The Hedgewitch Queen

Chapter Fifteen

We passed deeper into the Shirlstrienne, days without sunlight because the rain kept washing over us. It was awful weather even for the season of late-spring storming, and I was soon an aching mass of misery from riding a-horseback in the dankness, our cloth damp no matter how many charms we used. At night, thunder walked among the clouds, and we saw lightning-charred trees as we rode.

It sometimes seemed to me that the world had shifted, that we had ridden into the Forests of Night that haunted Damarsene tales, those stories of blood and sorcery under the shade of huge black trees. In Damarsene legends the woods are hungry. There is no sunlight, and their hedgewitches feast on the blood of young children who blaspheme their bull-headed, jealous god. It is enough to make one shudder.

The nights were the worst. Each dusk I repeated the trick of hiding us from pursuit, struggling to keep the Aryx from shoving me through another temptingly-open door. It told on my strength to do so, but twas the only useful thing I seemed capable of. D’Arcenne sought to help, but the tide of sorcery took me so swiftly he could not do much but force me to drink sweetened chai afterward, his mouth drawn tight as the heat of the drink and the sound of his voice brought me back to myself.

Yet that was not the worst of it. Each night I dreamed of Lisele, in many ugly, broken, bloody guises, and I woke in the darkness hoping I had not screamed. I was grateful to discover none of the Guard said aught of it.

Perhaps some few of them had their own nightmares.

Tristan did not speak much. Nor did I, but oft I would feel the tingling in my fingers and toes as he repeated one charm or another to draw some warmth into me. It was a small bit of Court sorcery, and he gave without comment as I accepted without question. It helped me to stay awake, to push back the swirling double weakness of fever and the Aryx’s persistent throbbing against my skin.

Ten days into the forest I felt even stranger, as if we rode under a weight of clear heavy water. The forest shifted and blurred like ink on wet paper. When we stopped for our nooning the tenth day beside a small stream swollen with the recent rain, I had barely enough strength to fall into Tristan’s hands from the horse’s back.

He felt at my damp forehead, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with rain. He had put his hat aside for some reason. “You are fevered again.”

“I am not.” My immediate refusal did not seem to convince him. I could not afford him to think me weak. “Only weary.”

The Captain was haggard, bladed cheekbones standing out over hollows, dark circles under his blue eyes. For all that, it still made my chest tighten when he stroked my cheek with callused fingers and pushed a stray curl of my dark hair back, tucking it behind my ear.

I must look a sight. This was what worried me, there in the Shirlstrienne. “I have not combed my hair, though.”

Perhaps I was not quite my usual self.

“Nor have I.” A brief smile lighted his entire face. “Come. We shall halt here.”

“No, I can go on—,” I protested. But his hand closed around my arm, and he all but dragged me to the center of a loose circle of the Guard, clustered under the shelter of a pinon tree in full leaf. It kept the rain off, though silvery beads gilded its drooping needles.

“We shall halt here,” he repeated, and there was no argument. Adersahl brought me his waterflask, freshly filled from the stream, and I took a grateful drink, though twas icy enough to sent a bolt of silver pain through my skull. My entire body itched miserably.

I handed Adersahl’s flask back to him and watched as they built a fire. Pilippe di Garfour stretched forth his hand and made a quick gesture, flicking his fingers, and the wood ignited, flames billowing. The wood, being wet, smoked dreadfully.

I leaned against the pinon’s massive trunk, resting my head against rough bark, watching. The presence of living wood helped, sinking into me as the tree recognized a hedgewitch and drew me into its embrace. It also helped quiet the persistent beat of the Aryx, a spot of molten heat under my shirt.

Jierre studied a waxed-parchment map near the edge of the tree’s branches, holding it to the light. Luc di Chatillon and Robierre d’Atyaint-Sierre stood with him, their heads bent together. Robierre had a head for woodscraft; he was often consulted about whither and yon in the forest’s trackless shadows. Tristan joined them, looking over Jierre’s shoulder.

“D’mselle?” Tinan di Rocham handed me the same battered metal travel cup, with steaming-hot chai in it. “Here. Drink, an it please you.”

“Thank you, chivalier.” I gave him a weary smile. After so many days, we were easier with each other, though I could not cease noting each man’s particulars in case I should be called upon to use them later.

I cursed myself for it, though I knew it was my only protection. A woman cannot afford to let her guard relax.

Tinan blushed to the roots of his dark hair and mumbled. I was glad we were not at Court, for all that. I would have been teased endlessly about the young, blushing chivalier. As it was, I took care to treat him kindly. Of all the Guard, he was the most careful of me — and the most potentially useful.

I sought to make use of him a little, now. “Why is everyone so grim? Besides the rain, I mean.”

He hesitated, but I had judged my quarry well. “We are being tracked,” Tinan said, in a low tone. “By who, we cannot tell, but tis sorcery, Robierre says. The Captain agrees.”

This caused a cascade of unpleasant thoughts, and I spoke unguarded, for once. “But why did not the Captain—”

“You have worries enough.” Tristan spoke from close enough to cause me to start. I had not even noticed him approaching; he was catfooted even in heavy boots when it suited him. Tinan nodded to me and retreated. “I did not wish your worrying on account of a pack of peasant trash.”

“Peasants with sorcery? More likely the Duc’s men.” I took a sip of chai. Twas oversweetened — they added stevya to it with abandon, endlessly seeking to bolster my strength. “Bandits seem hardly capable of noble sorcery.”

“There, you see? You are worrying, exactly what I wished to avoid.” He touched my shoulder, ran his fingers over my sleeve. The chai burned me less than his fingers did. “Tracking does not mean catching, Vianne. Once we leave the Shirlstrienne we are but a few days away from the borders of Arcenne, especially if we brave the Alpeis.”

“The Alpeis is full of—” I stopped. It was a childish tale, and one I blushed to repeat in the company of hardened chivalieri.

“Demieri di sorce. So they say. At least the tales may have kept the bandits away. Who can tell? But you have some of the finest swordsmen and sorcerers in Arquitaine, since entrance into my Guard requires proficiency in Court sorcery. If demieri di sorce haunt the Shirlstrienne, steel or sorcery will keep you safe.”

I took another sip of chai, leaning against the tree. My knees had once again grown suspiciously weak. “Does nothing frighten you, sieur?”

“Some things.”

Ah, there’s an admission. “When have you ever been frightened?” I challenged. He seemed more at ease now, certainly easier than he had ever been at Court. I could see traces of the beating he had received, but not many. They would quickly be gone forever.

He cast his gaze over the camp, noting, cataloging, ever the Captain. “I lay in a cell and wondered if you had been caught. The thought of you frightened and alone, possibly taken by the Duc, without knowing what game you had been caught in — that frightened me.” He smoothed his fingers down my shoulder. He did not look at me; he gazed at the fire, his clean profile presented as a sculpture. “Certainly, seeing you taken with fever, so ill you did not even recognize us — that frightened me. You have a talent for striking fear into my heart, Vianne.”

I sighed, took another sip of chai. “You should sup, Captain. You look ill-used.” What a magnificent thing to say. Why does he bring forth the idiot in me?

He smiled, an open boyish grin. “Well, at least you notice me now. That is something to be grateful for, no?”

My breath caught. I could find absolutely nothing to say.

He waited, his smile broadening. He looked like a boy caught stealing apples, yet supremely confident the punishment would be slight. “Where is that sharp tongue of yours? Nevermind. Do not trouble yourself, d’mselle. All is well.”

I gathered my courage, held my cup, and reached with my free hand to touch his elbow. My fingers brushed against his cloak’s damp roughness. “I do not worry for my safety. I worry for yours.”

He shrugged, turning his head aside to gaze at the fire as if it held a secret. “I treasure that, m’chri, I truly do.”

My gaze fell. Twas not just a King’s jest. Or does he think to treat me lightly? No, he is not the kind for dalliance, or else I would have heard of it, would I not? Though there was so much I did not hear.

It was no use. There was a question I burned to ask, and it escaped me before I could bolt my mouth shut. “Why did you watch me, Captain?”

“I had to, for your safety.” He checked, drawing back whatever he had intended to say next as a falconer will pull a lure. “You look pale.”

“I feel a trifle pale.” It is the fever speaking. He does not favour you, he favours his revenge. My hand fell to my side, and I sought not to feel the needleprick to my heart. I took refuge in formality. “I beg your pardon, chivalier. You would already be in Arcenne but for me.”

“Not without riding the horses to death.” Thoughtful now, still considering the fire. “I thank the gods you saw me in the passage, though I do not cherish the thought of you witnessing Simieri’s death. Had I not been watching — had you not met me by chance—I would be beheaded in the Bastillion and you perhaps dead or wedded to the Duc.”

Later, I would think of this conversation as if I held it suspended in crystal, like the classic Illusionne Iluminatrixe. I would think of it as the moment Tristan d’Arcenne spoke to me without reserve for the first time. I would think of it, as well, as the moment some tiny internal weight shifted — the first small stones falling in advance of an avalanche, the first thin drops that herald a storm, the uneasy waves that mark the sea’s furious rising.

The first time I realized what I felt for him.

It is ever so — those moments pass unremarked, and it is only later, in the wreckage, that one realizes where the fatal seed was planted. But at that moment, under the pinon tree in the vastness of the Shirlstrienne, I merely shivered. “I do not cherish that thought. Tristan…”

I meant ask him if he truly favoured me, and swallowed the question just in time. It was not a question a well-bred woman should ask. Another query rose to my lips: if Simieri had been in the passage to catch me, bring me to the Duc as the conspiracy boiled to its climax, why did Tristan say it was by chance? Had he followed the Minister, or had he been watching me?

By chance, he said. A good chance, I should think, for it saved me from di Narborre’s tender attentions, not to mention the Duc’s.

I did not care to think on it too closely. I could always ask him later, when my head was not so muzzy.

“Vianne.” He still looked away, but the set of his shoulders warned me something was afoot. Luc di Chatillon was stirring something — stew; one of the Guard had brought down a brace of woodsfowl. The rain was slackening, finally, its endless rushing retreating to spatters falling from soaked leaves. Tristan d’Arcenne gathered himself afresh and bolted forward, much as a duelist would. “If we were still at Court and I left a token for you, what would you do?”

For a few heartbeats, I thought I had not heard him aright. Then I knew I had.

He does favour me. If he had declared his intent to take an oath of celibacy and spend his life in the service of Kimyan, I could not have been more surprised.

As it was, I almost choked on my chai. But everything lightened within me, as if the Aryx held me in that hall of golden light and unlocked doors. Only this was a different gold; the vastness of a meadow inside me. “I suppose I would send you a token in return,” I finally managed, around the beating of my heart high in my throat. “And ask you to meet me by the stairs from the herb garden.” I paused, judiciously, but not too long. “Perhaps,” I added, for to seem too forward was not what a noblewoman should do.

His breathing had quickened, and two spots of color burned on his hollow cheeks. “What token would you send me, then?”

I leaned against the tree, sighing internally. Why now? Of all the… If only we were at Court, and safe. Though it seems Court was more perilous than even I thought. “Tis not polite to ask. But I would not have refused yours, chivalier.” Would I? Mayhap. But not for long. And if I did not suspect you of any interest in doing my Princesse harm. Perhaps we would have had some small luck, you and I.

His mouth quirked into another, gentler smile, one I found I liked almost as much as the boyish, proud grin. “I certainly hope not. I would be terribly embarassed if you did.”

I strove for a light, laughing tone, failed miserably. We were at Court no longer, and coquetry was out of place here. Still, the habit steadied me. “I am certain you would have been able to overcome the embarrassment.” I took another sip of my oversweetened chai. Though it was not the chai that gave me fresh strength, the warmth of it was welcome.

“Not likely. You could strike me to the heart, did you realize it.” His eyebrows drew together. “Are you certain you are hale? You are pale, and your hands shake. Do not think I do not notice.”

I closed my eyes. “I wish we were somewhere safe. Anywhere but here.” Twas ungrateful of me, perhaps.

“So do I. For now, however…” Amazingly, he stepped close and slid his arm around me, so I leaned against him rather than the tree. None of the Guard seemed to notice. In fact, none of them looked at us at all, which was odd. “Rest.”

