The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Di Yspres shrugged. His face had shut itself most firmly, all amusement fled. “You hold the Aryx, and are of royal blood. You cannot relinquish it, Your Majesty, as much as you may wish to. Arquitaine law says the Aryx chooses its holder.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “But it did not choose me. I was late reaching Lisele’s side, and she pressed it on me. Tis not mine.” What of this do you not understand, Lieutenant? I am seeking to save you and d’Arcenne some trouble; I will not go very far on this course without your help.

  “But it is.” He was just as merciless as his Captain. “The Aryx is what all Court sorcery flows from. It is the heart of Arquitaine, and tis more than powerful enough to have chosen you instead of d’Orlaans.”

  It was perilously close to blasphemy, but I had to say it. “If tis so powerful, why did it not save Lisele? And the King?”

  Jierre stopped, pushing his hair back with his fingers. His boots creaked slightly as he shifted, and his rapier tapped the chair. “Who knows, d’mselle? Yet for good or ill, we have sworn our service to you as the Queen.”

  “What if I released you from your service, chivalier?” My hand was a fist, wrapped around the ear-drops, but I lifted it and touched the hard lump of the Aryx under the linen shift. I had been able to wash myself that morn, though it had cost me far more effort than such a simple operation should entail, and Tinan di Rocham’s clothes were away to be laundered.

  I was grateful for that. The weight of the lump of metal at my throat, however, did no good. My chest could barely rise and fall under such a burden.

  A single shrug. My protest was of little account to this man. “If you released us all tomorrow, we would simply take our oaths again. We are bound to this course.”

  “You could go over the mountains to Navarrin and take service there.” And you would live. I would not have your deaths on my burdened conscience. I have enough, by the Blessed.

  “We are d’Arquitaine.” His chin lifted proudly, shoulders back. “And we are in the right. The Duc killed his brother and his niece. Such a monster is not fit for the throne.”

  I could not argue with that. “I wish you could find someone else.” I dropped my eyes back to the quilt.

  “So does Tristan. He could court the Duchesse di Rocancheil, but the Queen of Arquitaine is an entirely different tale.”

  You jest too much. I stared at Jierre, who leaned forward earnestly. My heart thundered as if I would faint, like any well-bred d’mselle in a silly courtsong. Or is he mocking me? Both are equally likely. I searched for a response that would not lead the conversation into even more dangerous waters. Now that I knew he would not help me, I would be forced to find what I could in another direction. The di Rocham boy. Or di Parmecy et Villeroche—he seemed, perhaps, easily led? I did not know enough about them to begin setting my snares. “Captain d’Arcenne does not seem the courting type.” What would Comtesse Rochburre say? A bright pain pierced my chest. The numbness, my friend, was wearing away, and the truth of the horrors I had seen sinking in. I half-wished we were still riding through Arquitaine, so I could have something other than these memories to torment me.

  “Do you not care for him, then?” Di Yspres leaned even further forward, intent. Was it cruelty in his bright dark gaze? “Because, d’mselle—”

  “Please. Do not mock me, Chivalier di Yspres, I beg of you. If you will not aid me, leave me be.” My voice broke on the last syllable, and a knock sounded at the door. Rescued, and not a moment too soon. I closed my eyes, sinking into the pillows.

  There was a pause, and three more knocks. Di Yspres unlocked the door, and booted feet tramped. Sudden fear turned the taste of the Feversbane on my tongue to copper.

  “Good morn to you, Jierre.” Twas Luc di Chatillon’s light, merry voice, and I slumped into the pillows, wishing mightily for anodyne sleep. “How does the Queen?”

  “Well enough. How does the Guard?” There was the sound of men greeting one another—the slaps on the shoulder, the creaking of leather.

  “Well enough as well.” Di Chatillon gave forth another merry laugh. “Much easier, now that we know she’ll live. We were fair worried.”

  “No less than d’Arcenne,” Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche said. “May we speak to her?”

  It was no use. I could not feign stupor at this point, and it would be unconscionable to waste such an opportunity for setting my wits to discovering which of them would aid me. The three of them clustered near the door, and I pulled my hand back under the covers, slipping the ear-drops back into the small pocket sewn into my shift.

