The Hedgewitch Queen

Chapter Thirty-Two

I was glad to escape the usual wedding festivities; the ribald jests during supper, the escorting of the Consort to the lady’s chamber, the shouting of highly improper jokes, the showing of the linens. Instead, there was a small, quiet sup with Tristan’s parents in the Baron’s study, papers to be looked over — dispatches from several provinces, information and declarations, my head hurt to think of it all. The Baron and Baroness drafting a proclamation—whereas the Duc d’Orlaans in violation of all holy and common law murdered his brother, etc., the Aryx has chosen a new bearer, etc., Queen Vianne di Tirician-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, formerly Duchesse Vianne di Rochacheil et Vintmorecy, escaped the Duc by the grace of the gods, so on, so forth, dear gods, has taken Tristan d’Arcenne as legal Consort, loyalty, all subjects loyal to the Crown freed from the burden of taxes to d’Orlaans’s administration, so on, so forth, all aid and succor denied to d’Orlaans or his lieutenant, Garonne di Narborre.

I would much rather have been composing Tiberian quatrains until a half-head struck me. And given the agony of the half-head, that rather says something.

I ate slowly, without much appetite, and drank enough straw-yellow wine to make the world spin slightly when Tristan finally rose to his feet and offered me his hand. “Vianne?”

I nodded; he steadied me as I gained my feet. I wore the slippers he had brought me, and Tristan himself had taken off his boots before supper. His own slippers were leather-soled, impervious to the stone.

“Do not worry,” the Baroness said, patting my other hand. “Tomorrow will be easier, dear. I promise.”

“I certainly pray so,” I answered, my tongue strangely dull in my mouth. “I doubt I could stand another day like today.”

“Wedded life is a trial, child.” The Baroness’s eyes all but sparkled. “Gods know how I have survived it.”

The Baron made a slight sound, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Do not frighten her, Sílvie. Tomorrow is soon enough for everything else. And may I say, Your Majesty, that I feared the worst before meeting you. I am far more sanguine about the future of Arquitaine than I have been since news of King Henri’s untimely passing reached me.”

I felt only weary surprise, and a great longing to settle my face against a pillow. “My thanks for the compliment, sieur.” I was too weary to even think of making a courtesy, though I was sore tempted to give him a subtly cut-rate one. “If I manage to live up to your standards, I shall be none the worse for it.”

That earned me a very startled, very blue glance from the Baron, who set his pen back in his inkwell. The Baroness laid her hand on his shoulder. She wore dark green velvet, her fair skin contrasting with the rich material in the mellow lamplight. Together, they were a beautiful painting — and the way her lips pursed told me she could barely contain merriment at my ill-tempered sally.

Tristan drew me out into the hall. “Well.” He nodded to the guards, who both saluted him. “Tis the first time I have ever seen my father struck speechless.”

“I do not wi—,” I began, but he waved it away.

“No need, m’chri. He has ever been hard to please. When not well-nigh impossible.” Tristan walked slowly enough that I was not breathlessly trotting beside him, and we threaded through corridors that did not feel familiar.

I shrugged, searching for something to say. My heart had taken to pounding again. I found a subject not likely to lead us into war or treachery, with a sigh of relief. “Among the R’mini, there would be music, and dancing, and drinking rhuma — but none for the Consort, he stays sober. Sometime during the dancing, the wedded pair would slip away, and pass their honey-night in a wagon, or under the stars.”

Oh, dear. Perhaps this is not such a safe subject after all. My nerves were most definitely not steady enough for this.

Tristan’s smile took me unawares. “You sound different when you speak of them, Vianne.” He glanced down at my hand caught in his. I could not remember how we came to be walking, our fingers linked as if we courted. “Almost, dare I say it, happy.”

An unfamiliar smile teased at my own mouth. “They were kind enough, and brave to a fault. If the Aryx were to go elsewhere, I think I might travel with them, would they have me.”

“Why?” We reached the door of his chamber while I was still mulling the question. I halted, seeing no guards, and Tristan stopped too.

Could I explain? I thought on the question. “Because they did not want me to be other than I was. To them, I was V’na di R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan. That was enough. A poor R’mini hedgewitch…and yet twas better than Court, where every smile was a lie and every glance a danger.” Intrigue under every skirt, every glance a potential trap, and my Princesse to keep safe at all costs. Poor Lisele, she did try…but she could not see the venom under a honeyed word. The sweetness would blind her.

He cupped my face in his callused hands. He seemed to be…trembling? Tristan d’Arcenne, the Captain of the Guard, shaking?

Twas a day for miracles at every turn.

He gazed down at me for a long moment, his jaw tight and his expression odd. “I would free you, Vianne. Or follow, wherever you led.”

I bit my lip. Would you? Or is this merely another way to serve the King, and a softer service than others you have been called upon for? “Why?”

The question took him aback. He examined my face, his fingers warm against my cheeks. The trembling would not cease, it seemed. He stroked my jawline with his thumb. “Do you not know, even now? I am an utter fool for you, Your Majesty. I would give up my honor for you, and count the cost small.”

I must tell him. My breath would not come smoothly. It seemed I could not fill my lungs. “I have never done this before, Tristan.” I tried to speak firmly, but what came out was a frightened whisper.

Did that ease him? Or had his shaking infected me, so I could not feel his? “I know,” he answered softly. “Or at least, I guessed. Else I might have had to fight a duel or two more, at Court. You noticed none of your admirers, m’chri, saving them from untimely doom. Wise of you, no?” He spoke lightly, but with a serious face. It won a shaky laugh from me. If he had taken any other tone, it might have made me weep. But instead, he kissed my forehead gently. “Come. A few more steps, tis all.”

It was kind of him, to speak of other admirers. Still, there had been none — or none I could risk granting a glance to, since the danger of them seeking to compromise me for some dark reason involving Lisele’s position had been too great for me to indulge myself.

I have a duty too, Tristan. Perhaps we are locked into a pair of duties, like two cart wheels, and we shall never truly touch. I let him lead me into his chambers. He locked the door behind us. I stood just inside the door, my arms crossed, cupping my elbows in my palms. My nervousness demanded I speak further. “Truly. I have never done this before. I never found a man I would share myself with before, or a man who would not seek to use me.”

He flinched, and I wondered at that. But his voice was steady and calm. “I would not hurt you, Vianne. Or frighten you.”

The only light was from the fire and two candles, a low glow that was kind to his sharp face. “I am not frightened.” I merely do not wish to fail at this. I can turn aside a man’s interest with a pretty word and play the game of courtsongs, but this is something different.

This is something more, for all I suspect you of serving a dead King with it.

He approached me cautiously, folded me in his arms, rested his chin atop my head. “Shhh, m’chri,” he whispered, soothing. “I would not touch you until you are ready. I do not wish your fear of me.”

“Fear you?” Sudden laughter seized me. I swallowed it. “No, of course not. I am simply new to this. Be gentle.”

“As gentle as I can, as always, for you.”

I stepped away, freeing myself from his embrace. He stood, hands fallen to his sides, watching me intently.

This may be battlechess, and you are required to sacrifice. Think of it that way.

Yet I did not wish to.

I took his hand and led him to the bed. I stood for a long moment, undecided, before I turned and looked down at his swordbelt.

It took a little tugging, but my clumsy fingers finally undid the belt. He took his sword, leaned it against the night table, and I started to unlace the throat of his shirt, my fingers gradually stopping their shaking. As long as I focused on the problem of laces, I could ignore what loomed afterward.

He, in his turn, simply stood still, frozen. I glanced up at him. “Are you…?” I could not ask if he were well. Was this disagreeable to him?

He was pale. His forehead was damp. “If you knew,” he said softly, “how many times I…wished for this, you would laugh at me.”

The knot inside my chest eased all at once. “Hm.” I concentrated on the unlacing, slowly. “I do not think I would laugh, m’cher.” The endearment felt natural. “This might go a trifle easier if you kissed me, Tristan.”

The moment I said it, I could not believe something so forward had left my mouth.

“It might.” His blue gaze fixed on my face, as if I were the north star and him a traveler setting his course. “But then you would close your eyes, Vianne, and I might miss seeing them.”

“You have developed a courtsinging tongue.” I freed the laces of his shirt, finally, and he stripped it off over his head. Muscle moved under his skin, and scars striped along his ribs — battle scars, dueling scars. There were two fresh-reddened ones, and I flattened my hand along them, carefully, marveling at the feel of his skin, so different from mine. He leaned in to my touch. I bit my lip, thinking of the wounds. “Where did you gain these, chivalier?”

“I cannot remember,” he said hoarsely. “Vianne.”

“Well.” I looked up at him, my fingers still on his skin. He seemed vulnerable without his sword and his shirt, and of a sudden I was no longer so uncertain. “Help me unlace my dress, then.”

He did, and when the dress was half unlaced, falling from my shoulders, he slid the ribbon from my braid and ran his fingers through my hair until it fell over my shoulders. “Gods—,” he said, and I let the dress fall.

I am a coward. Please, gods, please. Do not let me fail at this.

His mouth met mine, his hands working to free himself from his breeches, and I laughed. I could not help myself, we were both shaking, and he kissed me blindly, desperately. The sound I made, laughing while he kissed me, made it even more nervously amusing, until his hands closed around my bare shoulders. I gasped, taking a mouthful of air flavored with his breath. Then, just as with the kiss, it seemed the knowledge of what would happen sprang into my body. I had heard ribald songs and seen lovers before, but it seemed so different — perhaps because I was now one-half of a whole, perhaps because Tristan kept breathlessly repeating my name, perhaps because I cried out when I lost the title of maid. Or perhaps it only seemed different because I finally understood why lovers chose dark corners, and why they were blind to all else during their love.

He was not as gentle as he could have been, but I did not complain, for he shook with need. Little broken phrases came out of him, endearments, while I simply closed my eyes and gave myself up to him. When he finally shuddered to a stop in my arms, I held him and whispered soothing nonsense in his ear until he slid away to the side and took me in his arms, printing kisses over my face.

Well, so that is what they mean. A great weariness settled on me.

“Vianne,” he whispered against my cheeks, my throat, my breasts. The Aryx pulsed under his touch, its silent song taking on a new depth.

I let out a long breath. Twas irrevocable. Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort. Gods grant it does not kill him.

He finally lay still, my leg over his, my head on his shoulder, his arm under my head, his other hand stroking my shoulder, my hair tangled over the pillow. I sighed, and his fingers paused, continued.

“Are you well?” he finally asked, and I wondered if he was as uncertain now as I had been before.

“I am well,” I assured him, tracing my finger up his ribs. He took in a sharp breath, tensing. “My thanks, chivalier.”

“Surely we are past formality.” He caught my wrist, bringing my palm to his mouth, pressing a kiss against my skin. I would be sore tomorrow, and my thighs were sticky. I wanted a bath — but not just yet. Not while he held me so closely. “I am sorry, Vianne. I was not gentle enough.”

I shrugged, moving my cheek against his shoulder. “I expected little else.” I wondered why Alisaar was so worshipped, if this was all love was.

“The second time is better, I’ve heard,” he said against my palm, causing a shiver through my entire body.

“Is it?” I asked curiously, and he laughed.

“Much. Speak to me, Vianne. Tell me what is in that marvelously sharp brain of yours.”

I sighed again. “I am thinking that I am lucky, and this is a dream. And any moment I will wake at Court, in my own bed — or in a R’mini wagon, bumping through the wilderness.”

“No dream.” He kissed my palm yet again.

“Tis merely a feeling.” I touched his lips with my fingertips, marveling afresh at the feel of his skin. In the dark, it was easier to speak to him. “I was lost without you, Tristan.”

“I will never leave your side again.” His voice shook.

Were his cheeks damp? I brushed them, wondering if this was part of the event. “Tis well. For I must confess I had not an idea of what to do once I lost your guidance. I wish I could give you the Aryx.” My eyes closed, heavy as lead.

He shuddered as if stung. “I would make a terrible King, Vianne. I know this.”

Whatever reply I would have made was lost, for I fell into slumber in his arms.

In the darkest region of the night, I woke, screaming, struggling against Tristan’s hands. “No! No! Lisele! Do not!”

“Vianne!” He caught my wrists, held me, kissed my temple, I collapsed against him. “Hush, Vianne. I am here. Gods above, how did you bear it?”

It seemed I would never reach the end of weeping, not even as he kissed me, my forehead, my cheek, and finally my mouth. He kept repeating, over and over, that he was sorry, that he was here, and that I had nothing to fear. He took his time, gently, until the terror of the dream faded, replaced by the reality of Tristan d’Arcenne. His skin against mine, his hands sliding up my arms, cupping my face, his thumbs wiping away my tears.

It was the only defense against my despair, and I took it, grateful he was there to give. In his arms I could forget, however fleetingly.

And he was right — it was far better the second time.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Adrien di Cinfiliet returned a fortnight after my wedding, bringing dispatches from the road and the news that all was quiet. His small band of dusty, weary men had harried di Narborre forth from Arcenne, but I knew better than to hope the Duc’s dog gone for good.

Jierre di Yspres brought the news of Adrien’s return while I was at chai with the Baroness, and I hurriedly excused myself. Adersahl, who had accompanied me to chai in Tristan’s stead — since the Baron had wished his son’s attendance at a drilling of the Citadel Guard — paced at my side as I found my way down to the stables, a seething mass of activity.

I saw Adrien, his head bent together with a slim dark man — one of his bandits, I surmised, for he looked passing familiar and had the gaunt fierceness of all di Cinfiliet’s chivalieri. Tristan had told me some of the Arcenne nobles asked to ride with Adrien on his border patrols, and there was even a song in the lower quarters of the city, extolling his almost-suicidal bravery against di Narborre and the men hoping to bear the Duc’s authority as King into the province. It seemed a brutal business, cat-and-mouse ambush, but at least di Narborre had not wanted to stay in Arcenne.

It was a long way from the Citté, and di Narborre’s numbers were too few.

“Adrien!” His name bolted free, and the high note of a woman’s voice cut through the confusion of men’s cries. Di Cinfiliet straightened, pushing his ragged hair back from his silvery eyes, and a hot bolt of shame lanced me.

“My lady Riddlesharp,” he said as I reached him, giving the man at his side a nod. The bandit bowed his head and disappeared, and Adrien’s dusty horse whickered. “I hear you braved the Alpeis without me.”

His tone — informal, easy, yet not mocking — brought me to a halt just outside his horse’s stall. A stable boy pushed past me with a murmured apology, tugging his forelock. The heat-haze reek of horses rose thick to my nose.

“I did indeed, though I would rather not have. Tis good to see you, I thought—” My throat did not seem to be working properly. “You look weary,” I finished lamely. “I will not trouble you further until you have had lee to rest and break your fast. Do they treat you well here? What news? Are you well?” Risaine, I wanted to say. I beg your pardon, noble bandit, and I fear you will not give it.

His face changed, his lips thinning. Dust clung in his hair, and instead of the brown and green of the Shirlstrienne he wore plain, serviceable cloth, doublet and shirt and breeches, good boots that had seen hard use. Still, his hair was indifferently trimmed, and the weather had darkened his skin still further. “They treat me well enough; I am out riding the country more often than not. Arcenne holds its breath before the plunge.” His eyes flicked past my shoulder, perhaps at Adersahl, who had flattened himself against one stall door, staying out of the way. He had regained some little of his bulk, had di Parmecy, though the former glory of his mustache was missing. “I sent the dispatches up to the Baron. Tis a wonder any of the northern ones came through, the land is thick with d’Orlaans’s spies and dragoons.”

There was a fey gleam to his light eyes I did not know if I liked. Had I not been so quick at reading glances at Court, I might have missed the flash of sullen anger crossing his countenance.

“I am passing glad to see you.” Vianne, you idiot, he needs a bath and a good meal. He is thin as a Seivillia rapier. “I shall leave you to it, and speak with you anon.”

He caught my arm as I turned. “I would have audience with you, Vianne. But privately. There is summat I would say to you not meant for prying ears.”

My heart leapt to my throat. Risaine. “Of course. Have them bring you to my study in the West Tower when you are ready. I…” The words rose in my throat, were denied, and fell away. “I crave your pardon, sieur Adrien di Cinfiliet, and I would beg for it without prying ears as well.”

He released me, a faint gleam of surprise entering his gaze, and I turned away. Adersahl caught my elbow to maneuver me through the now-orderly confusion of horses being unsaddled and cared for. They had all seen hard use, it was evident, and were coated with road dust.

We left the stables, turning to the right, and Adersahl stopped as I did when we rounded the corner. The main bailey was full of echoes, and I leaned against warm white stone, turning my face up to sunlight reflecting from the pale wall towering opposite.

“D’mselle?” Adersahl sounded uncertain.

“A moment, an it please you.” My voice was thick. “I merely need a moment to recollect myself.”

He stood silently aside, as the noise inside the stables died down and Adrien’s men trooped off to the barracks set aside for their use. I closed my eyes, feeling my pulse in my throat and wrists. The Aryx sang, rippling under the Sun’s welcome gaze.

My shoulders came up, I opened my eyes, and I stepped back into the wagon traces of my duty. Adersahl said nothing as we wended our way back, for which I was grateful indeed.

The afternoon kept me occupied with plenty of work, the dispatches to be read — news was still not complete enough for my taste, and the country was in a roil. At least some news was reaching us, mostly from Tristan’s network of informers left over from his days as the King’s Left Hand. A cadre of sturdy Arcenne peasants had dispersed through the border provinces to spread our own news, and sent back by hook or crook such things as might be useful. In some of the provinces — Siguerre directly to the west, and Markui to the south, as well as Dienjuste with its fertile fields — the lords had declared themselves openly against d’Orlaans, and all manner of correspondence flooded in from them. The post service was also so far uninterrupted, which was all to the good. Whoever the Duc had appointed as Minister for that department had not tightened his grip sufficiently to cease deliveries to restive provinces.

Twas enough to make one’s head spin. That afternoon also saw the arrival of the cranky old Conte Siguerre, who looked me over and snorted something a trifle impolitic at seeing the Aryx against my chest on its chain. Yet the Baron recommended him, and once I had exchanged words with the hatchet-nosed man I could see why. He was disagreeable, true, but under that crust lay a mind both fine and loyal. As the beginning of my Queen’s Council, with Perseval d’Arcenne, he would do very well indeed.

