The Hedgewitch Queen

Chapter Seven

The floor of the Sculpture Hall echoed underfoot as I hurried along, trying the doors. Each was locked, rattling like rusted chains, and I wept with frustration and fear. Behind me, they came — the Duc’s Guard, with lean, black-eyed Garonne di Narborre at their head, coming for me to make certain, make certain, make certain.

“Vianne?”

Behind one of the doors was my Lisele, and she was bleeding. The blood washed under the doors, rising around my ankles, so much of it, and the walls between the doors were festooned with broken harpstrings. I knew the hedgewitch charm to save my Princesse but I could not remember it, and I could not remember which door she was hidden behind, and all of them were bleeding. I tried them all, and my hands slipped on the doorknobs. My hands slipped because they were sweating, and covered with blood as well, Lisele’s blood, for I was to blame—

“Vianne!” Someone had my shoulders, shook me. “Vianne, wake. Tis a dream, nothing more.”

I woke fully in one terrified lunge, the scream dying on my lips. Swallowed the last half of the cry and looked up at d’Arcenne while I clutched the blanket to my chest as if it could shield me.

It was early morn, and thick fog hung between the trees. One of the Guard doused the fire, but d’Arcenne gave me a cup of hot chai. “Here. Take this. Twas merely a dream. You are safe.” He folded my hands around the cup, his warm callused skin against mine. My hands shook, but he held them steady for a few moments until I could draw a breath. My mouth tasted foul, and the sudden urge to tear my hands from his and examine them for traces of blood shook me.

He had shaved, and his face looked better too. The bruising and swelling was going down; perhaps one of the Guard had some skill at healing. Had I thought, I would have offered to charm the bruises for him myself, though it was faintly improper.

My breath came harsh and ragged. Was there blood on my hands? I could not tell. All I could feel was the warm metal of the cup, just on the edge of scorching.

The Guard moved about the camp, jostling each other, rolling up sleeping pads. I wondered whose I had occupied so thoughtlessly. I felt incredibly rumpled, and as the last vestiges of sleep fled I longed for morning chocolat and a hot bath. D’Arcenne still knelt at my side, his fingers warm and solid.

If my hands were bloody, he would not hold them so. The idea came and fled in less than a moment.

“Captain.” I searched for something to speak of to push the dream away. Anything. “I never asked what happened to you, after you left me in the passageway.”

He almost flinched, gave me a sharp look, his fingers tightening. Of course, who would wish to speak of something so awful?

His careful examination of my face made me blush, and when he finally spoke it was not in his usual calm tone. No, his words turned lame and halting, as if he chose them with care, blue eyes dark-shadowed and his mouth tight with distaste. “I found my way to the Rose Room. The King was dying. The pink petitte-cakes, they were poisoned. The Duc’s Guard burst in, and I killed four of them before they took me down. And carried me to the donjons in chains, then beat me until the Duc paid the honor of a visit.” His gaze had turned steely.

Now I was sorry I had asked. It could not have been pleasant to remember. “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to wound you.” Poison? I sensed no poison. There were scentless poisons, though, even if a hedgewitch tended to be sensitive to the slightest breath of toxins. I had not been at my best in the Rose Room.

And yet…

He shrugged, loosed his fingers from mine. “I know, Vianne. Do not trouble yourself. The King asked if you were safe, and Lisele.” D’Arcenne ducked his dark head, examining the ruin of the sleeping roll I had been tossing upon. “I lied. I told him I knew you and the Princesse were safe. I told him I would watch over you. That, at least, is true, and I shall see it remains so.”

“Oh.” Furious heat stained my cheeks, I wished I could stopper it. It was merely the King’s jest. You must be wary, this man may turn on you. You have no protection here.

“I do not wish to wound you, either.” Quietly, as he settled his knee more comfortably on the damp ground.

I gazed at the blankets and the rumpled sleeping pad. Something else to speak of, Vianne. Quickly now. “Whose are these?” The fog made the morning eerily quiet.

“Mine. Three stand watch at a time, so there are a few to spare.”

Oh, dear gods. “My thanks, Captain.” I found enough presence of mind to sip the chai. It was hot and sweet with stevya, and I was grateful. I felt queerly light and drained, as if the dream were still happening around me. The predawn hush was immense; even our voices seemed not to break it. “I feel I am dreaming still.”

Why did he examine me so? “Break your fast, d’mselle. We have a few sweet rolls, and some cheese. We shall stop in Tierrce d’Estrienne for supplies before we enter the Shirlstrienne.”

I shivered. The forest had a dark name as a haunt of bandits and thieves, and Lisele and I had thrilled to the dangers of the wood in the romances and songs. High adventure, lovers in disguise, honorable thievery and less-honorable menace. Rescues by chivalieri of fair ladies distressed by bandits, always in the very nick of time.

It did not seem so thrilling now. Then again, with some few of the King’s Guard, I was perhaps safer than I had ever been at Court. I had not even known danger was stalking me, except for the familiar peril of rumor and politicking. “Through the forest.” I sought to sound as if I considered it merely a maying-party.

“If we take the other way to Arcenne, we go through provinces with garrisons loyal to the Duc.” Brisk now, he moved as if he would straighten, paused. “The forest only has bandits, and we may deal with them easily enough. Rest easy.”

The chai’s warmth and sweetness helped, though my skin held the damp chill of morn outside. I had never spent the night out-of-doors before. “Am I slowing your journey?”

He showed no further inclination to move. “I told you I would not leave you. Drink your chai, d’mselle. We will break our fast, and then another hard day’s ride. I am sorry for it, but there is no other way.” The small clearing did not seem a camp anymore; it was, instead, merely an anonymous dirtpatch with a ring of scorched stones in the middle. It took so little to erase the signs of our passing.

“I know.” And I did. “I shall keep my mouth closed in the future, Captain.” If I can only remember what chaos ensues when I forget myself and open it. My reputation for discretion is suffering awfully.

“That would be a shame. We would miss your voice.”

It took every ounce of my self-control not to make a face. I settled for finishing the chai. It was still too hot, but they were in a hurry — and I had no desire to be caught by the Duc’s men. Then I pushed back the blankets, and Tristan helped me to my feet, deftly subtracting the cup from me. “That way.” He pointed, a swift gesture. “None of the Guard will bother you there.”

He meant the privy. I nodded, hoping my cheeks were not scarlet.

I found a secluded spot and thanked the gods I was possessed of a small hedgewitch charm to keep me hidden while I attended to nature. Then I found the brook they had fetched water from yesterday. Fog pressed close, threading between the trees, etching every leaf with crystalline droplets. The brook murmured to itself, birds stirring in the distance. It was not like the songs, where a noble girl wakes in the forest and is brought berries by the grace of one of the Blessed — usually Kimyan, for the Huntress is particularly concerned with children and maidens. Once a girl is married or experienced, it is gentle Jiserah she turns to; my mother had been a devotee of the Bright Wife.

I washed my face and scrubbed at my hands. They held no trace of blood, for which I was grateful — but I still laved them more than twas perhaps necessary, wishing again for a hot bath, and some buttered scones, and morning chocolat. Oh — and a book, and a lazy divan to lie upon and read while Lisele played the harp.

As I am still dreaming, I might as well wish for a ride in the Moon’s chariot. I shook myself. I was still alive, even if I was stiff, bruised, and aching from too much time spent in the saddle, and heartsick. Not to mention clammy under my borrowed clothes, and oddly light-headed.

I washed my hands, and washed them again. Rubbed between my fingers, dug under my fingernails to remove all trace of garden dirt and…anything else. Examined my water-wrinkled fingers, then scrubbed at my palms again. I never thought I would yearn for the Court, for well-known faces and voices, for a familiar day of complete boredom.

I was cupping water in my palm to drink when I heard movement on the other side of the brook.

I stood in a rush and would have fled back into the quiet fog-hung trees, having no woodscraft but still hoping to hide, but they were too quick, melting out of the brush on the other side of the water’s thin chuckling. Two men, one with a brace of coneys dangling from a work-roughened fist, the other with two woodfowl.

Tis illegal to hunt in the King’s forests. My eyes were round as platters; I stared as if they were sprites or demieri di sorce, those spirits of night and mischief.

They stared back, perhaps thinking the same. Ruddy-cheeked and dressed in rough homespun, they were obviously peasants or smallholders. One had a thatch of dark-blond hair, and the other was dark, with a winking milky eye under a scar. They both had seamed faces from time spent in the weather, and hard hands from hard work.

We regarded each other over the brook for a ridiculously long time, I having nothing to say, my heart hammering so hard it precluded rational thought, and they obviously suffering the same dilemma.

Finally, the blond elbowed the dark man, who coughed. That broke the spell, and I backed up a step. Two. A stick snapped under my garden-boot, very loud in the foggy quiet.

“Now, do not be going, d’mselle.” The dark one stretched out his free hand, as if I were a stray dog he wished to coax. “We are honest folk, and we want no trouble.” His hair was indifferently trimmed, and his accent almost too thick to be understood. Peasant, then, not smallholder. A small, dark-dripping bag slung by his side, full of something that looked heavy. More small animals?

I swallowed dryly. “Then we are alike, sieurs.” I searched for good manners. Nothing in my Court training had prepared me for this. “For I wish no trouble either.”

“Tha’s good, then.” The blond dropped the woodfowl with a thump that brought bile to my throat. They landed in a sodden, graceless heap, their slim necks terribly twisted. His hands were suddenly full of a bow, half drawn back. “Now, just you step lightly over the brook, d’mselle, and we’ll have a fine morn of it.”

I did not — quite — understand what he meant, but the snigger of his companion made it clear. I froze, indecisive. Should I run and risk an arrow in the back, or do as they said, and risk more?

“No.” I had not come through the impossible events of the last two days to be accosted by a pair of peasants, by the Blessed. “Return to the woods, sieurs, and take your game with you. Forget you ever saw me.”

Their eyes grew large. I doubt they had ever heard a woman speak so.

“Well, we would, noble d’mselle, but you see, we have the bow. And you’re here, dressed like a lad. You must like a bit of rough—” The dark one was warming to his theme when there was a slight sound behind me.

I did not turn.

“Drop your weapon, peasant,” Tristan d’Arcenne said. I was beginning to associate that calm, reasonable tone of his with danger. Something in it was a warning more effective than a shout.

The crude bow promptly dropped to the forest floor. The arrow bounced into the stream, floating and bobbing away on the water’s chuckling surface. My sharp, surprised exhalation sounded almost like a word.

Four of the Guard advanced on the peasants, one with a bow, two with drawn rapiers, and one with leather thongs. In a matter of moments, both men had their hands tied behind their back. “We meant no—,” the dark one started, and Pillipe di Garfour cuffed him so sharply blood flew from the man’s mouth.

“Speak when you’re spoken to.” Di Garfour’s pleasantness had turned to a dismissive snarl.

Wait. I found my voice. “And it please you, offer them no violence, chivalier.”

He shot me one amazed glance, but at least he did not strike again. The two were thrust to their knees, and I started to protest again, but a hand on my shoulder halted me.

“D’mselle?” Tristan’s face was set and white under the fading bruises. I wondered why he did not use my name, then answered my own question.

He could not risk having me known to them.

“They simply startled me,” I said quickly. “Tis all. They meant no—”

“And the bow?” His blue eyes had turned cold. D’Arcenne, most probably, could guess at what two men would do to an unattended Court girl on a foggy morning far from the Citté.

My tongue ran away with me. “Would you not have a bow drawn, if you were he? Leave them be, Cap — ah, chivalier. I beg of you, leave it be.” For I had an ugly intimation of where this situation could lead.

“They will speak of this.” Tristan’s chill expression did not alter.

I doubt it. “And admit to poaching in the King’s forest, with all the penalties that implies? No. Let them go on their way. They simply startled me.”

The blond peasant stared at me, perplexed. The dark one, his mouth half open, looked as if he had been struck with a sudden thought, and his gaze dropped to the stream.

“Your soft heart, d’mselle.” Tristan’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “Kill them.”

He started to turn, to lead me away, but I found my voice again. “No!” I slipped from under his hand. “No,” I repeated firmly. “I will have no more death on my account.” The brook chuckled merrily, laughing at me. Vianne, you idiot. Idiot Vianne.

His shrug was a marvel of disdain. “Tis not on your account, d’mselle. It is on mine. Now come.”

“Do not presume to order me about, chivalier.” I drew myself up, though my height was no match for his. “You were quick enough to promise me obedience when it served you. Now you must abide by it. I will have no more death on my account.” The words rang against fog and a rising chorus of birdsong. There was no more silence. The wood was alive once more.

He folded his arms, cocking his head and staring through me. “They are beyond your mercy, d’mselle. Poaching in the King’s woods is a treasonable offense. Even had they not threatened you, their lives would be forfeit.”

“If I am what you say, even that point becomes academic. Release them.”

He gave in suspiciously easily. “Very well; they will be released. Now, if you please, d’mselle, come with me.” His hand closed around my elbow, and I let him pull me away. He cast one look over his shoulder, but I was too busy, my feet slipping on moss and rocks, to wonder at it.

We plunged into the trees, moving so quickly I had difficulty keeping up. I set my jaw and did my best. When he rounded on me, blue eyes flashing, I almost lost my footing. But he had my shoulders instead of my elbow, and he shook me, once, as he had in the passageway two days — or a lifetime — ago.

“You noble little fool. You will cost us all our lives. Do you think this is a game? It would take only one peasant in his cups to tell the Duc’s spies we have gone this way, and the entire countryside will be roused against us. My men are few enough. I have no wish to lose more of them.”

I merely let my gaze accuse him. His fingers bit into my shoulders and I winced — I was already bruised there, and would be again. He did not notice, or care. And why should he?

I was only a thing to him. A means to an end.

D’Arcenne shook me once again, so sharply I flinched. “Gods above and below, Blessed witness me, why is it nothing I do pleases you?”

“I could ask you the same question.” I seemed to have been possessed by a completely different person — a Vianne with no discretion and none of my usual quiet. A strand of my hair fell in my face, the mixture of being disheveled, aching all over, clammy-cold, terrified, and heart-wrung as volatile as the sylph-aether used to fuel burners for distilling hearth-binding charms.

He stared at me for a few moments, his jaw working. I had never seen him angered thus. He looked on the verge of murder.

I remembered Baron Simieri’s plum-colored face with an internal shiver. But that had been a poison killspell. D’Arcenne would have used his dagger, or his sword.

But he has murdered, Vianne. The Guard in the donjon, do you think Tristan merely gave him a rose and a courtsong? And he is right, twould take only one peasant in his cups to rouse an entire province against us, if the Duc has laid his plans aright. Years this conspiracy was in the making; of course the Duc would plan for this. He has foresight enough.

Yet I could not brook it. Something in me rose up in rebellion, hot and brittle. The fog had begun to thin as birdsong exploded, every winged thing greeting the Sun’s fiery chariot wheels. I heard — but no. I could not hear that, not with the bird noise.

It sounded like a choked cry.

As the Captain of the Guard needed nothing but a single glance from his King to understand an order, so those of d’Arcenne’s Guard would need only a single glance — a nod over the shoulder, perhaps — to comprehend him.

And obey.

My body drew up against itself, every muscle tightening, yet my knees felt queerly loose. “Oh, no,” I whispered, my lips numb. A thin trickle of sweat touched my back. “You did not. You did not.”

His face darkened with something I did not want to name, so I took a step back. He let me, his hands dropping.

He did not even have the grace to look shamed. “Tis not on your conscience; it is on mine. I cannot risk the lives of my men for the sake of your gentle feelings.” His dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and the dew had been at him, too — either that, or there was a sheen of sweat on his sharp mountain face.

