidings, fully and completely. “Twas d’Orlaans. Di Dienjuste denied me the killing of that parasite. Yet do you cry for vengeance, I do not think any will gainsay you.” Flung like a challenge. One I deserved, no doubt.

“How did it happen?” I sounded strange even to myself. Throatsore, and oddly breathless.

“They were both unhorsed. Twas a confusion. There was sorcery…” The Conte made a restless movement, staring at the signet. Was there still blood on its shining, or had he washed it? “Perseval was never a fine Court sorcerer. He preferred steel. I…”

Incredibly, the stone-hard face cracked a trifle. The Conte’s mouth turned down, bitterly. Was that water against his lashes?

Truly the age of the Angoulême’s miracles had returned.

The old man coughed, and I caught Tieris’s gaze. Young Siguerre read my silent dispatch and murmured a courtesy, slipping out into the hall. The door closed with a quiet click.

“I thank you for bringing the news.” Twas a mannerly thing to say, but it seemed… bloodless. I sought for more. “My father prized your friendship, Conte. He oft remarked that you were one of the few honest men in Arquitaine.”

“Did he, now.”

I meant to ease di Siguerre’s sorrow, and suspected I had not. For his face crumpled and smoothed itself silently, and I found myself facing not the terrifying gravel-voiced Siguerre of my childhood, but an old man, almost frail despite his breadth of shoulder and small, hard gut. His hair was thinner, and the map of veins on the back of his knotted hands was of a country I might reach one day.

If I did not die before my time, of knife or poison or sheer mischance. What did it matter? I was already dead. And so was my father now.

Dead. I could not… There was no way I could think on it that would convince me of the truth of it. He could not be. My father and his disapproval were eternal. A world without either was…

Terrifying. That is the only word that applies. “He did.” The man using my voice was not Tristan d’Arcenne. For d’Arcenne, Captain and Left Hand, would not have to swallow a hot weight of unspilled grief. Even if he was now beginning to realize the truth of the words he mouthed. “He thought very highly of you.”

“And I of him.” The Conte’s chin rose, and he gazed at me with disconcerting directness, ignoring—or perhaps daring me to mention—the tear-track glistening on his weathered cheek. “His thoughts were much on you, Tristan. He was very proud. You were a joy to him.”

I doubt that very much, sieur. But it was a kind lie, one I suspected di Siguerre half believed himself now. The dead do not misbehave; they become a mirror we may safely gaze into and see what we will.

What would I see, now that I was gazing? “My thanks.” Whose was that quiet, steely tone? Who was using my voice as his own?

Whoever he was, he sounded so like Perseval d’Arcenne that my father could not be gone to the West, the realm of the Blessed. Surely he was still here.

Di Siguerre approached my bedside. The signet was heavy, dropped into my reluctant hand with a rattle like chains. “A man reaches a certain age, and he loses the habit of showing anything but harshness. What he feels and what he may express are not… they are seldom one and the same. He was proud of his son, sieur. Every day I spent in Perseval d’Arcenne’s company, he spoke of his Tristan. His boy. The only person higher in his regard was m’dama the Baroness. I tell you this because sons do not understand their fathers.”

I understand enough. “Nor their grandfathers.” It escaped me before I could think on the likely consequences of such an observation.

“Hm. Even so.” He nodded slowly. “Even so.”

“Di Dienjuste has d’Orlaans? In a tumbril?” I turned the signet up, the mountain-pard’s roar forever caught and held. Arcenne was an old province, and held by our family since the Angoulême’s time. Our device has ever been the cat—a fierce, stealthy hunter, an animal who does not flee from man.

And now I was an animal who could not even flee from himself.

“Aye.” Now Siguerre’s tone held no softness. “Cyriot di Dienjuste cried me nay when I would have taken that saufe-tet’s head off. They follow from Font-di-Bleu. The Queen is to have the judging of d’Orlaans.” He seemed very absorbed in studying the wall over my head. “Will she do what is necessary?”

She will not need to. I folded my fingers over the signet. Closed in my palm, it clicked against the Heir’s ring. “She is the Queen. She will do as she must.”

“Very good.” Gruff and uncomfortable now. “Indeed.”

“My thanks, Conte di Siguerre. It is an honor to know you.” Very formally. “I hope our Houses remain friends.”

“Until the Angoulême returns, sieur.” Equally formal, and much more comfortable now. “I take my leave, an it please you. I am sorry to bear you such news.”

“And I am sorry to receive it.” Formulaic, the security of etiquette easing the sharp edges. “Blessed guard you, sieur.”

“And you.” Old Siguerre made his way to the door. He halted. “Tristan?”

“Halis.” Twas the first time I had used his given name.

“His last words were of you and your mother. He regretted not seeing your face again. My son, he said. Tell him he has my blessing, and that I have always been proud of him.”

Was it a mercy, that I found no trace of falsehood in his voice? Or a fresh knife to my heart? I could not decide.

The Conte stepped forth into the hall. He spoke, low and passing gentle, to Tieris. I could not hear what passed between them, for old Siguerre pulled the door closed. I was left to my thoughts for a short while.

I was glad of it. I do not like being seen to, finally and completely, weep like a child.

Beadris shook her head. “You are fit for gentle riding,” she said, hands to her wide hips and dark strands threaded with gray falling into her sharp face. “None of this Arcenne-to-d’Or-in-a-week nonsense. And no duels.”

I checked my dagger—still easy in its sheath. “I shall seek to avoid dueling if at all possible, m’dama Physicker. I do not wish your wrath.”