I collapsed into a chair after he and the Baron had trundled off to dinner, rubbing at my temples. “Lock the door. As you love me, Tris, if I must listen to one more—”

Tristan shot the bolt on the study door, but he smiled. “My mother will wish to see you for dinner. And you gave a good accounting of yourself, m’chri. I have rarely seen Siguerre’s temper so sweetened.”

“Dear gods, you mean he had put his best boot forward?” I rubbed harder at my temples, seeking to dispel the headache. Twas not a half-head, but painful nevertheless. “I never dreamed this would be so disagreeable. Dispatches, proclamations, drafts, plans — I swear I shall throw the next set of papers out the window. Where does one find all this paper? Tis a wonder the forests are still standing!”

He crossed the comfortable, cluttered study, his blue eyes alight, and leaned over the chair to kiss me. Miraculously, the headache had abated by the time his mouth pulled away from mine. “At least there is an antidote,” he murmured. “Think of the maying bonfire we could build of all this.”

“Hm.” My hand crept up to slide behind his nape, his shorn hair growing out fast. “Give me the antidote again, m’cher, and we shall see. The maying is a whole winter away.”

“Always so bound by propriety—”

But I had pulled his mouth back down to mine, and the world once again stopped its course.

Until there was a knock at the door.

I groaned, and Tristan sighed. “Probably someone sent to fetch you to dinner. Mére says she hardly sees you.” He kissed my forehead, stroked my cheek, and strode to the door as I pulled myself upright, smoothing back a strand of hair that had come loose from my braids. Twas such a relief to be able to dress my hair properly again; the braids in the style of di Rocacheil suited me.

Tristan pulled the door open.

Alerted by the sudden silence, I took two steps forward, enough to see Adrien di Cinfiliet enter as Tristan stood aside. He had bathed, and his rough-trimmed hair was not quite so shaggy. His gaze swept the room and lighted on me, and again my throat sought to close.

“Adrien.” I sounded breathless. “Yes. I beg your pardon for the door; we just finished a very disagreeable meeting.”

His sudden smile did wonders for his lean face, and I saw another resemblance there. It gave me pause, my brain suddenly making a connection it had been struggling with for months.

He did not merely look of Risaine’s family. He looked so much like her it took the breath away, especially when his entire face shone with that smile. He also looked very much like a certain hawknosed, gray-ringleted, now-dead man — though that man would not have suffered the weather to darken his skin so.

Well, of course. And I am a silly little fool not to have seen it sooner, though I did suspect. Relief and fresh shame rose in my chest, and I smoothed my skirts with my hands. “Tristan, an it please you, attend your mother. Convey my regrets for my lateness. Tell her I shall be along to dine with her as soon as I may, but not to wait on my account.”

Tristan paused, his eyes darkening, and his gaze snapped to Adrien. Who calmly returned his glance, with no trace of the smile he had worn just a moment ago.

I opened my mouth to explain—I owe this man an apology, and I would give it privately—but Tristan nodded curtly, one hand on his swordhilt. “As you will it, Vianne.” The faint emphasis on my name sounded so intimate I could have blushed, were I not so suddenly puzzled. “I shall wait for you. Sieur.” He gave di Cinfiliet a short nod and was gone, sweeping the door to with a leashed, precise little click.

What was that? Did I not know better, I would think him jealous. The notion was driven out of my head by Adrien’s sigh as he dropped into a chair. “Your pardon, my lady Riddlesharp, but I am weary to the bone.” His tone was light enough, but the glint in his eye gave me pause.

“It is no matter.” I gathered my courage, my hands clasping before me. “Sieur…” It sounded bloodless, so I began again. “Adrien. I would beg your pardon. I am sorry for your loss.”

Beyond the casements, the Sun sank red in the sky, painting half di Cinfiliet’s face with the glow. “You mean Risaine.” His gaze focused past me, sightless, to the shelves of books and the two swords hanging crossed over the mantel. “Yours was not the hand that performed that deed. Though I…I thank you, for your concern.”

His throat sounded as full as mine. I looked at the scattered paper on the top of the long table we had used this afternoon. An empty winecup from the afternoon’s meeting pointed its blind bowl at me. “Had we not sheltered so long with you, it might not have happened. I…I should have insisted we leave.” There, I have said it.

Leather creaked as he moved, and he sighed. “You have enough to carry, d’mselle. Do not carry this. The fault is mine. I should have sent her south a half-year ago; there is an estate in Navarrin that would have welcomed her. In truth, I did not because I could not bear to be without her. She is—was—all my family.”

I felt his gaze on me, and lifted my own. One of his eyebrows had lifted slightly, and his mouth was a grimace of bitter pain. Oddly enough, the resemblance to King Henri was more marked when his features turned themselves graven, despite my never having seen the King bear such an expression.

I took my courage in both hands. “Not all your family. We share some blood, you and I.”

“So you’ve guessed.”

“I have.” And this is welcome news to me, in more ways than one. You cannot imagine how welcome. “I am proud to claim you as kin, Adrien. It will not balance out the wrong done you, but—”

“I will balance those scales soon enough, and in my own way.” He pushed himself to his feet, restlessly. “Di Narborre will feel my steel in his gullet before this matter reaches its end. Tis not what I meant to speak of, though.”

He strode to the window as my heart eased its frantic thumping. “Oh.” I sounded blank. “I must confess, I have thought of little else all day. Of the wrong done you and my part in it.”

“You had no part in that wrong. Do not seek to take any.” He made a slight dismissive movement, halting at the casement. With the bloody light behind him, his hair took on russet tones. “My offer still stands, m’cousine. If I may be so bold.”

Tears sprang hot to my eyes, prickling. “You may.” I cast about for a kerchief, found none, and wondered if I could clear my nose on a dispatch. It would certainly express my sentiment toward such things. “You may, m’cousin. I think together we shall deal extremely well.”

“Perhaps. If we may trust each other. I am a backwoods bandit, and you a noble lady.”

I rubbed my hands together briskly. “I think we may trust each other as far as kin, Adrien — and we are kin in a very particular way. D’Orlaans is no longer the only alternative for Arquitaine.” The immensity of my own forthrightness almost shocked me. “You would hardly be half as intelligent as I suspect you to be, had you not already thought of this.” In other words, if you harbor an ambition, be plain with it. Gods willing, the Aryx may see you as far more fit than me.

If it caught him off his guard, he did not show it. “That gaud at your neck does not concern me. If I wanted more, I would have it. I would have braved the Citté and done it as a nobleman. It suited me to stay in the Shirlstrienne, my lady Riddlesharp, and while we are kin — and I glad of it, I would add — I would not wish the burden of that thing.” His lip curled, but only briefly. “Besides, as your Captain pointed out, if that bit of sorcery-soaked metal sought my company, twould have had it and to spare by now.”

So, Tristan has discussed this with you. Interesting. What else have you said to each other, the Captain and the bandit? Silence filled the room, though the papers on the table stirred uneasily under a wind from nowhere. I found myself clutching the Aryx, digging my fingernails under it, but the obstinate thing refused to budge. Even with Adrien in the room, it would not loose its grip on me. It seemed fused to my dress instead of my flesh, and the uncomfortable idea that if I tore at the fabric the Seal would merely take advantage of it to sink into my skin was enough to make me queasy.

“You see?” Adrien sounded bitterly unsurprised. “Tis yours, and I am no di Narborre, to kill a woman. Do not insult me, m’cousine. I will brook it from you, but I would rather not.”

I uncramped my fingers with an effort. My throat was dry. “I mean no insult.”

He relaxed, much as a cat will suddenly sink into sleeping. “I know. Nor do I. I have not the pretty manners of your Guard.”

“Manners may cover many faults, sieur bandit. You, at least, are honest. Or honest enough.”

He caught my levity and grimaced good-naturedly. “Small compliment you pay me, m’cousine. Now that we are in accord, I would speak on other things.” Another broad, wolfish smile, so genuinely amused I could not help returning it.

“As you like.” I wished I could lean against the table or a chair, to bolster my knees. They were decidedly unsteady.

“I do not think it safe here for you, Vianne.” Another mercurial change — his tone was deadly level, and his face had lost all trace of amusement. “D’Orlaans has been suspiciously quiet, and I hear fragments that make me uneasy. I hear of foreigners in general and Damarsene in particular. He may seek to bring their fine army to Arquitaine, and if that happens…”

If that happens the land will run with blood, Aryx or no. The strength ran out of my legs and I sat down, hard, in a happily convenient chair. My wits raced. “He would not risk it. No man who means to hold Arquitaine as a King would risk that. We cannot fight d’Orlaans and the Damarsene at the same time, no matter how the Baron rattles his sword. It would be madness. The entire country will tear itself apart.” Breathless, I halted.

But you may not be dealing with an opponent who cares for the damage to what he sees as his possession, Vianne. Some men will mar a thing so no other may hold it, and count the cost small. I swallowed dryly, glanced longingly at the empty wineglass. A draught would certainly bolster me now.

Adrien shrugged, a supple movement. “Still. It does not strike me that d’Orlaans would balk at more blood, having already spilled his share and more. In any case, he may contract corps of mercenaries to fill his ranks, and think of paying for such an act much later, when his grasp on power is secure.”

When I am dead or force-wedded to him, you mean. And I had not thought of it in that fashion. “Dear gods.”

“I would not worry just yet. As you say, it is madness. Yet the mere thought makes me uneasy.” He turned from the window to face me, his silvery eyes glowing as the Sun’s dying bloodied the entire casement, gilding his hair and the buckle on the leather bowstrap crossing his chest. “Should the situation become dire, I stand ready — and every man who owes allegiance to me, few as they are, stands ready as well — to take you over the border into Navarrin. There, at least, you will not be in danger of losing your life in a fool’s gambit.”

It was good I was already in the chair, for I could not feel my legs. My hands also seemed numb. “I thank you for the offer, m’cousin. But Tristan…I do not think I could flee without him.” And taking the Aryx from the borders of Arquitaine…who can tell what may happen, if I perform such a feat?

Would I even survive the experience? The Seal has never left the land since the Angoulême received it from the joined hands of Danshar and Jiserah. Or so the legends say.

Adrien shrugged. “Ah, well. He is welcome to come along. If he prizes you as he should, it will not give him much pause to place your safety above his own games.” He folded his arms. “I leave as soon as dark truly falls. There is still work to be done outside the walls, and di Narborre to watch for.”

“You will not tarry? I would speak more with you, Adrien.” And I would hear you speak more of Tristan. What ill will do you bear him? “I like not the idea of losing a cousin so soon after finding him.”

“Tis safer for me among my men, especially if your Captain has guessed my blood. I do not put it past him to consider me a threat.” His half-smile chilled me a little, and I could not find the words to protest. Still, I made a soft, inarticulate sound, and he shook his dark head. “Soft, lady Riddlesharp. I do not speak against his honor. I would not, to save you discomfort.” He studied me as shadow deepened in the casement, and I heard the bell clang sharply in the South Tower as the changing of the Guard was announced.

He was much taller than I and spare of frame, but I hazarded that in a certain light I might bear a small resemblance to him. At least, I hoped so.

“I do not like it.” My voice startled me, I spoke as if in a dream. “Each toss of the dice worsens this game.”

“You are still alive.” He left the window, his boots clicking on the stone floor. “I shall take my leave of you now. If you need aught, send for me. I shall keep scouts waiting for your word.”

I nodded. “I will send for you, or await your next visit. Take care with yourself, Adrien.” If I could have made my legs work, I would have forced myself to my feet to perhaps embrace him, as improper as that might be. Still, my heart ached.

“And you, with your sharp wits. Take care yourself.” He gave me a Court bow, and I was startled into a thin little laugh.

“You do that as if you were born to it.”

His smile surfaced, then just as quickly was lost as he glanced to the door. “I was, was I not? And so were you. Between us we shall find a way, Vianne. I have no doubt of it.”

With that he left, without looking back. The door closed and I heard his footsteps, reached blindly up to feel the hot salt water on my cheeks. I smoothed the tears away, over and over again, wishing I had a kerchief in my skirt-pocket.

You cannot let him leave thus. The thought spurred me and I rose on numb feet, held to the table for a moment to brace myself. You must say something else, Vianne. Something kind, perhaps. He is all the kin you have left, no matter how tenuous the connection. At the very least give him something.

My fingers crept from my tear-wet cheek to my ear, where a familiar weight dangled.

My emerald ear-drops.

I ran for the door.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I ran on slippered feet, took a wrong turn at the end of the hall. No Guard stood outside my door, for Sílvie’s sitting room was merely down a winding stair and along a pleasant garden path from the study. I doubled back, noiseless except for the swishing of my skirt, and took another set of stairs — those leading to a gallery that would take me to the bailey — in a rush. I heard voices ahead and ran down a torchlit hall, slowing as I approached the open arch to the gallery and stopping short, for the tones had turned harsh.

Court-bred instinct froze me on one side of the arch, and I peered around it to see the gallery, brightly lit with a reflected sunset, and three men in a tableau that made my breath catch.

Jierre di Yspres stood in quarter-profile to me, his hand resting on his swordhilt and his entire posture betraying tension. Yet that was not what made me draw back into shadow, sensing danger.

Tristan d’Arcenne faced Adrien di Cinfiliet in the gallery. I could not see his face, for it was shadowed, but the gleam of his eyes was soft and deadly. Soft and deadly too was his tone, the quiet perilous voice that turned my hands cold.

“You and I shall come to a disagreement someday, bandit.” He did not move, and the fading light fled even faster from the chill in his voice.

“Is that so.” Adrien’s shoulders were tense, yet his tone was calm, without its usual mocking edge. I breathed out softly in relief, but caught myself anew when he continued. “Not today, then?”

“I would not stain my honor by dueling a man who has none.” The words were clipped, the cut direct. My hands turned to fists, rubbing against the velvet of my skirts. I had drawn back, instinctively seeking the deepest shadow, the same instinct warning me to stay unseen. It was as if I were in the passage again, my skirts held back and the Minister Primus choking.

Adrien was silent for a long moment, and the sharp unsmell of violence drifted in the gallery’s warm air. The pops and crackles of a building settling itself for the night began to tick softly, and I wondered if I should step through the arch, cough, or make some noise to distract them, and avert the brewing storm. I peered into deepening gloom, the Sun having fled, full dusk settling in the sky. Glowlamps hung along the gallery began to diffuse their light, but it would take an hour for them to reach full strength.

“What honor do you have left, Captain? And if you challenge me to a duel, there is a dark-eyed lady who will not think kindly of it.” The suddenly-regained mockery in Adrien’s voice took my breath away. I leaned against the wall, my hot forehead longing for the touch of cool stone.

Tristan’s reply was not mocking. Instead, it was quiet, conciliatory, and utterly dangerous. “Go carefully, di Cinfiliet. If you threaten her — or if it seems likely to me that you will—I will not hesitate.”

Adrien’s laugh was a knife to the chest. “I am no threat to her, vilhain. You would do well to be cautious yourself. You are not such a secret to me as you are to our d’mselle.” He laid particular stress on the our, and pushed past Tristan, their shoulders striking. “Besides,” he said as he walked away, his bootheels clicking, “I look forward to the day all is revealed.”

He vanished into the darkness at the other end of the gallery. There was a soft sound as the door to the bailey opened, his gaunt figure silhouetted for a moment against the purple dusk outside.

Jierre relaxed a trifle, his shoulders dropping. I drew back further, behind the arch, and prayed they would not notice me.

“It can be arranged,” di Yspres said after a long silence. “Captain?”

What can be arranged? Are you asking what I think you are, Lieutenant? Another long pause. My heart was bitter in my throat. Be logical, Vianne. They do not like each other at all. Yet there is somewhat else here. What am I to think of this? I am spying in a corner, and I do not know what occurred before I came along.

It could not have been much; I had run to catch Adrien. What had I missed?

“He is useful enough.” Tristan’s tone had taken back some of its wonted warmth. He did not sound so furious now. “For now. Our concern is d’Orlaans, not a backwoods bandit.”

“The Queen?” I heard faint sounds, their boots on stone. Were they coming toward me, or away?

“She has worries enough.” Now Tristan sounded heavy, and weary. “I would not add one more.”

Are they coming toward me, or going away? Please, gods. The Aryx cooled against my skin, its muted song threading through my head. I reached up, clutching at the Seal and the velvet of my bodice, one hard supple curve against my thumb.

“I do not think she will break,” Jierre said.

Away. They were moving away. I slumped against the wall. Tristan’s reply was almost too far away to be distinguished, but I strained my ears.

“She may not break, but I would shield her from all I can. Come, I am due at dinner.”

I stood there trembling, the chill of stone seeping through my dress. Copper filled my mouth.

I must take care to keep them apart. For if the man I loved and my only remaining kin came to blows, what would I do? True, I had just discovered my kinship with Adrien, and I could not weigh him against my Consort.

Still, they had both sheltered me, in their fashion.

I would shield her from all I can. The words made my heart turn warm and soft inside my chest. Men flung harsh words at each other sometimes, and they were both weary and strained.

You are not such a mystery to me as you are to our d’mselle.

It meant little, for Tristan was not a mystery to me. Or if he was, he was the mystery of a man I wished to spend my life decoding. He was my Consort.

All the same, I wished the Aryx had chosen Adrien. If I let it take me, if I wandered through those doors of sorcery, could I find the one that would teach me how to shift this burden from my shoulders?

And onto his? You would wish this on anyone?

Perhaps not, but certainly he was better fit for it. Why the Seal persisted in this folly was beyond me.

I gathered myself as best I could and retraced my route to the turning that would take me to Sílvie’s sitting room. I could not speak of this, and there would be no need to, as I suspected Tristan would not, either. I would merely resolve to keep him and Adrien separated. It should not be too hard.

An uncomfortable thought remained. Were I called to intervene, I suspected I would choose my Captain. I had lived without kin before.

I did not wish to live without my Consort.

I was right. Two weeks passed, and Tristan made no mention of Adrien. I was glad of it, and held my own peace.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The door flung itself open, banging against the wall with a violence that gave my heart an ugly shock. Jierre di Yspres strode into the room, a scroll clutched in his fist. “Your Majesty. News.”