My throat was dry as the Days of Forgiveness. “They meant no harm.” They did mean harm, Vianne. You are lying even to yourself. The voice of good sense was faint and lost. My entire body quivered with a feeling too unsteady to be anger and too hot to be sorrow.

“Of course they did. Had you been alone…” He did not complete the sentence. We both knew what could have happened. There were stories and songs of young noblewomen caught in the woods without the protection of chaperone or male relative, left for dead or dishonored and committing suicide afterward. The mother’s blood is all that counts, the proverb ran — but dishonor tainted even that.

Tristan d’Arcenne and I stared at each other. What difference was there, between the peasants and the man who stood before me now? Either would seek to use me for their own ends; and what protection did I have? My wits, and the fact of the Aryx at my throat. Both such fragile protections.

“Blame me, Vianne,” he said finally. “You did seek to save their lives; let that be enough.”

I willed my hands to stop shaking, made myself as tall as possible. I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I must act like it. “You swore me your obedience.”

“I did not order their deaths on your account, d’mselle.” His voice turned taut and low. “I might have spared them for your asking it of me, had the lives of my men—your Guard—not been at risk.”

“They are not my Guard.” My throat ached with an unutterable scream. “They are yours—and the King’s.”

“The King is dead.” His hands had curled to fists, and I wondered if he would be so base as to strike me. “You hold the Aryx, and have the last drop of royal blood in Arquitaine not tainted by regicide.”

“I only hold the Aryx in trust.” My hand slipped up, touched the warm curve of the Aryx under my shirt. The peasants had not seen it, thank the gods — but that did not matter now. “I shall return it to a true Heir when it is time.” Gods willing. Please.

He tipped his head back, his jaw working again, and I took two nervous steps backward. My ankle turned on a rock, and I almost fell. By the time I had regained my balance, he had somewhat mastered himself. His blue eyes were incandescent, and a muscle ticked steadily in his cheek. “Under Arquitaine law, until the time the Aryx chooses another holder, you are the Queen, and you should act like it. You should not risk our lives, d’mselle. Tis not noble of you at all.”

I could have screamed, yet again. But it was useless. I possessed enough knowledge of the Law of Succession to know he was right. I was the Queen while I held the Aryx. It mattered little why Lisele had it, or how she came to entrust it to me. Entrusted it was, and I was trapped. Lisele had made me promise to keep the Seal safe, and traveling with Tristan d’Arcenne and the Guard was the safest place for the Aryx — and for me.

But I had cost Lisele her life, perhaps. If I had been with her, mayhap I could have distracted the men long enough to buy her an escape. And the King — if Tristan had not been with me, perhaps he could have saved the King.

Now I was responsible for two more deaths. Peasants, to be sure — but still, two more awful murders.

So much death. We were wading in it, and it rose like the Airenne’s infrequent floods.

A great chill settled over me, far deeper than my skin. It pushed all the way down to my bones. I cupped my elbows in my hands and hugged myself, shivering. I could find nothing more to say.

D’Arcenne said nothing, either, and we heard the footsteps of the Guards returning. Who had killed them? Perhaps di Garfour? No — he was too kind. Luc di Chatillon? No, his eyes were so merry, and he had offered his oath in a voice that shook just a little. Robierre d’Atyaint-Sierre? No, I could not imagine it.

You do not need to imagine, Vianne. It is done.

They filed into the tiny clearing. “Is the Queen harmed?” Pillipe di Garfour asked shyly, faith shining in his gaze.

He believed. The Captain had made them all believe they were the Queen’s Guard, and the Queen’s Guard they would be, to the last man. There would be no better defense for the Aryx.

I set my chin and raised my eyes. “Unharmed.” My voice that sounded strange even to myself. “My thanks, sieurs. The Captain has informed me we are departing this place.”

With that, I brushed past d’Arcenne. He gave a subtle push to my shoulder, telling me which way the camp lay. I was grateful for that, at least. I tried my best not to stumble, though my eyes were dry and felt full of sand. His fingers slipped, as if he had sought to catch me as I passed, but I did not let him.

At least I was not weeping. The tears had turned to stones, and settled behind my beating heart.

Chapter Eight

I did not break my fast, and d’Arcenne did not notice. He was too busy giving orders and planning. I simply sought to stay out of the way.

I alternated between silently reciting Tiberian verbs and hedgewitch charms. It was the only thing I could think to do. I leaned against a firgan tree and went through the first twenty Tiberian verbs, each declension a rough martial song, then recited a charm to salve a bruise. Now I could remember a dozen more — a charm to take infection from a wound, a charm to still bleeding, a charm to make a wounded person sleep and so, conserve their strength.

When it mattered most, I had been able to remember only a charm to mend a scullery maid’s hand. A miserable hedgewitch, in truth. I was determined that should I witness another death, I would do all in my limited power to prevent it.

All, Vianne? That was another question, one which occupied me greatly.

We set out through the fog’s eerie muffling, and I again kept myself leaning away from Tristan as long as I possibly could. The motion of the horse and my own numb hunger conspired to put me in a half-slumbrous state.

Moisture dropped from the slender trees, underbrush gemmed with crystal drops, the birds finishing their dawn chorus and settling into the day’s gossip. Yet they were hushed, whispering — perhaps they, too, knew that the King was dead, and conspiracy stalked Arquitaine.

I thought on all the hedgewitch charms I knew, seeking to fix each of them more firmly into memory. At the Palais I would have my books — I wondered what had happened to my books, whether they were still in my bedchamber or if they had been taken. Surely the Duc must have known by now that I had escaped with Tristan. Or did he? Did he think I had left the Palais alone? Who else could have freed the Captain? Anyone loyal to him, certainly. Had there been anyone loyal to Tristan left in the Palais by the time the Duc was finished with his well-laid plans?

I missed odd things. My mother-of-salt comb, a keepsake from my mother. A bite of Cook Amys’s honeycake. The scent of my pillows, the blue silk ribbon I had left carelessly draped across my mirror. The small silver gryphon statue Lisele had gifted me with on my naming-day last year, its eyes glowing rubies.

We rode all day, the copses blurring together and the clearings becoming more infrequent. I must have slept, barely waking when we stopped for luncheon and to rest the horses. Someone pushed a sweetroll and a thick slice of cheese into my hands, and a cup of chai, but my stomach turned to a roiling mass of snakes when I raised the sweetroll to my lips. I held the bread and cheese until I ascertained which way I should go to relieve myself, leaving the cup on the leaf-scattered ground.

I threw the sweetroll into the bushes, and followed it with the cheese, sore tempted to send a muttered curse after both. A small charm to preserve my modesty, and another small charm to clean oneself afterward — at least I was hedgewitch enough for that. Here in the wilderness, it was easy. The charm took its power from the trees and earth, not from me. Thank the Blessed, for I was numb, and light. My forehead felt cold and wet to my hot, dry fingers when I pushed stray strands of hair back, seeking to repair my braid.

I did not go very far from the Guard, and when I reappeared, Tinan di Rocham handed me my cup again. “Drink it, and it please you, d’mselle. You are pale.”

I raised the cup to my lips, but did not drink. The smell of chai made my stomach cramp, and I feared I would retch most unbecomingly. I lowered it gingerly, and he seemed satisfied.

“That will help you. Do you need aught?” His fair young face was concerned. I wondered what he would have made of d’Arcenne’s commands to kill two helpless peasants.

What I need, young chivalier, you cannot give. Leave me be. I shook my head, and as soon as he was gone I tipped the chai unobtrusively into a thornbush. My stomach eased a little, but did not cease its boiling. My arms and legs ached, and my head split with pain. I longed for my bed, or for a certain window seat in the White Gallery. From that casement one could watch the gardens below, and bask in the Sun at any season. Lisele and I had often hidden there as children, pulling the pale draperies closed to hide from prying eyes, whispering and giggling as our dolls had adventures on the broad gold-figured satin of the seat.

We did not stop for long, and soon I was back atop the horse with Tristan d’Arcenne behind me. I tried again to avoid touching him — an impossible feat on horseback — and was again defeated by my third recitation of the second class of verbs. I fell into a dreamy haze, and was glad of it as the day wore on.

Nightfall came, and still we continued, skirting the fields of Vanstrienne to the east. The country grew thick with hills and stands of broader oak and vastvain trees; we passed many a country lane and small brook. I heard someone remark this was Adersahl’s home province, and he knew it well. There was a manse, and some discussion of whether we could afford to rest there, sleep in real beds. But it was too dangerous — to Adersahl’s family and to us. It was decided to simply push on through the night. In three days’ time we should reach the place where a dark finger-dagger of the Shirlstrienne pointed into the heart of Arquitaine, and would be safe enough in that belt of forest — especially as it widened and became an ocean of trees, the Shirlstrienne proper.

Safe enough. Except for the bandits.

I found I did not care.

D’Arcenne occasionally made a remark into my captive ear, but I told myself I did not hear him and soon enough he did not speak to me. I occupied myself with reciting charms, and when I could no longer think of such things, simply staring at the horse’s mane.

We stopped just before moonrise at a small brook, and I was led to a pad of two blankets that someone — perhaps Tinan — had put between the roots of a tall spreading chestnut tree in full leaf. I dropped down and pulled my knees up, resting my forehead atop them, stray strands of my hair falling forward to screen me. I had neither time nor energy to comb or braid; even the thought filled me with unutterable weariness. I shut my eyes and wished for sleep, but I seemed to have found an exhaustion too deep for slumber.

The men spoke in low voices and I ignored them, shutting the sound out as much as I could, simply enduring. They offered me chai, again, and cold mince pie, but I did not answer, pulling more tightly into myself. There was some argument, then. Jierre di Yspres asking me to eat, Tinan di Rocham saying I looked fevered, Luc di Chatillon remarking we had no time for women’s vapors, and Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche telling him sharply to hold his tongue. I found if I concentrated on the blood soughing in my ears I could ignore them much more effectively.

Finally, the food was taken away, there was more low but heated discussion, and d’Arcenne came and touched my shoulder. “Tis time to leave, d’mselle.”

I rose to my feet slowly but obediently enough, my eyes fixed on the ground, and was placed atop d’Arcenne’s horse. But he did not ride behind me — instead, he walked the horse, and I had to keep my balance. My entire body became a song of agony, and I noticed the other Guards walking their mounts, too.

I slumped in the saddle, struggling now to stay conscious as deeper darkness fell over the world.

At some point, in the middle of the night, the Guard remounted. I leaned into d’Arcenne’s warmth with a traitorous feeling of relief. Now, instead of fighting to stay awake I tried to relax enough to slumber, yet I could not.

D’Arcenne began to speak. Quietly, his breath touching my ear or my cheek. I did not listen to his tale — something about Arcenne, or a castle in some high mountains, perhaps the impregnable Spire di Chivalier. Something about the trees in bloom, and the light on the white shoulders of snowy rock. It changed to something that vaguely alarmed me, a muttering as if Court sorcery were being cast — but I could not hear it through the sough of blood in my ears.

I cannot quite remember when I slipped into a twilight unsleep. Eventually there was a cessation of motion, and someone’s cold fingers on my forehead. The coolness felt wonderful, and I made a shapeless sound. “Feverish,” someone said from very far away. “…did not eat.”

“Shock.” D’Arcenne, right next to my ear, though I could not tell if I was still a-horseback or on solid ground. “Give me your flask.”

“Tis ansinthe,” di Yspres said. “Bad for a hedgewitch. Only a little, now.”

The flask was forced between my lips, and I took two swallows of something gag-sweet that burned all the way down. I coughed, and heard my own voice, slow and dreamy. “He told them to make certain none lived. To go among the women, and make certain.”

“Who?” D’Arcenne asked, in the hush that followed.

The warmth from the ansinthe began to spread through my entire body. With the warmth came a little more strength. Why were they giving me green venom? It was a dangerous cordial; too much of it and a hedgewitch would hallucinate before her internal organs failed one by one. Court sorcery, on the other hand, protected one from its burning. “Di Narborre. You told me to attend Lisele…I was too late. She was bleeding, she died. But they came back, and I hid. He said to make certain.”

Someone cursed. Someone else drew in a sharp breath. “The Princesse.” Luc di Chatillon sounded shocked. “She saw?”

“I tried.” I heard myself, slow and slurred as if I had drank too much unwatered wine at a fête. “I used a charm. The bleeding…I was so weak. I tried, Lisele. I tried.”

“She is fevered.” Jierre di Yspres, heavily. I heard wind in the treetops, or something else. The roaring was my blood pulsing in my ears, and a faint high whine. “Captain?”

“We ride on.” D’Arcenne’s tone held terrible fury. “We have no choice. We must halt in Tierrce d’Estrienne, and we will find supplies and a hedgewitch physicker there. Once we reach the forest we may tarry longer.”

“We should halt overnight, mayhap,” di Yspres offered. “She needs care, and rest. I did not know she was so ill.”

“Tis dangerous to tarry so long,” Adersahl murmured.

“Do not worry for me,” I heard myself say, in a queer, light, breathless rush. I sounded very young. My knees refused to work properly, I could not feel my hands. “Take the Aryx and leave me. I shall draw them away to the port. I can do that much.”

“Tristan?” Jierre said. Someone felt at my forehead with chilly fingers.

There was a long pause. The touch on my forehead gentled, stroked my cheek, slid away. “We ride for Tierrce d’Estrienne,” d’Arcenne said finally. “Keep the ansinthe handy, Jierre.”

Movement again, but I could not tell if I was standing or lying down. I had only a hazy sense of movement, light and dark spinning around me. Every once in a while the motion would stop, and someone would feel at my damp forehead. I was given more ansinthe, and some hot chai. I felt the brush of Court sorcery and understood someone had boiled water with it, a prosaic and dangerous thing, for Court sorcery could be tracked if strong enough, as hedgewitchery could not. I was apologizing for the trouble, and asking to be left behind.

Strangeness enfolded me, full of the sound of beating wings. I carried a very large tray of fried eels in butter, as if I were a servant, except I wore the uniform of a Guard and had slippery leather gloves. I carried the tray into a hall, where strange masked faces gathered around. Oh, good! they cried. The eels, the eels!

I heard Lisele’s laughter, bright and merry. I looked up to the dais, where my Princesse stood with the King, both of them in golden cloth d’or, glittering in red torchlight. The eels, Lisele said, tilting her pretty head. Make certain the eels are dead.

The bits of fried eels had begun to bleed, crimson overflowing the edges of the massive tray. The masked people grabbed at them with clawed hands, and I realized with a fainting horror they were not masks, they were monsters, the demieri di sorce old stories warned of. I had wandered into their halls and now had to serve them for a thousand years.

“Hush, Vianne,” someone said. “I am here. Nothing can harm you.”

The dream vanished. Something against my cheek — fingers? No. What was it? A raindrop?

The darkness deepened, a quality of starry sleep, deeper than the first. Tristan d’Arcenne’s voice, from very far away, and only a whisper from myself in reply. What was he asking?

Then I heard, and saw, and felt nothing at all.

Chapter Nine

I do not remember reaching Tierrce d’Estrienne under cover of night. I do not remember the Guard entering the town, or the negotiation with the innkeeper. I do not remember being lifted down from the horse and carried, although I must have been, for I was awakened by morning sunlight falling across the foot of a bed.

I blinked in the flood of light, and the world spun. I smelled clean linen and lavender. Somewhere a fire crackled. Light-headed, I stared for quite some time at the ceiling, heavy beams and plaster, before darkness came. The darkness was my eyelids falling down.

I am home. It was all a dream. Yet the roof was not the frescoed arch of my own room, and the bed was not mine, for all it was comfortable. I was too exhausted to care. Perhaps I was in the Palais infirmary, there having been some mischance — a hallucination, a fever from the damp in the garden? Lisele would be along shortly to bring me confits and order me to become well soon, for nobody braided her hair as well as I. And no lady or ladymaid laced her as well or as quickly as I did, either.

