The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “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.