“Dear gods. What?” I gained my feet, paper shuffling on the tabletop. Tristan’s hand eased itself from his swordhilt, and I noticed how he was suddenly between me and the door. How quickly had he moved to set himself there?

“A message.” Jierre strode grimly through a square of sunlight from the open window. Tristan’s father had offered me the use of Arcenne’s library, a pleasant book-walled room that looked out onto the garden, once it became apparent the study was far too small. I was glad of it, for every day seemed filled with nothing but paper and unpleasantness — dispatches, reports, decisions to make, Councils to attend. It was small wonder the King had only rarely attended to his daughter — if he had been choked with this much paperwork I did not much blame him. “From the traitor himself, d’mselle, and addressed to you.”

What now? At least tis a scroll and not an army. I took the offending article with numb fingers and looked at Tristan. “I think your father had better hear of this.”

“Aye. Take word to my father, Jierre. Tell him to bring who he sees fit. Where is the one who brought this?” Tristan’s eyes were hard and cold as late-winter frost.

“A Messenger. Held under Guard, awaiting the Queen’s pleasure.” Jierre’s eyes were as cold as Tristan’s.

“Offer him no violence. Be as courteous as you can; I shall wish to speak to him.” I held di Yspres’s gaze for a few moments, measuring him. “Feed him, stable his horse, and tell him he will spend the night at our hospitality. Not one hair of his head is to be harmed, di Yspres, but keep him under guard.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” He assented with a small bow.

I looked at the scroll thrust into my hands while Jierre saluted and ran for the door again. It was tightly wound, sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of the Lesser Seal, two serpents twined in a dagger, with d’Orlaan’s personal device below it — another serpent, crowned.

I broke the seal, cracking the red wax.

“Vianne?” Tristan’s hand rested on his swordhilt. “It may hold some unpleasantness.”

I would smell a killspell strong enough to anchor itself to parchment, my darling. I did not say it, contenting myself with misunderstanding him. “Tis said to be for me. I might as well read it.” I unrolled it, the crackle of parchment oddly loud in the hush.

It was written in a fair, clear script, in archaic High Arquitaine.

To Our Best-Beloved Niece and Best-Beloved lady of the Realm of Arquitaine, Duchesse-Royale Vianne di Tirecian-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, Our greetings and most perfect love.

We have received an ill-considered proclamation, in which the lies of rebels have been spread, purporting to come from your mouth. We say unto you that We do not believe you would in truth flee the justice of the King of Arquitaine. The murderous regicide Tristan d’Arcenne hath kidnapped you and forced you to his will in an alliance most unwise. Therefore We say unto you, We demand your release from the treachery of Arcenne and your safe transport to Our Capital, where We shall welcome you as Best-Beloved Consort. The fury of Our anger will be unleashed upon the traitors of Arcenne unless your merciful intercession spares their lives. Your release is demanded immediately and your presence in the Citté d’Arquitaine is requested no later than the third day of the fourth month of the Year of the Stag.

By Our hand, bearing great love for you, signed and sealed, His Majesty Timrothe Alonsin di Tirecian-Trimestin, Duc d’Orlaans, Comte di Tavrothe, Marquis di—

I did not go through the list of pointless titles. “Well. He must think I am very stupid.”

I handed the parchment to Tristan, whose eyes had not moved from my face the entire time. He scanned it, twice, then flung it down on the table with far more violence than necessary.

I did not flinch. I had thought perhaps this would displease him.

“He addresses you thus, knowing you have a Consort,” he said through rage-gritted teeth. He was pale, and his eyes blazed.

I smoothed my skirts — pale green watered silk, cut to my measure by the Baroness’s eagle-eyed dressmaker; it was a never-ending relief to be clothed properly — and took measure of my Consort.

I had never seen him this livid. His eyes flamed blue, his jaw seemed made of steel, and the air around him swirled with tension.

“He cannot afford to acknowledge that I took you as a Consort of my own free will,” I pointed out. “And now he knows where the Aryx is, and how it came to me. I wonder if he truly thinks you hold me against my will.”

Tristan paled. Two fever spots of color burned high on his whitened cheeks. “He has dared insult me for the last time, Vianne. I swear by the gods I will—”

“Tristan!” I am not ashamed to report that I yelled. He stopped short, staring at me, his eyes infernos of chill blue. “Tristan, m’cher, my darling, please. Halt your tongue before you utter an ill-considered oath.”

I think it was the first time I dared to say anything of the sort to him.

Amazingly, he shut his mouth with a snap. Nodded, once. His fingers wrapped so tightly around his swordhilt I could almost feel the bloodless aching in my own hand.

I heard a slight cough outside the door — one of the Guard. From the open window came a breath of sound — shouting from the practice-ground, the clash and clatter of an afternoon weapons-drill. An idea struck me. “Does it occur to you, m’cher, that this missive is not necessarily sent to entice me back to the Citté, but to drive you into a rage? He must know that I saw the carnage in Lisele’s rooms, though he may not know you were with me when the trap sprang, and therefore I have proof of your innocence.”

Tristan started, almost as if struck, but I looked down at the table, lost in thought. “I think tis likely he considers me a pawn and you his real opponent.” I studied the scroll, lying innocently on the table over a pile of dispatches from the Baron di Timchaine, Arcenne’s neighbor shared with Siguerre. “If he ever guessed at Court you had any regard for me—”

Tristan drew in a deep breath. “It seems your open secret was royal blood, and mine was my regard for you. I thought I kept it well hidden, Vianne. I sought not to let it be used against either of us.”

“Very well indeed, since I had no idea.” I still contemplated the scroll. Calm him, Vianne. “Why on earth did you dance with me, Tristan? I have often wondered.”

“I could not stay away.” His hand eased from his swordhilt. “At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age — you wore the red velvet. You looked…” Now he dropped his gaze to the floor as I glanced at him. “And the Festival, I tried to summon the courage to ask you for a favour. I failed miserably.”

I smiled, unable to stop myself. The smile faded as I continued to gaze at the scroll.

“What are you thinking?” He sounded worried. “Vianne? You have that look again.”

What look? But I suddenly glimpsed another turn to this labyrinth. I leapt to my feet. “Where would the Guard hold him, this Messenger?”

“Probably in the barracks under the West Tower.” He fell into step beside me. “Vianne, what—”

Do you not see? “I have the Aryx,” I said. “If I free the Messenger to return to d’Orlaans, he runs the risk of one more person who has seen the truth of the Aryx with his own eyes. He will kill the man, or has—”

“—already laid a killspell on him,” Tristan finished, and swore. I ran for the door.

I am certain the Guards did not expect to see me bolt past them and down the hall, Tristan close behind me. He snapped an order over his shoulder and such was the accord between us that by the end of the hall he said, “To your left, up the stairs,” and continued to guide me through the maze of Arcenne. I had explored no few of its corridors, but not yet all, and was glad of his guidance.

I was breathless and aching from a stitch in my side as we arrived at the barracks under the West Tower, and Tristan flung the door open. I skidded in, for once cursing my skirts, and several Arcenne guards rose hastily. Some were at table, others at a card game — and there, by the fire, sat a man in the blue surcoat of a King’s Messenger, gold braid on his sleeves, a tall Arquitaine with thick dark curls long as a chivalier’s.

I barely paused. Flung out my hand, tasting the beginnings of the peculiar sour flavor of Court sorcery meant to kill, triggered by the presence of its intended victim. I recognized it, as well — wet fur and sour apples, a poison killspell to match the one laid on the Minister Primus.

The Messenger straightened, his face blanching as he saw Tristan behind me, my Consort’s eyes blazing, hand on his swordhilt.

The Aryx let loose a welter of sound, and a wall of hedgewitchery and Court sorcery smashed outward, catching the killspell as it struck, a flare of silver light jetting from my outstretched palm.

The noise was incredible, and a table between me and the Messenger exploded into matchsticks, smoke and wood whickering away to strike the walls and pepper the onlookers.

The killspell snapped, recoiling on itself like a gittern string stretched too far, splitting and shredding. Another door inside my head, flung open, showing me a far country of magic lying thrumming and obedient to my will.

The drowning sense of being swallowed alive was slightly less this time. I held fast to the only thought that could survive the riptide overpowering my senses.

Tristan. The killspell is meant for him. Protect him, just as he would protect you.

Screams, shouts, the thick reek of poison and fear, Tristan’s voice raised to a battlefield shout. I came back to myself slowly, standing, holding the glowing ball of sorcery that was the killspell in my palm, draining the power from it. The Aryx sang a slow, sleepy, sated song. Tristan touched my shoulder. “Vianne?”

“Not merely a poison killspell,” I said dreamily, “but a spell designed to kill someone with him when triggered.” I blinked, returning to myself. “Twas set as a snare, Tristan. You were its target.”

There was a murmur of sound. I looked, and found one of the Arcenne Guard had the Messenger at swordpoint. The others stared at me, men I recognized, now kneeling on the stone floor.

“Put that away, Stefan,” Tristan barked, and the guard, slightly shamefaced, sheathed his sword.

The Messenger, fever-pale, stared at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. I leaned into Tristan, grateful for his strength.

Grateful, too, that the thought of him stayed with me even in the devouring maelstrom of the Aryx. “One crisis averted,” I managed, through numb lips and a sand-dry throat. “Tristan.”

“Your Majesty.” Was that awe I heard in his voice as well?

Please, no. I cannot bear it. I pitched my voice loud enough to carry through the room. “Stand, chivalieri, an it please you. Sieur Messenger, would you be so kind as to accompany us? I think it best to speak to you sooner rather than later.”

One by one, the Citadel Guard rose. I saw the open adoration on several faces, and wished it had not been necessary to use the Aryx. The Messenger stammered something, and two of the Guard stepped forth to accompany him.

Tristan gave a few quiet orders to bring lunch to the library, then ushered me out into the hall. He said nothing else as we retraced our steps, the Guards behind us with the Messenger. I would have dearly loved to speak to my Consort, but it was impossible with the others watching. “Are you hale?” he asked me, quietly, as we rounded a corner.

I had to use the Seal again. My head ached, and I hoped I would not fall prey to the half-head. “Hale enough. Tristan, that spell could have killed you, had you decided to question him alone.”

“True. And you, m’chri?”

“If you were questioning the Messenger, it might have looked as if he had murdered you, with steel and magic. I would be unlikely to view such an event, being an empty-headed Court frippet.” My tone was less calm than I would have liked. “What does he hope to gain? He must know the Aryx—”

“The Aryx was sleeping from the time of Queen Toriane’s death. He has no way of knowing it has awakened. Despite the sudden strength of Court sorcery returning…” He sounded thoughtful, and I looked up at him, my hands moving automatically to gather my skirts.

I kept my tone low, conscious of the footsteps behind us. “But how can he not feel the Aryx is awake? He uses Court sorcery!”

“I do not know, and it will take some time to find out.” Tristan now sounded calm, the furious killing calm of revenge.

I halted, and he stopped short as well. “I need your wit, not your anger, Tris.” The footsteps behind us drew nearer, we had outpaced the Guards.

“Aye.” His eyes were near incandescent, and if his jaw clenched any harder he might well injure his own teeth. “Give me a few moments to compose myself, m’chri.”

“I need your wit now,” I said, inflexible. For I was badly shaken, and I steered myself by his northneedle. I understood that if I let him go much further into rage he might well swear an oath he would regret. And something about his fury perplexed me, obliquely frightened me.

Something was not right.

He slanted me one flaming-blue glance. “You sound like Henri,” he murmured, and was the Tristan I knew again, his fury reined, his face smooth and interested.

I shall choose to view that as a compliment. I blew out between pursed lips. “Good.” You almost frighten me, beloved.

The Guards and the Messenger rounded the bend in the corridor, and we had to hurry to stay a stride ahead. But Tristan walked more slowly, and by the time we reached the library he had regained control of his temper. Barely, but enough.

I pointed the Messenger to a chair. “Sit, an it please you.” I motioned the Guards away. “You may leave him with us. I will be safe enough.”

The Guards for once did not glance at Tristan, simply obeyed me. I picked up the parchment from d’Orlaans and smoothed it on the table. “Your name, sieur?”

“Divris.” The Messenger’s throat worked. “Divris di Tatancourt.” His cheeks were pale, and from the way he sweated and glanced at Tristan, I guessed he was uncertain of his survival.

Still, he is alive. The killspell was meant for him, too. “Get him some wine, Tris, to bolster him.”

“As you like.” Tristan crossed the room to the sideboard, but kept the man in sight. His hand strayed near his rapier’s hilt more than I liked, but he seemed in control of his temper, at least.

“Di Tatancourt.” I mused over his name, threading it through my memory. “Your younger brother was in the King’s Guard, on duty the day Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin was murdered.”

Di Tatancourt’s gaze flicked toward Tristan, flinched away. “The tale is that the Captain of the King’s Guard caused the Princesse and her ladies to be slaughtered in a rebellion against the King. After he slew the King himself.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Tristan was with me that day, chivalier. I myself witnessed Garonne di Narborre and his men moving from body to body in the Princesse’s quarters, making certain Lisele and her ladies were slain.” The memory rose, taunting me. I closed it away with an effort. “You have seen me use the Great Seal of Arquitaine. Do you doubt me?”

He shook his head, running his fingers back through his thick dark hair. “No, Your Majesty.” Quietly, but with great force. “I do not doubt you. I know a plot when I see one. And I have been asking inconvenient questions of the manner of my brother’s death.”

Hence, the killspell. Two birds netted in one snare. I swallowed bile. “I wish I could have saved him, sieur. I truly do. He was courting Lady Arioste.” And not having any luck with it, I might add, for she was after bigger prey. Or at least, prey with deeper pockets, for she had expensive tastes.

Di Tatancourt’s mouth twitched, amusement and bitter memory combining. “Aye. That he was.”

Tristan handed him a cup of wine, his other hand resting a-swordhilt. “Here, chivalier. Drink, and be welcome.”

The door banged open, and I whirled, my hip striking the table. Baron Perseval d’Arcenne strode into the room, and I found where my Consort had gained his cold fury from.

“A killspell!” the Baron raged. “Does Timrothe d’Orlaans never tire of seeking to murder my son?” His blue eyes flamed, and my mouth was dry.

Well, d’Orlaans killed the King, blamed Tristan for it, is still seeking to kill him and turn me against my Consort. It is enough to unsettle even Jiserah.

“Baron,” I said, calmly enough, “I present to you to Messenger Divris di Tatancourt, sent to die because he was asking inconvenient questions about his brother’s death. His brother was assigned to guard Princesse Lisele’s door the day I left Court. Would you be so kind as to draft a reply to Timrothe d’Orlaan’s recent missive?” My fingers found the parchment, held it up. “I wish to inform the Duc d’Orlaans that he is stripped of his titles and styles forthwith, and that he shall remand himself to my justice immediately. I wish a proclamation drafted, and diplomatic letters sent to Navarrin.” It seemed someone else was speaking through me, someone with a voice as crisp and clean as new steel. “And I wish to know exactly where Garonne di Narborre is, or as near as we may,” I added, as an afterthought.

The Baron’s jaw set. “As you wish, my liege.” He took the parchment from me. “I will have a proclamation and the letters drafted in a matter of hours.”

“Good.” I looked at Tristan. “Fetch me a scribe, as well. There are other letters to write.”

“D’Orlaans will know his killspell failed.” Tristan folded his arms, but his tone was not combative.

He will. “He will only know it did not kill anyone, not a whit else. It is the more imperative we move quickly. I will hold a Session this afternoon, Baron, of all members of my Council that are here. We may fill the vacancies later.”

The Baron nodded. The crackling anger in his tone had smoothed. “I will send a scribe and gather the Council. Is there aught else, my liege?”

“Not at this moment. My thanks.”

He turned on his heel, nodding to his son, and was gone just as swiftly as he’d entered.

Tristan took a long gulp of wine, perhaps to bolster himself.

I settled myself down in my chair, forcing calm. “Now, Chivalier di Tatancourt. Tell me of Court, and of d’Orlaans. You are a Messenger, so you will know what is of import.”

He nodded, and took a swallow of wine. His cheeks were still flour-pale, and he trembled just the slightest bit. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“No thanks necessary,” my new, brittle voice told him. Who am I? Who have I become? I no longer knew. “Now, we shall start with the Court. Tell me, what is the latest gossip?”

Tristan opened the door, and I leaned on his arm, stepping inside his sitting room. “Gods above. Another day like that, and I may save everyone the trouble by retiring to a convent.”

He laughed, then kicked the door shut and took me in his arms, resting his chin atop my head. I fell into the safety of his body, sliding my arms around him. He moved slightly, restless, and I felt his readiness, a hardness against my lower belly. He looked almost giddy with relief. “I seem to always be thanking you for saving my life, demiange.”

That made me shiver. “Do not name me so — it might attract the attention of one.”

“Which would not be a bad thing — you seem to need more protection than I can provide.” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. “My darling Vianne. Do you have any idea how utterly magnificent you are?”

“I thought Lord Siguerre was going to pop when I told him to hold his tongue, and that I shall have no war before spring. He is a disagreeable old stoneshell turtle.” I could have picked many another term for the man, but none were fit for a noblewoman’s mouth.

“He is tactics-wise, and organized. And he holds the adjoining province. Enough of business.” He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, then crushed me to him again. “I wish to hold you.”

“You could comb my hair.” I laughed, a weary chuckle, as his fingers fumbled with the pearls the Baroness had insisted I wear. He swore good-naturedly, and the pearls finally came free. He threaded his fingers in my hair, kissed me deeply. I turned to water against him. He picked me up and twirled me once, then twirled me again as if he could not help himself. Yet a thought struck me, and I had to voice it. “Tristan, why did your father say Navarrin is no true ally? I thought you always planned on seeking help from Navarrin.”

He groaned. “Must you always speak of business, Vianne? I am beginning to think you torment me for sport.”

“Oh, never that.” I traced the line of his jaw with one fingertip. I knew of the first flush of love and hoped it would not fade too soon, and also hoped that we would be friends after the sweetness had passed. “I do not seek to torment you. I would never be so unkind.”

