The Hedgewitch Queen (33 page)

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.

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.

T
he 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.

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.