The Hedgewitch Queen (27 page)

I
t took nearly an hour before I was brought to the Baron, and my nerves were worn past fraying. I had been up since before dawn and ridden in the wagon all day—and been fretting myself dry to boot. They searched me for weaponry and found nothing, since Adersahl’s dagger was still with the R’mini. Yet the men were kind, even if silent, and I could understand. If Arcenne was loyal, they had to be cautious—and if they were not, they would want to find if I truly was who I claimed, and could not have me bolting at a chance word.

The book-lined study was quite warm because of a roaring fire newly kindled. Leather ease-chairs crouched before the fireplace, a massive desk under a drift of paper and parchment, a tasseled Eastron sling hung on the end of one bookcase, red velvet drapes and a threadbare but priceless crimson Torkaic rug. Glowrock lamps in metal cages shed their soft silvery light, warring with the ruddy fire.

I chose to stand near the open window. Below, the lights of Arcenne glittered; torch, candle, and lamp. I wondered if the R’mini would suffer for helping me. Was Arcenne still loyal? And would the Baron listen to my tale? I could be judged as something other than I was, mayhap, even despite the Aryx—

The door opened, and I whirled, my skirt belling.

It could not possibly be anyone other than Tristan’s father. He had Tristan’s build, his faint sardonic smile, and the likeness was fair to take my breath away. My heart squeezed inside my chest. I swept a Court courtesy, momentarily forgetting that I was dressed as a R’mini.

He was tall and had blue d’Arcenne eyes, his face sharply handsome even if graven. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and his thick dark hair was salted liberally with gray. He carried himself straight, albeit a bit stiffly, and he wore boots and breeches and a white shirt that had been left untucked.

He also carried an unsheathed sword, its bright metal glittering. I tasted bright copper fear, took care to keep my face a mask.

“Who are you?” he demanded, with no preamble or courtesy.

“Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” I thought grimly that I could have introduced myself as V’na di R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan and perhaps gained a warmer reception. “I bring a message from Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin, lately slain by treachery. I have traveled far to escape the treacherous regicide Duc d’Orlaans, and if you are loyal to him than I am in dire straits indeed, Baron.” I paused, more to breathe than for effect. “I come also to ask for news of your son, for I sorely miss his face.”

The Baron stared, as if I had just announced I was going to turn myself into a fish.

I reached up slowly, keeping my gaze locked with his, and drew the Aryx out from my R’mini blouse. “Princesse Lisele pressed this into my hand as she lay dying from a traitor’s sword. She told me with her last breath to come to Arcenne.
They are loyal in the mountains,
she said.
Sieur
, I await your answer.”

With that, I stoppered my mouth, holding the Aryx up. The serpents stirred uneasily against my fingers, their scales rasping.

The Baron sheathed his sword. His expression did not change.

“Gods above and below. You are a fool.” He stalked across the room, and it took a great deal of my waning courage to stay still, my chin lifted, holding the Aryx as a shield.

He could push me out the window.
I shivered.
Or I could fling myself hence and dash out my brains, did he seek to imprison me for d’Orlaans.

Whether or not the Seal would seek to dissuade me, or even if it would fuse itself to my flesh again did I try to remove it from my neck, were two more hideous possibilities I did not like to contemplate.

He skirted the rug and reached me, and I noticed his hair was mussed and his belt-buckle askew. He must have been hastily wakened.

The Baron examined my face for a long while, and I suffered it. Then he dropped his gaze to the Aryx. He reached up, cautiously, and extended a finger, as if he would touch it.

I wished him much luck of the attempt.

A spark snapped. His hand flung back, and he nodded, shaking his fingers out. “Well,” he said finally. Nothing more.

I could never remember the Aryx responding in such a manner before, but none had sought to
touch
it before, either. I gathered my courage with both hands. “
Sieur
, is there any news you can give me of your son Tristan?”

He returned to a thorough examination of my face. I heard boots in the passage outside, low voices.
Is Arcenne disloyal? If he is the Duc’s man I shall throw myself from this window-
couvre
rather than be taken captive, Seal or no.