“Ha!” She turned away to the small table littered with herbs and a syph-æther lamp, glass tubes and other implements for making the terrible brews she forced down my throat. I was not sad to see the last of those. “Tis not my wrath. Tis the Queen’s, and she is most concerned. Every day it’s a visit to Her Majesty, and her asking, How does your patient fare? I’ll be locked in the Bastillion do you take an ailing and die, young sieur, and where will that leave my Consort and family?”

“Left in the cold and the rain, and winter coming on,” I chanted. “I shall save you from such a fate, m’dama, by taking excessive care of my person. Tell me, the Queen asks every day?”

“Oh, aye!” She grinned, blue eyes twinkling. In the old days, those with light eyes were not precisely feared, but not welcomed overmuch, either. An Arquitaine eye is a dark eye, as the proverb runs—and a dark eye knows its place. “She did ask me not to tell you, thinking you’d worry if you heard her inquiring so closely. I told her, Your Majesty, said I, tis no shame to inquire after one’s Consort! But she sought to ease your recovery, sieur.”

Did she? Or are you giving me a gentle lie? Would I even recognize a truth, were it spoken plainly to me?

There was a tap at the door. Tieris di Siguerre appeared. Fatigue and dirt had both been sluiced from him, and he was carrying himself more lightly these past two weeks. Which irritated me to no end—but being trammeled in this windowless room would have made a curmudgeon out of the sweetest temper. Add to that the fact that I received no visitors, that Tieris imparted precious little in the way of gossip or information, and Beadris’s clucking and fussing, and my temper was none too sweet.

“Ah, my jailer!” I greeted him. “Am I on furlough?”

“You must be recovered. You are ill-spoken as Granpère.” He hissed and jabbed an obscene gesture at me. “Avert, demieri di sorce!”

I found a laugh in that, though his tone was sharper than I liked. Of course, the prospect at being set at liberty was enough to make me merry as a maying. “You lie abed for two weeks under the care of m’dama Henpeck there, then we shall see who is ill-spoken.”

“Sieur!” Beadris was shocked.

“Forgive me, dearest physicker.” I half-turned, caught her work-roughened hands, and lifted as if I would kiss them. She shrieked and pulled away, and Tieris’s laughter joined mine. The Arcenne hedgewitch scolded, blushing and delivering a tongue-lashing I would have quavered at as a stripling, but she offered her cheek for a peck afterward, and the fire in her cheeks was not merely embarrassment but secret pleasure. She had labored long over my care, and my chest did not pain me now. The scar was pink instead of angry crimson, and the cut down my cheek near to white. Twas interesting to shave around, and the sliver of glass in the watercloset showed me new lines on my face. The gray streak in my hair had widened as well.

Merún, like me, had not recovered fully. The Damarsene were routed, harried for the border by Irion di Markui and an army of disparate parts—angry peasants, the troops of the mountain province, and those of d’Orlaans’s host who took advantage of the amnesty granted to them did they serve the Hedgewitch Queen. So much I had been told, and some little I could guess—the Conte di Siguerre tarried with the Queen, as did Adrien di Cinfiliet, to begin the work of rebuilding. Why she stayed in Merún was a small mystery, until I hit upon the thought that a victorious entry into the Citté took some little time to prepare. Such an entry would be necessary, both for the theater of the gesture and to put paid to d’Orlaans’s claims.

Of d’Orlaans there was no word uttered to me. Tieris merely looked pained and said he did not know, and he would not ask for fear his grandfather would give him a lashing. Tieris was called into the Queen’s presence once a day, like Beadris, to offer a report on me. He was not given lee to ask questions, and Vianne made no reply to any question I sent with him to beg an answer.

I did not like that.

Rivertraffic had resumed; there were refugees to care for and the evacuated to return to their families and homes—if such homes were left standing, that is, for almost half of Merún had barely ceased smoking. And yet there was an air of festival in the city. Though the Dispuriee had been ravaged, the harvest in other places had been generous. And the plague? The sickness of fever and boiling, vomiting blood?

Vanished overnight. No new sickness was reported, and deaths from its touch had ceased in the Citté, at least. Every province that had declared for Vianne had been free of its depredations, and it appeared those offering fealty to d’Orlaans were chastened.

Temples were full of those offering in thanksgiving and those seeking news of lost loved ones. The weather was fine, an estivalle-faus, as such an after-harvest lull was named, and this was attributed to the Hedgewitch Queen’s intercession with the Blessed.

I did not think Vianne likely to be amused by such rumors.

Instead of the small circular room, she was now ensconced in the Keep’s high, drafty main hall. Some attempt had been made to freshen the room, to clean the cobwebs and free the ancient tapestries of dust. The dais had been hung with crimson, and the Guard, both Old and New, were much in evidence, red-sashed and sober with their hands to their rapiers. The huge fireplace had been unblocked and a blaze set in it took much of the damp chill from the air, though the massive doors to the entry-hall stood open and the Keep’s front was thrown wide to welcome supplicants and those who had business with or reports to give the Queen.

Tieris accompanied me up the middle of the main hall, hurrying as my stride lengthened. I had exercised myself as much as Beadris had allowed, and some little bit more. At least I had not been chained while I did so.

A great chair had been found and wrapped with scarlet cloth, and Vianne was upon it, her head tilted as she listened to the Harbormaster, who looked far more at ease now. Jierre was in attendance next to her, standing precisely where the Captain of her Guard should. To one side, behind a table stacked with paper, Conte di Siguerre questioned a bedraggled nobleman with a doffed hat. The man looked damp and wary; I stored up his features and forgot him, for on Vianne’s other side Adrien di Cinfiliet was deep in discussion with Adersahl di Parmecy and a group of Shirlstrienne bandits and hard-faced young Navarrin bloods in their dark, high-collared doublets, the X-shaped device of their High God blazoned in white on their chests. Their thin rapiers hung easy at their sides, their hats held wide-sweeping feathers, and their foreign tones rose and fell in a murmur of easy power. Theirs is a rolling language, at odds with their harsh land. Some scholars hold tis related to d’Arquitaine, but I do not know. Tis an easy enough language to learn.

