The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He had a strong jaw, stubbled with charcoal hair; the swelling on his face had gone down. “Fridrich.” His lips shaped the word oddly, and he smelled of illness and pain. “Fridrich van Harkke.”

  “Tis a pleasure, sieur.” I offered him my hand, dropped it back in my lap when he made no move. “I am very sorry they mistreated you. It will not happen again.” Or I will be forsworn, and I will do much more than give the Guard a verbal spanking. “I wish to ask you questions. Surely you understand?”

  “Hired. Word is bond.” He shook his head painfully, his hair rasping on the pillow. “No name of aufsbar.”

  “Aufsbar?” It was my turn to mangle a word, my mouth would not shape the harsh sounds.

  “Client,” he supplied, his eyelids drooping still further.

  “Surely you can tell me who your targets were? Please?” I reached up and gently pushed the tangled dark hair from his face. I tried not to touch his bruised skin. Sickness, like a fruit laid too long in a dark corner, an unhealthy reek. “If that is an affair of honor too, I am afraid we shall have to keep you in the donjon. It will not be comfortable, but you will not be mistreated.”

  His eyes glittered, glittered. Watching me as a wounded snake might watch a bird hopping just out of range.

  I sighed, and laid my hand against his chest where Bryony had. Fever-heat blurred through the cloth doublet they had given him.

  The charm rose, simple and undeniable in its rightness, the Aryx lending its strength to the healing with no demur. When I opened my eyes and took my hand away, the faint green glimmers of hedgewitchery still clung to my fingers. “As you like. But hear me. If you tell us who your targets were, I offer you your freedom, Fridrich van Harkke. You may leave Arcenne as soon as you are well enough, and we shall give you a horse and supplies too. You may go home, or whither you will.”

  That seemed to strike him as terribly amusing. He gave a dry whistling laugh. “Was not meant to kill. Bring back the prettybit—you. Kill blue-eyed Baron and his son. Was our job. You were not meant to be harmed, fralein. Only brought.”

  Well, that’s comforting. At least the game has not changed to that high a degree. “Thank you, sieur van Harrke. You shall be visited every day by the physicker, and I shall visit as well. When you are hale enough, you shall be set free outside the town’s walls.”

  He closed his eyes, blowing out a sigh. He obviously did not think much of my promises.

  I did not blame him.

  There was only one thing left to say. “Your friends.” My voice was soft. “I am sorry for them.” I would not have more death, not even yours. I cannot prevent it, but I would not have it.

  “Know the risk. Das miez’weizs,” he rasped. His breathing deepened into the steady harsh rhythm of sleep.

  I made it to my feet a little less than gracefully, backed away from the cot for a few steps before turning to the door. Tristan offered me his hand. “Did you learn aught of interest?” His eyes rested on the assassin, and he made no attempt to disguise his loathing.

  Far more than I thought possible. “I did.” I learned the Duc wishes me unharmed, that I was to be brought. Presumably there were plans to take me from Arcenne, which makes it even more imperative to know precisely where di Narborre is. I have also learned a little of this man, and I think he may be amenable to further usefulness.

  After all, returning to the Duc is not a choice he can make. Not comfortably, at least.

  Adersahl followed us out, locked the door. I saw the shadows under his eyes. I should set another Guard, but who can I trust? “Adersahl? Who may I trust to watch him, and not slip a knife between his ribs?”

  Adersahl considered this, glancing at Tristan, who manfully restrained from commenting. “Jespre di Vidancourt. Levelheaded, not given to impulsiveness.”

  “I shall have him sent down. Thank you.” He had been on guard for far too long, down here in this dank hole. “No—it strikes me, Tristan and I shall stay here. Go tell Jespre to hie himself here, and you take some rest.”

  He swept me a bow with alacrity. “Now there is a happy thought. My thanks, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, do not flatter.” I offered him my hand, which he kissed. “Thank you, Adersahl. I am glad of you.”

  He grinned, twirled his mustache, and left. Which left me alone with Tristan outside the Pruzian’s cell. He leaned against the wall, his entire posture languid and easy. But his jaw was too tight, and his left hand clenched on his swordhilt.

  I peered through the door. The Pruzian lay in torch-dappled shadow, and I wondered if I could see a gleam of eyes. I wondered also if he needed more than just a thin blanket against the chill damp. “You are angry.” I stated the obvious once again.

  “Why do you say that, m’chri?” But his fingers tapped his swordhilt.

  “Because I would be a poor Consort indeed if I could not tell.”

  He sighed, deeply, an aggrieved sound. “I am not angered at you.”

  “Who else would you be angry at?” Speak to me. Let us not allow silence between us, my darling.

  “The vilhain that sent Pruzian Knives to collect you, perhaps? The vilhain who killed my King? Or perhaps the saufe-tet that chased us through Arquitaine and nearly cost you your life?” He shook his dark head, the gray at his temple flashed. “But I could not ever be angry at you. Why do you not understand?”