I laid my head on his shoulder, hearing the fire hiss. The rain slacked even more, thunder dying in the distance. “The storm is passing.”

“We can only hope.” His tone did not admit of much hope, and I silently agreed.

Why was Tristan in the passage? Why was Simieri truly there? I sighed, the thoughts disappearing under a weight of weariness.

His was a welcome heat in the eternal, damnable, dragging damp. It was a day for strange things, for he bent his head down and kissed my wet, disheveled hair. I felt a tingle of Court sorcery along my nerves.

New warmth stole through me. Slowly, a little life crept back into my numb fingers and toes. It was merely a simple charm, but it felt wonderful. I finished my chai, slowly, luxuriating in dry warmth. “I never knew you were such a Court sorcerer.”

“I was born with some talent, and I’ve studied. Lean on me, Vianne.”

And, may the Blessed forgive me, all questions fled me. I did.

Chapter Sixteen

The rain finally stopped, but I noticed little. I was busy swallowing spoonfuls of the hedgewitch’s diminishing tisane and seeking to stay conscious. A great exhaustion settled on me, so large and deep every day took on the quality of a dream except for the Aryx’s sluggish pulse.

Now that I know what was stalking us, I curse myself for not recognizing it in time.

I remember the Sun briefly smiling upon us the thirteenth day as we rode through a meadow, the nodding wet heads of dandille flowers smiling up at the cloudy sky. We pulled our horses to a halt — at least, they did; I was too busy hanging to the pommel. The sudden sunlight made our cloaks steam, and Tinan di Rocham laughed and sang a few lines of a hymn of praise to Jiserah.

I did not think him a religious man, being so young. But I took note, though it cost me some effort to do so. I knew them all by now, and some part of me was ashamed at how I hoarded my knowledge, added to it, all in service of someday, perhaps, saving them from themselves.

The Sun helped clear my head, and I straightened my spine, the Aryx sparking under my shirt. Why do I feel so odd? This is not fever.

Something teased at the corner of my memory, something—

— but the Sun hid himself behind a cloud, and I sank back against Tristan, who stroked my hand before we continued on. The sense of something badly amiss returned, but I was too draggled to try to discover the source of the feeling. When I had the energy to think, I realized this should intrigue me.

Then a cloud would descend upon me. Why bother? All was amiss since the moment I had climbed to the servants’ passage and discovered violence and conspiracy. My nerves were simply threadbare, as any gently-born woman’s would be.

One night I woke to a great blundering in the forest, branches snapping as something crashed close to our camp. I clawed my way out of sleep, bolting to my feet as steel sang loose from sheaths around me, the Guard all rising. Those on watch had arrows nocked, I know, because Tristan arrived at my side and pushed me back down to the bedroll, then stood poised with a bow in his hands, an arrow to the string. The shield of magic over our small camp held firm, its edges blending seamlessly with the night. Yet my heart knocked fearfully against my ribs, and I smelled something foul that fair threatened to swoon me back into my blankets. Twas merely a breath, and I choked on it before it vanished and I pushed myself painfully up to my knees, staring into utter darkness lit only by an edge of banked firelight.

The crashing and snapping faded.

“Demieri di sorce,” someone whispered. Whoever it was, in the dark they sounded very young, but twas not Tinan di Rocham.

“More likely a treecat,” someone else replied. “Or an ursine.”

“Enough.” Tristan’s tone sliced through the mutters. “We stand fast, and double watch.”

He did not mention sorcery, and none of the others did either. I was not sure what I had sensed in the darkness, being possessed of no woodscraft at all. Yet I wondered, when I could find the strength to wonder.

On the twentieth day of our entrapment in that dismal forest, something else happened.

The rain had briefly ceased but clouds still filled the sky’s eye, and the dark of the Shirlstrienne seemed more than the shade of trees and clouds. We rode single-file, following Robierre and Pilippe, who conversed in low voices. They seemed to disagree over our course, for the first time.

Prickles of unease roiled over my skin. I raised my head from the languor trapping me, weighting my body. “Tristan?” My voice was foggy, slurred as if I had been at mead during a wedding celebration.

“What is it?” Worried, far more worried than I had ever heard him before. It was not right — the Captain, my Captain, should not sound so.

My unease crested, sparking through the dragging weight. When had I become so heavy, so inert? “Something is wrong,” I managed, my lips not quite meeting.

“Halt!” Tristan called. Between one step and the next, the hair rose on my nape.

A shrill whistle split the air. A crossbow quarrel buried itself in the leafy mould before Robierre’s horse, and I let out a short, sharp cry. The Aryx sprang to life, thundering against my chest, a wall of force expanding outward. The doors inside my head revolved, flinging themselves open, and I gasped, struggling to retreat, seeking to close myself away from the riptide of sorcerous force.

Several of the Guard cursed in surprise. The milky shimmer of a globe-shield blurred in the air. I gasped, my heart laboring, and Tristan’s arm slid around my waist. “Let it go, Vianne.” Quietly, but with great force and utter command. “Let it go. Tis not worth your life.”

If he had taken any other tone but quiet authority, I would not have heard. As it was, the Aryx’s force glided through me, rumbled in the spaces between my veins…

…and the globe shimmered, folding down into the earth, draining away.

Most of the Guard had their bows out, and Jierre di Yspres held up a hand, the red glimmer of a firebolt limning his fingers. Twas a showy way to strike an enemy, but a bolt of Court sorcery would unerringly find its target — once Jierre caught a glimpse of whatever that target should be.

“Bandits,” Tristan said crisply. “Let them show themselves, if they dare.” Then, more quietly, in my ear, “Do not use the Aryx again, m’chri, not even to guard us. The fever will return if you do.”

“Tristan—” My head fell back against his chest. Something had just become clear to me, some idea just on the very tip of my tongue. It fled, and I could have cursed with frustration had I not needed my breath. The Seal muttered, disconsolate, its pulse as tardy as my own.

“A fine morn to you, sieurs,” someone called from the woods, a weird directionless voice. I recognized the hint of greenbreath sorcery — it was a hedgewitch charm to distort the sound of one’s voice, and I felt a weary satisfaction at finally remembering a charm on my own, without my books. “Welcome to the Shirlstrienne.”

“A fine welcome, served on a crossbow bolt,” Jierre di Yspres returned clearly.

“Nobody was hit,” the voice answered, cheeky as a Citté urchin. “So you have naught to complain of, sieurs. We have yet to discuss your toll for passage.”

“A tollmaster should show his face,” Jierre barked. “Not hide behind a peasant charm. Coward.”

“I like the word cautious. Not that it matters — Adrien Jirlisse does not care. Now, sieurs, your purses, and be quick. You may leave them on the road, and we shall let you pass unhindered.” The voice, directionless, filtered through the dark woods.

I heard an odd trilling whistle.

I suddenly understood the Guard were spreading out, ready to commence a battle with sorcery or steel.

Just like men. Why must this all be so difficult? A solution suggested itself, and I lunged for some certainty in the soup my brain had become.

“Wait!” Silence descended on the forest. I was half surprised I’d been able to voice so clear a cry.

“A d’mselle. Well. This is a surprise.” And indeed, the directionless voice sounded surprised.

Careful, Vianne. You are playing for the safety of others, be quick and cunning. “Are you the same Adrien Jirlisse they sing of?” My tone was pitched to carry, and the Aryx rang under my words. Its pulse had hurried, shaking off deadly languor.

“What are you doing?” Tristan hissed in my ear.

Do not trouble me at the moment, Captain. I am otherwise engaged. I ignored him. “The one they call the Scourge of Shirlstrienne?” My entire body was leaden, but my wits suddenly returned. If there are more hidden in the trees, we may fight free but at a cost. If I can feed this man’s pride he may well let us pass; tis not worth a bandit’s time to fight a pitched battle against nobles on warhorses, even though we are few.

Let us hope I am right.

“I might be.” Now he sounded pleased. “Tis good to see a woman who knows quality.”

Ah. So we may bargain, my fine friend. I struggled to force my tongue to work. “I am no merchant’s wife, to test the cut of a word. Tis sung you are passing fond of riddles, sieur.”

Murmurs among the Guard. I prayed they would not do anything silly. Other murmurs, too — if my ears did not fail me, there were bandits in every direction.

Dear gods, let this pique his interest. We may yet avoid bloodshed.

“Twenty of them.” Tristan murmured. “Vianne—”

“I might be,” the directionless voice repeated. Yet there was an edge to the words that had not been there before. “And you are?”

I took a deep breath. The hook has been swallowed. Give the line a tug, Vianne. “If you are so fond of riddles, I shall play you a game of riddlesharp. If you win, we shall give up our coin with good grace. If I win, you shall let us pass unmolested.”

The pause that followed was so long I felt sweat prickle under my arms. Please, gods. Please. Let us have no more blood spilled.

“We have you at arrowpoint, d’mselle. Why should I play riddlesharp at all?”

I sighed, loudly, theatrically, as if I were at Court and all eyes were on me. The very situation I hated and avoided, and yet I acquitted myself with some skill when twas necessary. I hoped my skill was still with me. “Then you are not the noble bandit the songs make you.” I sought for the quarter-mocking tone of Lady Arioste di Wintrefelle, who had near every man at Court for a swain. Arioste could make even a priest of Danshar forget his vows, and she knew exactly the right edge of scorn mixed with faith that would tempt a man into performing some ridiculous feat for her momentary amusement. “And I should be gravely disappointed not to hear such a riddlemaster’s skill.”

There was a rustling in the bushes.

I had to admire the flair with which he vaulted from a low-hanging branch of a giant tam tree. Dressed all in brown and green, a bow slung at his back and a rapier at his side, a lean man with weather-brown skin and sharp glittering eyes regarded us from the faint track leading into the trees. “Well enough. Never let it be said Adrien Jirlisse disappointed a d’mselle, especially one so fair.” He bowed, sweeping his hand back. It was an approximation of a Court bow, and I dearly hoped none of the Guard would laugh at him. If he had shown himself, he did not wish a pitched battle, and if they had been truly hungry for coin, one quarrel from a crossbow would not have sufficed for an opening thrust.

“What are you doing?” Tristan, in my ear again.

My head cleared slightly. This game is mine to play, Captain. And it will require no bloodshed. “Let me down,” I whispered back. “Please, Captain. Trust me, I beg of you.”

“What if he—”

“Tristan, please.” I did not raise my voice. But he stilled as if I had shouted. “They do not wish a battle any more than we do. If I overmatch this man in wits, there’s no shame in losing to a d’mselle in the woods. Twill be out of a tale, and we shall go our way.”

A long pause, during which the bright-eyed bandit folded his arms and regarded us. I could not be certain, but I thought I sensed a smile on his weather-darkened face.

Stiffly, Tristan dismounted. I half-fell from the saddle into his hands, but he lifted me down so lightly it looked as if I had planned it. He set me on my feet, yet his touch lingered at my waist. “As you like, Vianne,” he said softly.

That was strange enough, but he set me free. I half-turned, and made my way through the screen of horses and my Guard. My legs shook with effort. The Aryx rang quietly, a bell-tone I suspected they would not hear. My eyes threatened to fall closed, I forced them wide and set myself the task of walking straight.

“Captain—” Jierre did not like this turn of events.

“Ware now,” Tristan said over his shoulder. “If he makes a single move toward her, kill him.”

The sense of wrongness returned, a giant sharptooth fish sliding through dark water, stalking. The forest floor was no floor for dancing, but I made my passage as gracefully as I could and stopped ten paces from the man.

I lifted my gaze slowly. This was the moment we would first truly match wits, the bandit and I, and much depended on it.

Jierre swore. But softly, and I did not flinch.

The bandit regarded me. His eyes were the color of the sea during a storm, thickly lashed with charcoal. Wide cheekbones, a generous mouth even now curving into a half smile. There was a shade of familiarity to his features, one I could not quite place. “Well,” he said. “I spoke half in jest, thinking you a boy. Yet you are fair, d’mselle.”

I blinked. His speech was now accented like mine — the half-singing sharp consonants of the Court. I straightened, wishing I’d half a chance to comb my hair, or a decent dress to be seen in. “I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” My shoulders went back, my chin lifted. My head pounded, and blackness clouded the edges of my vision. Oh, no, do not, please. Let me not be useless this once. They are depending on me. “You are?”