Not like Pruzian.

Fridrich van Harkke lurked behind Vianne’s chair. He seemed ill at ease, though I doubted anyone else could tell. He kept to the shadows under the hangings, and his gaze flickered through the hall. The Knife did not look overjoyed to see me, though he reserved most of his attention for di Cinfiliet.

My palms were damp. My throat was dry. My father’s signet was a chill lump, tucked under my doublet on its thin fine chain.

I could not bring myself to take the Heir’s signet from my finger.

The Aryx rang softly with light, and I felt it. My steps slowed. I approached her throne—for such it was; she made it so—and allowed myself to look at her.

Wine-red velvet laced over silk, the oversleeves cut away and the undersleeves coming to points on the backs of her hands. Her hair, braided in the style of di Rocancheil, glowing in the mellow glowstone light. Globes of witchlight hung lazily above the crowd—twas a Court in miniature, again, and she its beating heart. Her ear-drops were rubies and beaten silver, and a gleam on her left hand was the copper marriage-ring.

Why does she still wear it?

My heart twisted on itself. Perhaps Beadris was wrong and it would wrench itself free through the scar. If it did, who would mourn my passing?

Would she?

The dark circles under her eyes had lessened. She was not so gaunt. The burning of her gaze was unabated, but her mouth was not set in a grim line. Instead, she smiled as Jierre made a point, touching his finger to his palm as he listed something for her. The Harbormaster nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. She considered for a few moments after Jierre finished, then softly spoke. The Harbormaster bowed, begged leave to withdraw, and she granted it with a nod. He hurried away, brushing past me, and the Queen of Arquitaine looked upon me coolly, lifting her chin slightly.

“Consort,” she greeted me, and a roaring filled my head.

She had not renounced me yet.

Chapter Thirty-Six

I went to one knee, slowly, and rose. “Your Majesty.” At least I sounded steady. The noise inside my skull receded as I concentrated, fiercely, on not toppling and making a fool of myself. “I am gladdened to be in your presence again.”

She did not smile. Instead, she watched me gravely, and did not invite me to approach. “I am gladdened that you are recovered. I… feared for you.”

What use could there be in sweetening me so? Or had she truly feared for me? “I am sorry to have caused you grief.” In any way. Will you believe that?

The weight of gazes upon us was familiar. At Court, I would never have spoken to her even this much. An uneasiness touched the space between my shoulder blades.

“I was also grieved to learn of your father’s passing.” Had she paled?

“I thank you for your pains.” Meaningless words. Why here, Vianne? Why before everyone? Is it because you do not trust me, were we to speak privately? Is it that you think I will force my way into your chambers again?

Would I blame her for such a fear? No. I had richly proven myself a vilhain many times over. I had little idea of how to even begin to be a man she might not fear.

Adrien di Cinfiliet was watching, his pale eyes narrowed. He was still weathered, and the arrogance of a nobleman was still evident even as he merely stood there. It grated on me, and I sought not to look upon him.

Vianne shifted slightly, her hands resting prettily-clasped upon her knee. Her spine was absolutely straight. “I am to enter the Citté soon.” Clear and low, and a hush had fallen over the hall. “There will be a coronation in the Ladytemple. It would please me, were you to attend.”

A Temple. Did she think to renounce me before she was crowned? Publicly, and in no uncertain terms?

“If it would please you, I will attend.” Here is my throat, Vianne. Drive the knife in, should you wish it. “Command me, my Queen, and it will be done.”

A flush rose in her cheeks, died away. Left her even paler, and the shape of her lashes against her cheekbones as she blinked sent a thin Sievillein rapier through me, as if one of the Navarrin had plunged his blade through my freshly healed scar.

“We go forth at tomorrow’s nooning, then.” A small, private smile, and she glanced up and to her left.

Adrien di Cinfiliet’s gaze met hers. His expression did not change, but he did straighten slightly. Vianne quickly looked away, and the smile vanished as if it had never been born.

“Rest well, chivalier,” she told me, and I was dismissed. I did not even beg leave to go. Nor did I bow. I turned on my heel and Tieris di Siguerre followed in my wake until I gained the wretched, ruined rose garden I remembered from my second night in this accursed heap of stone. And when I snarled at him to leave me be, for the sake of the Blessed, he did.

That night I was to pass in quarters more befitting the Consort—dusty and ancient, to be sure, but at least there was a sitting room. And a high narrow window. It looked down upon a disused bailey, weeds forcing their way up between cracking paving-stones. Tieris led me to it after a dinner I observed a stony silence through, taken in a dining-hall full of draughts and faint sour smells. He stiffly bade me a restful sleep.

I considered running him through.

I had no more than glanced out the window and thought of the drop to the stones below when a knock sounded at the sitting-room door. I thought it Tieris come back and said not a word, for the curses that rose to my lips were fit to scorch the air itself.

The knob turned, and I strode for the door, ready to flay the intruder with a cutting remark or two.

Vianne closed the door and sighed, rubbing delicately at the bridge of her nose. She turned to face me; I had halted near an ancient, tumbledown, brocaded sopha that had perhaps last seen use before the turn of the centuriad.

“I crave your pardon, sieur,” she said softly. As if she needed to, from me. “I—”

“Are you well?” My hands knotted themselves into fists. “Are you safe? Who guards your door? Your food, is it tested for poison? What of d’Orlaans?”