“I know you would not.” He changed between one moment and the next, his face gone serious, his mouth a thin line. He cupped my face in his hand, the pearls his mother had pressed upon me smooth and hard against my cheek. “What are you thinking, m’chri, my beloved? Your eyes are dark, and that is a sign of trouble.”

I am merely curious and unsettled. Something does not seem aright to me. “I am thinking of Navarrin and how I wish my curiosity satisfied. And how do you know my eyes go dark when there is trouble?”

“I have watched you enough to tell, and I shall satisfy any curiosities you care to voice to me. What else?” His thumb stroked my cheek.

I blushed at the entendre. “I am only uneasy.” I would have looked down, but he did not let me. “Truly, Tristan.”

“What of, m’chri?”

Of everything. Of all this madness. “Merely…I thought when I reached Arcenne this would be over. I thought I could give the Aryx up to someone and — I do not know. Go about with…something. My life. I thought I would be free, d’Orlaans would fall, this would make everything right again.” The truth rose to my lips and would not be denied. I could not produce more than a whisper. “I suppose I thought it would bring my Lisele back.”

Tristan kissed my forehead again. He was silent.

“I do not wish this burden.” As if telling him a terrible secret. “I thought Court was so awful, I hated it there. Yet I wish to go back. At least there, I…I do not know.” At least it was familiar. And I am still terrified of you wasting yourself for your duty to a dead King, Tristan. I cannot stand to lose you.

But though I could admit to much, I could not say that to a nobleman. A noble’s honor would make him stubborn as a Scythandrian horse, and Tristan d’Arcenne had more than his share of prickly d’Arquitaine pride. To speak to him of danger would merely make him rash.

He rested his forehead against mine, closed his eyes. “I am sorry. I was too late.”

“You did what you could.” I tried to smile, but it felt unnatural. A mask. “I do not mean to hurt you.”

His mouth tilted up, a charmingly lopsided grin as his eyes came out, surprising me again with their blueness. “Come.” His arms tightened, he picked me up and half-dragged me over the stone floor. I let out a blurt of surprise, and he tossed me carefully on the bed, following me with a sigh. A moment’s worth of rearranging ended with my head on his shoulder, my hair beginning a tangle on the velvet coverlet. Lying down only made me more acutely aware of how weary I was.

“There.” Tristan scooped up my free hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Better? Speak to me of what you will, m’chri. I do not even begrudge your perpetual obsession with dispatches.”

“I know you would prefer—,” I began.

“I do not think you do. Speak to me, Vianne. Weave me a tale.”

“But you must—” I bit my lip. It was not a thing a lady should say.

“You think I am dragged about by my breechclout, my liege? I am occasionally capable of chastity, am I not? You have no idea what it was like, sharing a saddle with you through half of Arquitaine. I thought I would die of frustration.”

Indeed? “Really?”

“Do you know how lovely you are, dear one?” He raised my knuckles to his lips. “You could make Danshar himself forget his sword and think of bedplay. But tis your quick mind, I think, that makes you so alluring.”

“I do not recognize this picture you paint,” I laughed, and breathed into his shoulder, smelling leather and male and the indescribable that made him. “I rather wonder that you think to court me now.”

“Making up lost time. Now listen, Navarrin is a greedy marketwife, but she does not demand tribute payment from Arquitaine. Partly because the Santciago House of Navarrin is related to Tirecian-Trimestin by both blood and marriage, and also because the Passes Cirithe, not to mention the Thread Pass, are both too narrow to supply an army through without holding the mountain provinces. Besides, Arquitaine menaces Rus and Torkai to the east, acts as a buffer against Damarsene, Pruzia, and Polis, balances against Tiberia for trade interests. And more. So. Were Navarrin to come to our aid, their lines of supply would be stretched thin, and tis no inducement for them unless a weak Arquitaine will no longer hold back Rus and the Damarsene. The tribute payments to the Rus’Zar are bad enough, but Rus knows Arquitaine can field an army at need and come to the aid of any of the client-states, or the Principalities if necessary, and be richly rewarded. But north-and-eastward, closer to our borders than the Rus…that is what troubles me. There was news in that quarter having to do with the conspiracy, but I had not ferreted it all out yet, being too busy seeking the killer of the King’s line before he struck you down.” His tone was careful, almost overly so. I wondered why he chose his words with such delicacy.

“Hm.” I thought of old maps, straining my brain to think of dangers from the east. “Pruzia. And the Sea-Countries, and Haviroen in their mountains. But the Havi are traditionally neutral. Anyway, Pruzia. Oh, and the Damarsene.” A cool finger of dread touched my nape, remembering Adrien’s suspicions. That the two of them would worry over the same country for different reasons was thought-provoking, to say the least.

“Yes, Damar. Where most of the tribute goes, since the King’s Consort died so mysteriously.” Tristan’s lips touched my knuckles again. “Only now that the Aryx is awake, perhaps tribute will become a thing of the past.”

Enough of this. I sighed, settling myself further at ease into his shoulder. “I am glad to have you, Tristan. I pray the Seal will choose someone else eventually.”

“I do not think it will. For good or for ill, you are the Queen.” His tone changed. Was he sad?

“I do not wish to be.”

“I know.” He stroked my shoulder. “My poor hedgewitch darling.”

“Tristan, do you think…” I touched his jaw, felt the roughness of stubble. “After you no longer find me so attractive, will we still be friends?”

“Is that what this is about?” He kissed my knuckles again. “Hmmm.”

Now I had offended him. I trailed my fingers over the plane of his cheek “Well?”

“I adore you, Vianne.” His tone had grown serious, but he sounded relieved. “You think me faithless?”

It scored me to the quick, that he could think so. “Of course not.” Who was loyal to me, if not him?

“Then do not trouble yourself with thinking I will suddenly lose my taste for you. Do you think a man who has watched over you for years, dragged you through half of Arquitaine on his saddle without touching you, and has gone grey worrying about the trouble you fling yourself into will tire of you after a few nights?” He laughed, stroking my hair, except his merriment was not pleasant. “You have such a low opinion of me after all.”

I wondered where his bitterness came from. There was still so much I did not know of him. “Oh, cease. I have a very high opinion of my Consort, I shall have you know.” High enough that I do not ask you what lies between you and Adrien di Cinfiliet. High enough that I have given myself to you.

He still stroked my hair, gently, lifting a few strands, playing with them. I shut my eyes.

“You still surprise me, m’chri. Every time I think I have your mind mapped, it takes another turn.”

“Di Yspres said you have had a hard life,” I found myself saying. Sleep threatened, now that I was abed and motionless, and I could not ask him of Adrien. “Is that true?”

“Jierre said that? No, I am fortunate. Twas hard to leave home and go to Court, but I had reached my Coming-of-Age and it was my duty to do what I could. Father needed someone to make certain the border provinces were heard at Court, and the Guard is a good way for a young man to make himself. And then…”

“Then what?” The sound of him telling a tale soothed me.

“Then I caught the King’s eye and became the Captain, and four years later the Left Hand. It seemed there was nothing I could not do. Except court a King’s half-niece. I tried, but you did not see me, and I doubted Henri would let…then the conspiracy was afoot. I suddenly had no time to worry, being very busy indeed with death in every corner of Arquitaine.” He took a deep sharp breath. No doubt twas unpleasant to think on.

“When did you try to catch my notice?” I was suddenly very curious about this, even more curious than I was about Navarrin and Damarsene and the thousand worries outside our chamber door.

He laughed again. This time it was not so bitter, and I was glad of it. “I haunted your steps like a demieri di sorce, Vianne. I finally acquired a habit of leaving you books instead of nosegays.”

Oh? My sixteenth birthday, just before you became Captain. I remember this; it went on for months. “That was you? I thought someone had lost them, and I tried to return them to the Palais library.”

“There was no end to the merriment among the Guard when you did so.” Now he sounded wry. “I finally admitted defeat. It was not safe for either of us. My Guard was loyal, but a man in his cups can speak ill-advised words. I had to pretend not to care.”

“When did you…” Again, not something a lady could ask.

He answered anyway. “I was seventeen, it was my first night at Court as a Guard. You and Lisele played riddlesharp, and after a few games you let her win. Then she wished to dance, so you did with good grace. It was the first time I ever saw you dance, I think I was lost that very moment. You wore green silk, and you looked one of Alisaar’s maidens come to earth. I fell, and have never been free since.”

I barely remembered that dress; I had only been thirteen. “I did let her win at riddlesharp, but I had to be careful not to let her think so.” She was prickly with her pride, my Princesse. She could not know I let her win, but if I looked amiss while doing so she would guess, and then it would be unpleasant.

“Hm. That sharp mind of yours.” His touch was soothing. My head was so heavy, and it ached. “Rest, Vianne.”

Now I could ask; the idea was lain gently in my brain as if the gods themselves had whispered in my ear. “Tristan?”

“What, m’chri?” He stroked my cheek, touched my lips tenderly.

“Why do you dislike Adrien di Cinfiliet?” I sounded half asleep even to myself.

His hand tensed. “It does not matter.”

I fell silent as he stroked my hair, but I did not sleep for a long while. He would not speak of it, and I could not ask. I lay thinking as his breathing deepened, and wondered why I felt so suddenly bereft.

Chaos. Crashing. Tristan’s oath, deadly quiet, as steel chimed.

I sat up, clutching the covers to my chest. Ducked as something came flying, sensing more than seeing it in the blackness; I was lucky whatever it was did not strike me. My skirt slid against the sheets — I had fallen asleep in my clothes.

“Get down, Vianne!” Tristan yelled. The cry propelled me out of bed on the opposite side, almost hitting my head on the night table. Clashing chime of steel, a horrifying, bubbling gasp.

What is that? An injury; a lung-cut. Oh, dear Blessed, let it not be him—

Silence. The room was dark, the fire banked and a moonless night outside, not a candle lit. I wondered if I should use a witchlight.

“Come forth,” Tristan said, softly. I flinched to hear that tone. “Come forth and face your death.”

I stayed where I was, shivering, my skirt tangled around my knees.

Another clash of steel, and a solid sound of flesh being carved. I shut my eyes, my heart in my throat. Tristan?

Light bloomed, ruddy through my eyelids. I peeked over the bed.

Tristan stood, his shirt bloody and his sword in hand, surveying the room. His blue eyes were cold as death. The lamp’s wick, guttering into life, burned with the peculiar blue flame of a Court-sorcery lighting. “Tristan?” I could not speak louder than a whisper.

Three black-clad shapes lay twisted on the floor. Tristan crossed the room, checked the watercloset, came out and paced toward the window. “Stay down, Vianne.”

“What is happening?” Although I could guess — murder, in the dark. But aimed at whom? And so soon after the killspell-laden Messenger, too.

If there were assassins here, twas more far more dangerous than I had ever imagined. It would mean d’Orlaans had begun a different game, and I would need to find the rules and the disposition of the board quickly, in order to outwit him.

“As you love life, Vianne, stay there.” He checked the window from the side, to rob a projectile of its target, nodded to himself. Paced to the chair near the bed and was in his boots in a trice. I stared, almost-witless with surprise. “Whatever you see or hear, stay there until I come for you.”

I cannot, do not ask me to wait, this might as well be a tree in the Shirlstrienne, with di Narborre coming to kill us all. “But—”

“Trust me, Vianne.” He gained his feet in a rush, wrenched the door open, and was gone.

I do not like this. I hunched beside the bed, let out a shaky sigh. My hands would not cease moving, plucking at the coverlet’s edge. Had they come for me? And now, long as I lived, I would have to worry. Knife in the dark, poison in a cup, treachery and deceit. I wanted no part of it; I had seen enough of treachery to fill me to the back teeth. Enough of blood, of death, of pain to fill the Maelstrom’s sea itself.

I pushed myself up to stand, mindful of the danger even in silence. Three bodies. Each in a pool of blood, each masked with black. The stink of death rose. I gagged. He told me to stay here.

Gods, no, the rest of me wailed. I cannot. Oh, please, gods, no.

My hands fisted in my skirt. Pale green silk rustled. I heard the wet crunching sounds again—Make certain. Make certain none still live.

A small, helpless sound died at the back of my throat. I eased away from the bed, stole toward the door on bare feet against cold stone.

The hall outside was deserted. Where had Tristan gone? I heard raised voices and the clatter of booted feet.

Instinct took over. I darted across the hall, to a window-couvre wrapped in red velvet. A few moments’ worth of work hid me between the wooden couvre and the floor-length drapes; I made certain my feet were hidden as I peered out through a tiny gap in the drapes. My heart pounded in my throat.

A shadow drifted along the other side of the wall, slipped into the bedroom. A man dressed in black, his face masked, a clubbed tail of dark hair along the back of his neck. A wicked curved dagger showed in his right hand, gleaming as he slid with oiled grace through the door.

The drumming of booted feet drew closer. Shouts. I closed my eyes, forced them open. I had to look. Had to see.

A deathly silence from our chamber. Who was the man in black? An assassin, definitely — but for whom? It did not seem likely that a d’Arquitaine would do such a thing — but then, a man had tried to kill Tristan by stealth in Tierrce d’Estrienne.

“Vianne!” Tristan’s. The corridor echoed with the din of alarm and suddenly-awakened men.

I bolted from the couvre and ran down the hall toward the noise, my bare feet soundless. Snapped a glance over my shoulder just as I rounded the corner and ran headlong into the Guard, their unsheathed swords reflecting glowglobe and torchlight. Jierre caught at my shoulder, pushed me toward Tristan, and hurled himself past, vanishing around the corner.

“Assassin!” I gasped. “He has a knife Jierre take care!”

Tristan’s fingers closed, ruthless-hard, around my upper arm. “I told you to stay!”

A howl of pain from down the corridor made the color drain from his face as the rest of the Guard surged past; I caught a glance of Luc di Chatillon with his rapier out and his young blond face suffused with anger, Jespre di Vidancourt with his hair wildly mussed and his lean face ashen.

Tristan kissed my forehead, bruisingly hard. Embraced me so hard the breath left my lungs in a rush. He was bloody and sweating, his shirt dappled with crimson and flapping as his ribs heaved. “Vianne,” he said into my hair. I shook, a small cry of distress wrung out of me. Cursed myself for being so weak. “Vianne.” He held me at arm’s length, looked me over for damage.

I was very glad I had fallen asleep in my clothes. The idea of facing this chain of events in a shift — or, Blessed forbid, without a stitch to cover me — was, for a moment, more daunting than what had actually just occurred.

“I am unharmed. There is someone in the room, Tristan.” My voice trembled to match the rest of me. “He had a curved dagger. And his hair was in a tail bound with black ribbon—”

“A Pruzian Knife.” He still examined me, from my soles to my crown and back again, his gaze roving over my dress, my face, my shoulders. “Three to attack me, three to attack my father. If you saw another one, there are two left in the Citadel. We shall find them. Come, let us bring you to safety.”

“A P-P-Pruzian Knife?” I actually stammered. He drew me away, his boots clicking and my bare feet soundless. “But they’re myths!”

“No, they are very real. And very deadly, not to mention very expensive.”

Expensive? How does he know? I did not care at the moment. I had a more pressing concern. “How b-badly are you h-hurt?” He has blood on his shirt, he’s bleeding. Dear Blessed, he is wounded.

“I am well enough,” he said grimly. “Come quickly, Vianne.”

Shouts, more clattering feet. Tristan pulled me aside into a shadowed hall, pressed me back against the wall. Several more of the Citadel Guard passed at a run, Tristan shook his head. Pressed another kiss onto my temple, through the fraying mat of my hair. He swore, in a low shaking voice. “Nine knives,” he whispered. “Nine. This rather changes things.”

I was about to ask again how badly he was hurt when he clapped his hand over my mouth. I looked past him, out into the running torchlight of the hall, and saw the two remaining assassins, each masked and dressed in black, their hair in tails clubbed and bound with ribbon. They drifted in the wake of the clattering Citadel Guards, deadly shadows. The Guard was making enough noise to warn even a deaf man of their passage.

Tristan moved away from me. His gaze met mine, a silent warning; words and breath died in my throat. No. No, stay here with me, where it is safe.

Yet I could not tell what was safe. If there were assassins boldly trailing after a pack of Guards, could more not be hiding in this passage?

Oh, gods…

His sword whispered free of its sheath, and the two Pruzians froze.

Tristan attacked.

If I live a centuriad I will never forget that sight, Tristan d’Arcenne dueling two Pruzian Knives in the hall of the Citadel. I understood then why he was Captain of the Guard.

He fought as if the blade was a part of his hand, forgotten until the hilt met his palm, the steel weaving in a complicated pattern that kept the Pruzians at bay. He backed them away from the mouth of the darkened hall, their longknives sorely unprepared for the reach his rapier gave.

One of them actually flung a knife, and I gasped. But Tristan ducked and lunged, his boot sliding along stone and his knee grating against the floor, and in the same movement had run one Pruzian through. Blood whipped free of his blade as he flung himself backward, somehow on his feet in one sharp movement, the rapier describing a complex movement I do not have the knowledge to name even now. The black-clad man dropped without a sound, and Tristan faced the last Pruzian as the sounds of the Guard returning grew louder.

I bit down on the soft fleshy part of my hand under my right thumb, unaware that I had covered my mouth. Tristan, oh be careful, gods, please—I could barely even pray. The fear threatened to smash me as the Aryx did, robbing me of myself.

The Pruzian’s gaze, dark and narrow above his mask, flickered toward me, but Tristan lunged at him, both men moving back toward Tristan’s room, out of my field of vision.

Thus it was I did not see the end of the duel: the Guard coming from Tristan’s chambers with a bloody but unbowed Jierre at their head, the last flicker of the knife, Tristan moving in on the assassin and smashing the knife away with a contemptuous movement, his hilt-armored fist blurring in to crunch at the man’s masked face. The Pruzian dropped, and Jierre told me later Tristan looked sorely tempted to run him through, but halted himself. “Strip him, bind him, and chain him. Then put him in an oublietta and wait further orders.” His voice was quiet but harsh. “But before you place him in the pit, Jierre, teach him a lesson.”