Did I imagine a swift darkening of his face? “Adrien di Cinfiliet, at your service.” His pale eyes flicked up past my shoulder. I set my jaw, determined not to sway on suddenly numb feet. “And honored to have your acquaintance.”

So Adrien Jirlisse is a use-name. What is a nobleman doing here? “And I, yours.” My voice came from very far away. “What is a nobleman about stealing purses in a wood, sieur? May I ask?”

He shrugged, his pale eyes searching as they sought to read my countenance. “Hiding. Is it not obvious?”

“Hiding from what?” I have you now, my fine bandit. No man can resist a woman’s wide-eyed interest. Even if I do look a maying jest, dressed as I am.

“If I were to tell a stranger, even one so fair, I would have poor skill at hiding, would I not? You owe me a game of riddlesharp, d’mselle.”

And I begin to suspect you will be more than my match. “I do.” I swayed, cursing my unruly body. Tristan inhaled sharply. “And I—”

Whatever I wished to say was lost in rising darkness. The world shrank to a pinprick, a rushing black wind descending on me, plucking at my hair and twisting hot lead into my marrow. The stink of it filled my throat, branches snapping as hot wind pressed down like a giant’s hand.

“Vianne!” Tristan, shouting. I fell sideways, his hands no longer gentle, catching me bruising-hard.

Confusion. Jierre di Yspres bellowing.

The Aryx woke in a blinding flash, a convex mirror of power, twisting fire poured into a shield of glass. Another door thrown wide, knowledge tipped into me as if I were a wineskin, overflowing, stretching, pushing through me.

The reek was shoved aside, and I heard a snap as of a ship’s cable breaking. The hunting-spell, cheated, turned back on itself, and I felt a moment of fierce satisfaction that it would recoil on its maker. Twas a piece of Court sorcery akin to a killspell, but requiring much more care and skill, and if I had not the Aryx standing guard under the surface of my skin I would not have known.

Down, I thought incoherently. Down! I will not be used, no matter what god gave you to the Angoulême—

The tide of flame retreated, folding down into itself. The Great Seal of Arquitaine released me.

It obeyed.

Men’s voices. Tristan, very near. “If you’ve killed her—”

I heard my own voice. “Tristan — the Duc—”

“What?” Jierre di Yspres. “Shall I kill him, Captain?”

“Back — get back—,” I gasped. It took so much, to ride the Aryx’s shifting supple flare of power that was even now fighting the insidious spells that had been dragging us down for days, kept from us only by the Seal’s sleepy defense. We had not even realized, so blind to the subtle sense of wrongness, the growing exhaustion.

“Carry her,” someone said, all pretense of levity fled. “We shall take her to the village. Risaine will know what to do.”

“I swear to you, if you do aught to harm her—” Tristan’s tone was soft, conversational, but furious all the same.

“You think I would harm a helpless woman? Ho there, Timarche, lead them to the village. We shall follow with the d’mselle. Tis safe enough; they’re no Orlaans dragoon.”

Darkness, again, and I knew no more.

Chapter Seventeen

My auntie was at Court once too.” The voice was familiar, but not one of the Guard. “Left under a cloud, as I am sure you well know.”

“It matters little.” Tristan, tense and exhausted. Someone held my hand, ran a callused thumb over my knuckles. “I care not a whit.”

“I can see what you do care for. Look, she wakes, and pretty as a maiden in a tale.” Shifting cloth. Smoke, and meat stew, and baking bread. I lay on something soft. I groaned, sought to make my eyes open. They did not obey, foolish things. Or perhaps they had seen enough, and would brook no more.

Am I blind? Sometimes, after the half-head, I felt this weak, and my vision would not work properly. The irrational fear of blindness would rise, and I would be too frail to combat it.

“Vianne?” Tristan, soft and hopeful. I had never heard that tone from him before. “Do not seek to speak, simply rest. You are safe enough.”

“Aye to that, d’mselle.” I thought I recognized this, too — the man in brown. The bandit.

Or was he? A bandit who spoke as a courtier hiding in the Shirlstrienne? And the Seal had chosen that moment to push aside the spells weighing us down, making it impossible to move.

How long had we been feeling the effects? Why did I not know? I sought to keep them safe. Inexcusable inattention, Vianne. You must do better. You must do more.

And the other spell, the circling blackness and crushing, fetid wave of power, had sought to strike at us as well. If not for the Seal, we would be dead or wandering witless in the woods.

I should have noticed. I endangered them. Inexcusable, Vianne. Try harder. Try again. “Tristan.” My lips were cracked.

“I told you not to use the Seal. You’ve forced a return of fever.” Stroking my forehead now, callused fingertips. Infinitely gentle, so gentle I thought perhaps I dreamed it. “Di Cinfiliet has graciously offered the services of his village for a few days.”

“How could I not?” The bandit’s laughter held an edge. “Tis not every day a Duchesse falls into my arms. You have quite a talent for making an entrance, d’mselle.”

I tried not to use the Aryx, Tristan. You might as well scold it for using me. My eyes opened slowly, dim firelight pouring into my head. At least I was not blind. Twas a small mercy from the Blessed, that.

The first question, the most witless one, was all I could think to ask. “Where…?”

“The Shirlstrienne,” Tristan answered patiently. “You must rest, Vianne. I cannot answer for my temper if you do not. And you frightened young di Rocham. He’s been praying to the Blessed and wandering around sighing.” Haggard despite his light tone, his cheeks hollow but freshly shaved, dark hair falling into his darkened eyes. Blue shadows ringed his eyes, and his mouth pulled against itself, a tight line.

I blinked. “What…?” I had no luck shaping more than the single word. My mouth simply would not obey me.

“You swooned. Our friend di Cinfiliet caught you, and there was some confusion, but nobody died. A few of the bandits have some bumps and bruises, and there is some scorching in the clearing where the Aryx woke — and Jierre swears he saw something in the trees.” Tristan stopped, stroked my cheek. “Why did you not tell me you were so ill?”

There was something in the trees. Something foul. “We must…reach Arcenne,” I croaked. There is no time to waste. I am not strong enough for a repeat of that performance.

“Not at the cost of your life.” His fingertips still rested against my cheek. “Please, Vianne. Promise me.”

I sighed. The room was low, exposed ceiling-beams with bundles of hanging herbs, and the green smell of hedgewitchery filled it from wall to wall. Firelight ran over every surface, and misty sunlight spilled in from a door I could not see. Sounds came, too — horses stamping, metal clashing, catcalls, murmurs.

Tristan perched on the bed beside me, holding my hand in his, touching my cheek with his free hand. He glanced at Adrien di Cinfiliet, whose storm-colored eyes were busy with a spot on the far wall. “Ask her what you will,” the Captain said harshly, “but be quick. She has little time for foolishness.”

“Who is the fool, sieur?” the bandit replied, comfortably enough. “Me for bringing you here, or you for allowing me to? Or her, for trusting you with her life? It seems you’ve done a fair job of placing her in danger.” He had one hand to rapier-hilt, and I did not blame him. Tristan did not look away from my face, but the temperature of the air changed around us, and I was suddenly very glad he was not angry with me.

Dear gods. A pair of prickly men hissing at each other like prodded cats. “Cease this.” I surprised myself. “Both of you.” I had to take a deep breath, the swimming weakness was so awful. “Sieur Cinfiliet. My…thanks for your hospitality. Ask me…your riddles, I am ready.”

Silence. The fire crackled.

Then Adrien di Cinfiliet threw back his head and laughed fit to die. “She near dies of fever and magical attack, and as she lies abed she wishes to play riddlesharp!” He found this extraordinarily funny, and I cannot say I missed the humor myself, now that he mentioned it. Still, it seemed improper to chuckle, even if I could have found the strength to do so. I contented myself with a sleepy, thin smile.

A shadow passed through the low door — a woman, her white hair cut into a cap of flyaway curls, ducked into the room and straightened, her hands on her hips. She wore a simple gray shift-dress belted with silver; her eyes were pale as the bandit’s, and just as thickly fringed. “Cease that noise,” she said sharply, and Adrien di Cinfiliet subsided, his eyes merry. He bit his lip, looking as unrepentant as any well-loved child. “Tis not enough you bring a sick noblewoman here, and now you bawl at her like a fishwife? Out with you, Dri, go do something useful for a change.”

“Like rob another caravan, or steal you more herb cutlings? Ease yourself, R’si Thornlet. She just awakened, and demanded to play the game of riddlesharp I promised her. Do you know they sing songs of me at Court?” Now a swift snarl passed over his tanned face, and I shivered.

Perhaps that gambit had not been the best one to use.

The white-haired woman was less than impressed. “You brought her here, now leave her to my care unless you wish her dead. Stop baiting the chivalier, too; tis bad manners.” With that, she stamped across the packed-earth floor to the fireplace, and stirred briskly at a hanging cauldron. The richness of stew filled the air, and my stomach reminded me I was near starved.

“I do not bait him, m’dama Tante.” The bandit folded his arms. “Besides, he takes no offense from a backwoods thief.”

Tristan stroked my cheek, touched my lips. He ignored the rest, very pointedly. “Rest, Vianne. Everything else can wait.”

My heart sank and swelled two sizes at the same moment. We cannot delay, Captain. A Court sorcerer is seeking us, and I think his strength might overmatch mine even with the Aryx. “If I continue resting, we shall…never reach Arcenne.”

“I would rather never reach Arcenne than see you kill yourself for trying.” Sharply, as if I were one of his men who had committed a silly error. But his touch was gentle, tracing along my jawline. “Shhh, m’chri. There’s a fine hedgewitch here, and she has the tending of you.”

“The sorcery — the spell—” My lips moved against his fingers, and he smiled.

“Di Narborre will not find us here. There is a defense of hedgewitchery around this camp, woven by m’dama here.” The smile he wore filled his eyes, erased some of the gaunt lines scored around his mouth. “And you have given d’Orlaans more than a slapped wrist to nurse. The Seal is no trifle; the breaking of his tracking sorcery will most likely be unpleasant for him.” He broke off, stroked my chin. “We are in little danger here, except from the bandits. Who have rather a high opinion of you at the moment.”

“Tis the stuff songs are made of.” The hedgewitch pushed her white curls back from her face. “Ease your mind, d’mselle. We have survived here by avoiding notice, and I laid the defenses for this place myself. I said to get out, Dri.”

The bandit shrugged. His mood had shifted to almost-sullenness. “I have no pressing business.”

A mercurial man. I stored this tidbit in my memory, watching him as best I could without seeming to. This altered my plans, perhaps.

“You do. Elsewhere.” The woman turned a fierce glare upon him. “Give these two some peace and lee to speak. He has not left her side since he carried her here; you get out.”

The bandit raised his hands. “As you like, Tante. Do not sharpen your tongue on me!” But he did not leave. Instead, he bent over the bed, peering over Tristan’s shoulder at me. “Rest yourself, d’mselle di Rocancheil.” His eyes were kind, for all the mockery of his tone. “I swear to you, no harm will come to you or your Guard while you rest here. You are under the protection of Adrien di Cinfiliet.”

“My thanks, sieur,” I managed to whisper. You have a prickly pride, and sometimes such men are easily led if one is careful. Well enough.

He left, whistling a tune I seemed to faintly remember. Where was it from? But I was interrupted from pursuing this line of thought.

As soon as the bandit was out of earshot, Tristan claimed my attention. “What songs do they sing of him, Vianne? How did you know?”

I closed my eyes. If I spoke slowly, I could string the words together in a necklace, and grant myself time to think as well. “I knew nothing, Captain. There are no songs. All bandits like to hear about themselves.”

Tristan was still for a long moment. Then he leaned down, kissed my cheek, and I smelled leather, steel, and healthy maleness. A disbelieving laugh brushed my face. “You were wasted at Court, m’chri.”

“Step aside, sieur, an it please you,” the hedgewitch told him. “I’ve to tend my patient now.”

He nodded, straightening and stepping aside — but not very far. “As you like, Marquisse.”

Marquisse? Well, she speaks like a noble. I am unsurprised.