She winced, clasped her hands before her. It had taken on the quality of a habitual movement, and I do not know if anyone else would have remarked how tightly her fingers clenched one another. The Aryx, glowing, gave a softer light to her face. The rest of us seemed to have aged, lines graving themselves through our faces—but she did not. Or perhaps I did not see any brushing of Time’s feathers upon her, because I looked so closely.

“I am well enough. Relieved, in more ways than one. There is summat I would speak on, Captain, and I—”

“Captain. For how much longer? By the Blessed, Vianne. Call me Tristan or nothing at all. I will not have this distance.”

“Oh, you will not have it?” Her chin lifted slightly. “And what Tristan d’Arcenne will not have should be my northneedle, aye? I shall address you as I see fit, sieur. You will grant me that, at least, for the remainder of the time we must endure each other.”

“Endure?” So she did mean to cast me off. I did not blame her, and yet…

No. Please. Vianne, no.

“You are the Baron d’Arcenne now.” Her fingers tensed, tighter and tighter. She seemed fair to bruise herself. “And… sieur, I crave your pardon. I came to tell you Timrothe d’Orlaans has disappeared.”

I froze. My wits raced.

Di Dienjuste, half-drawing his rapier as I burst in the door. Overplaying his sympathy for me, and paying her every attention. Of course. Of course.

What had d’Orlaans promised him? Perhaps Vianne herself, though I could not see d’Orlaans dangling the prize he had reserved for himself before a mere chivalier. Most likely the reward was some tidbit or two to repair the family Dienjuste’s noble poverty. How had we not seen?

How had I not sensed the danger?

The urge to swear vilely passed through me in a scorching tide. “Di Dienjuste.” My rapier-hilt was cold as ice under my fingertips. “He was too nervous. I would lay odds he sought to kidnap you. And likely twas he who found di Tatancourt and—”

“Di Tatancourt?” One eyebrow raised. The look she wore would make a man spill every secret he owned, merely for the joy of feeling her undivided attention for a few moments longer. “I see.”

“The Messenger was alive when I left him, Vianne.” The words were ash in my mouth. “I do not expect you to believe me.”

“I find I may believe much of what you tell me, at least now.” Was it resignation in her tone? “And it would not have served your purposes to kill him, Captain.” Yet her slim shoulders came up, the familiar movement of a burden laid upon them. The velvet and silk rustled. Bergaime and spice and green hedgewitchery, a breath of her scent reaching me over the dust and sharpish rot of the Keep. “I do not lay Divris di Tatancourt at your door.”

“What do you lay at my door, m’chri?” Tell me. I must know. If it is to be the worst, at least let it be from your hand. Please.

“You won the trial of combat. In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of Arquitaine and the Blessed, you are innocent of the King’s murder.”

I do not care. “What of your eyes? They are all that concern me, Vianne. What you would have of me is all that concerns me.”

She unclasped her hands, finger by finger. Shook them out delicately, a pretty Court-trained mannerism. “It matters little what I think, Captain. Soon we will be free of each other, and no doubt you will be relieved at the event.”

Ice in my vitals. What would she do if I laid hands upon her? If she struggled, if she screamed…

“Vianne.” Hoarsely, now.

“I brought you this news myself, privately, because I do not wish you hunting d’Orlaans. He will be attended to. I wish you to return to Arcenne.” She turned away.

A cry rose within me. Was suppressed. The ice was all through me.

Her hand on the knob. “Do you hear me?” She addressed the door as if it were my face, earnestly. Softly. “Do you?”

“I hear,” I croaked.

A slight turn of her head, as if she wished to glance over her shoulder. Dry-eyed, pale, and utterly lost to me. “Tristan.” Her lips, shaping my name. “Believe me when I say this: I wish you to live.”

A rustling, a quiet step, a brush of her skirts, a click… and she was gone.

She wished me to live. Oh, aye. I’d no doubt she did.

After all, there could be no greater revenge.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Citté is the heart of Arquitaine. Under the slopes of Mont di Cienne the Palais gleams, white and gold and sprawling, the mark of each reign stamped in its corridors and passages. Below it, in the cup that the River Airenne threads a long silver ribbon through, the Citté throbs and pulses. Biscuit-colored stone, roofs of slate and red tile and wood, the Ladytemple’s dome and the twisting streets that can confuse even a lifelong inhabitant; the Quartier Montarmête and the Pleasure District, the quays and the bridges, the glitter of Court and the ragged poverty of the beggars. The Citté, built where the Blessed demanded, the city of our gods and our hope. The plague had run rife through it, and those who lined its streets to welcome their Queen no doubt were too happy to be spared to think of the chaos hosting an army would cause.

She wore white, and rode my mother’s well-traveled white palfrey. The gentle mare looked near to expiring with satisfaction, glossy-brushed and oiled, red silk ribbons tied in her mane and tail, tiny silver bells jingling on her reins and decking the saddle, so that the Hedgewitch Queen rode on a wave of music. You could not hear the sweet sound, though, for the crowds roared fit to drown even the thinking inside a man’s skull.

Adrien di Cinfiliet rode beside her, tall on a nasty-tempered white stallion, also in spotless white. Without a hat, the blue-black sheen to his hair threw back the sun, and they made a pretty picture indeed.

Arran stepped high and proud; I rode with the Conte di Siguerre and Jierre di Yspres at the head of the Guard. The survivors of the Old Guard, worn and wounded but grinning hugely and in fresh uniforms, were given pride-of-place. The New Guard caught the thrown flowers—where the blooms were found that showered our path, I do not know.