  “Take care not to tire her. The physicker says she will be fit to travel soon if we do not ride too hard.”

  Luc di Chatillon’s blond head dipped. He approached the bed, Adersahl trailing him. The older man smoothed his fine mustache nervously.

  “Good morn to you, Your Majesty.” Di Chatillon’s hazel eyes danced. They did not wear the red sash of the Guard here, but Court was evident in the bow he swept me, his hat’s feather almost brushing the floor. “And a bright Blessed dawning. Glad to see you hale.”

  “My thanks for your concern.” I felt real gratefulness, so I smiled as prettily as possible.

  He grinned in return. For a first sally, it held promise.

  “D’mselle.” Adersahl di Parmecy took my hand, which I had freed from the quilt. He bent over it, his black mustache tickling as it brushed my knuckles. “We feared for you.”

  “No need for fear.” I took my hand back after he straightened. “But I thank you for it.” And I will see if you or your partner are easily led. A horse and some time is all I need. That, and to take this metal from my throat.

  “What news is there?” the lieutenant asked di Chatillon, drawing him away.

  “None. Town is quiet, forest is quiet, and di Narborre is hunting to the south. We have some time.” The blond man’s grin faded a little. “Is the…is d’mselle di Rocancheil truly well?”

  We shall not be accusing me of vapors now. “I am well enough.” I tried to sound as firm as Countess Rocheburre. “I could ride today, were it required.” All three men halted and gazed at me, perhaps astonished. I felt a completely reprehensible desire to laugh, suppressed it. “Truly. I do not wish the Guard in any deeper danger. The sooner you reach Arcenne, the safer you are.”

  Luc di Chatillon glanced at Jierre, one sandy eyebrow raised. Had Court not taught him to veil such speaking glances? He most patently did not believe me.

  Di Parmecy smoothed his magnificent mustache. It seemed a nervous movement, as if he stroked a small furry animal to calm himself. “D’mselle…the fever was very dire. Very dire indeed.”

  I could have said that if I died, they could have taken the Aryx and been free of the burden of caring for me. They must have read such a thought in my expression, for di Chatillon looked grave and the eldest man kept at his mustache. An uncomfortable silence ruled the room, and my Court training rose up inside me, demanding something graceful and witty.

  I had little left of grace or wit about me. Still, I should put them at their ease; twas never too early to cultivate an acquaintance for a plan, or to frustrate intrigue. Yet I searched for aught to say that did not sound ungrateful or transparent.

  Luc di Chatillon finally broke the quiet. “You look very sad, d’mselle.”

  “I feel a little wan,” I admitted diplomatically. My wits were not what they could be. “Your pardon.”

  “Oh, no. You were ill, d’mselle, and still you thought only of our safety. We are glad to serve you.”

  “Do not tire her,” di Yspres interrupted. “D’mselle, they wished to see you well. Tristan should return soon.”

  “We caught him in the square, watching the people. He looked grim,” di Parmecy offered, his mustache twitching.

  “When does he not?” Luc laughed again, the rafters ringing. “He is your staunchest chivalier, d’mselle. He would not hear of another Guard taking a turn at watching over you.”

  My voice soun
ded strange even to myself. “D’Arcenne does his duty, tis well known.”

  The three men exchanged looks I had little trouble deciphering, much about them made plain in just that moment. To separate them and work them against the Captain’s will would not be easy.

  I doubt I am up to the challenge at this moment. I cursed my weakness and closed my eyes, sinking again into the pillows. “Your pardon, sieurs. I am not myself. Mayhap I am more ill than I thought.”

  “You seem to be.” The lieutenant, kindly enough, but with a shadow of mistrust. Could he see what I planned? Of course, I had all but given him a map of my intentions. “We shall withdraw, to give you lee to rest.”

  Someone—I peeked through my lashes to see Luc di Chatillon—touched my hand where it lay against the coverlet. “Aye, Your Majesty. If we tire you, the Captain might flog us. He worries like an old woman for you.”