She did not react, simply bent over me, testing my pulse with dry, gentle fingers. This close, I could see the network of fine lines on her face, crow’s-feet fanning at the corners of her eyes, laugh lines around her mouth. Her beauty ran bone-deep, her face simply settling on the framework instead of collapsing with age. The Angoulême’s Companions had gifted us with such beauty, and even diluted it was a wonder to see. “So you guess, do you? And I guess what you are, and what she is. News reaches me even here, in the backwoods of Arquitaine among peasants and bandits; the Blessed know I’ve worked hard enough to stay informed. Greedy d’Orlaans has reached the summit of his dreams and still wants more, of course.” She peered at the whites of my eyes, felt my forehead. “And you. What is the summit of your dreams, d’Arcenne?”

I held my peace. The conversation had taken an extraordinarily interesting turn, and I near held my breath as well, for fear that a sound from me would cause them to cease. Did they know each other? But the Captain had given no sign.

And what was the summit of Tristan d’Arcenne’s dreams?

“Duty is a high enough summit for me, m’dama.” His shoulders were stiff. “If I thought you meant her harm I would not hesitate.”

“Any fool could see as much.” The hedgewitch flattened her hand against my belly under the rough homespun blankets. “Now let me concentrate. I would hate to botch a charm for such an august personage.” Irony dripped acid from every word, and I almost winced.

This was most interesting, but I would have to wait before I could decipher it. The gray-clad hedgewitch closed her eyes, and a wonderful coolness laved me, washing away the shaky jittering of fever. It was a hedgewitch charm, true — but one of such power and elegant simplicity I longed to learn it.

When she finished and took her hand away, I felt much better. Still heavy and weary, but free of fever for the first time in weeks. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be warm, dry, and able to rest in a bed.

I gathered my voice. “A magnificent charm. Would you teach me, m’dama?”

Her fingers stiffened slightly as she checked my pulse again. “You would seek to learn peasant magic? Of course, you’re a hedgewitch too. Some talent, but not enough practice, I wager. Too busy dancing pavanes.”

Her tone needled me. And yet, she had the right of it. “It made me laughable, at Court. Yet it does seem to be useful.”

Her mouth twitched upward into a smile. “A hedgewitch Queen. What a marvelous jest for the Blessed to foist upon us.”

“I am simply holding the Aryx. In trust.” I struggled to sit up. She pushed me back down, gently but with surprising strength from one so birdlike-thin.

“The first lesson in sorcery is know thyself. You cannot disregard that simple truth. You hold the Aryx, the Aryx is awake; therefore, you are the Queen.”

I sighed. Why must I have this conversation with every noble I encountered? Why would they not leave me be? “I did not seek this.”

“I would rather serve a liege who did not want the Aryx than a liege who killed to possess it,” the hedgewitch Marquisse said briskly. “Now, I’ll be dosing you with fevrebit and dantarais. You will no doubt hate it, but twill make you stronger.”

I made a face. “No doubt.” I sank back into the pillows. “My thanks for your care, m’dama.”

“My nephew admires your bravery, Your Majesty.”

“Tis enough,” Tristan interrupted. “She is wearied to death. Is there a point to this, m’dama Marquisse?”

“Do not bark at me, d’Arcenne. The point is, Your Majesty, you must accept what you are, or all of Arquitaine will suffer.”

“Cease.” There was a touch of a growl to the word, and Tristan took a half-step to the side, as if he wished to advance on her. His hands tensed, flexing, surprising me. I did not think he would ever strike a woman. “Later.”

The white-haired hedgewitch shrugged. “Your wishing it otherwise does not alter truth, chivalier.” She stood and shuffled to the fireplace, dismissing us with an ease that was almost royal.

“What—,” I began, but Tristan shook his head. Dark hair fell over his shadowed eyes.

“Rest for now, an it please you.” He settled himself on the bed, taking my hand again, running his fingertips over my knuckles. The touch made a strange warmth, very much like the hedgewitch charm, start at my hand and flood the rest of me. “A few days abed under the Marquisse’s care, and you shall be strong enough to start for Arcenne.”

There were more questions to ask. “The Guard. When may I see them?” I wish to know they are hale — and there is a plan to set in motion, as soon as I know the map of this province, so to speak.

“Tomorrow, perhaps.” He settled himself as if he intended to stay a long while. I could not say I minded. “When did you notice the spells laid to trap us?”

“Not until the Aryx moved to push them aside. I should have noticed…I ask your pardon. Twas foolish of me, and you all suffered for it.”

He laid his finger against my lips. “No. I did not notice either, and I should have. Tis an old trick, to slow an enemy.”

“Why slow us, unless they are following? And there was another spell, a darker one. It almost found us that night — when we heard the crashing in the woods, do you recall?”

He went utterly still, thoughtful. “Another spell? Twould not surprise me in the slightest. D’Orlaans has had much time to practice.” His blue eyes fixed unseeing on my face. He stood abruptly, tall enough he had to duck slightly under a bunch of herbfiet hung up to dry. “I shall return.”

I obediently closed my eyes and waited for him to leave. He did, and they flew open again. I stared at bunches of drying herbs, moving gently as the breeze from the open door touched them.

Something is amiss here. I must think, and plan, and—

But the hedgewitch came with a dollop of tisaine as foul as she had promised, and my worry fled before my fatigue.

Chapter Eighteen

The fever resurged over the next three days, fighting for me, but Risaine di Cinfiliet — her name sounded familiar, though I could not think of why — was a skilled healer, and by the third day when the fever broke for the last time in a gush of sweat, I was well on my way to mending. Risaine was marvelously patient, saving her sharp tongue for her nephew and Tristan, whom she disliked intensely — or pretended she did.

She treated me as an old m’dama auntie might cosset a beloved niece, cajoling me into eating, her voice soft but inflexible. Blotting my forehead, soothing me when I woke from nightmares — for terrible dreams there were, every time the fever crested, and Lisele bled in each of them.

Tristan visited, but he said little. He was unfailingly calm and polite, but he did not look at my face overmuch. Instead, he gazed at my hands, or at my knees under the blanket, or at the fire.

I must have looked dreadful.

By the fifth day, I could sit, shakily, in bed. I was sipping at a cup of broth into which Risaine had crumbled dried pungent fevrebit, grimacing a little at the sharp taste, when Adersahl and Jierre ducked into the low room. Jierre’s forehead was clouded with worry, and Adersahl’s mustache drooped a little, which alarmed me almost more than Tristan’s new policy of distant kindness.

“Only a moment, mind,” Risaine said sharply, following them into the sudden crowding. This house had only one room and a privy, and I had taken Risaine’s bed. She slept in a wooden rocking chair by the fire with a quilt wrapped around her more often than not, and chided me briskly when I begged her to let me sleep upon the floor. Fine physicker I would be if you caught chill after fever from sleeping on a Shirlstrienne floor. Do not be ridiculous, child. And I meekly bowed my head.

Jierre ignored her, came straight to the bedside. He gripped his hat in his hands as if afraid it would fly away did he loosen his fingers. “D’mselle. You’re well? Truly?”

“Not well,” I admitted, offering him my hand. “But much better nonetheless, chivalier. My thanks for your concern. What ails you?”

“Grim news, d’mselle.” Adersahl spoke as Jierre took my hand and bent over it perfunctorily. “There is word from—”

“No,” Risaine said sharply, from her position by the fireplace. She was preparing a tisane for woundrot, jars and jars of it. I did not dare ask why. “Let her rest for a little while longer, sieurs, an it please you.”

The lieutenant shot her a look that could have cut stone. “M’dama Marquisse. I am under my Captain’s orders, not yours.”

“D’Arcenne is a fool if he worries her now. Look at her, chivalier, this noblewoman you’ve sworn to. Look at how thin she is, and the circles under her eyes, and the way her hand shakes.” Risaine let out a sharp chuff of annoyance, pushing back a white curl. “You will kill her, do you continue in this manner. Then where will you be?”

The urge to conciliate all but overpowered me. “I am not as bad as all that.” I took my hand back from Jierre with a wan smile. “What has gone wrong? Tristan has been grim for days.” I looked from Jierre to Adersahl, my wits taking on their accustomed sharpness. I found I could guess where the problem lay.

“Oh, no.” My heart thumped, sickly, and settled into a high hard gallop. “They have found us. Or are about to.”

“Not through my spells,” Risaine muttered. “My nephew is merely rash. Excitable. Bloody stubborn.”

Adersahl shrugged. He was broader in the shoulder than whip-lean Jierre, and his bulk granted some comfort. He slapped his hat idly against his stocky thigh. “The bandit wishes to fight them. This is their village, and we may be tracked here.”

“Not through my weavings.” Risaine turned to the fire. “Dri is young, but he still listens to my counsel. He merely speaks of it to needle your Captain. Which is far too easy to do.”

Jierre brushed that aside with a dismissive wave of his hat, his other hand dropping to his rapier’s hilt. “Tell her everything. Tell her about the plague.”

Oh, sweet Blessed, no. Tis not even summer. Plague will spread far and wide without winter to contain it. And there has not been a plague since before the King’s time. My gaze met Adersahl’s. “There is plague? Where? And how badly?”

“What is this merry gathering, and I uninvited?” Tristan said from the door. I took a deep breath. The sight of him: blue d’Arcenne eyes, his clothes clean now — they had the means to take baths here, and I sorely wanted one once I could escape the bed — made my heart commence knocking against my ribs. He had found someone to trim his hair, too; slightly shorter than a chivalier’s current fashion, but it made him even more handsome. “Lieutenant?”

I took another drink of broth, using the time to compose my thoughts. Well. We are about to change the playing field, d’Arcenne. I hope you are unprepared. “What is this I hear of danger and plague, Captain? Is there aught you wish to tell me?”

“I did not wish your worry.” Tristan shot a sharp glance at Jierre, who shrugged, his lean face shuttering itself with an almost audible snap. “We shall speak of this later, di Yspres.”

“You shall not,” I disagreed immediately, but mildly enough. “You will speak of it now, and cease whipping di Yspres for my curiosity. I asked him, Captain, surely I have a right to ask for news?”

I do not know who was more shocked — Tristan; Risaine, who gave me an approving smile; Jierre, whose jaw frankly dropped; or myself. I sounded…

Well, I sounded like the King, amused and casually confident Tristan would obey my orders.

Let us pray he agrees, at least at this moment. I may likely pay for any show of independence later. But here, where there were more people, was a fine time for me to start working my own will, instead of being carried along by his. I had a possible ally in Risaine, and something told me she and her nephew were far from the worst friends I could have in the Shirlstrienne.

“You do.” The Captain nodded slightly, as if to say, proceed. He did not look angered by my sudden authority. Instead, he seemed relieved. “Plague has struck Arquitaine, and struck hard. Citté D’Arquitaine has fallen victim. The plague starts with fever and ends with blood pouring from the nose and mouth until death. Few of those touched by it have recovered. D’Orlaans is seeking the Aryx, though he dares not let anyone know the Great Seal is gone and he carries a false copy. Instead, every garrison and Guard in Arquitaine is looking for you. The tale is that I have kidnapped you and am holding you for ransom to buy my own safety.” A muscle in Tristan’s jaw twitched. “You have been proxy-wed to d’Orlaans in the Chepelle Ste-Mairie.”

I stared through him, thinking furiously. Perhaps I am not helpless. It was a welcome thought. “Plague and a proxy marriage. Dear gods.”

“The Blessed have expressed their displeasure with Arquitaine.” Jierre’s eyebrows were drawn together, and under his coloring he was pale. “You carry the true Seal, d’mselle, so we are safe from the plague, at least.”

“We do not know that,” Risaine interrupted. “She may have just recovered from the sickness. I have not seen this fever before, sieurs, and among this collection of ragtails that is rare indeed.”

“None of us have fallen victim,” Tristan pointed out. His blue gaze bored into me.

That is little comfort. And if I were surprised at Jierre di Yspres’s sudden piety, I needed look no farther than the metal at my own throat to find a good reason for it. If the Seal had slumbered and was now awake…but why? Why wake now, and why plague now?