After us in procession rode the Navarrin and the bandits of the Shirlstrienne, and then the d’Arquitaine army itself. The peasants had begun to trickle away home; d’Orlaans’s pardoned troops marched behind the Mountain Army, as twas called. The amnestied marched under the black banner of penitence. After the coronation they would be granted the right to bear a device again. The long snake of humanity took a day to file into the Citté, and the cheering never abated.

The Ladytemple greeted us the morning after our entrance, while the dregs of the procession were still winding into the city. I do not know if Vianne slept—we were quartered not in the Palais, for she would not enter it until crowned, but at the edge of the Pleasure District in the P’tipalais d’Orlaans, the vast, traditional house Timrothe the Accursed—for so they had named him now, with characteristic desire to bite the author of their suffering—had inhabited while the brother of King Henri.

She is old, the Ladytemple, built when places of worship were full of sharp spires instead of the softer shapes later generations fancied. Her stone is dark, and the vast round window over her wide, never-closed doors is named the Rosaille. A great sorcery is contained within it, and the glass shifts color according to its own whims. During the quiet observance at dawn or dusk, when all in the vicinity of l’Dama hold their tongue and breath, you may hear the tiny bits of glass shifting and clicking, a dry song of power.

The inside was packed with nobility of the sword and the robe. Songs have been written of the Hedgewitch Queen, how she paused in the courtyard and knelt, silent, for twelve long peals of the Ladytemple’s great bell. How she rose gracefully, a silver-eyed man at her side. How she climbed the steps into the Ladytemple and was greeted with absolute silence.

The Consort strode behind her. One woman, two men, treading with the measured ceremonial gait observed for the most solemn of Court occasions. Step, pause; step, pause. The Aryx sang, the Rosaille answering and the Great Bell overhead trembling with reverberations. The crowd elbow-to-elbow, the heat of massed bodies causing sweat; twas crowded too tight within to draw a poniard. Those of the sword, the descendants of the Angoulême’s noble companions, removed their hats as she drew abreast of them. Those of the robe were already hatless, and breathless beside. Later they would begin to play the games of privilege and position at Court. Later they would jostle, and she would need a shield. Later, those who still owed d’Orlaans some loyalty might prove troublesome, and I? Would I be admitted into her presence? Would I be able to guard her from afar?

Arcenne was a long way from Court. And hither she wished me to take myself.

I wish you to live.

But for today, they watched her approach the Great Altar, her head high and her hair pulled back into a simple half-braid, the remainder of its curling mass alive with golden highlights. The white she wore, subtly brocaded, glowed as the Aryx rippled with light. Witchlights spun and wove overhead, hissing and crackling in the charged hush. Her fingers rested on Adrien di Cinfiliet’s arm, and his shoulders were tense.

He was armed. So was I, though no other in the Ladytemple was to carry a weapon. The Guard were outside, waiting in the crisp harvest sun. The morning had been etched with frost.

Winter was coming.

The Great Altar is an empty block of bluestone, the same stuff as the Pavilion of the Field d’Or. It is roughly squared, and it is dedicated to Jiserah the Gentle first and the rest of the Blessed afterward. Offerings laid upon it vanish, taken straight to the Blessed.

Or so tis said. It is one thing the Left Hand does not know the truth of.

There are others. Too many for my comfort. And chief among them was exactly what my d’mselle thought as she paced that processional way.

Step, by step, by step. Once she reached the altar and the Aryx spoke, she would be crowned. Irion di Markui was in place, holding the iron casket. Inside it, the confection of spun lightmetal—platiere, more precious and rare than gold—and sapphires would rest on gray velvet. She would take it from the casket, settle it on her brow, and be crowned Queen of Arquitaine.

Would she renounce me at that moment, or afterward? Would she take a new Consort? They were cousins, but closer marriages have been made in the name of power. And as the hero who had brought the Navarrin and his bandits to the relief of Merún, and Henri’s son, no matter how bastard, he was a fine choice.

And he was not a murderer. At least, not as her Consort was. He would not be able to keep her from the knives of intrigue half so well.

But perhaps he would also not wound her. Perhaps he would not bring her world down in flames about her with his unthinking desire. Perhaps he would not shame her, or make her weep.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Adrien di Cinfiliet was a better choice. If I were to be honest—and aye, starting now was too late, as always—I could admit as much.

And yet.

She reached the Three Stairs, and she halted. She glanced up at di Cinfiliet, and they shared a moment of silent accord. My heart writhed inside my chest. My place was next to di Markui, hands loose though they longed to clutch a rapier-hilt, my face set and composed.

The years of not even daring to glance at her at Court were nothing compared to this.

She stepped forward. So did di Markui. A long pause. She took the next step. Di Markui approached the bottom of the Stairs. Di Cinfiliet glanced at di Markui, whose craggy face was unreadable. Do your part, that glance seemed to say, and my pulse raced. Treachery? Here?

No. I was merely too practiced in the art to credit truth when I saw it.

She took the last step, and turned. The Aryx glowed. She beckoned, and a gasp went through the assembled.

Di Cinfiliet took the first Stair. A pause, and the second. Would she declare him Heir? What was this?

He took the third, and Vianne’s hand came up to her chest. She cupped the Aryx in her fingers, lovingly, and her lips moved. None could hear, but with the ease of training and habit I deciphered the words she spoke.

I have done what you asked. Let me free. Let me go.

And the Great Seal… sang.

The Ladytemple shook, the Rosaille echoing and blazing, and a fierce silver light burst free. Twas not witchlight or any other earthly radiance. The only time I had witnessed its like was in Arcenne’s Temple, on my wedding day, when the statue of Jiserah kindled and my Queen had stared unblinking into that light.

