The Hedgewitch Queen (30 page)

Tis not merely Tristan and the Guard, or a few lone peasants. Every person I see could come to harm because I have the Aryx, and d’Orlaans will kill to keep Arquitaine. He must be mad, to murder his brother and niece. Mad. And di Narborre—how did he find us in the Shirlstrienne? Was he the author of that terrible spell, or was it the Duc? What hope have I of fighting a Court sorcerer that powerful without losing myself to the Aryx?
“Captain?”

“What thought has struck you now,
m’chri
?” Lightly, but with an edge.

“How did di Narborre track us?”

He seemed almost relieved by the question. “Di Palanton, almost certainly. It gave him enough for the tracking spell. The Duc is a fair Court sorcerer, Vianne, perhaps the strongest in Arquitaine. Yet you have the Aryx.” His voice dropped to a murmur.

I nodded, resting my head against the back of the chair. If it came to fighting d’Orlaans as a sorcerer, would I be able to endure the Aryx’s swallowing of my soul?

If I must, I must. And Tristan will bring me back to myself, will he not?
“Tell me what I must do, Left Hand.”

“I would suggest partaking of luncheon, as you certainly need it. Tonight we shall visit the Temple. Tomorrow there will be dispatches, and plenty of work. For today, my father will ask questions, and we shall answer as best we can.”

“
You
eat, and answer. I might merely sit and think.”
Since I can see very few avenues that do not end with death and blood.

Very few? No. I cannot see a single one.

“You worry me.” His mouth curled into a smile. “We shall have to stuff you like a partridge, to regain your lost health.”

That won a weary laugh from me. “What can I say? This would tax any constitution, even a di Rocancheil’s. I am glad you are here.”

“Tris,
m’fils
, as you love the lady, bring her to the table,” the Baroness interrupted. “She is so thin it makes me hungry to look at her. Come, child, have a cup of chai and some sweetrolls. Cook is a genius, and she is quite pleased to have a royal to cosset.”

A stray memory of Head Cook Amys pierced me. I wondered how she fared—and if she was preparing eels for d’Orlaans.

If she is, may he choke on them.

I let the Baroness bully me into eating, though I barely tasted Cook’s cosseting. I was too busy pondering what Baron d’Arcenne would ask of me.

Now I must plan for Arquitaine. I have come this far, but there is more yet to do. Much, much more.
My eyes strayed to Tristan, who had folded his snowy napkin into a flower and presented it to his mother with a mischievous smile. She laughed, and I could see how her husband and son prized her.

I wish my mother…
What could I wish for, that would not be ungrateful? I looked down into my chai-cup, the specks of leaf in the swirling liquid making a pattern for a bare moment before twas whisked away.

I have no time for regret. I must think of Arquitaine. Everything is different now, and I must be different, too.

T
he Temple of Arcenne stood above the town, blocks of white stone on the mountainside. Inside, incense-scented quiet enfolded me. I had rarely been in a temple since my Coming-of-Age, and Lisele’s Coming-of-Age ceremony a year after.

I breathed in, looking about.
Thirty-six provinces, three each for the Blessed both old and new. The six that were, and the six who came, all watch over our land.

It was a teaching-rhyme, and an old one. The Angoulême and his armies had brought their gods, and the arms of Arquitaine had opened to both. The Old Blessed—the old gods of hedgewitchery and harvest—had greeted the New Blessed, of war and conquest, hearth and hunt, trade and sorcery. The Aryx was a relic of that time, granted by the gods themselves at the Field d’Or, when the invading army and the defending had gone to their knees on the battlefield, a great light breaking over both.

Or so twas said, and I had never disbelieved it. Or truly believed it, for that matter. Teaching-rhymes were all very well, but I preferred Tiberian histories, dry tomes of hedgewitch charms and plant lore, and the comfort of dusty pages, where scratches of ink did not require such decisions of me.