I could do nothing about the plague for the moment. There were other things I must know. “He proxy-wed me?” He should be seeking to kill me, not still wed me. He has to know I am aware of his conspiracy. “It makes little sense.”

“It means nothing,” Risaine said fiercely. “You hold the Aryx; you cannot be proxy-wed. It will not hold.”

Tristan rested his hand on his rapier’s hilt. “He has a copy of the Aryx and enough Court sorcery to make it seem to live. Especially since the Aryx…well. Court sorcery has become much easier in the past weeks. We have all noticed it.”

“Fools,” Risaine snorted. “All of you, fools.”

No doubt. But I wonder why you say so, m’dama. I looked down into my cup. Court sorcery stronger? I had not noticed, but then, I am not a Court sorcerer. At least, I was not before this.

I must think. But first… “Could I be carrying plague?”

“If you were, one of us would be ill by now. Yet except for di Rocham’s broken heart and Tristan’s scowl, we all seem hale.” Adersahl leaned against the table, examining the herbs piled in neat bundles, the jars standing ready to be scalded. “There is an easy enough solution to all our problems, d’mselle.”

It is not the problems which worry me, it is the cause, which has acquired another tangle. “Which is?” I contemplated the bits of dried fevrebit floating in the broth.

“Is it not obvious? Contract a liaison, and make it public knowledge you have the Aryx.” Adersahl picked up a sprig of rosemaire and crushed it between his broad, deft fingers, inhaled the scent. “Still, the nearest problem is di Narborre. We have discovered he was in Tierrce d’Estrienne some days ago.”

My fingers clenched around the cup. Memory choked me.

“Make certain none still live.” A crunch, and a wet stabbing sound—

I swallowed bile. If I were a man, there would be an accounting for that. Dull anger sparked red in my chest, through layers of numbness. There is much I would repay di Narborre and his master.

“Vianne?” Tristan crossed the room, shouldered Jierre aside, and rescued the cup from my trembling hands. “You are pale.”

I was not short of breath, but I nodded, tendrils of dark hair falling in my face. “When do we leave?” My voice was a thin thread. It was not fear that made me so quiet. Twas instead a great hot-crimson anger, one I pushed aside. A lady must not ever betray such rage.

His hands were warm, and I near forgot every other person in the room as he steadied me. “We are at the edge of the Alpeis, in a hidden bandit’s village. Do not fret, Vianne. This is why I kept the news from you a short while, I wish you to regain your strength before we flee to Arcenne.”

I inhaled sharply. Calm, Vianne. You must be cold as if you are hunting an intrigue meant to catch your Princesse. They caught her, and now you must serve them to their own folly, as quickly and neatly as you may. It will be difficult, but this you must do. “Yet—” I meant to protest that I was fit to ride, that we must be on our way.

“Yet nothing.” Risaine screwed a jar lid on with a practiced, savage twist of her wrist. “Your task is to mend your health. If you die, the Seal might not have a choice but to land in d’Orlaans’s royal-bloody hands, and that would be a tragedy.”

Tristan watched me, his mouth a straight line, his cheeks — was he blushing? And what was that glimmer in his eyes? Fear? The world had indeed gone mad. I searched for something appropriate to say, found nothing.

“An it please you,” Tristan said finally, “I would speak with you privately, Vianne.”

What now? Do you wish to take me to task, Captain? Why do it in seclusion? Your hand is strengthened by two of your Guard here, one of whom has no doubt told you of my idea of escaping you. I nodded, struck speechless, my wits racing to catch up. Recollected myself with an almost physical effort. “Jierre — my thanks for the news. I think I should speak with the Captain, indeed.”

“That you should.” Jierre left with a hurried bow, and Adersahl followed him, turning once to glance back at me. It was a meaningful look, but what it meant I could not say.

Risaine chuffed out a sigh, setting the jar down with a click. Today she wore an overdress of blue, and it suited her pale hair. “I suppose you wish to throw me out of my own house.”

“Stay and hear a private conversation, as you like.” Tristan did not look away. His eyes were so infinitely blue, I wondered for a mad moment if everything he saw was tinted with skyshade.

Risaine replied with a cheerful curse she might have heard from a Guard and left, shaking her head. She pulled the door to, and I heard her speaking outside, a low fierce tone — probably scolding Jierre.

My mouth was dry as sand. “Is this true? And what else, by the Blessed? What now?”

“Tis as true as I can tell.” He sighed and settled himself gingerly on the bed at my side, setting the cup away. “Di Narborre comes, and the fool of a bandit thinks the woods and a hedgewitch’s muttering will hold him back.”

I am a hedgewitch too, Captain, and I kept us safe for a short while. Still, that is not the most pressing matter here. “Tis not what angers you. It angers you that the Duc thought to proxy-marry me. You did not anticipate that.”

Amazingly, he dropped his head. I caught a flash of anger on his face, wondered why I could suddenly decipher his feelings so easily. “True. I should have thought — should have planned—for such an occasion.”

“Is it true, that if I contract a liaison and make it public, that a proxy marriage will not hold?” I wished suddenly I had spent some time studying Arquitaine law instead of Tiberian verbs. Of course, our legal code is built on the foundation of Tiberia. It took Graeca to make art, and Tiberia to make law, as the proverb went.

I held myself in readiness, watching d’Arcenne. Waiting for him to indicate what dance he intended to lead us into, since he had gone to such trouble to clear the floor.

Tristan shoved one hand back through his hair. It rumpled him most fetchingly. “Vianne—”

Answer me, Captain. Why is this so difficult? “Is it?”

His words spilled out in a rush. “Tis true. You hold the Aryx, you must be wed in person. The law dates from the Angoulême’s time.”

Relief so intense it curdled my stomach made me sag against the pillow. I chose my next words carefully. “Good. I think tis time I made some decisions. Jierre said twas time for me to use my sharp wits to keep us all alive, and perhaps he is right.” Come, Captain, perhaps I should do the leading in this pavane. You are not as graceful as is your wont today.

“Jierre is a fool.” Tristan dropped his head forward into his hands. “Vianne, I…”

It frightened me, seeing him thus, his shoulders bowed, holding his head as if he was mazed with grief. Did he not wish to take me to task, then? What game was he playing?

Perhaps there is no game. I hardly dared credit it. Hesitant, I touched his shoulder, and he leaned into my hand. The bed creaked slightly.

He is accepting comfort, at least. My throat was still sand-dry. “He’s a sharp-witted fool, to have chosen you for his Captain.”

“Mistake after mistake, I have been so blind.” His voice was muffled, choked. Was he weeping?

If he was, dear gods, how could I stand it? “Oh, no.” I pulled at his shirt, a tiny tug as if to make the fabric hang aright. “Tristan? Please.”

He tore away from my touch, bolting to his feet. Stood, shoulders hunched, staring at the fire, his broad back to me. The Aryx rang under my skin, distress and an electric pain spilling from warm metal into my bones.

Or perhaps mine was the pain, and I shared it with the Seal.

I watched, pulling my knees up under the blankets, a lump blocking my dry throat, all thoughts of intrigue fled. “Captain,” I whispered. How do I make this right? I do not know, and yet I must. “I need your strength. If you cease now, I do not…I do not know what I shall do. Please, Tristan.”

“How can you trust me?” The shout took us both by surprise. He rounded on me, his bootheel grinding sharply into the sweet-fairthwell Risaine scattered on her floor. His cheeks were wet, his blue eyes blazing. “I sent you to the Princesse, and almost caused your death. I was caught and you—you—had to come down into the donjons and fetch me like an errant child. And I have done nothing but make mistake after mistake. I almost cost you your life. That is not the worst. I am a traitor, Vianne!”

You hold yourself to such a fierce standard, Captain. It will break you, unless I hold you back somehow, like a horse that will run itself to death. I do not know how to rein you.

Yet rein him I must. For as little as I liked the idea of his casting me aside the instant I did not serve his revenge, I found I liked the sight of his grief and shame even less.

My hands turned to fists, and my heart gave a painful shiver inside me. “You saved my life,” I pointed out calmly enough. “If you had not sent me to Lisele, d’Orlaans would have the Aryx at this very moment. If you had not given me the keys, I could not have hidden in the North Tower…and if not for you, your lieutenant would have left me behind on the Mont. You have kept me safe so far, and I—” Tears rose to choke me. Oh, Vianne, calm him. He is fearfully upset, and likely to do some damage to everything. “Please, Tristan!”

I did not say what I wished to say. I am frightened, I longed to shout. I am frightened, and I do not know what I have become. You are the only safe thing in this madness, even though you are more dangerous to me than you can possibly know.

He tipped his head back, his jaw working, his cheeks powder-white.

Come, Vianne. Tell him. Give him some hope, and stop being such a dimwitted frippet.

When I could speak over the tears seeking to force their way out, I found I knew what to say. There was only one possible avenue to take. “You are the Captain of my Guard. And my Left Hand — and future Consort. I need you.”

That managed to get his attention, at least. His chin came down, his jaw dropped slack, and he stared at me gape-mouthed, like a Festival fool.

“How do you not know?” I tried again. “If there is one man in Arquitaine I can trust, Tristan d’Arcenne, tis you.” I held his gaze, willing him to understand. My heart twisted afresh. Give him strength. If he feels aught for you at all, use it to help him! “I need you,” I whispered. “Please, do not leave me adrift.”

Tristan laughed bitterly. “What makes you think I would leave you, Vianne? Leave the only woman I have ever—” Maddeningly, he shut his mouth so quickly I was amazed his teeth did not take a piece of his tongue. But his cheeks were no longer so pale, and he was no longer shoulder-slumped and desperate. Instead, his fists clenched at his sides and his gaze blazing, he looked far more like the man I knew.

Or thought I knew, enough to save him from himself. At least, for the moment.

I smoothed the blanket over my knees, as if it were a silken skirt. I do not think you are the kind to give an empty promise. My heart throbbed painfully. Do not let me embarrass myself, gods, please. “Is it that you do not wish to be my Consort?”

It seemed to be exactly the right thing and the wrong thing to say. It broke him free of his silence — but it also drove him to a fury.

“You — you—” His fists shook, but I felt a curious comfort. He would not harm me just now. Of that much, I was certain. “How can you trust me?”

If he was this angry, at least he was not sunk in dangerous apathy. A furious Tristan d’Arcenne was a formidable ally, while an apathetic one was no use to anyone, least of all himself.

And this conversation, however it ended, would strengthen my hand in the coming time, when I set myself to doing what I must.

Now for the soothing — but not until you rough his waters a tiny bit more. “I can understand,” I continued softly, smoothing the blanket. “I am only the di Rocancheil oddling. Tis miraculous that the Aryx has not fried me for insolence. You perhaps do not prefer a Court dame more suited to peasant magics and dry books?”

“Will you shut up?” he snarled. “You are the most infuriating woman I have ever known!”

Well, that, at least, is something. “Do you wish to be my Left Hand and Consort, or not?” The Aryx rang softly under my words.

“I would give everything I own and sell my soul in the bargain to do so,” he said through gritted teeth. “I cannot, Vianne. The game of politics would require you to appear free. And I am—”

“I care nothing for the game of politics,” I cried, dropping my pretense of calm. “If the Aryx wishes me to be Queen of Arquitaine, very well. If you wish to be my Consort, very well. If you do not — very well. But I will not be forced any further, Tristan!”

While I had almost certainly uttered words I would regret — for if I held the Seal I must care for the game of politics deeply enough that I was not hoodwinked — the last part was, at least, unvarnished truth. I was free of fever and on the mend, my wits had returned, and I was prepared to do my wretched duty once again. Another baton was ruling the musicians and the dance had changed, but I was required to follow the steps as prettily as possible, and not blunder.

But I would dance in my own fashion, and I would do all I could to take charge of the tune. My first step was wresting the lead from the Captain of the Guard, and his reaction was such I could hardly believe my good luck.

He did care for me. Perhaps it was only that we had traveled together, and that I represented his revenge. But he did care, and he did not think clearly at the moment.

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw working, eyes blazing. Then he gifted me with a single nod. “I would be honored to do aught you asked, Vianne.” Clenched teeth, clenched jaw, clenched hands. “You are the Queen, and I shall redeem myself in your service.”