There was a short time of darkness. Finally, I heard voices, hushed as if they spoke in an invalid’s room. A woman, and a man.

“Poor child. She is still very ill, sieur.” Carefully accented, a merchant’s wife, heavily lisping, or drawing out the vowels in imitation of noble speech. For all that, she sounded kind, and I wondered who she was. A nurse? A physicker brought into the Palais?

“Our other sister died recently, of a similar fever. Twas a great shock to her, and traveling perhaps overmatched her strength.” Jierre di Yspres.

What is he doing here? I lay very still. Tried to open my eyes, could not, felt work-roughened fingers on my wrist, feeling for the pulse.

The covers were pulled up almost to my chin. The reason occurred to me slowly, as dripping water soaking through doubled flannel. Of course — the Aryx. Nobody could see the Aryx, because then…what?

It was not a dream. Lisele will not be along to bring you confits. I struggled to think through the haze.

“Broth and bread, and milk,” the woman said. “And this tisane, a small cupful thrice daily. Her pulse is weak and thready. I’ll charm her now, sieur, and return tomorrow.” The woman’s hand moved to my forehead, stroked my damp skin, and I smelled the peculiar heavy green of hedgewitchery.

Something very much like strength flooded me, a quiet warmth starting at my toes and rising through my body, warm and wonderfully cooling at the same time. I sighed.

A terrible thought struck me. “Tristan? Where are you?” Why does it matter? But I wanted to see d’Arcenne. I wanted to know he was alive. If this was no dream, was he still in the donjon?

“Seeing to the supplies, Vianne.” Jierre, unwontedly gentle. He addressed me almost tenderly, and that was another mystery. “Rest easy, he’s here.”

“Her betrothed?” The hedgewitch. They had found a hedgewitch skilled in healing for me. Why? I was not ill.

The thought coalesced, slowly took shape. Fever. They have stopped in a town, and are in terrible danger. Because of me.

“Not yet.” Jierre’s tone was strange, as if he sought to hold back laughter.

“Clear to see he fancies her. And her such a pretty young d’mselle.” The hedgewitch clucked her tongue. “Now, here’s the tisane. And, sieur, not to be moving her for a good three days, that’s my recommend. She is quite ill. If you move her, she may suffer more fever.”

“My thanks, m’dama.” There was the sound of cloth moving. The hedgewitch’s fingers left my forehead, but the wonderful warmth remained. There was a clink — coin changing hands.

“Many thanks to you, sieur. Tis touching to see a brother caring for a sister so; and you two all alone in the world now.” The woman sounded chatty as a Court dama, and I hoped he would let her stay. The sound of a woman’s voice comforted me, reminded me of other voices. At Court, there was always chatter; it was a soothing sea-song behind even the quiet of the bedchamber.

But no, she left soon after, and my eyelids drifted open. I found Jierre di Yspres pulling a wooden chair up to the bedside. The angle of the sunlight had changed — late afternoon now, instead of morning. The white ceiling and thick beams were the same.

He saw I was conscious and smiled, his lean, dark face easing for a moment. Yet graven lines of worry bracketed his mouth, a single line between his dark eyebrows too. “Hello, d’mselle.” Softly and carefully. “We are in Tierrce d’Estrienne. The rest of the Guard has gone into the Shirlstrienne to wait for us. Tristan and I brought you to an inn, and contracted a hedgewitch physicker. How do you fare?”

I found I could speak, though still light-headed and dreamy. “Danger.” I wet my lips with my oddly numb tongue. “For you.”

He shook his head. “Not so much. The Duc’s spies are seeking a noblewoman fleeing at haste with a group of men four dozen strong. There are letres and heralds in the marketplaces with the wrong description, enough to make one laugh. Garonne di Narborre is probably near to Marrseize by now — the rumor is those phantoms have gone further to the south, to take ship for Tiberia. We have some breathing room, d’mselle. Do not worry so.”

I sighed. “The Captain?” It was the only question I could think to ask.

“Sore grieved you’re ill, d’mselle, but otherwise himself. He would not hear of leaving anyone else with you.” Jierre looked very serious now, but the lines had lessened. “He was very pale, when we found you had been struck by fever.”

Pale? No doubt he thinks of the danger to his men, even if you are too kind to say so. “I beg your pardon,” I whispered. “The trouble.”

“No trouble, d’mselle. Little good it would do to have you die of fever. We can afford to halt a day or two.” He was seeking to be comforting, I realized, and wondered at it. When had di Yspres turned into a tut-tutting nurse?

I blinked slowly again. “I feel strange.” If he was a nurse, I sounded like a child. “My head feels light, and tis so cold.”

“The hedgewitch left a tisane. Could you take some, do you think?”

I considered the question. The room was large and airy, probably the best the inn had to offer, and boasted a table topped with a pitcher and three cups, four wooden chairs, a large fireplace, a window seat, and a large clothespress made of dark wood. I wondered if the watercloset had a bathing tub. I longed for a bath. “I should,” I finally whispered, when I remembered what he had asked me. “Thirsty.”

“Say no more, then.” He moved about, and poured me a small cupful of dark ruby syrup. I recognized the smell — hart’s-fleet and fevrebit, the Feversbane. I wondered why she had thought to dose me with such a strong tisane. I could not be that ill.

But I was so cold. The warmth from the hedgewitch’s charming had fled. My body was not my own, weak and numb. I hoped I had not soiled myself; the embarrassment—

He propped me up on the pillows and held the cup to my lips, then fetched me a cup of cool water. I began to wake my dozing wits.

“Did I do anything foolish?” I asked wistfully, and was surprised. I did not think Jierre di Yspres capable of giddy laughter. He tipped his head back, seeking to master himself, and his chuckles rang against the roof.

Eventually he calmed. “No, d’mselle.” He lowered himself onto the chair by my bedside. “We were the fools, to think you an empty-headed Court dame. You did nothing foolish. In fact, you tried to insist we take the Aryx and leave you behind, until Tristan told you in no uncertain terms we could not think of leaving you and to stopper your mouth. Then you insisted we bypass the town and go into the forest, and you tried to prove you were well and hale by reciting Tiberian verbs. You showed great valor, d’mselle di Rocancheil.”

His dark eyes gleamed with merriment, and the lines were gone completely. I bit my lower lip, thinking he was mocking me but unable to decide just how good-naturedly. “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to be any trouble, in such a dire situation.”

“Your Majesty.” Now he was dignified, drawing himself up, every inch the Guard. He would never be considered handsome, but later in life when his face settled on his bones he would be thought of as severe and dignified. His features would hold up well. “Tis an honor to serve you, and I mean every word of my oath. I spoke in haste once, out of anger and pain and grief. Please, do me the honor of forgetting that outburst and accepting my apology. I offer it in good faith.”

My eyelids turned heavy, great weariness swamping me. “Really, chivalier. I am the least queenly person I have ever met.”

“To yourself, mayhap.” He folded his arms across his chest, his leather belt creaking slightly. “The Aryx would not accept your touch if you were not at least capable of becoming such. Why else did the Blessed gift it to us? Now rest, d’mselle, an it please you. Tristan should be returning soon, and he will wish to speak with you.”

Oh, no. That thought made me sigh again. I had no desire to speak to the Captain. “What, to scold me?” I closed my eyes. “I am merely a silly Court girl with too-noble feelings.”

That wrung another chuckle from di Yspres. He seemed very merry. Perhaps his wits were touched.

Then there were footsteps, and his laughter ceased as if cut by a knife.

Two knocks sounded on the door, a pause, then a third. The door was unbolted, and Jierre murmured something. The door closed again, and the bolt shot home.

“Well enough. How is she?” D’Arcenne, a heaviness to the words. Relief bloomed secretly in my chest, and I kept my lips pressed tight over it.

“The hedgewitch said we dare not move her for three days more, charmed her again, and left a different tisane. She will return tomorrow. The d’mselle was awake and seemed lucid, for a short time. Now I think she sleeps.” There was a short pause as their footsteps crossed to the table. “She asked for you.”

“Hm.” It was the same noise I had heard before from the Captain, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, a noncommittal reply. Someone approached the bed.

I opened my eyes to see Tristan d’Arcenne gazing down at me, his blue eyes dark and thoughtful. His bruised face looked much better, but his mouth turned down at the corners, and his eyebrows drew together. He was pale. “D’mselle.” There was a strangeness in his tone. “How do you fare?” He lowered himself gingerly into the chair while Jierre busied himself with something at the table.

“I beg your pardon.” My voice sounded thin and fretful, a thread in the room’s quiet. “I will be better tonight — we must make haste to escape.”

He shook his dark head. His voice was gentle, and I finally could think of the strangeness in it. I had never heard his tone so temperate. “I will not risk your death by traveling while you are feverstruck. Why did you not tell me you were so ill?”

I blinked at him, sinking into the bed — a real bed, such a luxury after the past few days. “I am not ill.” I searched for words. “I was simply so tired.”

“Unused to hard riding, and exhausted by grief,” Tristan said. “I was thoughtless, Vianne. Forgive me.”

The Captain himself, asking forgiveness? “What could I forgive you for?” I was honestly amazed. “Nobody craves my forgiveness, chivalier. It has been long since anyone asked it of me.” It was not quite true — di Yspres had just asked my forgiveness, too. I knew of women who feigned illness to force such declarations, and it irked me to possibly be counted among them. There was nothing wrong with me, save exhaustion that could be staved off if I exercised will and wit enough.

A yawn took me captive. I covered my mouth, reflexively, surprised by how heavy my arm was, weighted with lead.

D’Arcenne said nothing for a few moments. He leaned forward. “Well enough. Will you promise to rest, so we may leave here as soon as possible? I need you to regain your strength, d’mselle, not waste it. Help me. I do not know how else to ask.”

If he had leapt onto the table in a set of skirts and announced his desire to join the barbarian hordes of Tifrimat or Torkai, I would have been less amazed. As it was, I stared round-eyed at him for a long moment before remembering that he did ask me a question.

My wits were sorely blunted. Come, Vianne. Sharpen yourself. “You truly need my help?”

“Absolutely.” He even looked serious, sharp mountainfolk face set. Then again, he always did. When he was older he would not look like di Yspres. No, d’Arcenne would retain his looks for a long time, the bones under the skin preserving a certain beauty. “Please. Promise me you will rest, and stop insisting on being taken from here so quickly. Let me worry about the Duc d’Orlaans. Let me believe I am still capable of performing my duty.” Here he gave a bitter little laugh.

It was so unlike him, I thought perhaps I did have a fever, and it had strangled what wits I had left. “I will promise to rest, if…” If you will not kill anyone on my account was what I wished to say, but I could not make myself utter it. If I voiced the bargain, it would be admitting the murders had happened.

A noblewoman should not say such things. And I did not wish to. I hoped never to think on it again. I was so, so tired. If they did leave me in this room, I would be perfectly content. I would sleep, and the rest of the world could do what it would without my help at all.

D’Arcenne hovered, leaning close and watching me closely. “Anything you like. Set me your task, d’mselle.”

As if this were a silly courtsong, tasks set and a lady to die for. I shook my head, my hair moving against the pillow. Fresh sheets, how luxurious; could I simply not stay here forever? “I shall rest.” To prove it, I closed my eyes.

“Good.” D’Arcenne did not move. He simply tarried in the chair, and I could feel his gaze upon me like sunlight.

There was a long silence, and my breathing evened out. I relaxed, but sleep would not come.

Finally di Yspres spoke, soft and respectful. “Eat something. She is safe enough now. What of the supplies?”

“We have more than enough,” d’Arcenne replied heavily. There was no sound of movement. Did he still watch me? “I almost cost us everything.”

“She’ll need you strong, not starved. How much coin have we?”

Most interesting. They are planning. Listen well, Vianne. Keeping my ears open at Court had served me well; this was not eavesdropping, for I was seeking to sleep. I told my conscience to leave me be.

“Four or five purses. Enough to last through the next winter. Arcenne will shelter us, too, pay us through trade with Navarrin so d’Orlaans cannot trace it. I am more worried about the peasantry, and sorcery. The killspell on Simieri was well-laid, and powerful, d’Orlaans has been practicing. What might he cast at Arcenne?”

“Or at her? Do not borrow trouble just yet, we have enough.”

“What did she say, Jierre? Tell me.”

I heard a liquid sound. Wine, poured into a cup. “She thinks you mean to scold her, Captain.”

“Does she.” I heard them settle down, and smelled something heavy and rich. Mince pies. It made my stomach tighten into knots. I was not hungry.

I turned onto my side and burrowed under the covers, sighing. They were quiet. I curled around myself and hugged the pillow. The linens smelled of lavender.

“The hedgewitch thinks you her betrothed.” Jierre sounded strained.

D’Arcenne said nothing.

“Twas easy enough to let her think so,” Jierre continued. “Tristan, my Captain, you are hopeless.”

“Indeed. A fine word for it.”

From there the talk turned to the rest of the Guard, camped in the Shirlstrienne. They were worried but still in good spirits, and Tristan had delivered supplies to them. We would be ready to traverse the forest toward Arcenne in a few days’ time.

If I could shake free of the fever, that was. I closed my eyes more tightly and resolved to do all I could.

Chapter Ten

The hedgewitch Magiere was a broad, red-faced woman, her graying hair caught in a snowy kerchief. She felt my pulse, peered into my eyes, and declared me much better. “But you must rest,” she said firmly, her dark gaze skipping over my face, as if afraid to settle. I must have been a sight. “No riding for two more days, and mind you go slowly after that. Where are you bound, d’mselle?”

I knew not what lie to tell, but di Yspres smoothly intervened. “We are bound for Avignienne to visit distant family.” He leaned against the mantel, a fine sight in his feathered hat with his sword at his side, slim and dark as the hero of any courtsong. “We have not much left, but we are lucky all the same to have each other.”

Her back was turned, so she did not see the wink he tipped me. If I had not felt so slow and stupid I might have betrayed the game, but as it was I merely fixed my eyes on the hedgewitch and tried to look vapid.

It was no large feat. My wits simply would not answer me, and I sorely missed them.

She beamed, pouring another small cup of the syrupy tisane. “Such a devoted brother!” she clucked, and held the cup to my lips. I suffered it, drinking obediently, and accepted a draught of water while she rinsed the smaller cup from the pitcher. Her skirts whispered and rustled in the room’s quiet. I heard footsteps in the halls outside my door and sounds from the street below, but it was surprisingly peaceful inside this room.

Pale pearly sunlight flooded through the windows. The sky had clouded, and it smelled of rain, a green odor filtering through doors and halls and windows to reach my own sensitive hedgewitch nose. I wondered about the Guard, sheltering in the forest, and bit my lip so I would remember not to ask di Yspres about them in m’dama Magiere’s hearing.

“Excuse me, m’dama,” I said politely, and she preened under my respectful tone. “I have some small knowledge of tisanes, and could not help but notice you’ve mixed me a strong draught. Am I truly that ill?”

She fussed over me, taking the empty cup and smoothing the blankets. “Oh, aye, d’mselle. Fever’s a risk, especially for such a gentle lady as yourself. Why, two of the women in the town have died, and it not even summer yet. And a rumor of plague, too, but I do not believe it. You were fair taken when I saw you, d’mselle; and your betrothed white with fear.”

Di Yspres made another smothered sound, and I glanced curiously at him. He examined a vase on the mantel with great interest, and I thought sourly that he had a very strange sense of humor indeed, calling the Captain my betrothed. But still, it explained why he rode with us, and it deflected suspicion. “He was?” I tried to sound pleased.

“Oh, aye. Tis clear to see how he fancies you. Now, you must have some broth and bread, and another cup of tisane before bed. I shall charm you now, d’mselle, an it please you.” Magiere’s apple-red cheeks crinkled as she smiled at me. I nodded.