The old Vianne would hardly have thought such a thing—and would not have been determined to
do
it, either.

His face changed. I could not call the transformation an easing, but neither could I call it cruelty. “How did you come to be here, child, dressed as tinkerfolk? Sit down, have a glass of wine, and tell me. Are you hungry? Perhaps you are.” He stalked for the door, opened it, and exchanged a few words with whoever stood outside. I sagged in relief. Possibly premature—who knew where his loyalties lay?—but I could do nothing more. I was in the hands of the Blessed, just as much as I had been among the R’mini.

In short order I was esconced in one of the leather ease-chairs by the fireplace, sinking into warmth and softness. Wine was brought, and flatbread, cheese, and fruit. The Baron settled himself in the other chair, his blue eyes steady. “Now tell me your tale. Leave nothing aside.”

I began with the passage, Tristan and the Minister Primus, the King asking my silence, then the conspiracy’s frantic unleashing. I told of Lisele’s death, and my hiding in the North Tower. I told of finding Tristan in the donjons and setting him free, and of our flight to the Shirlstrienne, the assassin in the inn, and finally Adrien di Cinfiliet’s bandits. I told of the attack on the village, how I found myself alone among the corpses, and of striking out into the woods and the great luck of finding a R’mini goatherd boy. More boots echoed in the hall outside, and I glanced toward the door, nervous, and continued my tale, with a brief account of traveling among the R’mini.

I spared myself nothing. I freely admitted how stupid I had been at all stages, how useless I had been to the Guard, how dangerous to the bandit village, and how weak I had been not to bury the dead bodies.

It bothered me, to have left them for carrion.

“And so, the R’mini brought me here,” I finished lamely. “As you see.”

He nodded, his fingers steepled in front of his face. I was hungry—the smell of the bread taunted me—yet I made no move to take any crumb. I sat bolt upright in the chair as if at a Court
lévee
, forgetting my clothes and how I must have reeked of horse, woodsmoke, and tinker.

The Baron opened his mouth to reply, but there was a thundering at the door. I started, my eyes round. The Baron gained his feet with more speed than I would have thought possible for an old, stiff man. He looked so like Tristan, his sword drawn and his eyes full of fire.

My heart gave a shattering leap.

The door flung itself open. I stayed frozen to the chair, craning my neck to see what new shock lay in wait. The Baron let out a curse I had heard the Guards use, one unfit for a lady’s ears, and my entire body was ice.

Tristan d’Arcenne shoved a Citadel Guard aside and stalked into the room, in breeches, bare feet, and an untucked shirt. He spared not a glance for his father’s drawn sword, but strode squarely across the Torkaic rug, skirted the table of untouched food, and descended upon me. He grabbed my shoulders, hauled me out of the chair, shook me twice, then crushed me to his chest, his swordhilt digging into my side. “Gods damn me for a fool,” he said. And, “Vianne, Vianne…gods…” Interspersed with this were most improper oaths in a ragged voice that did not sound like Tristan at all.

Tristan’s father sheathed his sword, watching this with no discernable expression. “I see you’ve forgotten your manners,
m’fils
.”

Tristan glanced at his father. “When did she arrive?
How
did she arrive?”

“Ask her. She has a very pretty tale, Tristan, and seems truthful enough. Even if she is a fool to come here and tell me half of it.” The Baron folded his arms and examined his son. “She could not have known if I was still loyal.”

I would have given a guilty start if Tristan had not been holding me too tightly to permit any movement. I breathed him in, staring witlessly.

I was beginning to believe he was alive.

“T-t-t—” My teeth chattered over his name.

Tristan let loose of me for only long enough to shake me again, print a bruising kiss on my forehead, and hug me even more fiercely. “I thought you dead and the Aryx lost. I thought you
dead
, Vianne, curse me for a fool—”

“Well,” the Baron said. “I shall leave you two to greet each other. Your Majesty, we shall speak at greater length tomorrow, an it please you. Arcenne is yours to do with as you will.” He bowed stiffly, and I thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his sharp blue eyes.