Let us hope those are not empty words. “Then I shall decide how to dispose of myself.” My pulse hammered thinly in my throat and wrists. “So we must find a temple, and contract you as my Consort as soon as possible. We must also leave this place. They have been kind to us; we cannot bring di Narborre upon them.” I trust Risaine’s skill more than I would trust mine, but tis a chance I do not wish to hazard.

My decisiveness calmed him. His shoulders relaxed fractionally, and his tone became more businesslike. “You are not hale enough for the kind of hard riding we must do to reach Arcenne quickly. It would kill you, Vianne.”

I have no intention of dying just yet. Before, I might have, just to spite the Duc. But now…I cannot die. I have accounts to settle. I let out a short, sharp breath, the same sound I would make before a grand entrance at Lisele’s side, echoed by hers. The small sigh was our private signal, a Court lady’s battle call. “I will see what Risaine and I can do together, with the Aryx.”

As I suspected, he had an immediate objection. “Court sorcery runs too much risk, especially with di Narborre in Tierrce d’Estrienne.”

Court sorcery is not the only magic in the world. “Then we shall try hedgewitchery. I will be fit to ride, Tristan. I promise.”

“Soon enough.” He approached me cautiously, as he would a wary animal. Lowered himself down on the bed again, sitting on the edge. He looked away, across the room, his back to me. His head dropped again. “I will not betray you, Vianne.”

“Of course not.” What a curious choice of words. Yet we were faced with so much black betrayal, I did not wonder he felt the need to swear it aloud. And, truth be told, I was more than a little unsettled, as if I had prepared myself for battle and met instead with a fête.

I had thought the Consort offer would be refused with some pretty words about duty; I had anticipated the conversation to take a completely different cast. This was…unexpected.

To say the least.

We sat in silence, listening to the crackling of the fire and voices outside.

I waited until I could stand it no longer. I touched his shoulder for the second time, cupping my hand over the curve under his shirt. Muscle stood out under the cloth; tension vibrated through him, infecting my own flesh.

He caught my wrist with a swift movement, and pulled my hand to his mouth. Pressed a rough kiss into my palm, his teeth pressing through soft lips. I did not flinch. “Vianne,” he murmured against my skin.

Then he kissed the inside of my wrist where the pulse beat. The Aryx rang, a thrill sharp as fire.

I had to swallow twice before I could speak with anything approaching a normal tone. “The King said you favoured me.”

“Of course.” His lips moved against my wrist. “Are you blind, m’chri?”

“I thought you hated me, after…” After you ordered the peasants to be killed. And I do not understand your anger, Tristan. I do not understand your moods at all, for all I think I am making headway.

“Of course not. I have never hated you. That was my downfall.” He held my wrist to his mouth, his eyes closed, inhaling as if smelling my skin. For a few moments we stayed like that. It was as far from a courtsong as I had ever seen, but I felt light and happy, and for that moment it was enough.

Chapter Nineteen

Two days later I was allowed — with Risaine at my elbow, to bolster me — to see the bandit village.

I knew then why Tristan had argued so hard against it. For what I found in that village scored me deeply.

“See that?” Risaine said, ruffling a child’s hair. The girl played solemnly with a threadbare doll, her hollow-cheeked face devoured by her eyes. “Just barely escaped the plague, arrived a week ago with four other children led by a boy not past his twelfth year. Their village was ransacked by armed thugs looking to eke more of the harvest from the peasantry. Oh, and that man? His family, killed by d’Orlaans’s bullies half a year ago. That woman? Cannot stand to have a man touch her.” Risaine clicked her tongue sharply. “Not after the Guard at Rouenne finished with her six months ago. A wonder she’s alive.”

I absorbed this as I leaned on the older woman’s arm. Most of the “bandits” were thin, desperate-looking men with fierce faces and peasants’ weapons. The women seemed hard, but their gazes were nervous as hungry birds. In the lee of a rude hut one woman — wide-hipped and red-faced, with cornsilk hair braided about her head as the peasants of Sainte-Ecy did — sobbed as another held her, murmuring soothing nonsense words.

“What of her?” I asked quietly.

“Her daughter was killed by tax farmers last week, and she still cannot believe it. The tax men are the law.” Risaine drew me away. “Do you see this, Vianne? This is what the King brought us to.”

The King bears the blame for this? “How so?” I found myself gazing upon a collection of ragged children taking a lesson from a rail-thin woman dressed in a dark priestess’s cloak, her hair cropped close to mark her as one of Kimyan’s elect. She was training them in arithmetic, counting on her fingers, a teaching-rhyme I remembered from my own nursery-school days. One bloat-bellied boy had a bandage wrapped about his left hand; he cradled it as his dark eyes followed the priestess’s chanting. “Gods.” My stomach churned. “Tell me.”

“You did not know, of course.” Risaine stopped at a fire in front of a low-thatched shelter. I gratefully lowered myself to the rude bench she indicated. Broken sunlight came through the branches far above, dappling the entire village. At the very periphery, a thin blur swirled through the air — protections and camouflage, laid with skill and care. “I did not know either, when I came here. We live noble lives indeed, secure in our knowledge of Court sorcery, secure in our right to take what we see fit, whenever the mood strikes us. The very gods gifted us with Arquitaine, and tis only right we do as we see fit.”

I almost drew breath to protest, thought better of it when I saw her expression shift. Her mouth turned down, her sharp face softening. The breeze fingered white curls, lovingly. “Then I was blown here by an ill wind.” She lowered herself next to me with a sigh. “These people fed us, clothed and sheltered us. And we learned. The King’s payments for the wonders of his Citté and his Palais; his payments to foreign powers — where did you think they came from? And what do you think happens to those who cannot pay for his pleasures? A choice between starving to death or being beaten to death by a tax farmer; all the peasantry living in dire fear of d’Orlaans’s Guard.”

And the Aryx slept through this. I watched the village. A mongrel dog trotted past, head held high but its tail crooked as if broken. The huts huddled close to ancient trees, bandits fading in and out between light and dappled shade, dressed in their green and brown.

I gathered my thoughts, arranged them logically. “D’Orlaans was responsible for collecting taxes,” I summed up, “and the King was not overcaring of how he did it.”

Risaine nodded. “So it was.”

“It seems nothing is true now,” I said. “I saw…” What had I seen? The Duc had committed bloody fratricide, to be sure. But had the King been any better? For this place to hold such misery could not have merely taken a month.

“You saw a bloody coup.” Risaine’s back was straight as a priest’s staff. She rubbed her fingers against her blue overdress as if there were something foul on them. “Tis a wonder it did not happen sooner. There were stories, of course, of the Court and the fêtes and festivals, merrily singing while the rest of Arquitaine groaned. Tis whispered the King was more a boylover than interested in his Damarsene wife, and the empty-headed daughter counted proof of it.”

Protest rose in me. Lisele had not been empty-headed. But she had been spoiled, I could admit as much. And, much as I loved her, Lisele had not been overgifted with wits. Twas why I so often set myself to flushing out little intrigues meant to take advantage of her.

What if Lisele had lived, and not I? Another woman of gentle birth confined to her rank might not have survived the successive shocks I had already endured. To think of my Princesse forced to face such things pained me.

Would she have been strong enough to bear them?

Risaine’s sharp eyes were on me. This hedgewitch’s gaze missed next to nothing, and asked for — or granted — precious little quarter. “You hold the Seal. The fate of every soul in this village weighs on you now. Yet you could take the throne from d’Orlaans and continue on your merry way, taxing the poorfolk to pay for your pleasures. The Blessed, it seems, would not care enough to stop you.”

I closed my eyes against the hideous thought. In the darkness behind my lids, I heard a child’s laughter. The teaching-rhyme marked out its even cadence, the priestess’s voice helping along a stumbler. Someone called out, and a woman’s voice lifted in a light lilting peasant song about Baron di Wintrefelle and the Citrine War, in the time of Archimvault the Tall.

Truth is never pleasingly spiced. I swallowed bitterness, felt the Aryx’s hum against my chest. Even though it was a gift of the Blessed, the Seal might not care for the agony of peasants.

It was merely a tool, for all its power. A tool that could slumber. And the Blessed? Perhaps they had larger concerns. At least the harvests did not fail under their care — but a single glance at this small village made me painfully aware that even that was no guarantee for common folk.

Yet Arquitaine was a rich land — what need was there for this?

“You must have wanted to show me this very much,” I said finally, when I could bear to speak.

“I never thought to have a chance to avenge myself on Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin and his foul brother. The Blessed have heard my prayers.” She did not say it piously.

“What did he do to you?” I thought of the King’s carefully curled hair and his silk and velvet, the endless banquets and Court protocol. Tristan had been rumored as the King’s catamite, early in his Court career, but I saw no evidence of that. Still, there were others — though the King was also rumored not to mind a woman’s bed when the mood struck him, either.

There were precious few of either sex who would refuse a King.

“Oh, not much. Sired a bastard and banished me from Court when the swelling began to show, so I would not damage the negotiations for his cow of a Damarsene bride. I believed a King’s promise of love, and paid for it like any fool. I was no more than another silly little Court chit to him. And my son…” She laughed, shook her head as if freeing an unpleasant thought from its confines. “No matter. I have my nephew, strong in my old age. He should have been hunting and hawking with the nobles, at the King’s table. Instead, he is a bandit and I am a hedgewitch bandit-woman, binding broken bones and salving wounded peasant hearts.” I heard a rustle of cloth and opened my eyes to find her standing before me, her hands folded. She looked thoughtful, her sharp gray eyes staring across the village’s quiet bustle. “My best revenge is this — I have shown you Henri was too self-centered to be a proper sovereign. He allowed d’Orlaans far too much power and asked no questions. He sired a princess unfit for the throne on his foreign wife, threw away a good Arquitaine heir because freeing us from the chains of paying tribute would require he bestir himself to war or diplomacy.”

I had never heard the dead Queen referred to as a “cow of a Damarsene.” It would have been highly impolitic to say that in Lisele’s part of the Court, since her mother had died in childbirth, and my Princesse often felt the lack. “My thanks for the truth, m’dama.” My voice was barely audible above the village’s tapestry of sound.

She turned to me, her fingers clenched tight against each other. Now I could see the echo of old-fashioned manners in her gestures, and I knew why she stood thus. “Truth is the best revenge, child, and I have had much time to think on the wrongs done, not merely to me, but to others. I shall tell you this further; whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you, Vianne. Tis more important than you think.”

That pricked me. “You mean d’Arcenne.” I almost said Tristan, caught myself just in time.

“Sharp tools are necessary for a sovereign. I simply warn you that you do not cut yourself.” But the spasm of distaste before she smoothed her features spoke much louder than the prettily-phrased warning.

Does she hate him because he reminds her of the King, or does she hate him for his part of the King’s injustice? Tristan would not have lent himself to this misery, would he? And he is too young to be part of her misery. I nodded slowly. Twould not be useful to argue thus with her. “My thanks.”

“Of course.” Risaine dropped her hands to her sides, loosening them with a shake. “I have other patients to physick. I think you are well enough to sit for a bit.”

I agreed, and she left me under the shifting shade of branches. I sat, listening to the song of movement all about me, and thought long and hard. The motion and noise, subtle as it was, reminded me of the bustle of Court. There was always movement in the Palais, the sense of other breathing lives. I thought best with that quiet music enfolding me.

Where was her son now? Had the conspiracy reached even into the Shirlstrienne — or was there a darker reason for her to hate the King?

I found my hand at the Aryx, one thumb stroking the curve of a metal serpent through thin fabric. I ceased with an effort. The Seal purred, a subtle vibration against my skin.

It troubled me.

I watched the small village from my perch. Every thin, haunted face accused me. I could not help but wonder how many of the Court banquets I had been excruciatingly bored through, or had eaten at with good grace, had been bought with a peasant’s blood.

Chapter Twenty

After another few days of Risaine’s constant fussing and dosing with herbal tisanes, I found myself able to bathe in a tub I helped her laboriously fill in front of the fire. It was so delicious to be clean that I stayed until the water grew cool. Afterward, she clucked and fussed over me as she chafed my hair mostly dry and braided it. She hummed as she did so, and I shut my eyes, remembering Lisele performing the same task. A high honor, but we never saw it thus. It was simply what we did — I dressed Lisele’s hair, and she dressed mine, as we had since childhood.