The rest of the Guard gathered outside in the falling dusk. Jierre and di Chatillon stayed behind with Adersahl, but a contingent of Citadel Guard accompanied us up the hill, Tristan on his horse and I on a docile white palfrey from the Arcenne stables. It was strange to ride sidesaddle again, let alone in the midst of a procession.

A round, smiling priest of Danshar, Jiserah’s husband, took our names, not remarking on the Aryx against my dress. He wrote out the contract, we signed three copies, and he sealed two to be kept—one in the Temple, one sent to the Great Archive in Avignienne by carrier pigeon. Though d’Orlaans might well be watching the Archive, yet it did not matter.

Even the Duc could not gainsay me in this matter.

The third copy he gave to Tristan’s parents, to be archived in the Citadel library. With that done, the Baron and Baroness took their leave to wait outside—and Tristan accompanied me into the empty main hall of the Temple.

Tristan’s arm settled over my shoulders. Candles burned before the statues of the gods, the New Blessed and those brought out of the fabled Old Country by Edouard Angoulême and our ancestors—Danshar the Warrior-King, patron of Arquitaine; Jiserah the Gentle, his Consort; Kimyan the Huntress; Alisaar the goddess of love; Cayrian the god of thieves and trade. There were foreign gods too: Taidee the Eastron Mother-Goddess; the round-bellied Hoteei, god of luck from those parts beyond Torkai.

I considered making an offering to him, I was luckier than any woman had a right to be. My fingers touched the Aryx. “Or unluckier,” I murmured.

“Vianne?” Tristan was suddenly attentive.

“Merely a thought spoken aloud.” I straightened my shoulders, gathered my skirts. There was no time for a betrothal dress, not that I minded the lack. The more quickly we could accomplish this, the better. “Where is our priestess?”

“Here,” a clear female voice drifted between the clouds of incense and the slender
fleurs-di-lisse
pillars. “One moment.”

We waited at the end of the hall, my eyes drawn up to the benevolent faces of the stone statues. Hoteei was to our left, squatting over an altar heaped with food offerings—it seemed Arcenne had been lucky lately.

Or the peasantry were seeking to avert the plague. Gentle Jiserah and Havarik the Physicker, Alisaar’s Consort, also had many offerings before them. Danshar glowered, since his altar was bare. None wished the Warrior King to come a-riding.

Why has the plague not struck Arcenne?
I had asked aloud, earlier.

The Baron’s grim reply made my stomach turn on itself, knotting terribly.
The sickness has not struck a province that has refused d’Orlaans.

The priestess came down the central walk, between the statues and the columns. She wore a dark robe, belted with silver, and her shaven head told me she was of Kimyan’s elect. My heart leapt, hammering in wrists and ears and throat like a bird struggling in a trap.

She stopped before us, a woman with the sharp face of Arcenne, her eyes a clear, light gray, disturbing in her hawklike face. I could see why this woman was one of the Huntress’s—she certainly
looked
like Kimyan’s statues. The Huntress took maids, or those sworn to celibacy, and with her twin-Consort Torvar they ruled the harvest and the hunt. Yet many women cried to Kimyan in childbirth, and she and her adoptive brother were said to watch over fools and drunkards as well.

“Greetings.” The priestess placed her hands together, bowing. Her gaze moved over me with no surprise at all, and if the Aryx gave her a start she concealed it well. “You are here to contract a Consort before the gaze of the gods.”

Tristan’s arm tightened on my shoulders.

Courage, Vianne. This is not so difficult as slipping unremarked through the Palais or scrubbing pots, now, is it?
The answer was mine to give, so I gathered myself and gave it. “I—yes.” My voice fell flat in the fragrant smoke of incense.

The priestess nodded. “Follow me to Jiserah’s altar, then, and may the gods smile upon you.”

“My thanks,” I managed around the lump in my throat.