I managed to stammer out something courteous, difficult to do with Tristan still crushing me. The Baron quit the room, shutting the door quietly, and his son held me at arm’s length, examining every inch of my dishevelment. He looked haggard, unshaven, and I saw the beginnings of lines around his eyes. I saw a streak of gray over his right temple that had not been there before.

“You look awful.” Twas hardly the thing to say, but it escaped me before I could measure the words for their fitness.

He grinned, his eyes lighting, and there was the Tristan I knew. “And you are lovely, Vianne. Even in this costume. How did this come to be? How did you survive? Tell me all, tell me
everything
.”

I swayed on my feet, his grasp the only thing keeping me standing. Something occurred to me. “Adersahl!” I cursed myself for not asking sooner. “Where is he? Tell me he is hale.”

Tristan nodded. “Hale enough. Sunk in his cups most nights, cursing himself for losing you. Twill be a relief to have him cease.”

I nodded. Good. If he was alive, some part of this tangle could be mended. “And di Cinfiliet? Is he well?”

“He is well enough.” Tristan’s expression changed, harshness settling into his features. Twas not sadness, but I was so relieved to have him before me I did not care to examine precisely
what
it was. “We found no survivors.”

“I did not see Risaine’s…” I could not stop watching his face, touching it with my eyes. I freed one hand and tested his cheek with my fingertips, to prove to myself he was in front of me and
real
. “Gods.” I shuddered. “I did not see her, among the…” I could not bring myself to say it again.

“Some of the women were taken, killed as soon as di Narborre found they were not you.” He pressed his cheek into my touch. “Not now, tomorrow’s soon enough. Tell me, where were you, what did you do?”

My knees very nearly gave out on me, and my hand fell back to my side. “I long to tell you. I also wish most heartily for a bath and a real bed. I’ve been traveling a-wagon for two months.”

“We can find you a chamber,” he started, but I shook my head. Took my courage in both hands, so to speak, and tossed my dice.

“No. I want…I wish to stay with you.”

My courage abruptly failed, and I dropped my gaze. It was not what a lady should say. One could hint, certainly, or delicately insinuate, but not baldly state. Still, I had asked him to be my Consort, and he had accepted, nevermind there were no proper proclamations published or copper marriage rings exchanged. I found I cared less for propriety than for the knowledge that he was safe and breathing.

Silence. Tristan let loose of my shoulders. I swayed again. His hand cupped my chin, forced my gaze to meet his.

He looked thoughful, a slight smile tilting the corners of his mouth. The fire popped and crackled, shadows easing the worst of the ravages of care marking him.

“Of course,” he said softly. “I…yes. Come with me,
m’chri
.”

He half-turned, holding my elbow, meaning to lead me to the door, but I stopped him by catching at his shirt with my free hand. “Tristan?”

I did not even know what I wished to say, but he looked down at me with a mixture of amusement and concentration I had not seen in him before. “If you ask me news of any other man, Vianne, I might take it ill.” Yet his tone was light enough.

I shook my head, biting my lip. The world seemed very dim, and very far away. “No. I simply wished to…”
What? What do I wish? I want you to speak to me, to take away this fear, and prove to me that you are real and I am not dreaming.

Though I was fairly certain I was not sleeping. There was no blood on my hands, and I did not feel a nightmare stalking me. I feared to close my eyes lest he vanish, and all thought of intrigue had fled me. Even the thought of saving him from himself had disappeared in the great sharp swell of relief.

He shook his head, as if shaking away an unpleasant thought. “Time enough later. Come with me.”

Once again I was towed in his wake, letting him do as he wished. No more decision was required of me, and for that I was secretly, shamefully, completely grateful.