  I slanted him a glance that might have been ironically amused if I was not so unsettled. If he decided to stride into the room right this moment and kill the Pruzian, I would not be able to stop him. He had the rapier, and enough volcanic fury to do it. All I had was the Aryx, the thin protection of custom—and my own wits. What I saw in him frightened me, for his eyes all but glowed as he observed me, narrowly. His mouth was a thin line and his fingers tapped at his swordhilt, a meditative rhythm.

  I lowered myself from my tiptoes and faced him. The torches hissed.

  His hand fell away from the hilt. “Your eyes are dark again, m’chri.”

  I shrugged, my shoulders moving under silk. Oh, Tristan. I do not know what to do.

  He peeled himself away from the wall, approached me slowly. Cupped my face in his hands, his gaze moving slowly over my cheeks, my mouth, resting on my eyes. “I have done many things for the throne of Arquitaine,” he murmured. “I have acted as Henri’s Left Hand; I have done things you cannot imagine. For all your sharp mind and political acumen, you are still the same very sweet young girl who let a Princesse win at riddlesharp and could not believe a man would court her by leaving books. I have betrayed and lied where I had to, and done things no honorable man would stoop to.”

  You are still my only defense, m’cher. “I care little what you did for the King, Tristan. I care what you do now.”

  Oddly enough, my reassurance seemed to wound him. His mouth pulled down sourly. “Very well, Vianne. Gods grant me strength to be worthy of you.”

  There seemed nothing I could say. Instead, I leaned forward, his hands slid down and pulled me in. I rested against him in the torchlit dimness of the donjons, breathing him in, and for a moment felt the heavy weight of what I had promised when I took the Aryx from Lisele’s fingers slip from me for a moment. “I do not care what you did,” I whispered into his shoulder.

  Did I imagine his flinch? In any case, Jespre di Vidancourt soon arrived, and it was time to move to the next task. But that conversation made me uneasy, though I did not know quite why.

  Chapter Forty

  Four weeks later, the storm broke.

  I was uneasy that morning; there were dispatches to be sorted through. Perseval d’Arcenne had observed a frosty courtesy toward me since the affair of the Pruzians that might have managed to hurt my feelings had I not been occupied with a greater mystery: that of missing dispatches. Normally I would have simply waited for the vagaries of man and horse to bring them to me a day or two late, but they were all from the road to Ivrielle, and that meant the road out of the province and to the Citté.

  Adrien di Cinfil
iet was late as well. I could not help imagining the worst, until something even worse than the worst occurred to me—whenever I had time to think. Hard on its heels would come another terrible thought, and I sometimes laughed at my own imaginings.

  Then I would sober, as the cycle of imagining began afresh.

  Mornlight came warm and clear; wind snapping the pennants from the towers that day. I had breakfast in the library while I dictated diplomatic responses to Navarrin and messages to Arquitaine cities and provinces. It seemed no few had declared for me, a fact heartening and terrifying at the same time. More lives to depend on my wit, and me frantically trying to think of a way to reach a resolution with d’Orlaans that did not require bloodshed.

  None seemed possible, especially in light of two assassination attempts.

  Something else bothered me, too. I understood d’Orlaans wished me alive if he was to legitimize his reign and get heirs upon a noblewoman whose House would not rise against him in revolt. My House was all but extinct unless I produced an Heir, for my mother was dead and there were no other branches of Rocancheil or the ruling of Vintmorecy.

  If I met with some misfortune, the Aryx would be forced to choose another holder, and mayhap the Duc thought he had extinguished all but him and me? It was an indication that he did not know of Adrien’s existence, which was heartening.

  Still, the fact that assassins were sent to fetch me was not guaranteed to ease my heart. True, I was only to be brought, not dispatched immediately. But that could only mean the Duc wished the pleasure of strangling me himself. He had to suspect by now that I was not amenable to his plans.

  Tristan’s behavior made me uneasy, too. He seemed on edge, waiting for a fresh disaster, though he was unfailingly gentle with me; especially at night as we lay together in his bed. He held me as if he expected me to vanish did he not keep a tight enough grasp; and if he was desperate in his use of me I was just as desperate in my use of him. What I learned of love in those days has remained with me ever after as a lesson in anguish, how two people can sense an approaching disaster and use each other’s bodies as a shield against questions growing more and more pointed.

  The half-head visited me once that month; I lost half a day lying abed and weeping with agony as my skull sought to rive itself to pieces. Tristan did not leave my side, holding my hand so tightly both our fingers were bruised. He whispered a Court sorcery that plunged the room into blackness, for any stray gleam of light during the half-head is more agonizing than the worst battle-wound. Gods, he whispered after the pain had left and I lay limp and too exhausted to do aught but breathe. If I could take the pain from you, Vianne, I would. I would suffer it twice for your sake.

  Thank you for the darkness, I had replied, before losing consciousness.