“Many thanks for your trouble, m’dama.” You have made the same jest a King did. I hope it repays you more kindly.

She preened again, and laid her work-roughened hand against my forehead. The charm she used was simple, but she had some power. I closed my eyes, feeling the same warmth stealing up from my toes to flush my entire body with its healing. When it was finished, I opened my eyes, smiling at her.

She gasped. What did I do? Puzzled, my sudden happiness drained away. “Your pardon. Is aught amiss?”

“No.” She took her callused hand away, suddenly shy. “You’re very pretty, d’mselle.And when you smile, tis a wonder.”

She sought to flatter me, hoping Jierre would hear and add to her fee. I wished her joy of it, for she did her job well. “My thanks for the compliment,” I answered with good grace. “And for your care, m’dama.”

She fluttered away. Di Yspres paid her — I did not look to see how much — and she sternly reminded him that I must not be moved, and I should not ride hard for another week. The lieutenant agreed and accompanied her to the door. Their small talk held very little information, but I still noted everything in it, out of long habit.

It pays to remember such trifling conversation, and in good coin too. Once I had pieced together an intrigue from a single word, and moved to shield Lisele from it. It had only been a trivial one, involving dresses and jewels, but I was still rather proud of how neatly I outdid di Valancourt. Her face when Lisele appeared in a simple gown and put her beribboning to shame had been priceless, though I suspect I was the only person to see the flash of anger — and only because I had been watchful for it.

But you were not watching when it counted, Vianne.

I had other business now, so I did my best to ignore that thought. I slid my hand under the cover and found the pocket of my linen shift. The emerald ear-drops I had carried all the way from Palais D’Arquitaine bit into my palm as I brought my hand out.

I sighed as soon as the hedgewitch had quit the room. “Lieutenant? Chivalier? Here, I have summat to say.”

He approached the bed cautiously. I had not asked where the Captain was — gone when I awakened; I told myself I did not feel the lack.

“D’mselle?” Di Yspres’s tone was a great deal softer than his wont.

I opened my hand. The ear-drops, heavy silver and glittering green stones, lay obediently in my palm. “I was wearing these the day the Princesse…died.” I heard the queer dullness in my tone; I was not sprightly in conversation today. “I know it costs coin to engage a hedgewitch. Perhaps you could…”

He gazed at the ear-drops, then at my face. Heat rose in my cheeks.

“Your pardon, d’mselle di Rocancheil, but if we sold them, it would cause comment. Maybe in the Citté we could do so without attracting notice, but here we cannot. And besides, we have enough coin for now. Keep those, an it please you.”

I nodded, my cheeks hot. A well-bred lady would normally never discuss such a thing with anyone but a solicitor or a majiorduomo. I bit the inside of my cheek and folded my fingers over the ear-drops.

“I beg your pardon.” I gazed at the blue-and-white quilt. “I only thought to help.”

“Much appreciated, d’mselle.” He scratched his cheek. Twas a good thing we were both dark-haired and dark-eyed; still, I wondered if anyone truly mistook us for brother and sister. “Tristan went to see if he could buy a horse for you — a palfrey, perhaps, something with an easy gait.”

“Oh. I must remember to thank him.” Prim and unhelpful, giving him no purchase did he seek to embarrass me.

The lieutenant settled his hat on the table and dropped into the chair by the side of the bed. His lean face broke into a wide, unaffected smile. “I remember Tristan set a watch over you at Court. Once or twice I took a shift. He would always ask what you had done that day, if you seemed happy, who had spoken to you. We often discussed that you sought to minimize your lineage.”

I sensed danger in this conversation, but could not tell what quarter it would arrive from. “You mean, I did not act like a bastard royal? I heard the rumors, but the rest of Arquitaine is—was—full of other nobles that could lay claim to a larger share. It mattered little to me.”

“You had the benefit of blood from both sides of your family tree, and it may have mattered to the other ladies-in-waiting,” Jierre noted, reasonably enough. “I think perhaps some of the…ah, the small troubles you had at Court were a result of this. It was known you were the King’s ward, and under Princesse Lisele’s protection. Who would have dared to slight you openly? But you could be snubbed in countless little ways — and the fact you seemed not to care only added fuel to the flames.”

“Oh.” I watched the squares on the quilt rise and fall as I breathed. Yet I did not say more. And you are not simply making conversation to ease me. You have some purpose in mind. Until I knew what that purpose was, best I keep my lips sealed.

“Tristan watched over you,” Jierre prompted.

I gathered myself. Now was as good a time as any for me to chance a throw. “He was commanded to by the King. Chivalier, I know you do not wish Captain d’Arcenne to throw his life away for what he thinks is his duty any more than I do. I thought if I could give him the Aryx and ride south, I might draw some attention and leave you time and space to reach Arcenne safely.” And I may hide myself quite handily as a hedgewitch, or starve to death in Marrseize. “The Captain seems determined to do himself some harm,” I added delicately.

Di Yspres shrugged. His face had shut itself most firmly, all amusement fled. “You hold the Aryx, and are of royal blood. You cannot relinquish it, Your Majesty, as much as you may wish to. Arquitaine law says the Aryx chooses its holder.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “But it did not choose me. I was late reaching Lisele’s side, and she pressed it on me. Tis not mine.” What of this do you not understand, Lieutenant? I am seeking to save you and d’Arcenne some trouble; I will not go very far on this course without your help.

“But it is.” He was just as merciless as his Captain. “The Aryx is what all Court sorcery flows from. It is the heart of Arquitaine, and tis more than powerful enough to have chosen you instead of d’Orlaans.”

It was perilously close to blasphemy, but I had to say it. “If tis so powerful, why did it not save Lisele? And the King?”

Jierre stopped, pushing his hair back with his fingers. His boots creaked slightly as he shifted, and his rapier tapped the chair. “Who knows, d’mselle? Yet for good or ill, we have sworn our service to you as the Queen.”

“What if I released you from your service, chivalier?” My hand was a fist, wrapped around the ear-drops, but I lifted it and touched the hard lump of the Aryx under the linen shift. I had been able to wash myself that morn, though it had cost me far more effort than such a simple operation should entail, and Tinan di Rocham’s clothes were away to be laundered.

I was grateful for that. The weight of the lump of metal at my throat, however, did no good. My chest could barely rise and fall under such a burden.

A single shrug. My protest was of little account to this man. “If you released us all tomorrow, we would simply take our oaths again. We are bound to this course.”

“You could go over the mountains to Navarrin and take service there.” And you would live. I would not have your deaths on my burdened conscience. I have enough, by the Blessed.

“We are d’Arquitaine.” His chin lifted proudly, shoulders back. “And we are in the right. The Duc killed his brother and his niece. Such a monster is not fit for the throne.”

I could not argue with that. “I wish you could find someone else.” I dropped my eyes back to the quilt.

“So does Tristan. He could court the Duchesse di Rocancheil, but the Queen of Arquitaine is an entirely different tale.”

You jest too much. I stared at Jierre, who leaned forward earnestly. My heart thundered as if I would faint, like any well-bred d’mselle in a silly courtsong. Or is he mocking me? Both are equally likely. I searched for a response that would not lead the conversation into even more dangerous waters. Now that I knew he would not help me, I would be forced to find what I could in another direction. The di Rocham boy. Or di Parmecy et Villeroche — he seemed, perhaps, easily led? I did not know enough about them to begin setting my snares. “Captain d’Arcenne does not seem the courting type.” What would Comtesse Rochburre say? A bright pain pierced my chest. The numbness, my friend, was wearing away, and the truth of the horrors I had seen sinking in. I half-wished we were still riding through Arquitaine, so I could have something other than these memories to torment me.

“Do you not care for him, then?” Di Yspres leaned even further forward, intent. Was it cruelty in his bright dark gaze? “Because, d’mselle—”

“Please. Do not mock me, Chivalier di Yspres, I beg of you. If you will not aid me, leave me be.” My voice broke on the last syllable, and a knock sounded at the door. Rescued, and not a moment too soon. I closed my eyes, sinking into the pillows.

There was a pause, and three more knocks. Di Yspres unlocked the door, and booted feet tramped. Sudden fear turned the taste of the Feversbane on my tongue to copper.

“Good morn to you, Jierre.” Twas Luc di Chatillon’s light, merry voice, and I slumped into the pillows, wishing mightily for anodyne sleep. “How does the Queen?”

“Well enough. How does the Guard?” There was the sound of men greeting one another — the slaps on the shoulder, the creaking of leather.

“Well enough as well.” Di Chatillon gave forth another merry laugh. “Much easier, now that we know she’ll live. We were fair worried.”

“No less than d’Arcenne,” Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche said. “May we speak to her?”

It was no use. I could not feign stupor at this point, and it would be unconscionable to waste such an opportunity for setting my wits to discovering which of them would aid me. The three of them clustered near the door, and I pulled my hand back under the covers, slipping the ear-drops back into the small pocket sewn into my shift.

“Take care not to tire her. The physicker says she will be fit to travel soon if we do not ride too hard.”

Luc di Chatillon’s blond head dipped. He approached the bed, Adersahl trailing him. The older man smoothed his fine mustache nervously.

“Good morn to you, Your Majesty.” Di Chatillon’s hazel eyes danced. They did not wear the red sash of the Guard here, but Court was evident in the bow he swept me, his hat’s feather almost brushing the floor. “And a bright Blessed dawning. Glad to see you hale.”

“My thanks for your concern.” I felt real gratefulness, so I smiled as prettily as possible.

He grinned in return. For a first sally, it held promise.

“D’mselle.” Adersahl di Parmecy took my hand, which I had freed from the quilt. He bent over it, his black mustache tickling as it brushed my knuckles. “We feared for you.”

“No need for fear.” I took my hand back after he straightened. “But I thank you for it.” And I will see if you or your partner are easily led. A horse and some time is all I need. That, and to take this metal from my throat.

“What news is there?” the lieutenant asked di Chatillon, drawing him away.

“None. Town is quiet, forest is quiet, and di Narborre is hunting to the south. We have some time.” The blond man’s grin faded a little. “Is the…is d’mselle di Rocancheil truly well?”

We shall not be accusing me of vapors now. “I am well enough.” I tried to sound as firm as Countess Rocheburre. “I could ride today, were it required.” All three men halted and gazed at me, perhaps astonished. I felt a completely reprehensible desire to laugh, suppressed it. “Truly. I do not wish the Guard in any deeper danger. The sooner you reach Arcenne, the safer you are.”

Luc di Chatillon glanced at Jierre, one sandy eyebrow raised. Had Court not taught him to veil such speaking glances? He most patently did not believe me.

Di Parmecy smoothed his magnificent mustache. It seemed a nervous movement, as if he stroked a small furry animal to calm himself. “D’mselle…the fever was very dire. Very dire indeed.”

I could have said that if I died, they could have taken the Aryx and been free of the burden of caring for me. They must have read such a thought in my expression, for di Chatillon looked grave and the eldest man kept at his mustache. An uncomfortable silence ruled the room, and my Court training rose up inside me, demanding something graceful and witty.

I had little left of grace or wit about me. Still, I should put them at their ease; twas never too early to cultivate an acquaintance for a plan, or to frustrate intrigue. Yet I searched for aught to say that did not sound ungrateful or transparent.

Luc di Chatillon finally broke the quiet. “You look very sad, d’mselle.”

“I feel a little wan,” I admitted diplomatically. My wits were not what they could be. “Your pardon.”

“Oh, no. You were ill, d’mselle, and still you thought only of our safety. We are glad to serve you.”

“Do not tire her,” di Yspres interrupted. “D’mselle, they wished to see you well. Tristan should return soon.”

“We caught him in the square, watching the people. He looked grim,” di Parmecy offered, his mustache twitching.

“When does he not?” Luc laughed again, the rafters ringing. “He is your staunchest chivalier, d’mselle. He would not hear of another Guard taking a turn at watching over you.”

My voice sounded strange even to myself. “D’Arcenne does his duty, tis well known.”

The three men exchanged looks I had little trouble deciphering, much about them made plain in just that moment. To separate them and work them against the Captain’s will would not be easy.

I doubt I am up to the challenge at this moment. I cursed my weakness and closed my eyes, sinking again into the pillows. “Your pardon, sieurs. I am not myself. Mayhap I am more ill than I thought.”

“You seem to be.” The lieutenant, kindly enough, but with a shadow of mistrust. Could he see what I planned? Of course, I had all but given him a map of my intentions. “We shall withdraw, to give you lee to rest.”

Someone — I peeked through my lashes to see Luc di Chatillon — touched my hand where it lay against the coverlet. “Aye, Your Majesty. If we tire you, the Captain might flog us. He worries like an old woman for you.”

“Leave the Captain to his business,” Adersahl snapped. “You talk too much, Luc.”

The first glimmers of a plan became evident. So, di Chatillon laughs and does not think before he speaks, and di Parmecy et Villeroche is not so easily led as I thought. Perhaps the boy, di Rocham. Wait, Vianne. Your moment will come.

“Aye to that.” The lieutenant ushered them away. “Now we shall leave you to rest, d’mselle, but I will return soon.” He swept the other two out, giving me a significant stare as they all swept their hats and gave me Court-fair bows. I waved a hand gracefully, and when the door closed behind them, I sighed.

Now. Test your strength.

I pushed myself up on my hands, looking about with interest. There was a pile of gear in one corner — I thought I recognized a pair of saddlebags belonging to the Captain. There was also a set of clothes laid over the back of a chair — a smaller linen shirt, a pair of breeches, and the leather vest I had worn from the riverside boardinghouse.

So they had brought me fresh clothes. Thank the Blessed. Which would one thank for laundry? Perhaps Jiserah; all things of the home were her purview. Certainly not Alisaar the Lovely — she was concerned only with love and artifice. The Huntress most emphatically would not care either.

Thinking on the gods led me to the Aryx. Why had it not moved to save Lisele’s life? There were stories — old ones, aye, but still considered good — of the will of the gods striking through their serpents to protect their vessel. But that was in the times when the gods took an active interest, which they had not for a long while. Not in overt ways, though there was no drought or crop failure in Arquitaine. Those who served the Twelve Blessed often murmured that the gods had larger concerns than petty personal problems.

This is not personal, it is the fate of the land the Blessed call their own. Why did the Aryx not strike down the traitors?

I thought on this. It took some time to dress, since my fingers shook and I had to sit upon the bed and rest until I could attempt the lacing on the vest. I had never thought of the help a ladyservant was in such matters; would I ever have a girl to lace me up or attend to my hair again? Or would I end myself in a Marrseize slum? By starvation, or summat else?

Would I even sell some things I held very dear indeed, if I became hungry enough? For I did not think I was a fine enough hedgewitch to earn a mountain of coin. Still, I could give lessons on Tiberian, I supposed — but that might require a letter of introduction, did I wish to governess in a noble house. A merchant would perhaps not care.

I shuddered at the turn my thoughts were taking. Perhaps I could retreat to a cloister? Kimyan’s Elect sometimes took those such as me, but I did not have a dowry.

That is a worry for another day, Vianne. Your concern is to free the Guard of your weight.

The watercloset was a relief; I washed fever-film from my face and immediately felt much more cheerful. Then I sat upon the bed and attempted to braid my hair.

Like most Court women, my hair has never been cut, only trimmed a bit now and again. As a result, it is always a task to braid when it has been loose for two days of fever-tossing abed. I had no comb — I did not know where my servant’s bag was — so I had to untangle the knots with my fingers, and it took what little energy remained to me. I mulled on the nature of the gods, and the more pressing problem of how I would seek employment in Marrseize, and the still-more-pressing problem of how to escape the Guard so they did not injure themselves on my account.

When I finished braiding, I held the end of the rope. The thought of cutting the whole mass free and seeking to escape through the window like the Princesse Ducarne in the old courtsong was highly appealing.