T
ristan led me through the stone halls of the Citadel, sometimes passing guards who saluted him and eyed me curiously. The corridors were narrow: glowstone lamps hung from iron holders at even intervals, tapestries of past battles and the Arcenne family crest hung neatly to make the stone a little less harsh. I stumbled with fatigue by the time he pushed open a door and led me into a suite of dark blue and green: a sitting room with ancient weapons hung on the walls, a tapestry of yet another battle hung behind a long low padded bench. Elsewhere a rack of practice weapons, a stand holding a suit of armor, and two bookcases filled the room. He did not pause to let me look at this, and truth be told, I did not care. A great swimming relief had come over me, so deep I could barely put one foot in front of the other. This was a pleasant dream I would wake from to find myself still in the burning village—or in the wagons of the R’mini. I only wished for it to last as long as possible before I was forced to endure more unpleasantness.

He led me into the bedroom off the sitting room, also done in blue and green, a banked fire warming the air deliciously. “The bed is in a sorry state, I am afraid. I have not slept well these past weeks.” He paused, looking down at me.

Nor have I.
“Do you have…” I blushed, my cheeks hot as the fire. “Do you have a shirt, perhaps, or a shift I may sleep in?”

He left me standing on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was a large clothespress on one wall; he opened it and extracted a neatly folded sleeping shirt. “Here.” He pressed it into my hands and pushed me gently toward the watercloset. “Go. I will wait.”

I found myself in the watercloset, the door locked, a real privy and—oh, luxury of luxuries—a sunken bathtub. The tiles were clean, fresh drycloths sat folded on a rack. A glowing mirror showed me a dark-haired Arquitaine woman, utterly ridiculous in her R’mini braids. But my cheeks were flushed and my eyes glowed despite the circles under them.
Tomorrow I shall take a bath.
Relief burst hot and sharp inside my chest.
Tristan’s alive, and tomorrow I shall take a bath.

There seemed nothing more to want in the world.

When I finally emerged, in a sleeping shirt that reached below my knees, my hair free of its braids, I made it only halfway to the bed, carrying a neat stack of my R’mini clothes. Tristan appeared from the sitting room and took the pile of cloth from me. “I suppose even the hedgewitch tinkers were charmed by you, Vianne.” He set the clothes aside on a chair, and it hurt me to see their threadbare state.

I looked longingly at the bed. Then I set myself to reassure him, if I could. “They were kind enough. They did not have to take me through the Shirlstrienne. They could have left me to starve.”

“Then I owe them a great favour.” He took my elbow and led me to the bed. A
real bed
, with crisp white linens and actual pillows, though twas thrashed a bit. I sank down gratefully. He pulled the covers over me and drew another chair I had not noticed to the bedside. “I shall keep watch. Sleep.”

“I did not mean to push you out of your own bed.”
Or was I thinking I should sleep on a stone floor? Though I am tired enough not to mind. Too tired to care about gossip. He is alive, and here with me.

He shook his head, stripping his dark hair back. My eyes snagged on the patch of paleness at his temple. Had he worried himself into gray hair?

“Go to sleep,
m’chri
. I wish to watch over your dreaming.”

“Did I wake you?” My eyes drifted closed.
He is alive. I am not imagining him.
“Where were you? Where did you go?”

“Tomorrow,
m’chri
.” He said it gently, then leaned forward, took my hand in both of his. He touched my palm, held my wrist gently as a spun-glass figurine. My hand was lost in his. “I thought you dead, Vianne. Every day that passed killed me afresh.” His voice broke.

Where was the stern Captain, the one I feared? Somewhere in the Alpeis, perhaps, I had lost him. And gained instead this man, who called me “beloved” and worried for me. “Tis all well,” I said dreamily. “You are alive. Everything is better now.”

He kissed my knuckles, stubble rasping against my skin. “I feared you dead or taken. Everything, all for naught. I thought…”

“I feared for you as well,” I whispered in return. “I did not know if you still lived. It frightened me.”

“I will not leave you again.” His lips moved against my knuckles. Instead of heat, the touch filled me with quiet comfort. “I swear it, Vianne.”

For that moment, it was enough. He said no more, and nor did I. And again, there were no nightmares.