They dragged the Pruzian away past the darkened hall I cowered in, Jierre favoring his left shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt, and his eyes wore a fey glitter that warned me not to speak. I stood there stupid and useless, biting down on my hand. Four of the Guard remained; there was shouting in other parts of the Citadel. Every room and corridor would be searched now.

Tristan’s voice. “Vianne? Are you hale?”

It took a fair bit of courage to step out. I bit down harder, afraid I would start screaming if I loosed the pressure of my teeth. I did not dare to look to see how badly Tristan was injured. Luc di Chatillon knelt by the fallen Pruzian and made certain he was dead by the expedient of sinking a dagger in his throat with a meaty crunching sound.

I swayed. Make certain. Shoved the thought away. I could not afford to keep it.

Tristan caught me, his fingers coming up to gently free my hand from my mouth. “Gods.” His voice had lost its hurtful edge. “You need a physicker, d’mselle.”

I almost choked on the final crowning absurdity. He was bleeding, and Jierre too. And yet he said I needed a physicker for a hand bruised by my own teeth. I summoned every scrap of my wit that remained. “I have never seen you duel before.” I sounded faraway and strange even to myself.

He shrugged. “Peasants armed with knives. You are pale, m’chri.”

“Should not I be?” It was a faint witticism, but he laughed. Took my right hand in both of his, gently.

“Come, to the hedgewitch with you, Your Majesty. The rest of you, take care of that…thing.” Faint disdain colored his voice. How could he be so calm? I was only holding to my composure by a thread. “Burn it. I wish a report in less than a candlemark. I want every corner searched and every person in the Keep accounted for.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

They came over the west wall,” the Captain of the Citadel Guard — thin, intense di Vantmor — said. His fine waxed mustache was now sadly drooping, his curly hair ruffled. But his blue mountainfolk eyes were keen, and his sword had seen blooding this night, too. “One of yours was on the wall with the night-watch, sieur.”

Tristan shut his eyes as Bryony, the Citadel’s head hedgewitch physicker, probed at the slash on his ribs with gentle fingers. The small infirmary cubicle was stone-walled, with a faded red curtain drawn over the door. Tristan sat on a high bench while Bryony examined him. A cot was made up in the corner, but Tris had no need of it, for which I was profoundly grateful.

I stayed sitting up only by sheer force of will, in a hard chair next to the healer’s table.

“The di Rocham boy. He is alive, but—” Di Vantmor’s blue gaze flicked over to me. I sat numbly with my bandaged right hand lying quiescent, placed prettily on my silken lap.

“Tinan?” I gained my feet in a single convulsive rush. My skirts made a low sweet sound. “Where is he?”

“They are bringing him now.”

My Consort sighed. “Patch me up quickly, then. Jermain, would you have someone bring me a fresh shirt?”

“Sieur.” Di Vantmor bowed. I felt a slight twinge — I should have thought of that.

I was at the door of the small cubicle, all but on di Vantmor’s heels, when Tristan spoke again. “Vianne? Wait a little, an it please you. I would accompany you.”

I looked over my shoulder. My hair was a tangled mass against my back. “The infirmary is full-to-choking of armed men, Tris. I doubt I am in any danger.”

His face changed, and I leaned against the wall by the door. It was no affected pose — I was simply too weak to stay upright on my own unless I was moving. Tristan did not look threatening, simply weary — but I knew that if I went through the door he would follow me, disregarding the physicker’s care. My heart gave a huge throttled leap.

“This should just take a moment,” the young peasant healer in his pale shirt and green trousers said. He had been wakened roughly, as had we all.

I smelled the peculiar green of hedgewitchery, dropped my eyes as Bryony’s power became evident. He was a much better hedgewitch than I had ever been. I longed to have time to study with him, as I had with Risaine and Jaryana.

“There. Try not to fall on any knives anytime soon, Tris?” Bryony had been a child in the Keep with Tristan, and was easier with him than most of the Guard.

“If the Pruzians would stop sending assassins, I would. Is my Vianne well?”

“The d’mselle is well enough, a bit of rest and some food will ballast her nicely. I would offer her a drop of wine, but she has already said nay.”

I felt the weight of Tristan’s gaze on me. “Vianne, m’chri, would you bring me some wine? I feel a trifle pale.”

I peeled myself away from the wall and managed to reach the wine jug, poured both Tristan and myself a healthy dollop — and tossed the contents of one cup back and poured another measure. Warmth exploded in my stomach. Well. I’ve survived my first assassination attempt.

If I did not count Lisele’s murderers among assassins, that was. Had the Pruzians come to kill me, or Tristan, or Tristan’s father? Or all of us? And so soon after the other attempt.

I needed to think on this, to tease out the implications. First, though, there were questions to be asked. “How is the Baron?” At least I sounded relatively calm.

“Well, and cursing at everyone in sight. The Baroness is doing her best.” Bryony sounded amused. “Well, you’re ready for more mischief, sieur. I am to take care of other poor souls.”

I brought my Consort the winecup, awkward with my bandaged hand, and settled on the bench beside him. Bryony swept from the room with one last eloquent glance at me. If he meant to give a message, it was one I did not understand

Tristan took a swallow of wine, rolled it in his mouth. Grimaced as if it had turned, though it seemed perfectly fine to me, if strong. “You did not stay in the room,” he said quietly. “Tis a good thing, too; the other Knife would have found you. But in the future, Vianne—”

Gods grant there is never another episode such as this. “I shall tarry still and quiet, I swear. I simply could not stand the thought of…you were alone. And I could not stay there with the…the bodies.” I wished to add, Yes, I am a coward, but I did not.

“My apologies.” He smiled, a little ruefully, over the top of his goblet. “I did not wish to leave you, Vianne. I had to.”

“I know.” I poured down the rest of my second cup of wine in four long swallows. Blinked owlishly at him. “I believe I am handling this rather well.”

“Good, for I am halfway to a nervous wreck.” He took another swallow. “I adore you, m’chri. You are too brave for my comfort.”

I leaned in to his shoulder, happy for his solid warmth. “Who would hire a Pruzian to kill you and your father? And why?”

“Besides d’Orlaans and whoever he is depending on to prop up his claim to the throne?” Tristan leaned against me, too, a subtle movement but one I cherished. “Have I told you how lovely you are, m’chri?”

“No.” A silly smile spread over my face as a warm haze swirled through my middle. “You could, though. Before we visit di Rocham.”

“Ever duty, hmm?”

“I am worried for him.” I rested my head on his shoulder, the goblet loose-held in relaxing fingers, resting in my lap. “How pretty am I, Tristan?” For I would like to hear this, even if tis vain to ask.

“Beautiful enough to bring a man to his knees crying out in praise of Alisaar.” He turned, kissed my forehead gently. “Are you hale enough to stand?”

“You should finish your wine.”

“I have lost my taste for it. Here.” He offered me the goblet.

Why, very sly of you, my Consort. Nevertheless, I drained it with good grace. “I know I am merely Lisele’s plain little lapdog. I was told enough.” And it does me well to hear you gainsay it.

And so he did, as a good Consort. “You were lovely when I came to Court, Vianne. Time’s only made you more so. Here, lean on me; we shall see what misfortune befell Tinan.”

The world tilted slightly under me. “Dear gods; the wine’s at my head.” Or the fear. Both were equally likely.

“Tis unwatered, the strongest we have. Bryony believes in it as a tonic, I think. I also think you should have more.”

For once I did not argue. “I think that is a most excellent idea.” I rather suspected I would need it.

Di Rocham was feverish, and Bryony looked grave. I settled into the chair by the cot in another cubicle, watching Tinan’s fair young face as he lay drug-quiescent, sweat sheening his brow. Bryony lifted the dressing over the wound on the boy’s belly, and his sharp mountain face grew even graver.

“He will recover, will he not?” I felt childish for asking, my head muddled with wine.

A low knock sounded at the door. I looked up to see Jierre di Yspres. “The Knife has regained consciousness.” A bandage glared white against his shoulder, under his shirt’s open throat-laces. I could see a bead of drying blood on his collarbone. His lean face was chalky, and grim. “How is our d’mselle?”

I lifted my chin. “Hearty and hale.” My mouth did not seem to work quite properly. And well-tonic’d, though now I regret the last glass. Twill not do me well for long.

Tristan shrugged. “Unwounded. Her nerves have taken a shock, tis all.”

“And Tinan?” Di Yspres did not glance at the bed, but I sensed he wished to. We all turned our gazes to the physicker, and hope rose under my pounding heart.

Bryony opened his mouth, closed it, glanced at Tristan, at me. “He will not last the night,” he said heavily. “I can do nothing for him.”

What? I could not contain myself. “But you are a hedgewitch!” And a fine one, too!

“There are other wounded.” Gently enough, his jaw set, his hands curling into fists, relaxing. “This young one’s gut-cut. I cannot sew his intestines up. I have not the charm nor the power for it. The most I can do is ease his passing—”

“Get away.” I did not recognize the harsh, croaking voice as my own. “Now.”

The peasant physicker paled swiftly. Twas gratifying to see he did not look to Tristan; he simply bowed and obeyed.

“Is he ready to speak?” Tristan asked, as Bryony retreated to the door. Tinan did not moan — Bryony had dosed him with poppy and caresfree — but his breathing was labored.

“Pruzian. And difficult.” It was di Yspres’s turn for a shrug.

“I care not how difficult he is,” Tristan said. “Make him speak.”

It occurred to me they were speaking of the assassin, the one who had survived. My Consort’s gaze, extraordinarily blue, met mine.

I read his expression, and sick unsteady heat filled my stomach. “No, Tristan. As you are my Consort and I am the Queen, no. I will question him tomorrow, as soon as I know if Tinan lives or dies.” The Aryx warmed against my chest. “I will have your obedience on this, sieurs, or I swear I shall prosecute both of you for treason.”

“D’mselle—” Di Yspres, in a patently reasonable tone that threatened to ignite my temper.

Does he think this no more than an attack of women’s vapors? “Your word, Jierre di Yspres. And yours, Tristan d’Arcenne. Your sworn oaths that you will not damage the Pruzian.”

“This is not the time to be merciful,” Tristan remarked. Bryony looked from him to me, as if expecting the next volley in a game of laun, his mouth slightly open and his color no better.

“Nevertheless, that is my command. You call yourself the Queen’s Guard; in this you will do as I say. I do not wish him broken until I may question him myself.”

Perhaps it was the wine speaking. But I dropped my gaze back to Tinan di Rocham’s fair young face, the sweat standing out on his pale brow. “Now get out, hedgewitch. You too, di Yspres, and set a guard on our prisoner. If there is a mark on the Pruzian tomorrow, I shall hold you personally responsible. Send a message to the Baron that the Pruzian is mine, remanded to the Queen’s justice. I care not if I have to threaten to turn myself over to d’Orlaans to make it so, but I will have obedience. Is that clear?”

Bryony left, with more haste than decorum.

Jierre swept me a fine Court bow, pausing long enough at the bottom of it to make it sarcastic, his hand aside as if he held his fine feathered hat. “If that is the Queen’s will,” he managed through gritted teeth, and slammed the door for good measure.

The silence inside the small stone room lay tense and aching until Tristan broke it. “That was ill done, Vianne. Jierre is not your enemy.”

The wine had loosed my tongue. “Neither are you,” I retorted sharply. “Yet you would torture an assassin to death to salve your wounded pride, and you would call it duty. I know your duty in this matter, Tristan d’Arcenne, and I will have obedience.” There is death lying on this cot; does not it make your heart break? If it does not, why? Why are you so willing to spread more of it?

“Very well.” He shrugged, winced slightly as if his side pained him. “I can always kill him later.”

How can you say such things so calmly? Is that what a man is? “You may. But not until I say so.”

“As my Queen commands.” Was that a new coolness in his tone? I hoped not.

If it was…I would mourn the loss of warmth, but it would not alter my course.

I turned my attention to the boy on the cot. Bootless, sweating, the bandage at his belly staining with fresh bright red and darker, fouler matter, he seemed very small.

I have not served you well, chivalier. Dear gods.

I took Tinan di Rocham’s hand in both of mine. “Tinan,” I whispered, and the Aryx shifted against my chest. A fine thin vibration ran through my marrow.

I closed my eyes. The wine loosened my mind, dilated my heart, turning inside my chest like a giant gyre. Show me, I pleaded. You have power, a great deal of it; you showed me once how to use it fully. Show me now, please. Let me save his life, and I will not fight you.

The Aryx, wonder of wonders, answered, doors flung open inside my head again and the golden riptide of sorcery swallowed me. Yet I did not witness it. I did not gainsay the Seal, only gave myself up to it. When the gold faded there was only soft restful darkness, and a brushing like wings.

I woke the following morning, in Tristan’s bed, with my Consort standing guard at the door.

He was silent as I dressed myself, not offering to help with the laces as he usually did. That was sometimes worth a half-hour of my laughter and his good-natured cursing before the dress was laced properly, and kisses as well. Today, however, it was indigo satin and quiet; I laid the Aryx atop the fabric and braided my hair with unsteady hands.

Tristan exited the watercloset and stalked to his clothespress, pulled on fresh breeches and a new shirt. He struggled into a leather doublet without my help. The silence between us grew brittle. I stood at the window, looking down over the practice-ground and garden, now familiar sights. I tied off the last braid with a bit of ribbon and sighed, leaning against the stone. Lisele would laugh to see the simplicity of my hair lately, but I was far too hurried during the day to stop and re-dress my braids. Besides, I had not a ladyservant to help; Tristan had been more than enough help with laces, and I had not felt I needed more. He was not so fine at braiding a woman’s hair, not quick-fingered enough. It was the only clumsiness I saw in him.

Tristan approached me slowly. He stopped at my shoulder, looking past me out the window. Or at least, I felt his breath upon my cheek and thought that was where he gazed. The heat of him was a comfort and a grievance at the same time.

“Are you angry with me, m’chri?”

Of all the questions I expected, that was the last. “With you? Of course not.” My own question rose hard on the heels of that denial. “I expect you are rather furious with me, though?”

“No.” His hands stole around my waist. “You were right. I was not…calm, last night. I am furious, but at the thought of you in danger, m’chri. I wish him to suffer.”

Again he surprised me. I was glad we were both gazing in the same direction and not at each other, for my jaw gaped in a most unladylike manner. And there are things that may be said while two people study a vista instead of each other. “Ah.” I searched for aught else to add. “Tristan, I am sorry. I was unkind last night.”

“You were right, Vianne. You often are.” He drew me back against him. I could dimly hear the sound of clattering wood and effort from the practice-ground; they were at morning drill. Sunlight bleached the white stone of Arcenne. “Do you think me a murderer?”

I do not know what to think, but I doubt you would not murder, did you need to. “I do not—”

“Hush.” He covered my mouth, but it was gentle, a reminder of the road from the Citté. “Do you suppose I have any honor left, after being Henri’s Left Hand? After…what I have done in his name?”

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…tis more important than you think. Risaine’s words rose up to haunt me. Hard on their heels came the words of her son:

You are not such a secret to me as you are to our d’mselle…Besides, I look forward to the day all is revealed.

But Tristan was so gentle. He had done nothing but watch over me. Who did I have to thank for my escape from the conspiracy? What did he speak of?

And now that I knew more of lovers and having a Consort, the thought of the Duc’s limp white hands touching me made me sick all through.

“Whatever you did for the King is finished.” I tried to make my tone a balance of light and serious, to put paid to his uncertainty. “You are my chivalier, and my Consort. Well enough?”

“More than I deserve,” he said into my hair, a long sigh. “On my honor, then, Vianne; I will never be so angry I cannot comfort you. Well enough?”

My heart swelled to its normal size, and melted at the same moment. “Indeed. And on mine, likewise.”

He paused, as if there was summat else he would add. I waited, but when he spoke next, it was to turn to business.

“Then I am content. I suppose you have some new variety of heartstopping excitement for us this morning?”

“Questioning the Pruzian. And di Rocham…” Dare I ask? Abruptly, I felt the bite of shame. That should have been my first question.

“He lived through the night, and likely will mend.” Tristan paused. “The Aryx.”

“Yes.” I leaned in to his warmth. “I do not recognize myself anymore, Tris.”

“I know you.” He pressed a kiss onto my hair. But his hands trembled. “You are my Vianne, and the Queen of Arquitaine.”

I did not protest. Instead, I let Tristan hold me until a maid knocked at the door, bringing breakfast. Twas a respite before the storm; and a welcome one. Had I known what was to be, I would have cherished it all the more.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Baron d’Arcenne was exceeding unhappy. “He sought to kill me, and my wife, and my son,” he informed me, as if I did not already know. “I want him hanged. I want him dead, for the crows to peck at his—”

“He is remanded to my justice, Baron.” It took work to keep my tone even. I stood at the fireplace, my hands clasped in front of me. The Baroness, her hazel eyes wide and unwontedly dark, sat on a divan, her embroidery in her lap. I wanted badly to ask her if she was hurt or frightened, but Tristan’s father had given me little time. Instead, he had set upon me the moment I arrived, without even a good morn greeting.

I did not blame him, but still.

Tristan himself was outside the door, conferring with Jermain di Vantmor. I did not ask of what; I would learn of it later if necessary.

The Baron fixed me with an icy blue d’Arcenne glare. “Your justice? And just what is your justice, you silly little—”

“That is enough.” The Aryx rilled softly under my words, a tone sharp enough to cut glass. He was silenced with gratifying speed. “You will not serve Arquitaine or your Queen with a head clouded by anger, Baron. Do me the good grace to trust my judgment, since you have declared me fit to rule. I will occasionally reserve the right to make some small requests of my subjects.”

I matched him glare for glare, the air boiling between us.

“Perseval,” Tristan’s mother said, breathless. “Please.”

He looked away. I would not have been surprised had the breaking of our gazes made a sound like cords snapping. I cut my own gaze to the fire, letting out a silent sigh. The Baron was furious enough to do me harm if I argued more with him, and that would go ill for all involved.

Give him some other bone to worry at. His home was attacked, and he prides himself on its safety. “Gather the Council.” I was careful to keep my tone soft, but inflexible. “I wish Adrien di Cinfiliet recalled, I have a task to set him. I also wish a messenger found to take a proclamation and another missive to Navarrin. I will see Divris di Tatancourt after lunch, then I will see my Council.” I gathered my skirts, the black pearl ear-drops the Baroness had loaned me swinging against my cheeks. “I trust by the next time I see you, Minister Primus, you will be in better temper. Baroness, I would very much like to lunch with you, unless you are discomforted by the recent…unpleasantness.”