The memory sent a flintstrike of pain through me, yet I swallowed it. The time had come to make myself sterner. I could not hope to keep anyone safe if I did not temper what little steel I possessed.

After the bath, Risaine left me to my own devices. Every day brought more and more wounded souls to this small place, and I heard whispers of other villages hidden in the forest’s vastness. A whole province of the fled and dispossessed, taking shelter in the Shirlstrienne as children will hide behind a nurse’s skirts.

Here at the edge of the darker Alpeis forest, they did not fear the demieri di sorce. Instead, they feared d’Orlaans.

I had set myself to tidying her table of jars and herbs, and when a shadow filled the door I looked up, expecting to see Tristan. Instead, Adrien di Cinfiliet leaned against the door, his half-smile more mocking than ever. “And a good morn to you, my lady Riddlesharp.” His sharp light eyes passed through the room once, the same glance I saw Tristan use so often. Gauging the ground, or searching for enemies.

“Good morn, sieur bandit.” I set down the jar of woundrot, lining it up with the next. “M’dama Risaine went to—”

“—minister to her patients, I know. I thought you might chafe at this small cage, and came to offer my services as jester. Would you care to walk with me?” He delivered the invitation in such a light tone I was hard-pressed not to laugh.

It was, I admit, a pleasure to hear a cheerful voice. Tristan visited me daily, but he did not speak overmuch. Jierre looked in on me briefly every few mornings, and Tinan di Rocham was sober and constrained when he managed to knock on Risaine’s door. I knew not what they did the rest of the time, but I did not imagine it to be pleasant.

“I should be glad of it.” I straightened, smoothing down Tinan’s leather vest. I must have been a sight in boy’s clothes, with my long rope of hair and my fever-thinned face — for I could feel, when I touched my cheeks, the hollows left behind by illness. “If you take care to walk slow, sieur, for I am not in fit condition to dance.”

“I shall seek to avoid dancing.” He stepped out of the door as I approached, and offered his arm as soon as I moved into the open air. “Besides, I have no skill for it.”

I doubt that. “You carry a rapier, do you not?” I took his arm, glad of the support. My legs sometimes decided to tremble like a newborn colt’s.

“Tis not meant for dancing, lady Riddlesharp.” We began to amble, and I sensed he had summat to say. But his tone remained light, though his uneasiness called forth an uneasiness of my own.

For all that, it was pleasant to walk with him and for a moment pretend I was in the formal gardens, perhaps strolling with a chivalier whose witticisms required attention and politeness. “Swordplay is a cousin to dancing, sieur. I do not think you heavy on your feet.”

“Cats must land lightly. I would think dancing a cousin to something else, though.”

The entendre caught me unawares, and I coughed slightly, a hot flush rising to my cheeks. Highly improper. Yet he is a bandit, after all. I gathered my wits, preparing to do battle, and suddenly felt at home. This was a situation I was not at sea upon.

“Of course, it could merely be fear,” I remarked sweetly. “Some men do blanch more at a woman than a drawn blade.”

He acknowledged the cut with a short, barking laugh. “You have a facile tongue, Duchesse.”

“Tis a hazard of Court life, chivalier. What troubles you?” You did not come here to trade petty jests with me, more’s the pity. I could have used the relaxation of a few more moments pretending I was nothing more than a lady-in-waiting again.

Old leaves crunched underfoot, and hard-packed dirt settled under the soft leather-soled clothshoes Risaine had loaned me. Di Cinfiliet was silent until we reached the edge of the village, the swirl of Risaine’s spells hanging shimmering to our right. “I beg your pardon, d’mselle. I do not mean to offend. At least, not you, and not now.”

Interesting qualifications. “No offense taken. You seem uneasy.”

He indicated a fallen log with a nod. “Rest awhile, an it please you. Tis best to be uneasy, so close to the Alpeis. Only a fool goes blithely here.”

And how much of a fool am I, to be so blithe as to walk unaccompanied with you? I settled gratefully on the log, and he sank down next to me with a creak of boot leather and a sigh. The woods smelled of verdant life, the earth fresh from nightly rain.

There had not been a storm since we’d arrived here. That was an uneasy thought. Another followed hard on its heels.

Was it chance that we happened upon a nobleman and his aunt hiding here? Was it chance I saw Tristan in that passage, or chance that I escaped notice in the Palais? It strains the mind to think of so much luck, ill or good. Was the Aryx taking a hand in matters, leading us here unawares?

That was discouraging. Even more discouraging was the thought that gods might be stirring themselves to take an active interest in Arquitaine, as they did in the time of the Angoulême’s children. I do not grudge the Blessed their control of our land — though any good daughter of Arquitaine might wish that they would secure our borders without ado — but I was uncomfortable with the idea of being a pawn in such control. Any sane person would be, no matter how fashionably irreligious and Court-bred.

I had very little reason to doubt the Blessed at the moment. Rather than being a comfort, the thought was becoming a deadly discontent.

I glanced at di Cinfiliet’s profile. He looked much like Risaine, especially at rest, with his long nose and narrow mouth. I dropped all pretense of levity. “Speak, an it please you.”

He pushed a small bit of leaf mould aside with his boot-toe. “What are your plans, d’mselle? Summer is coming, and di Narborre haunts these woods. Our scouts report him moving hither and yon, seeking you. The pathways to Arcenne may be watched.”

My mouth dried and I settled my hands in my lap, as if I wore a skirt. “I had not thought so far ahead,” I admitted. “I have been occupied with becoming fit to ride, so we may not endanger you for longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Well enough.” He did not sound disdainful. “I have a thought, and I pause to lay it before you. You may take offense.”

“What, again? If I did not take offense at your light speech before, why should I now?” I studied the weather-tanned skin and the bright slashes of his eyes. His hair was trimmed haphazardly, and his hands were rough from use. Grime tainted his fingernails.

Still, he had an honest face, and I had no reason to mistrust him yet. He had sheltered us for days now, and if his levity had an edge, I suppose he had reason. My own levity is too sharp for common consumption many a time, and as a woman I am rarely given lee to produce it outside the safe confines of my own thoughts.

He shrugged, pursing his thin lips as if finishing a long conversation with himself. “Then I shall be blunt. I have a cadre of good men and horses. If we go swiftly, there is the thin southron pass to Navarrin. Tis little-used and dangerous, and I would lay my last copper tis not watched as the passage to Arcenne may be. If you have reason to distrust your…current position, remember you have an alternative.”

If he had bothered to look at me he would have found my jaw ajar like a stuck fish’s. Well. That is surprising, my fine bandit. And most welcome, though you cannot know why. I snapped my mouth shut and glanced down, smoothing the fabric of my breeches over my knees. The Aryx lay warm and quiescent under my shirt. “What does your aunt say of this?”

“Am I still in knee-breeches, to ask her? Yet I did seek her counsel. She is unhappy with the thought, yet will not forbid me. I never have taken well to forbidding, in any case. I am a nobleman, though I may not look it, or at least enough of one to help a d’mselle in difficulty. My duty is to see you safe.”

Charming of you, and very chivalrous. Still… “And the Captain?”

“The more to guard you, the better.” But his tone turned cool. They were ill-paired, Tristan and this man, by temperament. And, it seemed, by much more. I wondered at that. “Other men, peasants and petty nobles, have gone through the mountains. Tis a hard journey, but better than what lies behind. The Shirlstrienne holds more than just this village, and some bandits are not so fine as we. There are wolves who would as like to slit your throat as steal your purse, merely for the joy of it. Yet even they fear di Narborre and his hounds. I do not think it safe for you to remain here much longer. Rumor of a band of noblemen with a treasure is already seeping through the trees. Hedgewitch charms are all very well, but I saw the spell was unleashed on you at our first meeting. I like not the thought of witnessing it among these houses, poor as they are.”

In other words, the sooner we leave here, the better. “I will speak to Tristan. I may be able to convince him.” If logic will not work, I shall find some other road.

“The sooner the better, d’mselle. Should you find yourself in a position where your Captain’s will is not yours, remember I place myself at your disposal.”

A pretty choice. What reason have I to trust you overmuch? I did not like the thought, for he had sheltered us. Still, new caution crept into me. Could I but convince Tristan to take this far-southron route, I could perhaps overcome his determination to rout the Duc on the field of battle.

My stomach turned to a hard knot. “Why would you do such a thing, di Cinfiliet? You have no cause to wish me well or ill. We can only be a burden to you.”

He rose, a swift motion I took care not to flinch at. “Perhaps I tire of skulking in the Shirlstrienne like an animal. What better way to regain a place of honor for myself? And my…my Tante R’si grows old, and I yearn for a softer bed for her to spend her age in.” Di Cinfiliet turned to me, offering his hand. “Come, I had best take you back. She will scold my ears off if I overtire you.”

I let him draw me to my feet, his hand warm and hard against mine. He smelled of the woods and smoke, and a faint healthy tinge of maleness. He rested his left hand on his swordhilt as he regarded me, our fingers tangled together briefly.

I recovered my hand and dropped my gaze. “I thank you for your honesty, chivalier.”

He offered his arm again. “You are not an empty-headed woman, Vianne. If I may be so bold?”

It warmed me abruptly, and I slid my own arm through his. “You may, sieur Adrien. I shall speak to the Captain. Between us, we may make an impression on his stubbornness.”

“I do not hope for much. Though if anything can make an impression on that harsh clay, I suspect twill be your speaking and not mine.”

A vote of confidence, perhaps. We returned silently the way we had come, and when we came in sight of Risaine’s house under its huge, spreading willum tree, I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“I shall leave you here.” Di Cinfiliet reclaimed his arm. “Should you have need of me, d’mselle Vianne, simply say the word.” He gave me a bow, considerably more polished than his first — he must have been watching the others — and, turning on his heel, stalked away with his long loping stride.

I watched him. Sunlight fell through the leaves, and he blended into the forest’s green and brown as if he had been born to it.

My cheeks, for some reason, were flaming-hot.

That afternoon I wore a fresh set of Tinan di Rocham’s clothes as I stepped out of Risaine’s low door, carrying a bundle that was the shift I had worn while bathing and some other bits of cloth Risaine wished taken to the brook to be washed.

I threaded my way slowly through the bandit village and had almost reached its fringes before Adersahl di Parmecy fell into step beside me. “And a good afternoon to you, d’mselle,” he greeted, smoothing his mustache. “Where are you bound?”

I held up the bundle of linen. “Some of the women are doing washing down by the brook. M’dama Risaine’s due along any moment.” I tossed my damp braid over my shoulder. “I would speak to the Captain, though. Where is he?”

“Went with our bandit lordling to view di Narborre’s tracks.” Adersahl grimaced. “Also to lay traps along the approaches to the village. Di Cinfiliet is all but daring di Narborre to come and duel.”

I absorbed this. Adersahl shortened his long strides to match my slow pace. “I do not think it wise. But di Cinfiliet is the leader of this village, I suppose he does what he feels best.” And perhaps he will broach the subject to Tristan himself, and I can add my own thoughts later. Though such a turn of events is likely to make my Captain even more stubborn.

Adersahl nodded. The feather in his hat bobbed. “The Captain did ask me to watch over you today.”

My heart lightened, turned soft inside me. “I thought so.”

One of the many lean dirt-colored dogs trotted past, nose to the ground. I smelled woodsmoke, cooking food, heard a jumping-rhyme. “There are so many children here,” I said. “They do not seem so dangerous.”

“For the most part.” Adersahl took my elbow as I almost tripped over a fallen branch. “Some are criminals, escaping the King’s justice. We have kept careful watch.”

I do not think I have much to fear from them. “I’ve spoken to none but di Cinfiliet and his aunt. They seem to think I am best kept a mystery.” My fingers lifted almost of their own accord to touch the hard lump of the Seal under my shirt.

He smoothed his mustache again. Was he nervous? It did not seem possible, he was so phlegmatic. “I would agree. The less anyone knows of who you truly are, the better.”

“Adersahl.” For a moment I could not find the words I wanted. It was not ladylike to ask, but here I was in breeches, strolling about unescorted with men. Propriety could not be my sole worry. “I would ask you summat of the Captain.”