I finally spotted a bit of green ribbon on the table next to the small cordial bottle that held the Feversbane. That worked to tie off my braid, and I stood by the table for a moment, swaying, irresolute.

What are you thinking? I scolded myself, and reached up to touch the Aryx’s hard warmth under my shirt. You are almost too weak to walk. You will not go far. Now is the time for planning instead of flight.

Nevertheless, I pulled at the heavy silver chain, and discovered something disconcerting.

The Great Seal of Arquitaine would not budge. It seemed to have grown into my skin.

I opened my shirt and made my way into the watercloset, where there was a generous sliver of mirror over the washstand. I watched as I pulled on the chain, and the Aryx would not move. I saw the chain sliding through the aperture made by two snake-coils, but the Aryx itself fused to me. I felt no tugging sensation against my skin when I pulled on the chain, but the chain itself bit my fingers. A warning nip, like a small hunting dog.

I let out a soft, breathless sound, half a sob. I tugged on the chain again — the Seal would not move. The chain jerked free of my fingers, and I let it.

The Aryx chooses its holder. Could it read my mind, discerning I wished no part of it? If it was fused to my skin now, why had it not performed a more useful feat and safeguarded Lisele — or even warned her? I twisted frantically at the chain, disregarding a second, sharper nip against my fingers. I had lost all my breath, and I think that is perhaps why I heard the soft, sliding noise.

My entire body chilled, as if I had been doused with cold water.

I turned, my fingers curling around the edge of the washstand. It was heavy frigid porcelain, and I clutched at it with all my waning strength.

I did not hear the door open. Sharp fingers of unease touched my back.

The footsteps paced to the window, back to the main door. I could have peered out through the small space between the watercloset door and the jamb — I had left the door slightly open, in my haste.

Faint scuffing, and a deep silence.

The tingle of Court sorcery began to edge along my skin.

Sight blurred, my gaze weakly piercing the veil of the visible. Any type of sorcery is difficult when the physical body is ill, even the passive use of Sight. I swayed against the washstand, my hip bumping its unforgiving edge.

The Aryx pulsed against my chest, a second heartbeat. I put my free hand up blindly and felt warm metal move under my fingers. Now that I was not seeking to remove it, the Aryx slid freely against my skin.

The sorcery in the other room stilled. Someone was waiting…and I smelled something I had once before, something quite distinct. An odor like acid, magic, and rust; apples and wet dog.

A killspell. Not a poisonous one, but one that reeked of steel and iron-spill blood.

Tis not the Captain or di Yspres. My legs turned weak as water. The fever was returning, sick unsteady heat mounting in my cheeks, turning my fingers to slick heavy sausages. Who? And why?

I could not simply stay in the watercloset and let a Court sorcerer use a killspell on whoever entered the room. Di Yspres had said he would return — and Tristan d’Arcenne. They would be walking blindly into danger.

Why cannot he sense me, if he has enough sorcery for Sight? Of course, I am a practicing hedgewitch, I sink into the scenery. But still…

I cast about for something, anything, to use as a possible weapon, my fingers still clutching at the Aryx.

I was near frantic when inspiration struck. There was a hedgewitch charm that would turn a killspell back on itself. If I could only remember it.

My heart leapt against the cage of my ribs. D’Arcenne. A killspell would hurt him even if he had the presence of mind to shunt it aside; it could kill him if it took him unawares. He was a Court sorcerer too, but if he was caught off his guard there was precious little hope.

With a type of swooning terror, I realized I could hear other footsteps. Light feet in heavy boots, a gait I knew.

Stupid, silly fool that I was, I was still listening for him.

I cast about again. I could not for the life of me remember the thrice-damned charm. I wished frantically I had spent time training my memory instead of reading romances or dancing, frittering away time in the Princesse’s chambers.

No, not hedgewitchery. Try something else, Vianne. Think!

I was an abysmal Court sorcerer, with only some tiny skill at rough illusion and enough power to light a candle despite all my sword-noble blood.

A killspell must be triggered. If tis thrown at someone in haste instead of laid with careful preparation, you must be able to see them. I remember that much.

There. I had my answer.

There was a brief courteous tap at the door, such as a chivalier might use to warn an invalid but not wake her if she slept. I dropped my hand from the Aryx and took two steps forward, reaching for the watercloset’s door. Court sorcery took shape on my fingertips, a quick, growing shimmer.

The door from the hall pushed open, hinges squeaking slightly.

I jerked the watercloset door open and flung my own small magic in the general direction I guessed the intruder was hiding, just before the killspell roared free. Light burst free, a white-hot globe of witchlight, so intense it hurt to look at. I whispered the last syllable of my sorcery, heard a cry and the dry rasp of steel leaving the sheath before my head struck the floor.

Court sorcery is not as draining as hedgewitchery, but it still takes a toll on the body — a toll I was ill prepared to pay.

“—light—”

“—truly chills the blood.”

“—Tristan—”

Confused motion. A group of men all speaking at once, yet seeking to keep the noise down. For all that, they would be lucky to escape notice.

Why must we escape notice? What is happening?

“No.” Tristan d’Arcenne sounded ragged, and furious, as if he had been weeping. His voice broke. “No. Vianne—Vianne.”

“I will kill you — I will kill you!” A man, Court-accented, but not one of the Guard.

What are they doing in my room? For a mad moment, I once again thought I was safe at Court. Had I swooned? I was not given to fainting fits, that was Lady di Wintrefelle’s trick—

“Keep him quiet. Gag him, if you must,” Jierre di Yspres hissed. “For the love of the gods, Tristan, calm yourself!”

“I am still alive?” I asked wonderingly, high and breathless. Nobody could be more surprised than I at the thought.

Breathless silence. Someone smoothed my forehead, picked up my hands. I found myself reclining, the sheets still smelled of lavender. Warm, callused fingers traced the back of my hand, touched my cheek. “Vianne.” Tristan d’Arcenne, husky and ragged. “You saved my life yet again, d’mselle.”

Hazy shapes played as my eyelids fluttered. “Twas a killspell, I knew you would be returning.” I blinked, finding my gaze could focus now.

“You blinded him with a witchlight, m’chri.” D’Arcenne’s blue eyes blazed, and he had pushed his dark hair from his forehead. There was a fresh cut on his cheek, and a trickle of blood had found its way down to his chin. “And a fair one, too. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”

“I never was,” I protested weakly, and he stroked my cheek again. It was a strangely intimate, highly improper touch, and I would have blushed had I had not been looking wildly about for the source of the killspell. Sense was flooding me, and uneasy was too pale a word for the terror returning as I gathered myself. “Where — what did you—”

“Safely bound and awaiting questioning.” D’Arcenne’s gaze turned dark, and he ceased touching my face. “I think I will take particular pleasure in interrogating him. How do you feel, Vianne?”

“Tired,” I breathed. “Dear gods. I thought he would kill you. Who is he?”

“I believe he is Yveris di Palanton. Do you remember him?” D’Arcenne recommenced touching my cheek. Oddly, the touch made me feel better. Comforted.

The name meant nothing. “Do not hurt him,” I whispered. He seemed fearfully angry, for all his tenderness. Why does he touch me so? It is improper. “Please.”

“When death comes for him, it will be merciful.” Low and conversational again, and I knew enough of him now to guess at the danger such softness held. I shivered to hear it, and he touched my eyebrow, ran his fingers over my cheek, touched my lips.

Comtesse Rochburre would have been scandalized. “Why was he trying to kill you? None of this makes sense.”

“I shall solve the mystery, Vianne. Rest.” He held a small cupful of the tisane to my lips, and I took it gratefully. It tasted foul and medicinal against the copper fear coating my tongue. I almost gagged, but I knew it would help me. “What were you seeking to do?”

“I wished to be dressed.” My eyelids were so heavy. A great lassitude stole over me. The Aryx pulsed against my chest. Now was not the time to admit I had wanted to leave him the Aryx and flee. Or that I had been planning to intrigue among the Guard to do so. “And the watercloset.”

“Rest, m’chri,” he urged quietly, and I wondered if I had misheard him. Why did he name me thus? It was such an intimate term I would have flushed if I had not been so sick and weak. “We shall speak of this when you wake.”

“Be…careful.” I sighed. My eyes closed, and I sank into the bed. The tisane formed a hard lump in my stomach, spread out in waves of warmth.

When next the Captain spoke, it was that soft considering tone of leashed violence far more frightening than screams or shouts. “Adersahl. Stay here, stand guard. If even a mouse moves in this room, kill it.”

“Aye, Captain.” I had never heard the elder man sound so grave.

“Jierre, Luc, bring our guest. I have a few questions I would ask of him.” He sounded so calm, so reassuringly ordinary, that I sighed again. All was well. D’Arcenne would make it well.

“And if he tries…?” A di Yspres I had never heard before as well — a crisp, almost peremptory lieutenant. No, he would not intrigue against his Captain, even for his Captain’s own good.

“Stick him in the kidneys. It will not matter much later.”

I curled on my side among the pillows. Something pressed against my forehead. It was a kiss, a gentle one, and the smell of Tristan d’Arcenne, leather and steel and male musk, enfolded me for a brief moment.

It was the second kiss he had given me. “My thanks, m’chri.” His breath warmed my ear, as if we were a-horseback and fleeing again.

They dragged the man out, and I wondered even in my daze that they were all alive. The man had a Court accent. How had he found us?

And could di Narborre be far behind?

Chapter Eleven

The angle of sunlight falling into the room said twas morning. I was also hungry — famished, in fact. I was about to reach for the bell on my night table to summon a servant when I remembered, yet again, that I was no longer at Court.

I pushed myself upright and saw the room lying quiet under its gilding of gray, muffled sunglow, and I blinked. I felt lucid, clear-headed, and very weak.

D’Arcenne was at the table, his head on his arms, asleep. His face turned toward me, his eyes closed, and the deep regularity of his breathing was…comforting. He looked as if he had been studying, and merely put his head down for a moment to rest.

The marks of the beating they had gifted him with were only shadows now. His eyelashes lay against his cheeks in two perfect arcs, charcoal-black, and his mouth was slightly open, relaxed. His cheeks were faintly brushed with stubble.

Jierre di Yspres slept on a bedroll by the door. I swallowed hard, and returned to myself in a rush. What had happened to the man last night?

Had he survived until morning? Somehow I doubted it.

Yveris di Palanton. I did not know the name. I thought I knew everyone at Court, at least by sight. I slid my feet out of the bed, inch by inch. The floor was cold, especially after the warm nest of blankets. I felt as one does after prolonged bedrest — weak, itching to move, but not quite sure how far one’s strength will hold.

I tried to stand, my knees shaking, and a floorboard squeaked.

D’Arcenne bolted upright, his sword leaving the scabbard with a whisper. I let out a gasp and sat down so hard my teeth clicked together.

D’Arcenne blinked, examined every corner of the room with a swift glance. The sword vanished. His blue eyes met mine. “Good morn, d’mselle.”

“Captain.” My throat dried like a drought-parched field. It seemed a bloodless way to greet him. So did d’Arcenne. Perhaps I had earned the right to address him otherwise. “Tristan.”

“Vianne.” A slight bow. “You saved my life again.” His gazed locked itself to mine, and his shoulders were stiff. He stood straight as his own rapier, as if he were at drill in a courtyard. “I am beginning to think you a demiange sent from the gods to watch over me, m’chri.”

There it was again. Tristan d’Arcenne was calling me beloved.

A slip of the tongue, nothing more. He was close to death yesterday, that may make a man charitable. “Captain…” I chewed at my bottom lip, searching for something light and diplomatic to say. Nothing arose.

Jierre di Yspres yawned from his bedroll. “And a bright good morn to everyone,” he grumbled, sleep’s gravel evident in his tone. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Time for you to get our fair d’mselle some breakfast.” Tristan’s gaze had not moved from my face. I felt rumpled — I had slept in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and trousers. Someone had taken the leather vest — perhaps d’Arcenne. That thought sent a hot flare of not-entirely-unpleasant embarrassment through me.

Jierre grumbled a bit more, but he hauled himself upright and made a very pretty Court bow to me, sweeping a nonexistent hat. “Good morn, d’mselle Your Majesty, and lovely to see your fair face.”

I gathered myself. “And better to see your smiling face, sieur chivalier.” I found my accustomed tone, light and accented sharply, as all the Princesse’s women spoke. “What happened?” Is there yet another death lingering in this room?

“Breakfast, Jierre.” D’Arcenne’s tone brooked no discussion.

The lieutenant rolled up his bedroll and stumped cheerfully out the door, scratching at his face and yawning. But he wore two daggers at his belt that he had not before, and I caught a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. I have not seen that look often, except before a duel at Court — a duel I would not witness, being weak of stomach.

It was the look of a man prepared for violence.

I was left with Tristan d’Arcenne and pearly, rainy light filling a room that did not seem to have enough air for me. I sought to breathe deeply, and had little luck. He stood rapier-straight, as if he had not been sleeping in a chair all night.

There, Vianne. Speak of that. It is a safer subject than most. “You slept in a chair, sieur?”

He shrugged. “Jierre and I took turns at the door.”

So little was he disposed to keep to safe subjects. I supposed there was small use for such grace between us, then. “Who was he?” All my attempt at humor dropped away.

He shrugged. Even unshaven and after a night that could not have been comfortable, he was still sharp as a fresh-honed blade. “A nasty little boy who played assassin for the Duc d’Orlaans. I think he is probably the one who killed Simeon di Rothespelle. Cut and spelled his saddlegirth, at least.”

What little breath I had left escaped me. “To kill me?” I had difficulty making myself heard, though the room was quiet and I heard faint marketsong from the other side of the window — chanted songs of wares for sale, cart wheels, horse hooves, murmurs of conversation.

“I doubt he even knew you were here, and I doubt it was more than chance. He often visits his aunt at the manse less than two leagues from here, and he may have recognized me. I was his target, m’chri, and you stopped him.” The Captain took one step, two, away from the table. He did not look at me, now, but at some fixed point above my head. “I owe you my life yet again. And more.”

My hands trembled, so I clasped them firmly together. “I could smell the killspell. I—”

“I know.” He took another two steps. Then another.

He stopped next to the bed, a bare step and a half away. He looked down at me with his blue d’Arcenne eyes, and I had to remind myself to breathe. The fever returned, beating in my wrists and throat and chest.

No — perhaps twas only my heart.

“Would you have killed him, Vianne?” Then he dropped to one knee, a quick, graceful movement, and took my hands in his, almost roughly. “Would you?”

Either the shock of his tone, or the question itself, or the feel of his skin on mine robbed me of sense. “K-k-killed him?” I stammered, and my fingers closed in a convulsive movement, remembering the witchlight pooled in my palm, the glow against my fingers.

I had been so afraid the attacker would harm someone.

Do not be ridiculous, the calm, rational voice of my conscience told me. You do not have a killspell when you intend merely to frighten. A killspell is to kill. Tis why they call it what they do. It is not a peck on the cheek spell, or a goosefeather tickle spell.

I looked down at d’Arcenne, whose face turned up to mine. His dark hair fell away from his forehead, and I freed one hand. The back of my fingers brushed his forehead, his cheek. My fingers moved of their own accord, without any direction from propriety or even good sense.

His face changed between one moment and the next. Wondering, as if seeing me for the first time, his eyes wide and guileless as a child’s. “No,” he breathed. “I do not think you would have, had you thought of it. You did not think, did you.”

Had I done wrong? Stray strands of my hair fell free, touched his face. The ribbon must have come free during the night. I leaned forward, again without any volition of my own, as if drawn to him by sorcery, or as the needle is drawn to north’s invisible realm. “I…no, I did not think. There was not time—”

“I see.” He reached up with one hand, his fingers twining in a strand of my hair. “You were…” The hesitation pained me. He was not meant to sound so…unsure.