I sound like the King. Faint steely amusement rose at the thought. Good.

The Baroness took my cue neatly, as if we were dancing a maying ganaire. “I would be honored to lunch with you, Your Majesty. And I hope you will forgive my Consort, he is extraordinarily upset.”

“My sleep was interrupted last night, as well. I understand. And please, Baroness, address me as Vianne.” I gave a nod, and swept from the room with Perseval d’Arcenne’s anger a hot weight against my back.

Tristan sent di Vantmor away with a curt gesture. “Vianne? My father—”

“He is merely angry, Tris. Leave him be; I gave him another fox to bay at. Come, where is the Pruzian? And how does Tinan?”

“Tinan is recovering. The Pruzian is in the oublietta.”

Is that what mountainfolk call a donjon? “Good. Take me there. We will no doubt pass Guards on the way; we can send one for a scribe. Find me anyone in the Citadel who speaks Pruzian.” My skirts snapped as I strode down the hall. “And we shall have a breakfast brought to the donjon, including watered wine. We shall need Bryony, too.”

“What are you planning?”

I have an idea, m’cher. Let us see how well I cast my dice. “You shall see. Come along.”

We made our way to the deepest parts of the Keep, far away from the Sun’s eye. I held my skirts up as we descended a long flight of narrow damp-stone stairs, and the thought of the tunnel under Mont di Cienne rose in my memory, made my breathing short. Tristan led me down, and down, and down, past neat rows of stone cells. Finally, I saw more torchlight ahead — and Adersahl, whose mustache was resurrecting itself with a vengeance. He stood guard with thin, curly-headed Jai di Montfort. They both swept me Court-polished bows.

“Adersahl. Jai.” I inclined my head, accepting the honor. “How does the Pruzian?”

They exchanged a look I read all too well. Anger rose up my throat, I set my jaw and swallowed it. I cannot find what I must know if this man has been ill-treated. Why did they not listen? “Ah. I see. Di Montfort, would you be so kind as to fetch me di Yspres?”

Jai di Montfort bowed again, did not look to Tristan to reinforce the order. He merely brushed past us and his footsteps faded against stone.

I stepped forward.

Tristan’s hand closed around my elbow. “Vianne—”

“No.” I shook free, took another two steps. Looked past Adersahl and into the room.

Featureless stone, water plinking damply from a ceiling festooned with rusting chains. I did not see the Pruzian, but what I did see chilled me.

A rough hole in the middle of the floor. “Gods above,” I breathed.

I pushed the rusted gate aside with a screeching and approached the hole cut in the floor, my skirts whispering sweetly. Peered into the darkness of the oublietta. A single glowglobe attached to a rusted hanging chain overhead struggling to pierce the gloom; I saw a shape that might have been a dark-haired man lying chained at the bottom, in a blackness like night-spilled wine.

A glitter of eyes, and the dampness on him was perhaps not all water.

I turned on my heel. “Bring Bryony now,” I said tightly. “Tristan, go fetch him. Adersahl, come help me.”

“Vianne.” Tristan. “He is a Pruzian Knife.”

“Do as I bid you, d’Arcenne!” I snapped. I did not glance at him, for if I did I was afraid my tongue and my temper would both perform feats they would regret.

Adersahl approached. I heard Tristan’s footsteps recede, unwillingly.

But he obeyed.

“D’mselle—,” the stocky Guard began.

Enough of this. You thought I would be biddable? No. The game has changed, and I am no longer content to let any of you do as you please when I have made a simple request. “Help me. How do we get him out?”

“Tis an oublietta. You do not stroll forth from one alive — Vianne!”

I halted at the very edge. It looked a very long fall, though it was no more than two bodylengths. “Undo your belt.”

“What?” He stared as if I had gone mad.

Tis a simple enough request, to match my first. “Undo your belt. Now, chivalier.”

He slowly unbuckled his belt. “I do not think—”

“Be silent. I do not care what you think or do not.” My skin crawled at the thought of what I was about to do. “You will have to lower me down.”

“Tristan will—”

“I do not care.” My voice bounced off the stone. “Either you will lower me, or I leap and break my leg like a foundered horse. Choose.” I leaned forward, and Adersahl twitched.

He had gone pale, and the gray in his hair reflected the glowglobe’s weak shimmer. “Why do you do this? D’mselle, why?”

Must you ask? I would have thought it obvious. “Because I will not be the Duc d’Orlaans. I will not be made a monster because we are faced with the problem of defeating one.” My hands closed around the end of his belt. “You may tell them I leapt, Adersahl. I shall not blame you if you do.”

“If you are determined to be insane, so am I. Hold fast, be careful now.”

I wrapped the tough leather around my right hand and trusted Adersahl to lower me down. My slippers slid against the damp stone, my dress hanging, and for the first time in a very long while I wished to be wearing breeches again. This would ruin the fabric.

A horrible smell rose to greet me. Oh, gods above. The glimmer of a naked skull atop a jumble of ivory thrown against the wall leered at me, and I pushed down a swoon. How long ago did the Baron last use this thing? Does he know there are bones? It is a donjon, yes…but think of dying here, alone, in the dark.

It would not do to think on it for very long.

I dropped the last four feet or so, landing with an impact that jarred my teeth.

The Pruzian moaned. His eyes were almost swollen shut. He was naked, and his hands and feet were chained together. “Gods.” I looked in vain for water, for food. Nothing. “Adersahl, a waterskin. A cambric — no, I have one. A waterskin, for the love of the Blessed.”

“Be careful, Vianne.”

“I do not think he is a danger. He is chained and beaten near to death.” I knelt by the Pruzian, pinching my nose shut against the smell.

Last night he had been a figure of terror. Now he was merely broken.

The glimmer of a hedgewitch charm began on my free hand’s fingers, the Aryx moving sleepily to obey me. I had spent so long fighting; it was no longer necessary. The Great Seal did as I asked with only token resistance, without trying to force the doors of magic open and propel me through them.

I was still in danger of drowning, but at least I was learning to swim.

Jaryana had taught me this charm, one to still a fever and bolster a sick man’s strength. It took a new depth of power from the Aryx, and I had to take care lest the sudden flow of sorcery harm the life I sought to save. I wished suddenly that I had known what Jaryana and Risaine had taught me before. I might have been able to stave off death from Lisele, and save her from the Duc as well.

Wishes will not stop the tide, nor will they bring the dead back to life. Ware your work at hand, Vianne, not what you wish could have been.

The man’s skin was fever-hot under my fingers. He moaned. I saw marks on him, terrible marks, and my heart compressed itself with a pang. He lay curled into a ball like a child, his long dark hair tangled and matted with blood.

I repeated the charm, the magic sliding through my fingers and into his flesh. The Aryx, muttering, sank back into quiescence and I was left with merely my own power to charm. Twas enough, now that I knew what I was about.

I could not hold my nose clamped shut forever, and the fresh green scent of hedgewitchery mixed uneasily with the reek of rot, stone, pain, blood, and foulness.

Above me, I heard returning footsteps.

“Where is — oh, no. Vianne!” A horrified cry bounced off stone. The Aryx muttered, spilling fresh force through me, and I had to throttle the flow lest it drown my patient.

I returned to myself slowly, the tide of sorcery retreating. “I am safe enough, Tristan,” I called up. “But you shall have to find a way to bring us both out. He is sorely injured. Can you lower the waterskin, Adersahl?” I brought my square of cambric out. “And are there keys for these cuffs?”

Tristan’s face appeared at the top of the oublietta. His eyes were alive with blueness. “Vianne.” His cool, soft dueling-tone; as if I were an enemy. “He is a Pruzian Knife. Get away from him.”

Do not order me about. I bit the words back, chose summat else to say. “He is chained and beaten to a pulp. I suggest you turn your wits to finding a way to get us both out of this hole if you are so worried for me.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Have some chai.” Sílvie poured; I rubbed my fingers against the green satin of my skirt. The indigo dress needed cleaning, twas fouled with donjon and other things. “Would you care to speak, or do you wish silence?”

“I cannot tell.” I picked up a strawberry. Set it back down. “They might have killed him, Baroness.”

“If you are Vianne, then I am Sílvie. There.” A single nod, curls swinging free over her ears. The rest of her dark hair, caught back in a complicated knot, glowed in the bright warm light. “Yes, they might have killed him. You stopped them.” She handed me the delicate porcelain cup, its saucer held correctly. I accepted, my smallest finger just so, a little Court mannerism.

“They are too angry. I had plans which required that man.” I sounded plaintive. My shoulders slumped before I straightened, Comtesse Rocheburre’s ghostly voice ringing in the mists of memory. A noblewoman does not slouch, Duchesse. Keep your shoulders back, and sit straight.

The Baroness’s gaze was kind. “Tis well you hold the Aryx, then. Have a pastry, Vianne. You shall need it. You have a long dreary afternoon full of angry men before you.”

Tristan was outside the door with Luc di Chatillon. I did not know what they would say to each other, and despite my determination I was still afraid of my Consort’s anger. They had hauled us both out of the oublietta, and I had supervised the installing of the Pruzian in a freshly-swept infirmary cell, Bryony had examined him and added his own hedgewitch healing to mine. Tristan was tight-lipped and silent during the whole process. The Pruzian had not regained consciousness, so the scribe was sent back to his work in the Archives. Nobody in Arcenne spoke Pruzian, it seemed, so I had to hope the Knife spoke Arquitaine.

I had left Adersahl to guard the Pruzian and made it understood to others of the Guard that I needed information this man had, and he had to be whole to give it. Jierre still had not shown his face; Jai had not returned either.

I could only guess at why.

I had also made it understood that any Guard who lifted a hand to the Pruzian would be summarily dismissed from my service. Oddly enough, that made even Adersahl blanch. I was as certain as I could be that the assassin would be safe.

Until he awakened and was well enough to question, that is. Which presented an entirely new set of ugly plans to be made.

Sílvie’s sitting room was a haven of peace, sunlight slanting through the windows. The needlework frame seemed dipped in gold glow, and the harp vibrated with its eagerness to make music.

Still, uneasiness had invaded the Keep along with killspell and Knives. I could almost taste the brittle copper of fear, hanging in the halls and creeping in the corners. “I fear Tristan is rather angry at me for denying him the pleasure of beating the Pruzian to death.” Ware what you say. This is his mother.

“Mh, that storm will pass. He cannot stay angry with you for long. Have a dainty, I implore you.” Her eyes twinkled. Altogether she was too sunny-calm, and while I cherished her ease, I wished she would be serious with me.

I selected a biscuit. “Oh, he can stay angry at me. And I am rather afraid he will.” It was a plea, and she must have recognized it. Dearest Baroness, how do I handle your son? “I should beg your pardon, for you were attacked as well.”

“Oh, well. What can one do? I must confess I barely woke, even when Perseval cursed and dragged me out of bed. I cursed him back roundly for disturbing me, too.” She laughed, her ruby ear-drops swinging. I had to admit that there was nothing Perseval d’Arcenne denied his Baroness, for all his harshness. “I think you have the right of it. If it were up to Perseval and Tristan we would all be endlessly doing our wretched duty without respite. Tis something in the d’Arcennes, I think. Bones from the Mountains and a sense of noble obligation to match.”

“I am not practiced at this at all, Sílvie. I belong at Court with my books and nothing more pressing than which skirt to wear and which gossip not to repeat.” And Lisele to watch for. “I shall get us all murdered and d’Orlaans will triumph…” I bent my head, dabbed at my eyes with a linen napkin. It was terrible manners to weep so, but I could not stop myself. “And I ruined the lovely dress you had made for me,” I finished mournfully. The indigo would likely never be the same.

“The dress matters not a whit.” She selected a biscuit of her own. “Of all those in the world, in Arquitaine, the Aryx chose you.”

We were not truly speaking of the Aryx, were we? No, we were not. “What good is it if I have not wits enough to play these games? No. They are not games, they are deadly serious, and I—”

“Vianne, have another biscuit. You are merely frightening yourself.” She pressed the biscuit on me, and more chai.

I managed half the crunchy, delicate pastry before my stomach closed. “I am frightened.” It did not sound so terrible a secret when I let the air carry it. “I only leap from one crisis to the next. And what if Tristan decides…” Even my newfound hardiness could not carry me further.

“One moment.” The Baroness rose, laying aside her cup and saucer. She crossed her sitting room, her skirts soughing sweetly, and opened the drawer on her small desk covered with letters and two inkstands, a rack of charmed quill pens bobbing their feathered fringes at her. She drew out a sheaf of papers, rolled and tied with a crimson velvet ribbon. “I would show you summat.” She pulled out the dainty rosewood chair next to me and settled down with a sigh of silk. “Tristan wrote these.” She shuffled through them, laying the ribbon aside. “Does that look familiar? It should; you dropped it at a fête. He sent it home and asked me to keep it for him.”

“A hair ribbon?” It seemed so unlike the practical, levelheaded Tristan I knew that I picked up the velvet, smoothed it in my fingers. If it was one of mine, I would have worn it with my red satin, the one cut so low I was always half afraid my breasts would spill out, though I was laced so tight they never did. “I would have worn this with the red satin. It was too tight, I thought I was going to expire halfway through the pavane.”

“Suffering for fashion; and Perseval wonders why I do not wish to visit Court. Ah. Here we are.” She finished ruffling the pages. “Listen. I watched the d’mselle again today, Mami, and I have to ask: how does one approach a woman? Do not laugh. I leave flowers for her, follow her from one end of the Court to the other, and yet she never notices. I take it back, you will laugh at me, ma Mére, you warned me, did you not?” Sílvie’s smile was proud and tender in equal measure. “He did not know quite what to do. I wrote back to ask him what you liked, and he replied, books! So I told him to send you a package of books, and he replied that he could not without casting suspicion on himself.” Her sudden laughter rang in the sunshine falling through the windows. “I promptly wrote back demanding if that was not exactly what he wanted, your suspicion.”

I had to laugh as well. The thought of Tristan penning frantic missives to his mother about an oblivious woman was highly amusing. Curiosity overcame good manners. “What else did he write?”

Her mischievous grin shouted that pricking my curiosity had been her intent. “Well, here, see for yourself. As long as you eat, child. You have not gained a red copper since you came here. Have a bread-and-cress, and read this one. No, wait, this one’s better.”

I had forgotten what it was, to converse with another woman so. She made me laugh, and roundly scolded me into eating while I read some of Tristan’s old letters, choice passages escaping aloud. It was deliciously wicked. For a moment I was back at Court, and she a little wickeder and certainly sharper than my Lisele, and good company to boot.

We were laughing heartily, our heads close together as we conferred like myrmyra birds, when there was a courteous tap at the door.

Sílvie dexterously swept the letters under the table and into her lap as I clapped my hand over my mouth, tears of merriment making my sight waver.

Tristan glanced over the room. “Vianne? You said to call for you when Divris di Tatancourt — good gods, are you well?” The soft edge of duel-hunger was gone from his tone; he sounded concerned.

I blinked away merry tears and nodded. “Well enough, indeed.” My voice did not tremble, though I had difficulty keeping another spate of laughter caged. I rose slowly, another small chuckle escaping me as I saw his face wander into perplexity.

Sílvie patted my hand, the letters kept out of sight in her lap. “Tomorrow. Lunch again. We shall speak more on this.”

“Oh, indeed we shall.” My mouth wanted to twitch. The letters were amusing indeed; though I felt a bit guilty reading a son’s private musings to his mother. It was a welcome shock to find just how closely Tristan had watched me at Court.

Yet the Baroness had just steadied the world under my feet. And I had eaten, my stomach calming and accepting lunch with good grace. “My thanks, Sílvie. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

She waved her fingers, unable to speak for suppressed laughter. It set me to grinning foolishly as well, my heart light as a maying breeze.

Tristan held the door with a slight bow as I swept past. Luc di Chatillon saluted me and I nodded in return.

“What mischief are you twain planning?” my Consort asked incuriously, as we set off down the hall. “Do you feel better, then?”

“Much.” Yet I sobered. The holiday was past, now twas time for the disagreeable. My hands took care of my skirts so I could match his longer stride, but he tarried a little. “Where is di Yspres?”

“Possibly afraid to face you.” He looked somber, his mouth a straight line. “Tinan woke for a short time; Bryony says there is no doubt he will recover.”

“Thank the gods for that.” Fervent relief threatened to weaken my knees. “Why is your lieutenant afraid to face me? I asked di Montfort to bring him.”

Tristan shrugged. There was a shadow in his blue eyes. “They fear your displeasure, or being thrown from the Guard. Perhaps.”

Oh, perhaps. I sighed. He did not move to take my hand as he usually did. This new distance between us was painful. “You are angry, again. At me.”

Did he pale slightly? His left hand dropped to his rapier, touched the hilt. “The Pruzian could have killed you. You must take more care with yourself.”

“He was chained and beaten, Tristan. Against my orders, I might add.” Irritation made my tone much sharper than it needed to be. “I require information from him. I need to know precisely who hired him and precisely who their targets were.”

“Why?”

How can you not know? Or do you think me empty-headed, caviling merely to be obstinate? “Because if the Duc has stooped to sending assassins after me as well as after you, it means he has reexamined his willingness to let me come back to Court so he can bed me as he pleases and get a filthy brat to carry on his line. It will mean the game has changed, and I must learn the new state of the draught-board so I may play with a clear head.” I stopped in the hall, my own irritation bouncing off the stone and rustling against a tapestry with the Arcenne mountain-pard worked in scarlet against a black field. “If his target was merely you and your father, what dance was the third trio intended for? You see, it is a riddle, and I dislike this manner of riddle.” And I will not be responsible for more death if I can possibly help it. You do not seem to understand that, no matter how much I love you. And oh, gods help me, but I do love you more than you may ever know.

The realization was sweet and bitter in equal portion.

“Ah.” Tristan nodded. “That quick mind of yours. I beg your pardon, Vianne.”