The blaze did not dim, but it became easier to pierce. Blinking furiously, tears rising to every eye, Arquitaine witnessed the Aryx pass from the Hedgewitch Queen’s hands. She folded Adrien di Cinfiliet’s fingers about the Seal’s glow, and the picture they made…

I cannot describe it. The courtsongs will tell you. They will not be able to express a quarter of its fineness.

The cry that rose was Vianne’s, and it carried a deep authority. Had I not known every shade and tone of her, I might have mistaken it, as every other present did, for the voice of Jiserah herself.

“Arquitaine!” she cried. “Behold your King!”

And the Hedgewitch Queen, before the Great Altar, knelt to Adrien di Cinfiliet. A rippling wind went through the Ladytemple, its walls groaning, and the assembled nobility fell to their knees. Heralds posted on the steps cried out the news.

The silvery radiance intensified, flushed with gold as if the Sun and Moon had come together atop the Great Altar. A roaring cheer rose, every bell the Ladytemple owned tolling at once, and wild jubilation roared over the Citté.

When the light faded, Adrien di Cinfiliet was crowned. The Hedgewitch Queen had brought the Bandit King to power. She had never wished the burden of rule; she had only appeared, twas said, to turn back the tide of invasion and civil war. She was blessed of Jiserah, or Jiserah’s hand on earth, but the important thing, the critical thing, was this:

Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy had vanished.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I took advantage of the ensuing confusion to vanish of my own account. For one who had been Left Hand, twas child’s play. The Citté enfolded me as Arcenne’s Keep would; I took further advantage of confusion and celebration outside to steal a cloak and shed my fine hat. I stole a not-so-fine drover’s headgear, and made my way to the Palais’s shimmer.

My apartments in the Guard barracks had been ransacked and sealed. Dust lay thick over every surface, and the brazier I had burned the incriminating papers in still had ash in its depths. My clothing had been shredded, my narrow bed torn apart, my cabinets hacked open. For all that, they had not found everything, and only a fool has merely one hiding place.

Life returned to the Palais that evening. Twas midnight before a certain quiet descended. An hour passed, and another.

I waited.

The traditional resting place of a new monarch after crowning is the Angoulême’s Cell in the west wing of the Palais. Tis a narrow room, with a narrow bed and only one tapestry—a fleurs-di-lisse, white thread upon deep blue. The narrow window casement looks only upon bricks, for the Cell has been enclosed by other parts of the Palais, accreting around the most ancient bits in layers, as a pearl. Or a gallstone.

The blank window is shrouded with deep blue velvet curtains, stiff with age and dust even when hastily beaten clean. Twas there I waited, and I knew my prey was close when a servant bustled in to light the fire in the tiny fireplace with a coal from a Ladytemple brazier and the flick of a hedgewitch charm. The servant—no doubt he had performed the same office for d’Orlaans—shuffled away. I relaxed into dimness, breathing softly.

They approached. Several, the tramp of booted feet. I rested a hand on my rapier, my boots glove-supple from hard use and not creaking as I shifted my weight to keep muscles ready for action. Did he suspect? If he did, he might well order the Cell searched, though I had waited until they had already performed such a search before secreting myself here.

Some low conversation. But only two men entered the Cell, and I closed my eyes. Reopened them in the stiff, dusty darkness behind the curtain.

“At the end of the hall,” Adrien di Cinfiliet said. “Tis enough.”

Jierre di Yspres sighed. “A foolish risk. You know he will at least wish to pass words with you.”

“He is more likely to seek your company, Captain. What am I, to him? Nothing.”

“I hope he will pause to hear your argument before seeking to run you through.” Jierre, ever pessimistic, heaved another sigh. “Should I search the room, Your Majesty?”

“For the love of the Blessed, address me as Adrien. If he is here… then perhaps he will listen to my argument. Perhaps he will listen when I say I do not know where she has vanished to, and that I wish I could have gainsaid her. And that, does he wish any aid at all, he has merely to ask it of me.”

I blinked, but not in surprise. No, it was merely to keep myself in readiness. Or so I told myself.

Jierre’s sardonic tone, well-known to me. “I hope you are correct. Arquitaine cannot stand to lose more royalty.”

“And there is this.” A touch of loathing in the bandit’s tone, now. “Cursed thing. What would you say to him, were he here?”

Jierre was silent for a long moment. I shut my eyes.

Yes, what would you say, Lieutenant? You played your part to perfection, and I can credit it was at her bidding. Would to the gods I had seen enough to know.

But a guilty conscience makes a man blinder than a clear one ever shall.

When Jierre spoke, it was softly, and for my ears alone, for all that the new King was the only man he could see. “I would tell him,” he said softly, “that I regret playing my part so well. And, should he ever wish to have a blade at his bidding, that we are too marvelous to die.”

My jaw set, hard enough to crack my teeth. Loyal to the end, Jierre. In his own fashion.

Adrien di Cinfiliet’s laugh was a bitter bark. “You are passing strange, sieur. Off with you. I am certain that Pruzian will be about as well; he is a tick upon a deer’s leg. Why she left him to nursemaid me, I have no—”

“She is thorough, our d’mselle. Safe dreaming, Adrien.”

A low bitter laugh. “Gods be praised, you have finally unbent. Safe dreaming yourself, Jierre. Tomorrow we begin our thankless task.”

“We? My only task is to keep your skin whole. To you lies the rest.” Jierre’s step, light and familiar, and the door swept creaking shut behind him.

I waited. The bed groaned as he settled upon it. The fire crackled.

“You may as well come out,” Adrien di Cinfiliet said quietly.

So I did, cautiously pushing the curtain aside, my poniard ready. My boots touched the floor, and I braced myself—but the newly-crowned King merely sat on the edge of the bed, still in his white finery, and regarded me with his storm-gray gaze.