“I was afraid he might hurt you,” I whispered, as if someone else might hear.

“So you blinded him with a witchlight that could have torn the roof from this inn. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”

He is touching me. Had the fever come back? Or was it him? “I am not.” My voice refused to work properly. “The Aryx.”

His face hardened, and he nodded. My hair was tangled between his fingers, but he did not pull. Merely held it loosely, as he might a docile horse’s reins. “The Aryx.” He whispered as well, or something was caught in his throat. “Vianne.”

“Tristan.” My heart beat thinly in my wrists, in my throat. “What happened to him?”

“Di Palanton? He will never trouble another soul. Still, tis unsafe. He recognized me enough to attempt to kill me, and who knows what message he may have sent to his lord and master beforehand?” Tristan’s accustomed tone came back, sharp and logical, and his fingers slid free. “We must leave this place. The forest is our only friend now, and a false friend at best. Can you ride?”

He spoke as if I was one of the Guard. My chin lifted, automatically. I could see why they followed him. It was impossible not to, when he was so quiet, with such steely purpose.

A man who spoke thus could make other men do wondrous things.

“I can ride.” I sought to sound strong. “I am much better than I was. Have you a horse for me?” It would mean I would no longer ride with him. My good sense was returning, and it whispered that such an event might be safer. At least, to my weak, traitor-throbbing heart.

“I could not find a horse that can keep up with the Guard, nor even one that can stand hard riding. Do you mind?”

I could not decipher his expression. Was he pleased by this? Uncaring? Did he mind at all? “I shall manage,” I said around the obstruction in my throat.The furious heat in my cheeks would not abate. It was akin to being embarrassed at a fête, only at Court there are ways to hide such embarrassment. Here there was no embrasure to hide behind, and no powder to dull my cheeks, no richly hung ladies’ room to retreat to.

He stood, gracefully, his fingers tangled in mine. “Jierre should return soon. Do you require aid to stand, m’chri?” Why did he not free his hand from my grasp? I did not seek to keep him.

Or did I?

He said it again. “No, I am steady enough.” I forced my legs to straighten and carry the burden of the rest of me. D’Arcenne steadied me as I almost overbalanced. The floorboard squeaked again, and I found myself right next to Tristan, holding his hand, near enough for a dance.

Closer, actually. So near I could feel the heat of his body. “I think I had best visit the watercloset.” Why was I still breathless?

“I think you’d best.” He made no move. I did not try to take my hand back, either.

Tristan turned my palm up, lifted it. My knees threatened to fail and he caught me, sliding his arm around my waist.

Dear gods.

I almost laughed. The long series of impossible events seemed to find its madly logical culmination in Tristan d’Arcenne holding me close enough to pavane in an inn room close to the Shirlstrienne, and then — impossible of impossibles — lifting my palm to his mouth. He pressed a kiss into the soft part of my hand, and my heart gave a leap so hard it was as if the drums of the maying festival beat in my chest. “There. For safekeeping. My thanks, Vianne.”

I nodded, unable to find anything even remotely sensible to think or do. I said the first thing that leapt into my silly head. “I can ride.”

I winced at my own stupidity.

“Good.” He folded my fingers over the still-burning kiss. Warm skin, callused from daily practice with sword and knife. “Do you require any aid? Any at all?”

“I think I am well enough.” I fought for air, tried not to gasp. The sudden need to explain something, anything, rose. “He would have killed you. I could not—”

“You still did not wish him dead.” He shook his head, gravely. “I understand. Truly. For now, an it please you, we shall break our fast and leave this place.”

I nodded. Tristan’s hand still enclosed mine, and the kiss scorched against my palm. How long would it take for the burning to fade? “Very well.”

He stepped back, reluctant, still holding my hand. I swayed, but stayed upright. New strength stole through his flesh into mine.

This man is dangerous, Vianne. What would you not do, for his asking? Especially if he turned this face to you more frequently.

“I watched over you at Court. Not because I feared your ambition, but because I feared for your very life. Once I began, I could not stop.” His fingers slid free of mine, and if he was not reluctant to let go he was certainly feigning it well enough to earn a prize.

Why does he say this now? I stood, my fist clenched around the feel of his mouth, in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and breeches, barefoot and rumpled. The Aryx pulsed in time to my heartbeat. “I thought you watched me to make sure I did not—”

Boots in the hallway, thundering in the quiet though whoever owned them was simpy striding normally.

I bolted for the safety of the watercloset, my legs threatening to shiver out from under me. I gained my sanctuary and pulled the door shut, just as I heard Jierre di Yspres open the door. “Breakfast, Captain, d’mselle.”

I let out a long, shaking sigh and leaned against the door. The sliver of mirror over the washstand revealed my face, flushed cheeks and dark eyes, my hair mussed and tangled, the copper serpent of the Aryx glinting above the collar of my shirt. There was nothing in the mirror to warrant attention.

Just the provincial hedgewitch, Lisele’s strange pet lady-in-waiting. That was all. Nothing to catch Tristan’s eye.

Yet it seemed I had.

Not just a King’s jest, perhaps? I could not even speak my hope to myself.

Find something else to fret at, idiot. You are at the edge of the Shirlstrienne, pursued by di Narborre, and entrusted to the care of a bare half-dozen men who may turn on you in an instant if their Captain decides you are not queenly enough.

Or not tractable enough.

The Aryx, much as I wished to hand it over to the Captain and be shed of the burden, was my best defense. I touched the copper edge above my shirt, fascinated by the play of light on supple metallic scales. Pulling down the material a bit revealed the rest of the Great Seal of Arquitaine.

“Why do you stay with me?” I asked quietly, aware I was speaking to a magical object. If I was exceedingly lucky, it would not answer. “I am not the one you want.”

But you may have to play at being so, like one of a Comedie-Trajique troupe. Imagine, Comtesse di Rocheburre used to say. Imagine, and you will do. She was speaking of being a noblewoman and moving gracefully, but I would hazard it applies here.

I may have to hazard it will apply here.

The Aryx only glinted, throbbing against my skin like a second heartbeat. I shook my head, my legs trembling with the aftermath of fever, and decided to set about making myself presentable.

But before I did, I studied myself for a long moment, one thought filling me until I thought I would cry out from the immensity of it.

Tristan d’Arcenne kissed my hand. I watched in the mirror as bright scarlet rose in my cheeks. When I could set the thought quietly down without blushing, I began to move again.

Chapter Twelve

Breakfast for me was broth and new bread, and I was finally hungry. I set to with a will, and the lieutenant peeled an apple for me, quartered it. They ate morning pies, full of egg and salted pork, and there was hot chai and fresh milk to wash them down. There were also slices of the Shirlstrienne cheese, soft and flavored with piniel, studded with nuts.

Afterward, di Yspres set to carrying saddlebags and gear downstairs. D’Arcenne gave me the leather doublet, and I retreated to the watercloset to make myself at least a little more ready to endure another day of horseback. I was combing my hair — Tristan had given me the servant’s bag back — when I heard di Yspres.

“We must make haste,” he said quietly. My fingers moved of themselves, braiding. “Tis an uneasy air in the town this morn. I think we should take the back way out.”

“Of course.” D’Arcenne was manifestly unsurprised.

“I thought she was not a Court sorcerer.” Leather creaked as di Yspres hefted gear around. He could catfoot when he chose to, but there seemed no call for it at the moment, so he was loud as a Navarrin metalsmith.

“She is not. The Aryx.” A slight, embarrassed cough.

“The Aryx?”

I finished my braid and tied it off with a blue hair ribbon brought from the Palais. Why could not I have brought something practical? Chiding myself for it comforted me. Something other than hair ribbons.

“It seems to have awakened.” The Captain’s tone did not alter. Still, di Yspres inhaled sharply, as if he had been pinched.

Awakened? I wrapped the braid around my head, threading another ribbon through it. No servant girl to help with this, either, though I did not feel this lack as much as I could have. It was not quite an affectation to braid my own hair in the style of di Rocancheil at Court, but twas close. It is the Great Seal, it never slumbers.

How long had the King had it? Easily thirty years of his reign, since his crowning. I attended Lisele’s dressing and had never remarked it in her possession. As far as anyone knew, the Seal lay in the treasure house of the Raven Tower, safely locked away until needed for a fête or particular ceremony.

I could not wake, Lisele had whispered. Had she been seeking to do so?

Why lock it away, unless it was dormant? The old books and tapestries spoke of the ruler of Arquitaine wearing the Aryx by the grace of the Blessed. Yet it had not been worn openly for many a year, many a reign. No war or invasion to make it necessary — Tiberius had not needed it; he made his diplomatic coup with the Damarsene by dint of sheer cunning alone.

Or so the histories said. Now I wondered, and my head hurt with the implications. Had Tiberius’s cunning been exercised in keeping the Damarsene from guessing that the Seal of the Blessed slumbered, instead of in other directions? Had they known, very little would have stopped their fine army — and the hateful Pruzians, always at the back of Damar to make mischief or pick at the leavings — from trampling our borders. Arquitaine is a rich prize, and our gods are not as bloodthirsty as the Pruzian’s black bird-god, or the Damarsene’s jealous, bull-headed blasphemy.

The Aryx did help me with the witchlight. A chill touched my back. But why? If it could do so, and yet not aid Lisele…

I bit my lip, looking at the washstand. Porcelain shone white, as I worked the problem inside my skull and found my wits thankfully less dull. At least, there was not the maddening sensation of seeking to think through porridge. I felt much more my usual sharp-eared, intrigue-catching self.

If the Aryx fed Court sorcery, would it do the same for hedgewitchery?

I pulled the medallion from under my shirt easily. It glowed mellow in the skylight’s shaft of gleaming sunlight. Three serpents — copper, silver, black gold, twisting around each other, two with ruby eyes, the black serpent with eyes of diamond. I cupped it in my palm, listening to its pulse.

It will not let you remove it, some deep part of me whispered suddenly, both awed and frightened. It will never willingly let you remove it.

I knew better than to doubt — it was the same voice that had told me once to comfort my Princesse while she sobbed, when she had sent all her other ladies-in-waiting away. The King had not come to celebrate her birthday, being delayed by a diplomatic crisis — something about the Navarrin ambassador’s sudden about-face during trade treaty discussions, I thought, although I had only been twelve and had only the foggiest notion of politics. Their Prince was now a King, and his greed was likewise kinglike in size. Thank the Blessed the mountains made him an ally, by dint of Arquitaine being too difficult to attack. Of course, the fact that our naval power kept Tiberia in check as well had summat to do with Navarrin’s good graces.

In any event, I had crept into Lisele’s chamber and held her during that long-ago storm of tears, and afterward my place as her favourite was assured. Particularly since I never told a soul. The better I kept my Princesse’s secrets, the more assured my place became. The voice of warning had risen since then, during difficult intrigues, when I had to navigate not merely myself but Lisele through treacherous waters and to safe harbor, with her pride intact and my own reputation kept small and eccentric.

The deep voice had never led me astray.

Coils moved against my palm, metal sliding as supple as living tissue, the serpents writhing, straining. Gemmed eyes watched me, unblinking. Beautifully carved scales rasped against each other, a faint whispering in the silence of the tiled washroom.

My mouth went dry as a Tifrimat sand dune. Even Court sorcery could not prepare me for this. If I tried to remove it from my throat, would it stick to my fingers, fusing to my flesh again? Bile rose to the back of my tongue, the breakfast I had been so hungry for craving escape.

My flesh shuddered on my bones at the thought of dropping the Aryx down my shirt again and feeling those delicately carved metal serpents slither-rasp against my chest.

The serpents slowed and ceased, but now the black gold was the uppermost and would show over my shirt. Trembling returned, settling into my marrow. I cannot hide this. I cannot brook the feel of this against my skin.

Then, I must. Tristan would wish it.

I braced myself against the wall, a most unladylike sheen of sweat on my forehead. I forced myself to consider this as if it were a riddle, or an intrigue. I had studied the Graeca philosophers’ Rules of Logic — one could not study Tiberian and not hear of the Rules — and they would tell me to cease my thrashing and begin in a particular place.

First, what could I state with any certainty?

The Aryx will not harm me — or at least, it has not yet. And it does not slumber. I had used it to power the witchlight. Whatever it had been before, it was most definitely awake now.

What if the Aryx remembered I was not the royal it wanted — merely a hedgewitch pressed into service to hold it until someone else could be found? “Do not strike me down, I beg of you,” I whispered to the Seal. “I mean no harm.”

The snakes stirred again, slightly. I managed to restrain a flinch, but only just.

There was a courteous tap on the door that nearly sent me out of my skin. “D’mselle? Are you well?”

I had to try twice before my dry throat would give out a word or two. “Well enough.” It took another effort to make my clutching fingers loosen and let the Seal nestle against my shirt over my breastbone.

I flinched. Heavy sluggish warmth spread from the contact, and the sensation was at once terrifying and queerly comforting.

I exited the watercloset to find the lieutenant alone, leaning at the mantel with his feathered hat clasped in one brown hand. His lean face changed at he gazed upon me. “D’mselle? Your Majesty?”

I swallowed again, drily. “Chivalier di Yspres.” It took yet more courage I did not know I possessed to lift the Seal with damp fingertips. “Might I have you examine this?”

He took two steps away from the mantel, and paled, stopping dead. “Gods,” he breathed. “The serpents…they have moved.”

“So I am not crazed.” I should have felt relieved, but fresh unsteadiness welled through me. “I…”

His dark eyes widened until I saw an echo of the child he must have been. “You are the Queen. I thought…but you…”

To hear him flounder snapped me back to some manner of sense. “I seek only to be the Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, sieur. I must stop Tris — ah, the Captain from pursuing a ridiculous course of action and finding himself murdered for it.” You are not ideal, but I have you off balance now. You may even help me. “Will you help me?”

His throat-apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze moving from the Seal to my face. “The Aryx has not awakened since the time of King Fairlaine.”

“I thought…” There were indeed stories of the power of the Aryx before Queen Toriane’s death — but none after. It was not spoken of, for the wonders of Court sorcery practiced by the nobles still held at festivals and fêtes. Hedgewitches practiced only among the peasants, and physicked their betters for coin.

Yet had not the nobles been using less and less Court sorcery? After all, it had become more difficult, even for those of noble birth. Some said the illusions wrought now were more wondrous and complex, yet…

I did not wish to travel further down that road. I had Jierre di Yspres in a state most conducive to intrigue now — or as conducive as he would ever be. I decided to return us to a more promising line of conversation. “I do not wish the Captain to kill himself seeking to field an army and put me on a blood-soaked throne. I do not want this, sieur chivialier.” I used his given name, then, judging the time right. “Jierre. Please, aid me. Help me.”

He looked about to reply, but just then Tristan d’Arcenne opened the door after a token knock. “Is she — ah. D’mselle. Are you ready?”

I dropped the Aryx back down my shirt, despite the crawling in my flesh at its warm living pulse. Distract his attention, or di Yspres’s face will tell all. The man is almost useless. Irritation boiled under my breastbone. I had been so close.

“Ready enough.” I tried a bright smile as if for a dress fitting. The Captain paced into the room to take my arm. The touch of his hand on my elbow sent a firebolt through me.

“You still look pale, Vianne. I wish there were some other way.” A faint, vertical worry line between his charcoal eyebrows gave the words some truth.

“I shall be well enough,” I lied, and let him lead me from the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Tierrce d’Estrienne huddled under red tiled roofs, narrow cobbled streets Tristan guided us through like thread through needle-eye. The market sounds came from a street away from the inn, which was a scrubbed-white building I would never be able to find again, did you return me to the town and ask me to do so at daggerpoint. Twas eerie to hear the life of a town echoing all about us, and yet every street d’Arcenne chose was well-nigh deserted.