I nodded. My ear-drops swung against my cheeks. “I understand there are things you must do that are…unfit for a lady’s sensibilities. But I cannot afford to be overly a lady if I am the Queen. I do understand, Tris. I simply wish you would trust me to know what is best once in a great while as well.” I took a deep breath, my eyes moving over his face. “And your being Left Hand does not mean I should not know what you do in my name.”

Did I imagine it, or did he start as if I had pinched him? He paled even more. “I do what I must for your safety, Vianne.” Tight-spaced, the words were biting-bitter.

“I know,” I soothed.

“That is all I ever seek. You must know as much. All I seek is your safety, and I will do as I must.”

“I trust as much. I asked you to become my Consort, did I not?”

“You did.” He dropped his gaze, examining the hem of my skirt with much fascination. Was this the same man who had written about me with such agonized care, pleading with his mother to give him advice to catch my eye?

I should have noticed him at Court. It was unacceptable that a lady whose duty had been to catch intrigues had not noticed the chivalier at her window. “Tristan? May I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “We are late for your meeting with di Tatancourt.”

True enough. Rebuffed, I smoothed my skirts. “Then let us be on our way,” I said, and swept down the hall. Now I knew the way from Sílvie’s sitting room to the library, and I was not afraid to lead him, his step echoing mine. His silence was as thunderous as any I’ve ever heard.

At the door to my study, I paused. “Thank you, Consort.” Twas easier — and harder — than I liked to keep my tone level and cool. “Now, if you will be so kind as to farrat out wherever Jierre and Jai are hiding, and shepherd them into my presence before my Council Session.”

“Vianne—”

No. If we are to perform this dance, we shall perform it in measures that suit me. “Now, Tristan.” I held my ground. “Divris is to be trusted, and Arcenne is well guarded. Go, and the quicker you return the safer I am.”

He did not argue further, but his jaw set so hard I was surprised his teeth did not shatter. Well, if I wished him to hate me, I am going about it the right way.

I sighed.

Then I arranged my face, entered the study quietly, accepted the Messenger’s bow, and set myself to question Divris yet again about the Duc’s Court. He was a wondrous observant witness, and he knew far more than he thought he did — at least, when I questioned him, his answers illuminated much, even if he did not know quite what he had told me.

He did not need to know, I decided. I had not time to teach him, and twas not his place to hold such knowledge. I had much more to learn now, and the stakes were growing rapidly higher.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Council Session ran late and led to two shouting matches — both of which I won by simply waiting until the men finished rattling their rapiers and then informing them all coolly that it was bad form to shout in front of a lady, and that I was, I would remind them, in case they had forgotten, the Queen.

And if they doubted the wisdom of my commands, or would seek to choose only those commands that suited their purposes, they were no better than d’Orlaans. If they insisted, they could hie themselves hence and field an army against me — or go to join the Duc, being of his stripe.

That handily put an end to discussion, though I disliked using such arguments.

It was after dark when I finally arrived at the Pruzian’s cell accompanied by Bryony to find Tristan, Jierre, and Jai di Montfort standing guard with Adersahl, who eyed them while he twirled his reborn mustache.

“D’mselle.” Adersahl greeted me with a low, sweeping bow. The others followed suit. Even Tristan.

“Your Majesty…” Jai di Montfort’s voice failed him as my glance rested on his lean dark face.

I must look forbidding. Well, if I do, I am grateful for it. I have had enough of men arguing, of late.

I stood with my hands clasped in my skirts, examining all three of them. “Bryony? Please attend the Pruzian. Adersahl, accompany him.”

A murmur of assent. Even Bryony’s frosty silence did not wound me. What did a peasant hedgewitch’s tender feelings matter, if Tristan was past his first flush of care for me?

Now we would see if we could remain friends, my Consort and I. I let the disobedients simmer a trifle longer, until even di Yspres flushed like a guilty boy caught stealing apples.

“Well,” I said finally. “Sieurs di Yspres and di Montfort. Tis pleasant to see you. I had expected you to obey my summons without needing to be fetched hence like schoolboy truants.”

Jierre blushed deeper. Jai di Montfort dropped his gaze to my feet.

“Now,” I continued. “I found the Pruzian damaged when I gave explicit orders he not be touched. This is most disappointing. Then to compound that error by refusing to obey my summons? Not fit behavior for the Queen’s Guard, is it?”

No answer but their hung-head silence. Boys being taken to task by a headmaster, deserving more than a sharp crack against the knuckles.

But I must tread softly. If I pricked their pride just right, it would bolster their loyalty instead of deflating it. And I might well need them in the future. “Very well. I’ve decided your punishment.”

“Your Majesty—” Di Montfort, unable to contain himself.

“Hold your tongue, sieur.” Much to my gratified surprise, he did. “I am extremely disappointed, chivalieri. For the next two days, you will not wear the uniform of a Queen’s Guard, and you will leave your rapiers in the dormitory. You will carry only daggers. After that, you are readmitted into the Guard and all is forgiven.” I found a smile rising, banished it. Now was a time for severity. “The next time you disobey me and hide from me, I shall throw you out of the Guard with stripes. This is not a place for children; you are chivalieri sworn to the Queen of Arquitaine, and I expect you to behave as such.” I inclined my head slightly. “You are dismissed. Go to the Guard dormitory and do as I bid you, to the very last inch.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Di Montfort was now pale. Di Yspres echoed the words. Did the lieutenant look relieved? They trooped past me, stopping only to sweep deep, respectful bows. I waved them away and faced Tristan.

Now for the next hurdle. Gods grant my strength holds.

“So.” The sound of their footsteps faded. He pitched his tone low enough that it would not carry, a skill learned at Court.

I copied his tone, speaking softly without losing enunciation. “You did not return, either.” I tried not to sound hurt, failed miserably.

“I feared your temper.” A bald admission, his hand resting on his rapier-hilt and his expression so grave my heart compressed within me.

“Fear my temper?” I shook my head. “And I have been fearing yours.”

“I would never harm you.” His eyes burned, almost luminous in the torchlit gloom.

“I fear the loss of your affection, chivalier, perhaps more than any harm you could do me.” The admission sent a frisson up my back, and I stepped nervously toward the cell’s barred iron door.

“You think it possible to lose my affection?” Yet his face eased.

I learned mistrust too thoroughly at Court. And everything that has happened since has not helped. “I think it possible I might, Tristan. And it frightens me.” I moved through the door before he could reply. It was childish of me, yes. But I did not wish to cross wits with him to this degree just yet.

I needed my wit for other things.

Adersahl di Parmecy stood in a corner, his arms folded. The Pruzian was awake, flat on his back on a cot against one side of the narrow cell. His eyes glittered under tangled dark hair as Bryony gingerly took his pulse, then flattened his hand against the assassin’s chest and began to whisper his charm. I watched, the pleasant sensation of hedgewitch magic tingling over my skin. He had considerable skill, and I watched carefully to see if I could learn aught of what he did.

“He will live.” The hedgewitch’s grudging failed to wound me, though he looked as if he wished it did.

Still, my graciousness did not waver.

Well, perhaps it wavered slightly. “Thank you, Bryony.”

“Tis my duty.” Bryony gathered up his physicker’s implements, and left without so much as a good-bye. He had to press past Tristan, whose shoulders nearly filled the door.

“I need summat to perch upon — Adersahl?” I did not wish to loom over the wounded man.

The stocky Guard pointed out the low, three-legged stool near the door, which I fetched myself, overriding his protests. Then I set it by the cot and sank down, arranging my skirts. I am not so tall for a woman, so I was able to rest my hands on my knees properly, my back straight.

It was time. I met the man’s glittering, fevered glance. “B’joure,” I said, as if meeting him at Court. “I am Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Do you speak Arquitaine?”

He blinked. His gaze flicked over Tristan and Adersahl. Back to me.

“Oh dear.” I switched to Tiberian. “Tiberian? Do you speak Tiberian?”

He coughed. It was a low, thin sound. “Some,” he rasped. “Arq’taine.” His accent mangled the words — Pruzian is an unlovely tongue at best. It sounds like hacking with a heavy cold and chopping the words into little bits as you spit in the face of your conversational partner. “You. D’mselle.”

My eyebrows lifted. “You speak some Arquitane. That is very good.” I made my words slow and distinct. “What is your name?”

He had a strong jaw, stubbled with charcoal hair; the swelling on his face had gone down. “Fridrich.” His lips shaped the word oddly, and he smelled of illness and pain. “Fridrich van Harkke.”

“Tis a pleasure, sieur.” I offered him my hand, dropped it back in my lap when he made no move. “I am very sorry they mistreated you. It will not happen again.” Or I will be forsworn, and I will do much more than give the Guard a verbal spanking. “I wish to ask you questions. Surely you understand?”

“Hired. Word is bond.” He shook his head painfully, his hair rasping on the pillow. “No name of aufsbar.”

“Aufsbar?” It was my turn to mangle a word, my mouth would not shape the harsh sounds.

“Client,” he supplied, his eyelids drooping still further.

“Surely you can tell me who your targets were? Please?” I reached up and gently pushed the tangled dark hair from his face. I tried not to touch his bruised skin. Sickness, like a fruit laid too long in a dark corner, an unhealthy reek. “If that is an affair of honor too, I am afraid we shall have to keep you in the donjon. It will not be comfortable, but you will not be mistreated.”

His eyes glittered, glittered. Watching me as a wounded snake might watch a bird hopping just out of range.

I sighed, and laid my hand against his chest where Bryony had. Fever-heat blurred through the cloth doublet they had given him.

The charm rose, simple and undeniable in its rightness, the Aryx lending its strength to the healing with no demur. When I opened my eyes and took my hand away, the faint green glimmers of hedgewitchery still clung to my fingers. “As you like. But hear me. If you tell us who your targets were, I offer you your freedom, Fridrich van Harkke. You may leave Arcenne as soon as you are well enough, and we shall give you a horse and supplies too. You may go home, or whither you will.”

That seemed to strike him as terribly amusing. He gave a dry whistling laugh. “Was not meant to kill. Bring back the prettybit — you. Kill blue-eyed Baron and his son. Was our job. You were not meant to be harmed, fralein. Only brought.”

Well, that’s comforting. At least the game has not changed to that high a degree. “Thank you, sieur van Harrke. You shall be visited every day by the physicker, and I shall visit as well. When you are hale enough, you shall be set free outside the town’s walls.”

He closed his eyes, blowing out a sigh. He obviously did not think much of my promises.

I did not blame him.

There was only one thing left to say. “Your friends.” My voice was soft. “I am sorry for them.” I would not have more death, not even yours. I cannot prevent it, but I would not have it.

“Know the risk. Das miez’weizs,” he rasped. His breathing deepened into the steady harsh rhythm of sleep.

I made it to my feet a little less than gracefully, backed away from the cot for a few steps before turning to the door. Tristan offered me his hand. “Did you learn aught of interest?” His eyes rested on the assassin, and he made no attempt to disguise his loathing.

Far more than I thought possible. “I did.” I learned the Duc wishes me unharmed, that I was to be brought. Presumably there were plans to take me from Arcenne, which makes it even more imperative to know precisely where di Narborre is. I have also learned a little of this man, and I think he may be amenable to further usefulness.

After all, returning to the Duc is not a choice he can make. Not comfortably, at least.

Adersahl followed us out, locked the door. I saw the shadows under his eyes. I should set another Guard, but who can I trust? “Adersahl? Who may I trust to watch him, and not slip a knife between his ribs?”

Adersahl considered this, glancing at Tristan, who manfully restrained from commenting. “Jespre di Vidancourt. Levelheaded, not given to impulsiveness.”

“I shall have him sent down. Thank you.” He had been on guard for far too long, down here in this dank hole. “No — it strikes me, Tristan and I shall stay here. Go tell Jespre to hie himself here, and you take some rest.”

He swept me a bow with alacrity. “Now there is a happy thought. My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, do not flatter.” I offered him my hand, which he kissed. “Thank you, Adersahl. I am glad of you.”

He grinned, twirled his mustache, and left. Which left me alone with Tristan outside the Pruzian’s cell. He leaned against the wall, his entire posture languid and easy. But his jaw was too tight, and his left hand clenched on his swordhilt.

I peered through the door. The Pruzian lay in torch-dappled shadow, and I wondered if I could see a gleam of eyes. I wondered also if he needed more than just a thin blanket against the chill damp. “You are angry.” I stated the obvious once again.

“Why do you say that, m’chri?” But his fingers tapped his swordhilt.

“Because I would be a poor Consort indeed if I could not tell.”

He sighed, deeply, an aggrieved sound. “I am not angered at you.”

“Who else would you be angry at?” Speak to me. Let us not allow silence between us, my darling.

“The vilhain that sent Pruzian Knives to collect you, perhaps? The vilhain who killed my King? Or perhaps the saufe-tet that chased us through Arquitaine and nearly cost you your life?” He shook his dark head, the gray at his temple flashed. “But I could not ever be angry at you. Why do you not understand?”

I slanted him a glance that might have been ironically amused if I was not so unsettled. If he decided to stride into the room right this moment and kill the Pruzian, I would not be able to stop him. He had the rapier, and enough volcanic fury to do it. All I had was the Aryx, the thin protection of custom — and my own wits. What I saw in him frightened me, for his eyes all but glowed as he observed me, narrowly. His mouth was a thin line and his fingers tapped at his swordhilt, a meditative rhythm.

I lowered myself from my tiptoes and faced him. The torches hissed.

His hand fell away from the hilt. “Your eyes are dark again, m’chri.”

I shrugged, my shoulders moving under silk. Oh, Tristan. I do not know what to do.

He peeled himself away from the wall, approached me slowly. Cupped my face in his hands, his gaze moving slowly over my cheeks, my mouth, resting on my eyes. “I have done many things for the throne of Arquitaine,” he murmured. “I have acted as Henri’s Left Hand; I have done things you cannot imagine. For all your sharp mind and political acumen, you are still the same very sweet young girl who let a Princesse win at riddlesharp and could not believe a man would court her by leaving books. I have betrayed and lied where I had to, and done things no honorable man would stoop to.”

You are still my only defense, m’cher. “I care little what you did for the King, Tristan. I care what you do now.”

Oddly enough, my reassurance seemed to wound him. His mouth pulled down sourly. “Very well, Vianne. Gods grant me strength to be worthy of you.”

There seemed nothing I could say. Instead, I leaned forward, his hands slid down and pulled me in. I rested against him in the torchlit dimness of the donjons, breathing him in, and for a moment felt the heavy weight of what I had promised when I took the Aryx from Lisele’s fingers slip from me for a moment. “I do not care what you did,” I whispered into his shoulder.

Did I imagine his flinch? In any case, Jespre di Vidancourt soon arrived, and it was time to move to the next task. But that conversation made me uneasy, though I did not know quite why.

Chapter Forty

Four weeks later, the storm broke.

I was uneasy that morning; there were dispatches to be sorted through. Perseval d’Arcenne had observed a frosty courtesy toward me since the affair of the Pruzians that might have managed to hurt my feelings had I not been occupied with a greater mystery: that of missing dispatches. Normally I would have simply waited for the vagaries of man and horse to bring them to me a day or two late, but they were all from the road to Ivrielle, and that meant the road out of the province and to the Citté.

Adrien di Cinfiliet was late as well. I could not help imagining the worst, until something even worse than the worst occurred to me — whenever I had time to think. Hard on its heels would come another terrible thought, and I sometimes laughed at my own imaginings.

Then I would sober, as the cycle of imagining began afresh.

Mornlight came warm and clear; wind snapping the pennants from the towers that day. I had breakfast in the library while I dictated diplomatic responses to Navarrin and messages to Arquitaine cities and provinces. It seemed no few had declared for me, a fact heartening and terrifying at the same time. More lives to depend on my wit, and me frantically trying to think of a way to reach a resolution with d’Orlaans that did not require bloodshed.

None seemed possible, especially in light of two assassination attempts.

Something else bothered me, too. I understood d’Orlaans wished me alive if he was to legitimize his reign and get heirs upon a noblewoman whose House would not rise against him in revolt. My House was all but extinct unless I produced an Heir, for my mother was dead and there were no other branches of Rocancheil or the ruling of Vintmorecy.

If I met with some misfortune, the Aryx would be forced to choose another holder, and mayhap the Duc thought he had extinguished all but him and me? It was an indication that he did not know of Adrien’s existence, which was heartening.

Still, the fact that assassins were sent to fetch me was not guaranteed to ease my heart. True, I was only to be brought, not dispatched immediately. But that could only mean the Duc wished the pleasure of strangling me himself. He had to suspect by now that I was not amenable to his plans.

Tristan’s behavior made me uneasy, too. He seemed on edge, waiting for a fresh disaster, though he was unfailingly gentle with me; especially at night as we lay together in his bed. He held me as if he expected me to vanish did he not keep a tight enough grasp; and if he was desperate in his use of me I was just as desperate in my use of him. What I learned of love in those days has remained with me ever after as a lesson in anguish, how two people can sense an approaching disaster and use each other’s bodies as a shield against questions growing more and more pointed.

The half-head visited me once that month; I lost half a day lying abed and weeping with agony as my skull sought to rive itself to pieces. Tristan did not leave my side, holding my hand so tightly both our fingers were bruised. He whispered a Court sorcery that plunged the room into blackness, for any stray gleam of light during the half-head is more agonizing than the worst battle-wound. Gods, he whispered after the pain had left and I lay limp and too exhausted to do aught but breathe. If I could take the pain from you, Vianne, I would. I would suffer it twice for your sake.

Thank you for the darkness, I had replied, before losing consciousness.

It was not until later that I wondered why he knew such a charm. At the time, I was simply grateful. And there were other more pressing concerns. For Navarrin was hanging back, waiting to see whether the Duc or I would finish the course. Haviroen and Badeau were pleasant but noncommittal; Tiberia was more than willing to open diplomatic relations if I agreed to trade concessions once I was firmly in power — the same concessions they were perhaps pressuring d’Orlaans for, banking their coin securely on either horse. Sirisse, girdled in their mountains, cared little, for their god sleeps but holds their tall sharp borders inviolate. Scythandra would be no help, and the Principalities of Damar-Hesse and Sea-Countries besides, both nervous of Damar on their borders, played for time.