  “Leave the Captain to his business,” Adersahl snapped. “You talk too much, Luc.”

  The first glimmers of a plan became evident. So, di Chatillon laughs and does not think before he speaks, and di Parmecy et Villeroche is not so easily led as I thought. Perhaps the boy, di Rocham. Wait, Vianne. Your moment will come.

  “Aye to that.” The lieutenant ushered them away. “Now we shall leave you to rest, d’mselle, but I will return soon.” He swept the other two out, giving me a significant stare as they all swept their hats and gave me Court-fair bows. I waved a hand gracefully, and when the door closed behind them, I sighed.

  Now. Test your strength.

  I pushed myself up on my hands, looking about with interest. There was a pile of gear in one corner—I thought I recognized a pair of saddlebags belonging to the Captain. There was also a set of clothes laid over the back of a chair—a smaller linen shirt, a pair of breeches, and the leather vest I had worn from the riverside boardinghouse.

  So they had brought me fresh clothes. Thank the Blessed. Which would one thank for laundry? Perhaps Jiserah; all things of the home were her purview. Certainly not Alisaar the Lovely—she was concerned only with love and artifice. The Huntress most emphatically would not care either.

  Thinking on the gods led me to the Aryx. Why had it not moved to save Lisele’s life? There were stories—old ones, aye, but still considered good—of the will of the gods striking through their serpents to protect their vessel. But that was in the times when the gods took an active interest, which they had not for a long while. Not in overt ways, though there was no drought or crop failure in Arquitaine. Those who served the Twelve Blessed often murmured that the gods had larger concerns than petty personal problems.

  This is not personal, it is the fate of the land the Blessed call their own. Why did the Aryx not strike down the traitors?

  I thought on this. It took some time to dress, since my fingers shook and I had to sit upon the bed and rest until I could attempt the lacing on the vest. I had never thought of the help a ladyservant was in such matters; would I ever have a girl to lace me up or attend to my hair again? Or would I end myself in a Marrseize slum? By starvation, or summat else?

  Would I even sell some things I held very dear indeed, if I became hungry enough? For I did not think I was a fine enough hedgewitch to earn a mountain of coin. Still, I could give lessons on Tiberian, I supposed—but that might require a letter of introduction, did I wish to governess in a noble house. A merchant would perhaps not care.

  I shuddered at the turn my thoughts were taking. Perhaps I could retreat to a cloister? Kimyan’s Elect sometimes took those such as me, but I did not have a dowry.

  That is a worry for another day, Vianne. Your concern is to free the Guard of your weight.

  The watercloset was a relief; I washed fever-film from my face and immediately felt much more cheerful. Then I sat upon the bed and attempted to braid my hair.

  Like most Court women, my hair has never been cut, only trimmed a bit now and again. As a result, it is always a task to braid when it has been loose for two days of fever-tossing abed. I had no comb—I did not know where my servant’s bag was—so I had to untangle the knots with my fingers, and it took what little energy remained to me. I mulled on the nature of the gods, and the more pressing problem of how I would seek employment in Marrseize, and the still-more-pressing problem of how to escape the Guard so they did not injure themselves on my account.

  When I finished braiding, I held the end of the rope. The thought of cutting the whole mass free and seeking to escape through the window like the Princesse Ducarne in the old courtsong was highly appealing.

  I finally spotted a bit of green ribbon on the table next to the small cordial bottle that held the Feversbane. That worked to tie off my braid, and I stood by the table for a moment, swaying, irresolute.

  What are you thinking? I scolded myself, and reached up to touch the Aryx’s hard warmth under my shirt. You are almost too weak to walk. You will not go far. Now is the time for planning instead of flight.

  Nevertheless, I pulled at the heavy silver chain, and discovered something disconcerting.

  The Great Seal of Arquitaine would not budge. It seemed to have grown into my skin.

  I opened my shirt and made my way into the watercloset, where there was a generous sliver of mirror over the washstand. I watched as I pulled on the chain, and the Aryx would not move. I saw the chain sliding through the aperture made by two snake-coils, but the Aryx itself fused to me. I felt no tugging sensation against my skin when I pulled on the chain, but the chain itself bit my fingers. A warning nip, like a small hunting dog.