Di Yspres rode silent behind us. I looked a boy too young to ride a destrier, perhaps — my braided hair safely hidden under Tinan’s hat — and the peasants would not question obvious nobles.

But they could be questioned later, and they might remember. We could only hope our pursuers would not know the correct questions to ask. Much now depended on whether yesterday’s visitor had sent a missive to his master.

Once we left the town’s edgings, we found ourselves on a cart track slipping into the shadows of the forest.

The Shirlstrienne’s fringes were lovely as a courtsong, trees arching up over the cart track, dappling the grass and dusty wheelruts with shade. They provided a measure of relief from the heat, though dust danced and swirled fair to choke one.

The sky remained clouded, yet the day was close and oppressive. Dark clouds stacked themselves in the northern sky, glimpsed once or twice before the trees closed us away. I shivered, the unpleasant sensation of approaching storm weighting my arms and legs. I was sensitive to such things even without the help of hedgewitchery; sometimes at Court the looming of a storm would send me to bed with half my head knotting itself tight with pain. Lisele fretted, and Comtesse di Rocheburre and Lady di Chvreil also suffered storm-pains and the half-head after, so I knew I was neither imagining the agony nor likely to die of it.

Though dying might have been preferable, once or twice. The half-head is distinctly unpleasant, and those who do not suffer it rarely understand.

D’Arcenne’s arms tightened. “What is it?”

I prayed the Blessed would spare me the half-head. “Merely a storm. I am well enough.”

Di Yspres was before us, gloomy light gathering between the trees. His horse paced, sprightly for such a large creature, and dappled leaf shadow ran wetly over beast and rider. The feather in his hat bobbed, a lazy counterpoint.

I searched for aught to say. “How far to the others?”

“Another hour.” His breath touched my ear once more, and a hot flush went through me. “Perhaps a little less. They know we are approaching.”

I nodded. Uneasiness prickled at my nape. But was it danger, or because his arms were around me? He could not help it; we had to ride double, and were I to perch on the back of the saddle and hold him I might well shatter any illusion I ever had of being graceful by falling and breaking my neck.

That would solve the present quandary nicely, would it not? I straightened, seeking to lean away from him, but his arms tightened again, pulling me back. The horse’s hooves clopped on the dusty track.

“The trees become very thick. If the storm breaks we shall be dry for a short while at least while we unpack the cloaks. But you are still uneasy, no?”

I nodded. “Still uneasy.” I gave up trying to lean away from him, and he sighed.

“You are safe, Vianne. I swear it.” Was something caught in his throat? And why would he address me so familiarly? I was not dreaming.

Of course, I was important to him — if only because I was the means of his revenge. As long as he still thought me capable of serving that end, I was reasonably safe. And yet, I could not allow him to harm himself. Perhaps he would listen to reason. He was reasonable.

Sometimes.

I rested my head against his shoulder. It was easier to speak without his gaze on me. “I do not wish you to die pursuing this ridiculous course, Captain.”

“I survived Court, and the Duc d’Orlaans’s tender attentions. I think I have the skill to survive reaching Arcenne.” Was he bridling? I could not tell.

“Afterward,” I persisted, felt him tense. “After Arcenne. You plan to field an army, do you not? I wish no such thing. We may find another to hold the Aryx, one more suited, and all will be well.”

“You are the holder of the Aryx.” Tristan’s tone was soft, inflexible, gentle. “You are the rightful Queen of Arquitaine. Whence comes this uncertainty of yours?”

“I am an illegitimate royal at best. That does not make me a Queen. There must be someone else.” Someone who could direct this warmongering spirit of yours more fruitfully. And less dangerously.

“There is the Duc.” A humorless jest, delivered through clenched teeth. “He killed his brother to gain the throne, and would force you into a wedding and bedding within a day were he to capture you.”

I blew out a long sigh, forgetting that such a thing was not pretty manners. My frustration was not mannerly at all. “But certainly there are others. There must be others!”

“There are no others. Did you not listen, Vianne? The royal bloodline has been exterminated, even its most diluted branches. Every royal scion the Aryx might find remotely acceptable is dead. Except for you and the Duc.”

And that is exceeding suspicious. “Why was I not killed? Poison in a cup, knife in the dark?” Or a poison killspell? I am no Court sorcerer, and no fair hedgewitch either, apparently. Since I could not scent poison on a pettite-cake.

And yet I wondered about that. Something about the King’s chai before his death disturbed me greatly. I could not lay my finger on it, and had not time to think, for d’Arcenne now chose to speak further.

“Do you think me incompetent? I watched too closely at Court. There was not an opportunity to strike at you. And the Duc watched too. You were at Court, a presence, he could not afford to move on you and warn the King the conspiracy reached even into the Palais. We kept the whole affair quiet, not wishing panic. So he waited. You fit neatly into the plan — a noblewoman with Court connections to smooth his way, legitimize his reign.” Tristan’s laugh was bitter, and his arms held me closer than was proper at all. “You fit so well into the plan I doubted you at times. Yet I kept watch, instead of taking you to the Bastillion for questioning.”

“You doubted me?” Did Lisele? Did she know aught of this? I would have thought there few secrets between us, my Princesse and I. Tears pricked my eyes, I denied them.

“Only for a week or so. Then I heard you taking a hedgewitch lesson from that peasant woman, the one everyone at Court bought love-philtres or swellfree from. You scolded her for not taking better care of herself and brought her a cup of chai, and you spoke — not much, just a touch — of your loneliness. She did not know enough to listen, but I did. I realized — to my great relief, I might add — you were innocent of both conspiracy and counterplot.”

I cast back in memory, at first unsuccessfully, to remember such a time. There was a hedgewitch lesson, before Drumiera died. She had been old, and ill, and I had brought her a cup of chai. We spent the day speaking of Court and hedgewitchery — carefully, for Drumiera was discreet and I was cautious. I had not even dreamed I was overheard.

Where could he have hidden to hear such things? Drumiera’s quarters had been tiny, and just on the edge of mean. I struggled to remember that conversation now. It had been the only time I even hinted my life at Court was…unsatisfactory. Hooves clopped on the dusty track as I thought this over. “You were listening? How?”

“Do not you understand? I have watched over you for years, m’chri.”

My blush was most improper, and I was glad there were no eyes to see it. “Why name me thus? I am only of use to you, d’Arcenne, and dependent on your kindness. There is no need to sweeten me.” I closed my eyes.

“Is it possible to sweeten your temper? But I ask your pardon. It must slip out. I did not think you would notice.” Now, all the Blessed damn the man, he sounded amused. “Rest, then.”

I saw nothing amusing, but much that was dangerous, in this turn of conversation. “How could I not notice when you call me that?”

“You have been oblivious of other suitors.”

Which other suitors? I have had my share of attentions, but none I cared enough to jeopardize my position for. I wished to pursue the line of questioning further, but there were more pressing concerns. My mind seemed finally to be working again, and he seemed disposed to answer questions. I sorted through the many I had, chose the most important at the moment. “What did you do to him? The…assassin?”

“Nobody will find him.” His tone now was calm and chill. “Do not trouble yourself over such refuse.”

“Did he suffer?” And why do I think there is something else, something you are not telling me?

He was the Left Hand, was he not? He probably knew more than I had ever dreamed. And now, stealing a glance at that knowledge, just as a curious child might lift a blanket and peep underneath, had convinced me I wished to see no more.

“He did,” he admitted without any discernable emotion. “He would have killed me, and brought harm to you. I had to know if the dog had sent word to his master.”

“Did he?”

“It is very likely.”

Very likely, but you do not know. So was the suffering useless? Do you care? Silence again. My heart lodged in my throat, above the Aryx’s pulse. “I wish this had never happened.”

“I would give much for…” Yet he would not say what he would give much for. In any case, I could guess. He would wish for the King’s survival, so he was not forced to these measures, depending on, of all people, me. And his sudden silence warned me.

Fever rose hot and weakening in my wrists and forehead once more, yet I felt safe. Other questions fell away. What use was asking more at the moment? “I wish I were home in my own bed. I could sleep for a week.”

He whispered into my hair. “Sleep if you can. We’ve a long way to go.”

I did not sleep, but I leaned against Tristan d’Arcenne and watched the forest from under my lashes. The light was failing, though it was morn, the clouds from the north cloaking the Sun’s wheel-eye. My skull ached with the pressure, but perhaps I would escape a half-head. I could hope to be granted such luck, at least, and since I had been so unlucky of late perhaps the Blessed would take pity on me.

There was a slow ominous roll of thunder, but the storm did not break. Not yet.

Chapter Fourteen

Deeper in the Shirlstrienne, the trees drew together and grew much greater in girth, while the underbrush turned spindly and hunched like whipped dogs. I knew some of the plants from treatises, and cataloging them inside my head provided me with some relief from the growing pressure inside my skull.

Soon enough, a cannonade sounded and water crashed onto the forest’s canopy. I roused myself when the thunder sounded, and we halted. Oiled cloaks were pulled from saddlebags, and Tristan wrapped a large one around both of us. The cloak trapped his warmth, closed it around me. Oddly enough, the heat soothed my aching head.

We joined the Guard an hour or so into the forest, and I only dimly remember the event, for I was half conscious, the relief of an averted half-head conspiring with the exhaustion of fever to make me a loose-jointed doll. I sank deep into my thoughts as if through a weight of cold water. We resembled nothing so much as cloth-swathed turtles atop horse legs moving through misty darkness though twas near nooning, each with a crested-feather hat, like an illustration in a bestiary from the Angoulême’s time.

The day turned aqueous, and troubling thoughts lurked under the surface of my consciousness. I heard Tristan murmur once or twice, and I felt a tingling in my fingers and toes. The feeling melded into damp heat sticking my hair to my temples and collecting under my arms, at the back of my throat, and at the small of my back. Fever-heat, kept only slightly at bay by the soft prickling that crested every time Tristan whispered. Twas a long, weary day, and one I heartily wished over by the time we halted, early because of the swimming darkness.

I found myself half-falling from the broad back of the horse into Tristan’s hands. He wrapped me in a smaller cloak, and I was set under the sheltering boughs of a giant tam tree. The tree made a half-cave that was actually quite dry and fairly level, and the abrupt ceasing of the tingling in my limbs made it somewhat easier to think. Someone had set down a pad of blankets for me, and I dropped gratefully onto them, pulling the cloak tight around my shoulders.

Tinan di Rocham brought me a cup of hot, sweet-spiced chai. Someone had started a fire — the tingle of Court sorcery warned me and I looked up in time to see flame bloom through the infrequent drips from the Shirlstrienne’s roof. The wood hissed, and smoke billowed up. The fire would burn as long as the sorcery held. Dangerous — we could be tracked by it — but necessary.

“Drink, an it please you, d’mselle.” Tinan’s young face was grave and drawn. “I think we’ve more of the tisane. And meatpies for dinner.”

“Not all at once, I hope.” I sought for levity. He gave me a quick smile, unlike his usual easy merriment. That shook away some of my lethargy. “Why so worried? What it amiss?”

He was young to look so grave. “We have seen no bandits, but they may be about. We shall set a heavy watch tonight.” He closed his hands over mine, around the battered metal cup. “No worries, d’mselle!” he added hastily. “You are safe enough with us.”

Safe enough? I seem to have lost the luxury of safety. Still… “After the past week, nothing could terrify me,” I said slowly, to calm him. He was the most impressionable of them…and my plan tickled the back of my brain. Tis never too early to prepare your ground, Vianne. Intrigue and gardening have both taught you as much. “Certainly not bandits.”

“Oh, aye.” Tinan took heart, and his dark eyes shone. “I must help with the horses, d’mselle. Call if you need aught.”

I shall call upon you soon enough, young one. I gave a small sound of assent and sipped at my chai, watching them work. I felt useless, a burden easily cast aside. All that held me to them was the Seal.

I closed my eyes, the Aryx thrumming under my heartbeat, against my skin. The comforting darkness behind my eyelids ran with ghostlights, as if I had pressed my fingers too hard against the tender flesh.

What could I do? My hand uncurled, unwillingly, from the chai-cup to touch the lump of the Great Seal under fabric. If I knew enough Court sorcery to keep them hidden from trackers, I might be less of a uselessness.

The Aryx pulsed.

Hedgewitchery could hide them, if I had the power for such a charm. The magic of the peasants and healers was opposed to Court sorcery, difficult and slippery to track even for a bellhound; since it took its power from the land itself it tended to be well camouflaged. Yet I sighed. I was only a fairly good hedgewitch with the aid of my books and treatises, not good enough to hide a half-dozen men seamlessly from Court sorcery and sensitive bellhound noses, not to mention tracking-spells.

The Aryx pulsed again, insistently.

A silent shockwave blurred through me as wine pours into a cup, filling empty spaces, setting me alight. A perfect circle — I saw it from above, a wall of magic large enough to enclose the Guard, protecting them. It was not quite hedgewitchery or Court sorcery, but a seamless blend of both, doors inside my head thrown open, showing me.

You could do thus, it whispered. The touch was light and slow, scouring along the inside of my head, a hall of doors receding into infinity. One blew open, golden light spilling forth, and the glow scorched along my skin, filled the channels of my blood, and pushed through me, leaving a scalding wave of weakness in its wake.

I returned to myself with a jolt like a cart’s axle breaking, my entire body trembling, chai slopping in the cup. The fever drained away, as did the power. Yet part of the knowledge remained, as if the doors had been closed…but not locked. Corridors of a magic I did not know how to use.

Yet.

You could do thus, beloved, the voice whispered again. I pushed it away, chai spilling, burning my fingers. I slumped, trembling afresh, and shook my head to clear it.

An idea rose slowly. My own thought, not an alien voice whispering inside my head: The Aryx is indeed awake. It seeks to teach me.

Why does it stir itself now?

Shouting, confusion. I sought to steady myself, the world whirling most distressingly underneath me. My heart beat a thin tattoo in my wrists and temples. My pulse now matched the silent beat of the Seal against my skin, its metal scorching and the serpents writhing. Their scales rasped pleasantly, not quite rough as a cat’s tongue.

“Vianne?” Tristan’s hands closed around mine. “Vianne!”

I found myself wide-eyed, meeting his gaze. “The Aryx,” I whispered. Rain misted down, each drop a separate colorless jewel with its own name.

“You nearly flattened us all with that sorcery.” Was he pale? Perhaps it was merely the chill in the air. His eyes were darker than usual, and worried. Behind the worry was something else, an expression I could not decipher since my head was aswim. “Drink your chai.”

“Captain!” someone called.

He looked over his shoulder, his dark hair disarranged as he had shed his dripping hat. “Bring her something to eat, now. Pilippe, Adersahl is to set the watch. Tell him double. Find di Chatillon, send him to me.” Tristan’s fingers were hard and warm, and clasped too tightly in mine. “Vianne, m’chri, speak to me.”

I managed another drink of chai, Tristan letting go of my hands for that brief moment. Then he caught my hands again, my fingers burning between his and the chai-cup. “Speak to me, Vianne.” It was a command.

“Captain?” Was that me, the uncertain wonderment? For the love of every god that ever was, I thought, desperately, stop whining, Vianne!

“Here, and hale enough, though we’ve received rather a shock.” He freed one hand to push Tinan di Rocham’s hat back, peering under it to see me. “Can you tell me aught, m’chri? What does it feel like?”

I found a word for the expression under his worry.

It was awe. Of course, I had just performed a feat I should not have been able to even think of attempting. Any noble with even a touch of sorcerous Sight would have seen the moment the Aryx plucked the reins from my hands and pushed the spell through me, a wall of magic protecting them from tracking-sorcery.

“The Aryx.” My voice came from very far away. “Tis awake.”

He nodded. “It is. I do not know why it has awakened now.”