What does he think of di Cinfiliet, and his aunt? What happened to Risaine’s son? Was the King truly unconcerned with d’Orlaans and the tax farmers? How soon will we leave here, and what place is safe? Even Arcenne might not hold or hide us well.

I could not decide what to ask first, and I had to prepare my ground in other directions as well. While I framed my first sally, he neatly took me by surprise by slanting me a dark glance, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Certainly, d’mselle. Tis high time you did. Twas often a joke among the Guard that the Captain could not draw his lady’s attention away from old books and peasant magic. He has haunted your steps a long while.”

Tis not what I meant. My heart gave a thundering leap. “He did not ever seem to care before.”

“Well, he was discreet. He has enemies, d’mselle, as do you. Someone might have known enough to strike at you to harm him, for there are few surer ways.” Adersahl let go of my elbow. There was a small path worn down a hill toward the brook, and I chose my steps with care. “I think he has fancied you since he came to Court, but tis only the opinion of a lowly Guard.”

“He came to Court when I was thirteen.” Fascinating as this line of inquiry was, I had other business. “Who exactly is di Cinfiliet?”

“I suspect Tristan knows, and Jierre. But I do not. Not exactly.”

You, sieur, are a very unpracticed liar. “Risaine bore a child to the King. She implies her son is dead, and yet she has a nephew of a certain age. I have not heard the Cinfiliet name before, and it would ease my mind to know a little more.” I did not dare voice my darker imaginings.

Adersahl’s gaze met mine. I paused on the path, looking up at him.

“You are the Queen.” The stocky Guard did not smooth his mustache this time, but I sensed he wished to. As it was, he rested one hand on his rapier-hilt, and flushed like Tinan di Rocham.

I nodded, my chin set high. “Queen perhaps, but of what? A bare half-dozen of the Guard. I am not convinced of the wisdom of staying in Arquitaine for the Duc to catch us.”

He mulled this over, and I let him. Some chivalieri can be led to the water’s edge, and they will drink if you keep them there long enough. But all is lost if you try to force their muzzles down, no matter how thirsty they may be.

Adersahl was silent for a considerable while as we faced each other. When he finally spoke, twas in a level, serious tone I had not heard from him before. “Plague is spreading through Arquitaine. If the Seal is removed from the borders of the land of the Blessed, who can tell what will happen?”

I do not know the Aryx will allow itself to be so removed. Yet that is a problem I will solve when the time comes. “Tis the peasants who will suffer most,” I said quietly. “I find I believe they have suffered enough. What must I do, Adersahl? Whatever move I make, someone grieves, and there is pain aplenty.”

He cocked his head, and I saw strands of gray amid the dark curls. He was no longer young. “I do not envy you that. Yet I must say, if we are in your hands, I am content.”

I sighed, frustrated. Come, chivalier, I am inviting you to drink. “Adersahl, I am not fit for this.” I do not know half of what I wish to, and I cannot see my way through this tangle.

“Yet d’Orlaans thinks he’s fit to be a King. Can you guess why I would rather you ruled Arquitaine, d’mselle?”

For the love of the Blessed, stop being dense. I was about to reply, but the Aryx warmed against my chest. I stilled, my attention turned inward, seeking.

I heard the thunder of hooves, and men shouting. For a moment my heart leapt, thinking Tristan had returned; then a scream pierced the air. The copper of fear started to my tongue, and my hands turned hot and wet.

His face changed. Adersahl cocked his head, listening. “What is it, d’mselle?”

“I hear horses. And shouting.” I turned to retrace our steps, but Adersahl’s fingers sank into my arm, the sword-roughened hand of a Guard neither gentle nor overly harsh.

He shook his head. “Not the village. They will expect you there. Come, this way.”

I followed him, still stupidly clutching the bundle of washing. My emerald ear-drops were safe in a pocket. They were the only thing of any value I possessed, except the Seal, and the Aryx was not mine. Even if it was what they wanted of me, the Aryx is held only in trust.

Adersahl led me a good distance from the path. I heard steel clashing, and cries. Hooves resounded against the earth as fingers against a drumhead. It seemed a wonder he could not hear it; my skull rang as if the half-head was about to strike me in protest of the cacophony.

The elder Guard laced his fingers together, I stepped into them, and he lifted me into the branches of a tam tree, as if we were children in an orchard. He handed the washing up, and I clutched it to my chest.

“Climb, an it please you. I shall return with news. Here.” He lifted up a dagger that glittered briefly in the afternoon sunlight.

I leaned down, clinging to the rough bark, my damp braid spilling forward over my shoulder. “Surely tis not di Narborre?” My heart lodged in my throat. I felt like a fool the instant the words left me, for what else could it be?

He shook his head. “I cannot give you a comforting lie, d’mselle. Climb as high as you may, do not make a sound.”

I nodded. Tristan. Dear gods, let him be safe. “Be careful, chivalier.”

He made a brief noise of assent, then turned and ran back toward the village, with the step of a much younger man.

I clung to the branches, working only a little higher before my courage failed me and I decided to wait. It was a warm, bright afternoon, sunshine filtering through the treetops, a slight breeze carrying the faroff sound of something terrible. I heard one piercing scream and shut my eyes, clinging to the branches.

Risaine. Was she caught in the village? What of the shimmer of spells that kept this place hidden?

And Tristan. Where was he? Out searching for di Narborre’s tracks with di Cinfiliet. What of the rest of the Guard?

The noise grew greater, screaming and clashing steel. I clung to the tree, perched on a branch as thick as my leg, grateful the thick leaves hid me from view. But the foliage also obscured my view of everything but the tree. I could not look for danger or discover what transpired, even had I wanted to.

I rested my sweating forehead against the rough bark of the trunk, clutching at the bundle of cloth and the knife. Please let it be something else, not the Duc’s men. Please, let it be some other thing, some ordinary thing.

What ordinary thing could this be? We had tarried too long.

We? No.

I had tarried here too long, and others were paying the price.

The Sun had dropped in the sky, the light taking on a rich golden cast, when the noise finally ceased. Silence folded thick around me. I shifted uncomfortably. My body ached again — the aftermath of fever, hard riding, and now clinging in a tree. What a queenly picture I present. I had to bite back a laugh perilously close to panic.

What if night falls and I am still perched here? I listened as hard as I could. Heard only the wind through the trees and the sough of blood in my ears.

I had never noticed before what manner of silence falls with no human beings present. Since I was young, I had been surrounded by the clamor of the Court, barely a moment left to oneself, solitude grasped only in quick moments on back stairwells or a fraction of an hour hiding behind thick curtains. Even in my bedroom there had been a servant at the door, and Arioste and Lisele to listen for. Then with the Guard, I barely had enough time to find a moment for the privy — and during the day I was in the saddle with Tristan. Even in the village there were the constant sounds of human presence.

How many times had I wished for solitude, as well as the enviable freedom of men’s clothing? Now another of my wishes was granted in a way I would rather not have had.

I bit back another laugh.

The awful, ringing silence lasted through the afternoon, as I shifted every so often in the branches, aware of the deathly hush whenever the sound of trees moving broke it. Birdsong threaded through the hush, low and timid. Dusk came, purple and glorious. I saw a slender doe balanced on graceful legs wander by underfoot. I held my breath, my heart hammering, and she passed without remarking me — or perhaps being too mannerly to remark upon me.

Before the last of the light failed, I thought I heard more horses. I strained my ears, but the trick of hearing had deserted me. I could perceive nothing but the soughing of wind.

What will you do if anyone finds you, Vianne? You are a coward; you cannot spill an enemy’s blood. What will you do?

I set my jaw and peered down. I had climbed up too far to comfortably drop to the ground. I cannot tarry here forever. Night approaches, what will I do?

I was already moving, stiff and sore, dropping the bundle of wash. I flung the knife down too, judging its landing-point as best I could. I did not wish to land upon it and cause myself an injury.

I moved slowly, climbing as low as I dared. Slid my legs off the lowest branch large enough to comfortably hold my weight, clinging. The most terrifying moment was when I hung from the shelter of the tree, my hands slipping on bark, and finally fell. A moment of weightlessness, and I landed on the washing. My knee buckled, but I soon enough found myself unharmed and sprawled upon the ground, glad of Tinan di Rocham’s breeches.

I picked myself up, dusted bark and dirt from my hands, and spent a moment searching for the knife. My fingers finally closed on the hilt, and I took a deep breath. Adersahl had told me to stay, but how could I? He would have returned by now, if…

I shied away from the thought.

It took a little doing to find the trail to the brook. Once I found it, I stood, irresolute, in the shelter of a pinon tree, sweet, pungent sap dyeing the air with scent. I needed the privy, and if any of the women had been doing washing, perhaps some of them had survived?

I thought this, and then turned miserably toward the village.

I had to know.

I relieved myself behind another tam tree and picked my way back to the path just as dusk deepened and cool evening wind began to sing among the trees. The path was a little more difficult to traverse this way, for I had to force my way up a slight hill and remain poised to dive into the scant undergrowth at any moment.

It seemed to take forever, and burning choked the air the closer I drew to the buildings. Thick acrid smoke drifted between the trees, full of a sick roasted sweetness.

I found myself on the outskirts of the village, hearing crackling and snapping sounds.

I forgot soon enough to shrink back into the undergrowth. There was nothing left to hide from. Risaine’s shimmering curtain of hedgewitchery, drawn close to the village and encompassing the washing-stream, had evaporated.

Mounds of char that had once been houses now lay in smoking ruins. I did not vomit when I found the first body — it was a child, a child, so small — but twas only because breakfast had been so long ago.

It seemed a lifetime.

Hot bitterness rose in my throat. The sickly smell was roasting human flesh. I retched once, twice, and wandered from place to place, one hand across my rebelling stomach and the other clutching Adersahl’s dagger. I had not smelled the smoke because the wind had blown it away from my hiding place.

I found nothing living. Even the dogs had been slaughtered, most with arrows buried in their flesh. I saw faces that were half-familiar from my stay, each one a fresh scar upon my heart. The smallest, sodden bodies were the worst.

I found Risaine’s house, simply a smoking skeleton by now. There was no sign of Risaine’s body, though I circled the fuming wreck to be sure.

Night fell while I wandered, dazed, from flaming house to broken house. The trees had not caught fire, still wet from the spring rains. At least I would not have to worry about the entire forest burning down about me.

I realized I had seen none of the Guard among the dead. Nor had I seen Adrien di Cinfiliet and most of the quiet, thin bandit men who followed him about. The dead were women, children, dogs. The few elderly peasants who stayed in the village.

None of Tristan’s Guard. No sign of Adersahl. None of the bandits hale enough to fight.

What this meant, I could not fathom. I sank down before Risaine’s burning cottage under the spreading willum tree, the crackling of flames echoing in my head. The tree’s questing fingers that had made a veil over Risaine’s roof were scorched now, curling back singed from the heat.

Dead, all dead. Death followed me like a swain from a courtsong, dogging my steps. Inviting me to dance, then turning away to strike elsewhere.

I wept until full dark descended and the only light was a venomous glow from the smoldering ruins. Then I crept to the rear of Risaine’s house and sat with my back against the willum tree, my knees drawn up and the knife clenched in my nerveless fist. If di Narborre came back, I would strike however I could. I would not let them take me.

What will you do tomorrow? I asked myself. Tis imperative you think, Vianne, you witless worm.

Bury the dead as best I can, then strike south for Arcenne, even if that route is watched. I must keep the Aryx from the Duc. Such a thing as this must not happen again.

My free hand rose, touched the Aryx under my shirt. “Tristan,” I whispered. The Aryx’s pulse under mine was strong and steady.

Women, children, even animals, murdered. My presence had brought the attentions of di Narborre upon these people, whose only crime was to shelter me.

I wiped slick wetness from my cheeks with one soot-blackened hand. I do not know how long I hunched there, sobbing, watching the smoke and flames through blurring eyes. My neck ached, my knees throbbed, my shoulders tight as ship’s cables. I finally fell into a troubled doze, clutching the dagger, waking every time I thought I heard a footfall.

Each time I woke, I repeated to myself, No more. I will not allow this.

Never again.