“So there
is
something that frightens you,” Tristan leaned down to whisper in my ear. A mad snicker rose up inside me, was choked by propriety, and died away. Yet it left relief in its wake. As long as he was with me, this would be easy.

Or if not easy, then at least conquerable.

We walked, Tristan’s arm over my shoulders, and childhood training rose inside me. My mother had been religious, or so I had been told, a devotee of Jiserah. Her tiny, gem-encrusted statuette of the Gentle One remained at Court, in my rooms—or perhaps it had been taken for some reason. The thought of my mother’s statue in d’Orlaans’s limp white hands hurt me somehow, though I had seldom looked at its calm face since my arrival at Court lo those many years ago.

As things stood, I could perhaps see becoming
slightly
less irreligious.

Kimyan’s priestess halted before Jiserah’s altar. The Gentle’s statue was white marble, polished to a creamy shine, threads of gold inlaid in her robes. Her eyes were closed, her face unlined and serene; yet the jewel set in her forehead sparked with its own light, peering into the hearts of men and women alike.

The priestess turned to face us, producing a long cord of white silk. I glanced up at Tristan, who studied the other woman intently. “Left hands,” she said, kindly enough. “Your names, an it please you.”

Tristan did not let loose of my shoulders. I lifted my left hand. “Vianne Athenaisse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, in the sight of the gods.”

The Aryx spoke, a rill of muted melody. The priestess smiled. “Peace be with you, Vianne.”

“And also with you.” My throat was dry and my heart knocked afresh against my ribs.

Tristan’s right arm was over my shoulder, but he reached across his body to take my left hand in his. “Tristan Dijian d’Arcenne, in the sight of the gods.”

“Peace be with you, Tristan.”

“And also with you.” He sounded so calm, while my knees shook.
What if he changes his mind? Oh, gods, I am not brave enough for this.

I remember little of the actual vows, except that they were—it gave me a shock to hear—the old pledges, longer and more archaic in their phrasing, as well as more violent in their content. No yearlong liaison, but a permanent Consort contract.

This meant I could divorce myself of him with traditional ease simply by returning the marriage band, but he was not free to do the same unless I repudiated him in a Temple and he took a year-vow of seclusion.

Such things are not done nowadays. At least, not often.

Tristan had produced the copper marriage bands while we signed the papers. They glittered in the temple’s smoky light. He spoke his “So I will” in a clear firm voice, and I as well, though my hand shook and my heart did its best to free itself of my chest and go merrily running toward the woods.

The priestess, her fingers quick and deft, wrapped the cord around my wrist, around his, tied the complex knot. “Bound in the sight of the gods, let nothing separate your hearts now. One in thought, one in word, one in deed; be honorable, honor each other and the gods will smile upon you.” Her clear gray gaze searched first my face, then Tristan’s. The Aryx glittered, power sparking from the serpent curves, its gemmed eyes winking as the metal writhed, tiny scales rasping cat-tongue at my dress. “By my hand and my vows, I pronounce you wed from this moment. Go forth happily, and may peace be with you.”

“And also with you,” I answered, Tristan’s voice matching mine. It was strange to hear us speak in unison.

The priestess’s fingers flicked again, freeing us. She took the cord to Jiserah’s altar, up three steps. A copper brazier fumed there; she tossed the cord onto the coals. There was a brief burst of perfumed smoke, and Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort, in the eyes of the gods and the law.

My knees threatened to give. Tristan steadied me. “There,” he said quietly. “Was that so horrible?”

I bit back another shaky, relieved laugh. “I seem to be a coward.” My fingers tightened in his. “Tristan, she spoke the old vows. I—”

“I wished it so. There are those who would say that I forced you into a contract to secure a hold on power. There are those who would—”

“I would not believe them,” I interrupted.

He seemed almost to wince. “Then I am content. Gods grant me the strength to honor your trust from this moment.” He glanced up, his forehead furrowed. “Where did she go?”