Strangely enough, that Tristan would admit to not knowing something made a thin curl of fear rise up from my belly. “Tis…” I struggled to find words. There are doors in my head, and they are so easy to open. What lies behind them? Do I wish to know? “I am frightened.” I finally whispered.

For the doors are easy to unlock, but what comes through them drowns me.

“I know,” he murmured, as if he did. “I would not have had this happen. I tried to prevent it.”

You do not know, sieur. None can know what this is. Tinan di Rocham’s hat had been knocked aside, and my braid had suffered. Stray hair fell in my face. I blinked, and could finally see him clearly, blue eyes, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “I cannot do this. It will eat me whole.” I managed to sound a little less stunned. “The Seal…it is hungry.” My wits returned, slowly. Do not admit weakness. What will he do, if he judges you unfit?

But it was too late. I had just said what I should not. Again.

“Do not cast any sorcery without me,” he said quietly, still holding my hands. “I would add my strength to yours. That may keep the Aryx from swallowing you. It is dangerous to attempt such things while fevered, m’chri.”

I nodded. Say something else. Make him speak to you. For the sound of his voice was an anchor, and if he turned silent I was afraid I would not stay here in this misty glade. I felt as if I might slip out of my flesh and into the long hall of the Aryx’s sorcery, passing through those doors in a dream of golden light. “I never saw you duel.”

His mouth twitched slightly, whether with anger or amusement I could not tell. “There was once or twice. I suppose you never noticed.”

“I suppose I never did.” The pulsing subsided below the surface of my conscious mind. I shuddered, my ribs heaving. The sensation of drifting outside my skin receded, bit by bit.

“Always with your nose in a book, or in a garden plot.” His tone was light, but he examined my face intently. “Vianne, if I told you…” Maddeningly, he stopped short.

I dropped my gaze, studied the cup. It was of blue metal, with a curved handle, full of rapidly cooling, sweetened chai. “Told me what?”

But someone came with a meatpie, and Tristan told me to eat. I did, suddenly ravenous, the sorcery burning a hole in my stomach. Luc di Chatillon appeared, and felt my pulse while his fair blond face turned serious. He lacked hedgewitchery but had some physicker’s skill, and pronounced me well enough, if still suffering the aftereffects of fever. He measured out the tisane and scolded me into taking it, and refilled my chai-cup.

The Guard seemed much easier now, laughing quietly, bantering back and forth. “Cook us something new, Tinan!” Jai di Montfort called from one end of the fire, and Tinan replied with an oath that would have made me blush at Court. As it was, I produced a wan smile, licking my fingers free of crumbs.

Jierre di Yspres brought me his flask of ansinthe. “Only a mouthful,” he said quietly, sinking down into an easy crouch next to me.

I coughed as the green venom burned all the way down. “My thanks, chivalier.” And what do you wish from me, to bear me such a gift?

“Think nothing of it, d’mselle.” He shifted slightly, accepted the flask’s return, and capped it with a quick efficient movement. “We seem never to finish our conversations.”

On the other side of the fire, Tinan di Rocham and Jai di Montfort bantered back and forth. “You come and cook, then!” Tinan said.

“I am no woman.” Jai’s lip curled.

“You certainly complain like one,” Tinan shot back, and there was a general shout of laughter. Tristan stood close to Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, conferring, but his gaze rarely left me.

I found I did not mind as much as I should. “Then tell me what you wish to tell me, and have done with it.” I had lost all desire to be decorous. “More to the point, Lieutenant, will you help me?”

I had chanced a throw, and his answer told me I had lost. “You ask me to act against my Captain. I cannot do that, d’mselle. Wait out the harvest and winter in Arcenne, then we may decide what course is best.”

My heart plummeted. The weakness in my hands taunted me. Were they not clasped around the cup, they would shake, showing my feebleness even more plainly. “My thanks for your honesty, chivalier,” I murmured. I even meant it. The fire’s leaping light filled my vision.

His tone turned low and urgent. “You are a scholar, and a practical woman. You must set that sharp wit of yours to leading us aright. We have wagered our lives on this cast of the dice, d’mselle.”

“Do you think I do not know? Why do you think I am asking your aid in such a manner?” My shoulders sagged. “If I had not seen the Captain in that passageway—”

“—we would all be dead. We would have waited for Tristan until d’Orlaans closed his jaws on us. You saved us all. Please, be kind to Tristan. He…he prizes you, d’mselle.” His eyes were level, dark, and intent.

Oh, for the love of the Blessed. I almost choked on a sip of chai. “Will you cease with that?” My voice hit a decidedly indecorous pitch.

Silence fell. Di Yspres’s cheeks flushed, and his gaze cut away from mine.

I searched for a bit of Court wit to use. A laugh rose out of me, a thin unhealthy sound but well enough to bear up appearances, as if di Yspres had jested, perhaps a riddle with an end not meant for a lady’s ears. I leaned forward, touching his shoulder with my free hand, and the laugh quickly became natural.

The absurdity of the situation quickly made my merriment real — the Duchesse di Rocancheil in the Shirlstrienne with a group of King’s Guard, sick with fever and the plaything of the Great Seal. It sounded like a courtsong, and not a very good one at that.

“Vianne?” The Captain, using my name as if it belonged to him, stood taut and inquiring on the other side of the fire.

“Sieur di Yspres and I were trading riddles.” The lie rose so naturally I was almost afraid of it, my cheeks flushing as well. “Some are decidedly not fit for a lady’s ears.”

I do not know if Tristan believed me, but the other Guards laughed. Tristan’s eyebrows drew together, a faint line between them. His blue eyes were shadowed in the failing light, fixed on my hand on Jierre’s shoulder.

Di Yspres stood hurriedly, brushing his knees with a quick, habitual movement. “I gave her more ansinthe, Captain. She was shivering.”

That brought the Captain to my side. He knelt, pressing his fingers to my forehead.

“I am well enough,” I told him. “Sieur di Yspres merely worries.”

“He should.” Tristan’s jaw was set. “How much did he give you?”

“Merely a swallow.” I submitted to his touching my cheek, smoothing my hair down. “Truly, I am hale. He sought to ease my mood, for I confess I was most—”

“Ansinthe. What were you thinking?” He did not even look at me. His gaze had turned up to Jierre, who stood aside, pocketing his flask.

“I was cold, and I asked him for a swallow of summat to warm.” I sought to calm him. “It does no harm.”

He snapped me a glance that could have broken stone. I almost gasped at the violence in his expression.

Tristan straightened and glared at di Yspres. “Do not give her more. Ansinthe is dangerous.”

“I asked him,” I lied. “He was merely being kind.” The Aryx fluttered against my chest. I pushed the sensation away with an effort. No. I will not.

It subsided.

“Tis not a fit drink for hedgewitches,” Luc di Chatillon said in the ensuing silence. “Truly, d’mselle. Hedgewitchery makes one most vulnerable to the green venom. And you must not risk the fever’s return.”

I thought he perhaps tried to soothe troubled waters, so I did not answer. Instead, I looked at the tips of the Captain’s boots, muddy from the forest. I stared at that clinging mud for a long moment, until di Yspres made some movement — a shrug, perhaps, I could not see — and moved away.

I pulled the cloak closer about my shoulders, setting the cup aside. Rain dripped hissing into the fire. My fingers tensed, curling into fists in the harsh material.

I could use the Seal. It has chosen me, for now. I could use it — and do what? If I escape them, this will merely follow me, as crows follow the gibbets. Or I will let this thing at my throat use me, and become merely a vessel for it. Loneliness rose, fair threatened to choke me. Next was panic, a deep well of it. The Seal had worked that spell through me, as if I were only a door for it, and I was not certain I liked the feeling.

Not certain at all.

Silence stretched.

“Dinner.” Tinan’s voice was unnaturally bright. “Who hungers? They shall be fed!”

“And lo! Said the maid in the cow byre,” di Chatillon gave the next line of the old maying-song, and a ripple of amusement went through the men. “For the want of a sausage, I’m dead!”

The Captain said nothing. I could not tell if he watched me or not. I kept my head bowed, staring at his boot-toes, reciting a string of Tiberian verbs in my head. Eventually the laughter and banter returned to normal as they ate.

I remained closed in my bubble of silence. The Aryx pulsed.

What can I do? I wailed into the darkness of myself. I am far more helpless than before.

Stop being a ridiculous little twit. Come now, think. Use that practical brain of yours, and reason through this tangle.

Without me, they would not be in danger. If the Captain reached Arcenne safely there would be some hope of his crossing the border into Navarrin. Despite his protests, any Court would be glad of his skill. And I thought it passing likely the Left Hand would have agents in foreign lands to shelter him.

He would live.

The Duc will pursue us if we have her — but if we simply flee, we may escape with our lives. Jierre di Yspres, speaking truth, for all he apologized for it later.

It was one thing to think of leaving them, quite another to think of being left and any possible step I might take afterward. I shivered, pulling the cloak even tighter. The Captain stood, motionless. What was he doing? Why would he not join his men and leave me be?

My brain pawed at the problem like a trained farrat, turning it over and over. Slowly, everything outside me stilled as I turned inward, into that peculiar half-dream state of complete attention, where one’s faculties may suddenly cease thrashing, step aside as if following a pavane, and suddenly know every step of the dance.

If you may learn to use the Seal properly, you could do something, for good or for ill.

I straightened, taking in a sharp breath. Then, just as quickly, I slumped again, lest anyone had seen my sudden movement and guessed at the cast of my thoughts. I had already used the Aryx to protect the Guard. Could I do so again, to protect them further? Damp woolen material resisted my fingers as I pulled, twisting it tighter.

To have those doors open inside my head again, to feel that force pushing through me in its scalding tide, blind to the world, would be…gods.

It would be like…what? Ceasing to exist.

Like dying. I had not suffered death yet, but I imagined losing oneself in that swelling tide was very close. I shivered.

The Guard finished their meal. Some of them undid their sleeping rolls. The tingle of Court sorcery washed over my skin again — dry ground, the rain shunted aside from where they would rest. A toast was called out to me, for they would be sleeping in the rain if not for the Aryx’s protection from tracking-sorcery. I smiled wanly and nodded, seeking to appear pleased, then went back to hugging myself, desperately weighing the chance of being swallowed whole by the Great Seal against the pressure of their faith in me.

Tristan’s faith in me, however misplaced.

I sighed, rubbing at my forehead. I had only wished to change my clothes before waiting on Lisele. How on earth had I ended up pursued in the Shirlstrienne with a half-dozen noblemen and a head full of doors for the Aryx to open whenever it slipped the chain of my refusal?

The Captain brought a sleeping roll and laid it beside me. “You should sleep, d’mselle.” His tone was chill.

Then mine should be, too. “I suppose I should.” I did not dare look to his face, only his shoulder. “Captain?”

“For the sake of every god, Vianne, do not address me thus.” His jaw set, his shoulders stiffened.

Well, if you wish me to address you otherwise, sieur, I shall. “Very well. Sieur d’Arcenne, I wish to ask you something,” I persisted.

His shoulders stiffened, his jaw firming. Why? He smoothed a blanket over the sleeping roll, flicked his fingers. A breath of heat brushed my cheek — he was warming the blanket. Court sorcery tingled along my fingers, a familiar feeling.

“Ask what you will.” He settled back on his heels. His boots creaked.

Perhaps I can make you see reason. I marshaled my arguments, made my tone soft and conciliatory. “If I drew pursuit away — perhaps to the east — would you be able to reach Arcenne safely?”

I watched his hand tense against his knee, I barely dared to breath. See reason. Please, do not force this madness further.

“And how would you draw pursuit away, Vianne?” Yet he sounded oddly relieved. Had he merely been waiting for me to broach the subject again?

I had my list of requirements ready. “I would need a horse. I am fairly sure I could create a commotion, or use enough Court sorcery to be tracked.”

A shake of his dark head, tossing a thought aside. “If d’Orlaans—”

“I wish to give you the Aryx.” If I can tear it from my skin. If I can rip it free, dear gods, I will. I did not let myself pause. “If you have the Seal, you do not need me. I can serve a better purpose distracting the bellhounds. You said yourself di Narborre has likely received word of our course.”

He shifted slightly, turning to me, and before I knew it his hand cupped my chin. He forced my head up until I had no choice but to look at him. His mouth was drawn tight, into a straight line. “You will not leave my care until we are in the Palais d’Arquitaine again and d’Orlaans is dead. If I must tie you to the saddle, Your Majesty, I will. Is that in any way unclear to you?”

I swallowed. My heart leapt into my throat, began to dance a maying there. His eyes burned, pale d’Arcenne blue, fixing my gaze as a serpent would trap a bird. “Cap — ah, Tristan…I would not—”

“At the moment, we shall make no decision until we reach Arcenne. Cease this, Vianne. You will not leave my side until we are in the Palais again and d’Orlaans is dead. Tis final.”

I searched for an argument, found one. “If you think me a Queen, why order me about?” But the heat of him, and his blue gaze, did strange things to my well-ordered wits and my carefully arranged plans.

“Even a Queen needs counselors,” he returned, callused fingers gentle against my cheek. “I was Left Hand once, and it seems you would need one more than Henri ever did. You are not ruthless enough, Vianne. Not ruthless enough by half.”

Thunder rattled overhead. The trees moved uneasily. “So you were the Left Hand.” It was different, hearing him say it so casually. Did his arm shake slightly? It seemed so.

He shrugged. “Did you ever doubt it?” He stroked my jaw with his thumb, the touch spilling a different heat down my throat. “I shall have your word you will not leave my side, m’chri.”

“Why do you—”

“Your word. I want your promise.” Something dark passed over his face, graving lines upon it, the firelight leaping oddly across the plane of his cheek. Seen in this light, he was even more handsome than at Court — but different.

More dangerous.

My heart quivered like a rabbit’s shudder in the snare. “Tristan—”

“Your word, Vianne,” he repeated, inflexible.

I could not look away. “I promise,” I heard myself say. “I give you my word.”

“Good.” He did not press the point, but neither did he look away. We stayed thus — his hand cupping my chin, me perched on a pad of blankets under the giant tam tree — until another vast wallow of thunder filled the air. “Sleep if you can, m’chri,” he said, as soon as the cannonade died away. Someone laughed on the other side of the fire, but twas a hushed, sleepy sound. Someone else — it sounded like Jai di Montfort — was humming a song popular in the Citté about a noble, penniless damsel and her heart-true chivalier.

It was a pretty tune, but oh it made me think of Lisele.

My heart twisted savagely, and water rose behind my eyes. I denied the tears with every ounce of strength I possessed, swallowed the rock in my throat. He released me, and I huddled deeper into the shelter of the cloak. Tristan rose fluidly and stalked away.

It is hopeless. For good or ill, you are bound to his course.

Was it craven to feel relieved? Perhaps.

I stared at the fire, beginning to burn blue now as the rain found its way past the Shirlstrienne’s canopy and sorcery forced the wood to stay alight. My eyes half-lidded, heavy and full of sand. The men spoke quietly over di Montfort’s singing.

He was on the fourth verse now. Telling of how the chivalier gave up his pride and his place in the Guard for the love of the fair noble d’mselle, who sacrificed herself in an act of sorcery to keep the chivalier safe from the blade of a jealous rival. The song had been much sung at Court last season, a backdrop to the affair of the duel between Miche di Varonne and Alois di Cheremorce.

Di Varonne’s mother had been rumored to be a royal by-blow, and he had died on di Cheremorce’s rapier. I never had discovered what their duel concerned, since whatever intrigue it was did not touch my Princesse. I thought I would farrat out the cause later, for no knowledge is ever wasted. Yet I had never discovered another twist to that tale.

The King had been wroth, his face full of thunder at several suppers. I thought long on this, staring into the fire and hearing the storm walk the sky above, prowling through the vaults of the Blessed’s heaven.