From the Damarsene, only a chill silence. Truth be told, I did not send them a missive. If they demanded tribute from d’Orlaans and I as both styled rulers of Arquitaine, I was ill-prepared to pay, promise, or insult them in such a way that they would not hold me to account for it later.

Yet it was the missing dispatches that worried me most. So when I heard the faroff shouts and clatter in the bailey, I thought little of it except to frown and go back to the paperwork awaiting me, thinking it only a rider come with late news, who would be ushered into my presence soon enough. Tristan had gone to confer with his father about guard rosters and some points of trade with Navarrin that I wished counsel on.

So I was alone in the study — except for two of the Citadel Guard at the door — when Adersahl burst in, flushed and breathless.

I leapt to my feet, paper falling in a drift to the floor. Adersahl skidded to a stop. His bootheels all but struck sparks. “Tis di Cinfiliet,” he gasped. “Bloody and missing half his men. Come quickly!”

I wasted no time with silly questions but bolted for the door; he whirled on his heel and ran before me, trusting me to follow.

Through the corridors of Arcenne we ran, and a stitch clawed at my side under pale-blue silk. I had to pick up my skirts, cursing them for once. We took a staircase headlong, I almost tripped and had to clutch at Adersahl’s shoulder when we reached the gallery. So it was I arrived in the bailey amid a confusion of horses and shouts, me clasping Adersahl’s arm and ducking under stray hooves as a bay reared. Adersahl cursed, I swallowed a burst of language most unfit for a lady, and the stocky Guard pushed me back.

“Vianne!” A familiar voice, throat-cut hoarse with shouting. “Vianne!”

Twas di Cinfiliet, and right glad was I to see him. I shook free of Adersahl, ducked past another lathered horse, and caught the reins of Adrien’s exhausted gray-dappled gelding. Foam flung, spattered my dress. “Adrien!” Safe and here, thank the gods. What new disaster is this?

He was bloody, sweating, his shirt was in rags and his eyes burning with the kind of rage I had grown uncomfortably familiar with seeing on men’s faces lately. “Milady Riddlesharp,” he greeted me, with Risaine’s sharp accent. “You look a sight better.”

“And you a sight worse.” Sick dread thudded under my heartbeat, the Aryx rilling uncertainly. “I worried for you. Why did you not come when I sent for you?” Though it looks as if you had good reason.

“I have been busy playing hide-in-the-bushes, d’mselle. And worse games.” He swung down as I dragged on the reins; the horse pranced. Then the gray gave up, his head hanging; I stroked him soothingly.

After the war-trained behemoths the Guard rode, this gelding was far less daunting. And after coaxing and feeding and harnessing the horses the R’mini used sometimes to draw their wagons in place of oxen, I had learned at least not to fear a horse, even if it was more sprightly than a placid saddle-trained mare. “Easy there, k’vrim,” I crooned to the gray in R’mini. “Ah, big fellow, be easy in your skin and hooves, be easy in your mane, eh?” I could almost hear Jaryana as she soothed a nervous beast, clicking her tongue and half-singing.

The gray shuddered, hung his head. He had been ridden almost to death.

Adrien reeked of sweat and horse and blood. “Vianne.” Hoarse and urgent, my name pronounced as a talisman. “Tis good to see your face.”

“Likewise.” Arquitaine was strange in my mouth now after murmuring in R’mini. “Adrien, I—”

He shook his ragged dark head. “Later. Listen to me. There is news, grim news, and right glad I am to see you first and alone.” He sought to calm his breathing and slumped, running his hand along the horse’s trembling, lathered neck. “An army approaches, milady. Arcenne will soon be besieged.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. You predicted this, did you not? And I did not listen. “Siege? By whom?”

He spoke the words I dreaded hearing.

“Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors, though.” My cousin coughed rackingly. Blood coated his sharp, tanned face like paint. Iron-shod hooves rang against stone. The bailey ran with sound, echoed with it, spilled over with the shouts and shrills of horses.

“How many?” My knees threatened to buckle. Damarsene. They do not leave once they have marched past a border, not without much bloodshed. Is d’Orlaans mad, or does he think them easily fobbed off once he has what he wishes? The horse’s heaving sides eased. He had run his course, and mine was just beginning.

“Enough to take this city, fair lady Riddlesharp. Some few thousands, with a siege train and engines.” He caught my arm, fingers sinking in carelessly hard. “I have other tidings, cousin mine. Later, if I may speak to you? Alone?”

Had I realized how he would soon rob me of all peace, I might have refused. No, that is not correct. I could not refuse, even if I looked back on this moment as the last before my world crumbled yet again.

The Aryx rasped uneasily against my dress. “Of course. Adrien—”

His fingers dug in, merciless. “Listen to me. Trust no one. I have a tale for you, my fair one.” His lips skinned back from his teeth, a wolf’s grimace. In the distance, a battlefield yell cut through the noise.

“Vianne!” Tristan, searching for me.

Court instinct rose. I did not struggle and cause a scene. Adrien’s fingers prisoned my flesh, a bruise already rising on my arm. I did not flinch, simply gazed into his bloody face. “Tell me a tale, cousin.” What could be worse than Damarsene approaching, and the Duc—

“Vianne! Vianne!” Tristan’s voice, ringing through the bailey.

“I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.” Di Cinfiliet’s whisper dripped venom in my ear. “He was a part of a conspiracy, and was so close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes. I have proof to give you, m’cousine, captured from di Narborre himself. Your Captain, m’cousine—” Adrien’s fingers fell away, but his gaze held mine. I saw again how much he resembled Risaine, both in the shape of his face and the set of his mouth. There was another resemblance, under the dust and weather and blood.

The King surfaced from Adrien di Cinfiliet’s features, as if rising from his tomb.

My heart pounded thinly. I tasted metal.

“Vianne!” Tristan arrived, and spun me to face him. “Are you well?”

It took every scrap of Court training I possessed to face him. “There is an army approaching, Captain. Your father — I must speak to your father. These men have ridden to warn us. We must stable the h-horses…How many? How many of yours have arrived, Adrien?” I was well to witless, but it could be supposed that the news of an approaching army would maze my humble brains.

I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.

Bile scorched my throat.

No. Tristan was the King’s Left Hand. Proof? What proof could Adrien have? It was the Duc’s lie, that Tristan had killed the King.

And yet.

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…tis more important than you think.

Or had she only mistrusted any man who could be the Left Hand to the King who had discarded her so ruthlessly?

He was my Consort, and had led me through the tunnel under Mont di Cienne.

Yet the Duc had ordered Tristan’s tongue be taken so he could not speak. Tristan had been waiting in the passage for me, with Simieri — or had Simieri come along to take Tristan unawares?

Or had Tristan been the one to catch the Minister Primus at a different game?

I had not seen my Captain the entire time of the conspiracy’s unwinding. He had left me in the passage when the alarums began. And something had bothered me for a long, long while, never quite articulated.

It simply did not make sense that the King had been poisoned, for I was not so untalented a hedgewitch as to miss poison in pettite-cakes no matter how exotic the toxin…and why, oh why, had Tristan been waiting for me in that passageway?

No. I could not mistrust him, could I?

“Fifteen.” Adrien’s voice cracked harshly. “Fifteen of my riders left, tis all. We slowed them, killed some sentries. Much as we could do. They fear the countryside now. And the night.” He patted the horse’s wet neck. His grimace was fey, an animal’s bared teeth. “We caused some damage.”

“Good. How many? And who?” Tristan’s tone was needlessly harsh, but this was dire news for both of us. It was slim comfort that he thought to ask the same questions I did.

“Some thousands,” I said. “Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors. And with a siege train.” This time my knees did buckle. Tristan caught me, swore, and pushed a strand of my hair back. His fingers were tender, but the thought would not leave me.

Were you part of the conspiracy, Tristan? What proof could this bandit have? “When all is revealed,” Adrien taunted him once before. So, did he suspect, or…

The noble bandit was my newfound kin, and he had little reason to lie so grievously to me, unless he hated Tristan d’Arcenne beyond reason.

Or unless there was truth to this tale, of a man who killed a King.

There were too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries conspiring to cloud my Consort, dogging his heels. If Tristan had lied about poison in pettite-cakes, why?

And what other words of his should I mistrust?

“Inside. Come, di Cinfiliet, there’s wine for you. And bandages. The physicker’s been called.” Tristan sounded just the same. Just as he always had.

My heart turned to ice. I could not doubt him, my Consort, my love.

And yet.

I had only his word for what had happened to the King. Divris di Tatancourt could not tell me anything but rumor, which painted Tristan as the blackest of murderers. At least, the official tale spread by the Duc was that Tristan was the King’s killer. Now I wondered just who Tristan truly was a traitor to.

Or was I the traitor for even entertaining the thought?

Proof captured from di Narborre. A poison well to draw from, to be sure. Or proof so damning it could not be denied.

Everything hinged on the remainder of Adrien di Cinfiliet’s tale. I could only wait, and see.

He refused all help from the hedgewitch, took only unwatered wine, and told my Council of the approaching army as he was: bloody, battered, and swaying with exhaustion. I caught a glint in his steely eyes as he did so, which led me to think there were other reasons behind his choosing to appear weakened. Risaine should be proud of him; he was playing his part to perfection.

What other part is he playing, Vianne? Wait, watch. Practice your patience.

Twas agony to keep still and to watch. I sat in the chair at the head of the table, listening through the roaring in my ears, barely aware of what he repeated: an army, some thousands, with a siege train, answering other questions about horse and man, dispositions and colors. The Council took the news well, Perseval d’Arcenne questioning him closely as to exactly where, the manner of their siege engines, how many Adrien and his riders had killed, the speed of the interlopers. How many cavalry, how many infantry, if he had taken any prisoners.

Which, of course, Adrien had not. His hatred would not allow it, for the one who led the army was the Duc’s dog, Garonne di Narborre. A murmur ran through the Council at that tidbit.

I closed my eyes, sank back into the chair. The Aryx shifted, carved scales rasping against silk fouled with horse-lather. I let out a soft sigh. Breath and my usual wit threatened to desert me.

So close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes.

Adrien had little reason to lie so flagrantly, for my protection gave him and his men shelter against di Narborre, as well as a chance to avenge the wrongs done them.

Perhaps he had even suspected, before this. But how? Did any among the Guard know aught, or suspect? How many of the men I had trusted my life to had darker secrets?

He said he possessed proof. If he had killed one of di Narborre’s men, would he have proof of a conspiracy even deeper than I had dreamed?

The argument roiled around me. Voices raised, Lord Siguerre’s cranky whistle, Perseval d’Arcenne’s baritone, Tristan speaking harshly for once. I rubbed at my temples. Marquis di Falterne making a few acerbic remarks, Chivalier d’Anton seeking as usual to smooth the ruffled feathers. He and the Conte di Rivieri I had chosen because they were naturally calm and unruffled, balanced with Conte di Dienjuste’s fiery excitability and Irion di Markui’s rumbling disapproval of everything. On such short notice, and from the border provinces, I seemed to have found a great deal of talent the Court and King Henri’s Council had overlooked.

My skull twinged with pain. Twas not the half-head; yet bad enough. Each time I think this cannot possibly become worse, it becomes so.

From the beginning, Vianne. Adrien di Cinfiliet had little reason to lie to me.

That does not mean something has not been concocted to use his honesty against me. But then again, what proof could he have from di Narborre that he would trust? As much as he may dislike Tristan, he is certain to hate di Narborre more, for di Narborre killed his mother.

My heart was a chunk of lead, senselessly pulsing, though I perhaps would rather have stopped it outright, to save myself the tearing that would result if my Consort had—

“—Your Majesty?” D’Anton, appealing to me.

Brought rudely back to the present moment, I did not answer, massaging my temples. I stank of horsefoam, and a vision of the charred bandit village rose in front of me. The stinksweet of roasted flesh, the charred homes, the small, helpless bodies of children. If I did not find some solution, would the same happen in the clean white stone halls of Arcenne, in the streets below where the people went about their lives, going to market, going to the Temple? And the R’mini, scattered throughout Arquitaine, would suffer as well once the Damarsene were finished with our rebellion and turned to bring the country under their heel once and for all, whither the Duc d’Orlaans willed it or no.

Each of those lives hung on me, both the lost and those needing to be preserved.

I pushed myself to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor. Silence fell.

I opened my eyes, paced to the window. Below, Arcenne lay packed behind its wall, the Keep lifting like a stone ship’s prow. A haze of smoke drifted up from the town and the outlying settlements. Trees clothed in summer leaf swayed gently in the sunshine, mountain wind mouthing the wavery glass. “Dear gods,” I whispered.

On the mountainside, the white blocks of the Temple glistened. I remembered the statue of Jiserah, glowing with a radiance far beyond starlight or moonlight. The mysterious priestess of Kimyan, with her piercing gray eyes; and the Aryx ringing as if it would burst, power running through its straining serpents.

The gods were watching, perhaps. But theirs was not help I could do aught but beg, and I was a beggar in so much else. I had nothing to trade save the Aryx, and it belonged to them in any event. No, there was no help from that quarter.

And Tristan…

I was alone, as surely as I had ever been at Court, even among the whirl and glitter. Loneliness in disaster is the fate of every man or woman, though, and it does little good to bemoan it.

“Your Highness?” Perseval d’Arcenne. “We await you.”

And you will have to await me a few moments longer, Minister Primus. I touched the glass. Ran my fingertips over its rippling surface. I cannot do this. I cannot. I do not know why the Aryx has chosen me, but tis wrong. I cannot order more death, I cannot be responsible for this. A war on the other side of winter I thought I could avert, or at least it would give me enough time to find a solution. But a war here and now, and the Damarsene on Arquitaine soil?

Blessed preserve us all. How much more prayer would I indulge in before I ceased to think of myself as irreligious?

“D’mselle?” Baron d’Arcenne’s voice held irritation, and the snap of command. “If you would be so good as to—”

“Enough, Perseval.” My tone could have shattered the window. “When I wish for you to speak to me as if I am your lackey, I will inform you of the event. Until that time, be more careful of your manner. Tristan?”

“Aye, my liege?” Suitably hushed, carefully obedient.

“How long do we have?” My throat closed around the words, thick with tears. I wondered that I sounded so haughty.

“Three days, four at most. Enough time to get everyone inside the walls and—”

“I will spend tonight at the Temple. Send to Danae, priestess of Jiserah, to inform her I wish her services. Gather every hedgewitch and Court sorcerer you can find, prepare them for siege. Make certain Adrien’s men are given aught they require, and wait for me in your chambers. Go.”

The air crackled with his reluctance, and I am sure he exchanged a look with his father. The door soughed closed behind his bootsteps.

I rounded on my Council, my head held high. Adrien di Cinfiliet had dropped into a chair, and he watched me carefully from beneath the glare-white bandage. But he smiled, encouragingly, just a tiny curve of his thin lips.

It made no dent in the armor closing about me.

“Chivalieri en sieurs.” I let my gaze linger on Perseval d’Arcenne, who looked angry enough to spit like a Guard averting ill-luck. “I will decide tomorrow morn if I am to risk open war, or if I will surrender myself to the Duc and hope for peace. I am loath to risk even a single life.”

They stared, jaws hanging. It was a moment that would have been comic if not for the tension crackling between each man and the next. I had only a short while before their shock turned to shouting matches as they sought to change my mind, and I had little patience for such an event.

“Until I decide, I leave the preparations for this city’s defense to you. I have another duty now. Sieur di Cinfiliet, I ask for a few more moments of your time, tonight, in the Temple. Until then, rest, and look to your men and horses.” My eyes moved slowly over the faces of my Council, and the howling loneliness settled more deeply over me. “And now, chivalieri en sieurs, I wish to be alone. Be so kind as to withdraw.”

The Aryx rilled softly under my words. I did not sound like the King, but neither did I sound like a woman who could be disobeyed.

Of all of them, only d’Anton tried to speak. I lifted a hand, effectively silencing him. When they were gone, only the guards outside the door remaining, I dropped back into the chair and looked at the table, scattered with paper and candleholders. The wine decanter looked very tempting, but I required a clear head.

I let out a long breath. My head pounded. My entire body shook as if I had been struck with palsy. My right hand crept up, touched the Aryx’s pulsing. Sunlight slanted through the windows, dust dancing in each bar of thick warm yellow. The Aryx moved, serpents straining against my fingers. One hard gemstone — a serpent’s eye — drifted under my fingertip. “Gods.” My voice shook. “What did I do to deserve this?”

There was no answer. Nothing but the Aryx thrumming, singing, almost conscious against my skin. My stomach flipped, revolving, as if I had slipped on a staircase and was now starting a long fall. “Tristan,” I whispered.

I would wait until tonight, in the house of the Blessed, to speak to di Cinfiliet and hear his proof.

And what of it? What if Tristan d’Arcenne had killed the King? I had said I cared little what he had done beforehand, and I loved him. It seemed now that I had always loved him, even at Court, and only been blind to it. It hurt my heart to think of him as a traitor, but perhaps he was not. Perhaps it was another trick, a lie, something to make me mistrust him. After all, assassins had been sent to fetch me, not to kill…if I could trust what the Pruzian said.

What if I went to the Temple as suppliant and the gods were silent? What if I found no answer in the house of the Blessed? What if the city was besieged and there were yet more deaths to lay upon my conscience, people who followed me because of the Aryx, who trusted the judgment of a lady-in-waiting, a bastard royal? And what if I gave myself over to the Duc and had to endure his limp white hands on me while plague swept Arquitaine and Damarsene armies marched through her fields and orchards? What were Damarsene troops about under the Duc’s standard?

I did not trust my wit when faced with this, and the strength I would have depended on had just been rudely struck from me. What if I could no longer trust Tristan d’Arcenne? What if he was just as guilty as the Duc who had killed my Princesse?

You have suspected, Vianne. You may never fully know. But the suspicion itself will work in your heart like the poison that was not in the King’s pettite-cakes. You have known since Tierrce d’Estrienne something was amiss with Tristan’s tale, and yet you closed your eyes to it, for you needed him.

My fingers left the Aryx. I cupped my face in my hands as the sunlight burned through the empty room.

And there, alone in the Keep among hundreds depending on my wit and strength, I wept.