I faced the bastard son of the man I had killed. Lifted the poniard slightly, firelight playing along its freshly honed blade. “I should kill you.” The truth was ash against my tongue. “Were I the man you think I am, I would.”

I was that man, but I wish not to be.

He nodded slowly, his dark hair falling over his forehead. “No doubt. But a certain dark-eyed d’mselle would not look kindly upon such a deed.”

The knife was too tempting. I sheathed it. “Are you satisfied?” I merely sounded curious. Perhaps twas the tightness in my chest that robbed my words of the weight I wished them to carry.

The Bandit King gave another sharp, bitter bark of a laugh. “You think I wished for this? I knew she was up to mischief, d’Arcenne. I did not expect to be snapped into traces and neatly put to plow. She laid her plans well, and outwitted us both.”

I could almost believe you. “Where has she gone?”

“Were you not listening? I do not know. Amid the feasting and every man who can lay claim to being a soldier drunk and celebrating, who could find her?” He sagged, and I saw his exhaustion. “She said that had I need, I should send her this. But where to send it, she did not tell me. A riddle from m’cousine Riddlesharp, and one I cannot solve.” A green gleam in his hand, carefully lifted. Twas an ear-drop, and I finally recognized it as hers. She had been wearing them the day the conspiracy was loosed.

Much became clear to me at once. I shall send the other half as proof.

If this was a message from my d’mselle, how could it be deciphered?

We regarded each other for a long while, the fire crackling and shifting. Sweat gathered on my back, dewed my brow.

Finally, some of the tension left me. I stalked across the Cell. He did not move, and when I took the ear-drop from his fingers I was surprised to find I did not wish to murder him.

At least, not at this moment. Perhaps not ever. Leaving him with a crown to wear and the Pruzian to nursemaid him was a far better revenge.

I backed up with a shuffle, a swordsman’s move. The scar on my chest ached. I had not put it to much of a test. Perhaps twas the heart underneath that pained me so. My face twitched, its scar plucking at itself. “Someday, you may think she is a threat to you.” Each word carefully enunciated, slow and quiet. “If that day should come to pass, remember only that I will be watching. As long as you do not seek to harm her, you are safe from me.”

“I would not harm her.” He cocked his head, and the mocking expression was Henri’s, down to the last line and quirk. “There is one thing, d’Arcenne. She left me a letter.”

I waited.

“Tis burned now. But in it, she warned me that I would need a Left Hand.”

Where in the Shirlstrienne could he have learned that delicate insinuation? The right note of velvet threat and dangling bait. A lure, perhaps, to make a hawk rise—and even in the forest, perhaps he had known something of hawking.

I swallowed dryly. “My thanks, Your Majesty. But I already serve.” I paused on my way out the door. “The Pruzian isn’t fit for it, and neither is Jierre. Try di Siguerre. His grandfather has already prepared him nicely.”

And with that, I slid into the corridor, turned away from the guard posted at the end of the hall—they were inattentive, conversing with each other in hushed whispers—and slipped into darkness. I passed Fridrich van Harkke, hidden in a pool of deep shadow behind a moldering cupboard that had perhaps once held rapiers for the dueling-hall just past the next archway. He did not breathe as I ghosted by, and I did not turn or speed my step, though my back roughened with gooseflesh.

The Knife did not strike. I left the Palais an hour later, and by dawn I was outside the Citté.

Twas time to find my Queen.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

They gathered at their fires, bright-eyed and dark-haired, and the throbbing beat of their music rose as they finished their dinner. Bubbling, fragrant meat stew, different spices than an Arquitaine cook would use, woodsmoke, and the odor of difference and green hedgewitchery.

It had taken me weeks to track them.

After the feasting, the dishes were cleaned. Laughter rose among them, bright ribbons of their odd liquid language. Gold twinkled at ear and throat and wrist, thin golden rings and some of the dark women sporting thread-thin noserings. Splashing and jests, merriment and the cries of joyful younglings, then the central fire was carefully tended and the children soothed.

The instruments came forth. Gittern and tambour, pipes like wailing demieri di sorce, the rhythm driving and odd, burrowing into breath and bones and blood. Two lines of dancers, male and female like some of the maying dances, and the women’s voices lifted.

Their dancing is strange, too. Flicker of hips, stamping sandals working into the dusty earth, arms held stiffly and eyes mostly lowered. There is no word for the grace, but the sway of their hips and the hitched-up skirts showing their ankles, their bare brown arms gleaming with gold and effort… it makes a man think of other dances.

The men, straight and tall, took up the challenge and danced forward. Pairs were formed, older married women calling from the sidelines. The older women are held to be experts, and their judgments accepted without question. Pairs retired, breathing quickly and taking swigs of their fiery clear rhuma, joining the onlookers and adding their voices to the song. I touched the lump of my father’s signet under my doublet and watched.

When one pair is left the music intensifies, and they are called upon to perform. They must provide a spectacle, and should they be judged insipid or unworthy of the honor, the mockery, while good-natured, is intense.

She stood at the edges, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders. The headman’s wife, dark and lean, stood next to her, calling out advice and clapping her narrow brown hands. They conferred together like myrmyra birds, the way a Princesse and her lady-in-waiting might.

My chest ached, ached.

When next I peered out the tiny window, she was walking, head down and barefoot, her sandals swinging from one hand. She climbed the steps, lightly, and opened the wagon’s cunningly designed door. Painted in red and gold, the small house-on-wheels was neat, and trim, and pulled by a pair of good-natured roans who were at the pickets, munching contentedly.

She hummed, a wandering melody threading through the thumping beat outside. Opened a tiny cabinet, standing on tiptoe, feeling for something in the darkness. She cursed under her breath, not finding what she sought, and swung the cabinet closed.