  I let out a soft, breathless sound, half a sob. I tugged on the chain again—the Seal would not move. The chain jerked free of my fingers, and I let it.

  The Aryx chooses its holder. Could it read my mind, discerning I wished no part of it? If it was fused to my skin now, why had it not performed a more useful feat and safeguarded Lisele—or even warned her? I twisted frantically at the chain, disregarding a second, sharper nip against my fingers. I had lost all my breath, and I think that is perhaps why I heard the soft, sliding noise.

  My entire body chilled, as if I had been doused with cold water.

  I turned, my fingers curling around the edge of the washstand. It was heavy frigid porcelain, and I clutched at it with all my waning strength.

  I did not hear the door open. Sharp fingers of unease touched my back.

  The footsteps paced to the window, back to the main door. I could have peered out through the small space between the watercloset door and the jamb—I had left the door slightly open, in my haste.

  Faint scuffing, and a deep silence.

  The tingle of Court sorcery began to edge along my skin.

  Sight blurred, my gaze weakly piercing the veil of the visible. Any type of sorcery is difficult when the physical body is ill, even the passive use of Sight. I swayed against the washstand, my hip bumping its unforgiving edge.

  The Aryx pulsed against my chest, a second heartbeat. I put my free hand up blindly and felt warm metal move under my fingers. Now that I was not seeking to remove it, the Aryx slid freely against my skin.

  The sorcery in the other room stilled. Someone was waiting…and I smelled something I had once before, something quite distinct. An odor like acid, magic, and rust; apples and wet dog.

  A killspell. Not a poisonous one, but one that reeked of steel and iron-spill blood.

  Tis not the Captain or di Yspres. My legs turned weak as water. The fever was returning, sick unsteady heat mounting in my cheeks, turning my fingers to slick heavy sausages. Who? And why?

  I could not simply stay in the watercloset and let a Court sorcerer use a killspell on whoever entered the room. Di Yspres had said he would return—and Tristan d’Arcenne. They would be walking blindly into danger.

  Why cannot he sense me, if he has enough sorcery for Sight? Of course, I am a practicing hedgewitch, I sink into the scenery. But still…

  I cast about for something, anything, to use as a possible weapon, my fingers still clutchin
g at the Aryx.

  I was near frantic when inspiration struck. There was a hedgewitch charm that would turn a killspell back on itself. If I could only remember it.

  My heart leapt against the cage of my ribs. D’Arcenne. A killspell would hurt him even if he had the presence of mind to shunt it aside; it could kill him if it took him unawares. He was a Court sorcerer too, but if he was caught off his guard there was precious little hope.

  With a type of swooning terror, I realized I could hear other footsteps. Light feet in heavy boots, a gait I knew.

  Stupid, silly fool that I was, I was still listening for him.

  I cast about again. I could not for the life of me remember the thrice-damned charm. I wished frantically I had spent time training my memory instead of reading romances or dancing, frittering away time in the Princesse’s chambers.

  No, not hedgewitchery. Try something else, Vianne. Think!

  I was an abysmal Court sorcerer, with only some tiny skill at rough illusion and enough power to light a candle despite all my sword-noble blood.

  A killspell must be triggered. If tis thrown at someone in haste instead of laid with careful preparation, you must be able to see them. I remember that much.

  There. I had my answer.

  There was a brief courteous tap at the door, such as a chivalier might use to warn an invalid but not wake her if she slept. I dropped my hand from the Aryx and took two steps forward, reaching for the watercloset’s door. Court sorcery took shape on my fingertips, a quick, growing shimmer.

  The door from the hall pushed open, hinges squeaking slightly.

  I jerked the watercloset door open and flung my own small magic in the general direction I guessed the intruder was hiding, just before the killspell roared free. Light burst free, a white-hot globe of witchlight, so intense it hurt to look at. I whispered the last syllable of my sorcery, heard a cry and the dry rasp of steel leaving the sheath before my head struck the floor.