“I should beg your pardon,” a woman’s voice came from behind us, echoing down the columned hall. “I am late, I know, but there was a fevered sister, and I had to wait until someone could relieve me.”

We turned to find a priestess of Jiserah hurrying down the central aisle, her green and white robes glimmering in the dim light. “I am Danae,” she said, her round cheeks scarlet as she puffed. “
D’mselle
,
chivalier
, pardon me, and if you will just give me a moment, we shall have the ceremony.”

“We already did. The priestess of Kimyan—” Then I realized the priestess had not given us her name. “The gray-eyed one. She was at the altar but a moment ago.”

Danae stopped short, her robes shushing. She had a round, pleasant face, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. “Your pardon,
d’mselle
. But we have no priestesses of Kimyan here. We have not for two years. There are two priests for the Huntress—Shoyo and Dijirich—but they do not perform weddings. We have none of Torvar’s Elect either.”

“Then who—” I turned to gaze at the statue of Jiserah.

As I did, the Aryx sparked again, the serpents moving. The priestess gasped and fell to her knees, her face open and transported. Blazing, shocking in the dark torchlit gloom, the statue of Jiserah pulsed with light.

I did not kneel—my knees were now locked. The Aryx filled me, a rushing tide of melody prickling at my skin, as if I were a fruit bursting at the point of ripeness, light and song and power straining at the borders of my consciousness. The doors inside my head trembled on the verge of opening, I sought to look away, to deny the power rising in me.

No. Not now. Leave me in peace.

Tristan’s arm fell from my shoulders. He sank to one knee, his face upturned. I knew this even though I dared not look, the light filling my vision. The statue glowed, scorched, sizzled, white marble running with life. Iron bands seized my skill, the brightness threatening me with the half-head—strong light is dangerous, it can trigger the pain swiftly.

As quickly as it had happened, though, it was gone. Welcome dimness returned to my dazzled vision, and the Aryx’s melody quickly faded, draining away. I sighed and sagged, reached blindly for my Captain’s shoulder.
What was that?

“Tristan?” My voice was a pale shadow.

He rose slowly, his face tilted up to the statue of Jiserah, now mute and dark, only torchglow running over the marble. “Vianne.” Hoarse and pale, drawn and sweating, he seemed awakened from a dream. Or a nightmare. “Do you doubt yourself, even now?”

I found I did not know how to answer.

“I…I am sorry. Your Majesty.” The priestess rose behind us, I could hear her robes moving, cloth against cloth. “I think…” But she did not say
what
she thought, and I did not care to guess. “I did not know. Forgive me. I did not know you were—”

Oh, gods. This is the last straw the cart-horse can bear.
“Not a word of this. I shall have your silence,
m’dama
priestess.” I forced myself to turn away from the statue, chills roughening my skin into gooseflesh. “An it please you.”

She was pale, her apple-cheeks now flour-white. And the way she gazed upon me was uncomfortable, for it was the same face I suspected she turned on the statue of her goddess during prayers. “But—but the goddess—that is a blessing, and you are the holder of—”

“No. Not a word. Your oath,
m’dama
.” My tone took on an unwontedly hard edge. “Swear by your goddess, not a word of this.”

She swore, finally, in a trembling voice, her gaze fixed on the Aryx, still shifting lazily against my chest. Tristan said nothing until she was finished.

“Do we ask for another wedding, then?” He took my hand. But his own fingers shook. However irreligious one may be in the whirl and glitter of Court, when the Blessed speak, tis wise to listen.

I did not know what this sudden light and strangeness meant. Later I would speak privately with this priestess, and discover what I could. For now, I simply wished to escape, backing away from the sense that a stricture had been laid on me, or that the gods had bent their gaze to earth and suddenly noticed the Seal they had gifted to Arquitaine was alive and in new hands.

Which brought me to the question of whether the gods had been paying attention to the King, his brother, and the tax farmers. And the bandit villages in the Shirlstrienne. And—