Court sorcery flashed. A candle guttered into life, and she swallowed her scream, clapping a hand over her mouth and staring at me.

I was, perhaps, not a comforting sight.

We regarded each other, Vianne and I. My back was to the hedgewitch-armoire built into one whole wall of the wagon, the bed at the far end, the scarves and skirts hung on pegs on the other wall. She had traded the Palais for these cramped quarters, and there was a book tangled in her bedclothes. A treatise by a Tiberian philosopher, a man who had given up the rule of his city and retreated to a farm, only to be slain when the king following him grew suspicious.

Was she reading for her future, then?

Finally, she dropped her hand. Her sandals dropped as well. Her hair, braided in loops over her ears as the R’mini women do, had pulled free and framed her face with curling tendrils. She had gained some little weight, and there were no shadows under her eyes.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Captain,” she whispered.

“Vianne.” I could not speak any louder.

She visibly gathered herself. I waited. “Is it… is it time?”

I realized what she was asking, and cursed myself for being lackwitted clear through. “Tis time, Vianne, but not for what you think. I would not harm you.”

She shook her head. “I…”

“How can you even think I would harm you?” Quietly, but with great force.

Her chin lifted a fraction. “I had… I must be sure. How did you…”

“I am a fool for you, m’chri. Not an idiot.” I spread my hands slowly, so she could see what I held.

The ear-drop glowed in my palm. She inhaled sharply, and her gaze fluttered to my face, seeking to read whatever it could.

I wished her luck. I wished to be an open book to her. But would she ever know what language to read upon my features? “He is well, Vianne. You would have heard by now, were he not. We have come to an agreement, your bandit cousin and I.”

“And I am unnecessary, now?” Her chin tilted up slightly, brave to the last.

“Not to me.” I searched for the right thing to say. “I am not his Left Hand.”

The breath left her in a rush. She had paled alarmingly. “Tristan…” A mere ghost of a word.

Finally. Not “Captain” or “ sieur.” I throttled the hope rising in me. “Do your R’mini pass near Arcenne, Vianne?”

“What?” She struggled to understand. Or perhaps to throttle the hope plainly visible on her features.

Finer than I deserved, as always. She hoped for my redemption, my Vianne. She had played her hand well, and freed us both. Except she could not unlock the chains of what I had been, and what I had done.

Not even the Blessed held that key. But if I could, if she let me, I would do my best to be the man I should have.

Unless it was too late. I cast my dice. “I would see my mother again. She would no doubt be glad to see your face as well. We may not stay in Arcenne. It could be… misconstrued. But over the mountains, to Navarrin… or, Tiberia. There is a house in Citté Immortale, ready to be filled with books.”

“And if I do not wish to?” A swift, abortive movement, as if she wished to flee.

I pointed to her left hand. The copper marriage-band glittered as the music throbbed outside, yells rising as the pair dancing performed some sorcery that earned the approval of their audience.

“It seems I cannot rid myself of…” She lifted her hand slightly, gazed ruefully at the band. “Tris.”

“You do not have to forgive me.” The consciousness of lying struck me, quick and hard as a mailed fist. My pulse pounded in my ears. “I will not ask it of you.” That was the truth. “If you tell me to go, I will. I will pass the remainder of the life the Blessed see fit to grant me in Arcenne, waiting for your call. I will even, do you require it of me, return to your cousin and safeguard his life with my own. I will trouble you no more. I am… sorry. It does not erase the ill, Vianne. I am worse than you can imagine. But I would be… better, if I could.”

She hesitated. Did she wish to, she could scream. They would come running, her traveling-companions.

Her shoulders lifted. She stepped back, her hand searching for the door. I forced myself to stand mute, frozen, every scar I had gained in my life a map of fire and failure, the blackness in me rising as my hope drew back from me. I closed my eyes. Why were my cheeks wet? The scar on my face gathered a tear, hot salt water tracing a runnel down its seam.

There was a click. Slight creaking as her weight shifted.

Her fingertips touched my damp face. Slid down the scar she had gifted me, and twas a balm. Mercy for the desperate, hope for the hopeless.

She had locked the wagon’s door.

“Tristan.”

“Vianne.” A whisper. I could not speak louder.

“If I am to trust you, there are things you must do.”

“Anything.” The word was merely a croaking prayer. Please. If there is any mercy, let it be spent here.

“No politics.” Her voice caught. Was there summat caught in her throat, as there was a rock in mine? “No Queen, no Left Hand. No Court. No power, or position, or games of loyalty. No betrayal, no assassination, none of it. I will not have it. I cannot bear it. I have given up everything.” She touched my lips. “Are you willing to be simply Tristan, as I am simply Vianne?”

I nodded, helpless. “That was all I ever wanted,” I admitted. D’Orlaans may show himself again, though. If he does, he will strike at you. “Vianne—”

She covered my mouth, standing on tiptoe, her slender weight pressed against me and her soft palm a brand against my skin. “Hush.”

I did. I found the courage to look at her again. No more burning in her gaze. Nothing but sadness and terrible knowledge. A burden I would ease, would share—if she would let me.

If she would allow it.

She bit her lower lip, and I longed to erase her uncertainty.

Finally, she reached yet another decision, and her face eased. She nodded, once, as if I had spoken. Perhaps she thought I had; perhaps my longing was a cry she could hear.

“Douse the candle,” my hedgewitch said. “I will think of something to tell them in the morning.”

A small golden flame winked out as the music crashed to its finish outside, and the cheers and laughter of the R’mini echoed, rising to the cold stars. She took me in her arms once more. And here I will cease, for what else that night held is not to be told to strangers, and the Left Hand is dead.

For now.