  It was not until later that I wondered why he knew such a charm. At the time, I was simply grateful. And there were other more pressing concerns. For Navarrin was hanging back, waiting to see whether the Duc or I would finish the course. Haviroen and Badeau were pleasant but noncommittal; Tiberia was more than willing to open diplomatic relations if I agreed to trade concessions once I was firmly in power—the same concessions they were perhaps pressuring d’Orlaans for, banking their coin securely on either horse. Sirisse, girdled in their mountains, cared little, for their god sleeps but holds their tall sharp borders inviolate. Scythandra would be no help, and the Principalities of Damar-Hesse and Sea-Countries besides, both nervous of Damar on their borders, played for time.

  From the Damarsene, only a chill silence. Truth be told, I did not send them a missive. If they demanded tribute from d’Orlaans and I as both styled rulers of Arquitaine, I was ill-prepared to pay, promise, or insult them in such a way that they would not hold me to account for it later.

  Yet it was the missing dispatches that worried me most. So when I heard the faroff shouts and clatter in the bailey, I thought little of it except to frown and go back to the paperwork awaiting me, thinking it only a rider come with late news, who would be ushered into my presence soon enough. Tristan had gone to confer with his father about guard rosters and some points of trade with Navarrin that I wished counsel on.

  So I was alone in the study—except for two of the Citadel Guard at the door—when Adersahl burst in, flushed and breathless.

  I leapt to my feet, paper falling in a drift to the floor. Adersahl skidded to a stop. His bootheels all but struck sparks. “Tis di Cinfiliet,” he gasped. “Bloody and missing half his men. Come quickly!”

  I wasted no time with silly questions but bolted for the door; he whirled on his heel and ran before me, trusting me to follow.

  Through the corridors of Arcenne we ran, and a stitch clawed at my side under pale-blue silk. I had to pick up my skirts, cursing them for once. We took a staircase headlong, I almost tripped and had to clutch at Adersahl’s shoulder when we reached the gallery. So it was I arrived in the bailey amid a confusion of horses and shouts, me clasping Adersahl’s arm and ducking under stray hooves as a bay reared. Adersahl cursed, I swallowed a burst of language most unfit for a lady, and the stocky Guard pushed me back.

  “Vianne!” A familiar voice, throat-cut hoarse with shouting. “Vianne!”

  Twas di Cinfiliet, and right glad was I to see him. I shook free of Adersahl, ducked past another lathered horse, and caught the reins of Adrien’s exhausted gray-dappled gelding. Foam flung, spattered my dress. “Adrien!” Safe and here, thank the gods. What new disaster is this?

  He was bloody, sweating, his shirt was in rags and his eyes burning with the kind of rage I had grown uncomfortably familiar with seeing on men’s faces lately. “Milady Riddlesharp,” he greeted me, with Risaine’s sharp accent. “You look a sight better.”

  “And you a sight worse.” Sick dread thudded under my heartbeat, the Aryx rilling uncertainly. “I worried for you. Why did you not come when I sent for you?” Though it looks as if you had good reason.

  “I have been busy playing hide-in-the-bushes, d’mselle. And worse games.” He swung down as I dragged on the reins; the horse pranced. Then the gray gave up, his head hanging; I stroked him soothingly.

  After the war-trained behemoths the Guard rode, this gelding was far less daunting. And after coaxing and feeding and harnessing the horses the R’mini used sometimes to draw their wagons in place of oxen, I had learned at least not to fear a horse, even if it was more sprightly than a placid saddle-trained mare. “Easy there, k’vrim,” I crooned to the gray in R’mini. “Ah, big fellow, be easy in your skin and hooves, be easy in your mane, eh?” I could almost hear Jaryana as she soothed a nervous beast, clicking her tongue and half-singing.

  The gray shuddered, hung his head. He had been ridden almost to death.

  Adrien reeked of sweat and horse and blood. “Vianne.” Hoarse and urgent, my name pronounced as a talisman. “Tis good to see your face.”

  “Likewise.” Arquitaine was strange in my mouth now after murmuring in R’mini. “Adrien, I—”

  He shook his ragged dark head. “Later. Listen to me. There is news, grim news, and right glad I am to see you first and alone.” He sought to calm his breathing and slumped, running his hand along the horse’s trembling, lathered neck. “An army approaches, milady. Arcenne will soon be besieged.”

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach. You predicted this, did you not? And I did not listen. “Siege? By whom?”

  He spoke the words I dreaded hearing.

  “Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors, though.” My cousin coughed rackingly. Blood coated his sharp, tanned face like paint. Iron-shod hooves rang against stone. The bailey ran with sound, echoed with it, spilled over with the shouts and shrills of horses.

  “How many?” My knees threatened to buckle. Damarsene. They do not leave once they have marched past a border, not without much bloodshed. Is d’Orlaans mad, or does he think them easily fobbed off once he has what he wishes? The horse’s heaving sides eased. He had run his course, and mine was just beginning.

  “Enough to t
ake this city, fair lady Riddlesharp. Some few thousands, with a siege train and engines.” He caught my arm, fingers sinking in carelessly hard. “I have other tidings, cousin mine. Later, if I may speak to you? Alone?”

  Had I realized how he would soon rob me of all peace, I might have refused. No, that is not correct. I could not refuse, even if I looked back on this moment as the last before my world crumbled yet again.

  The Aryx rasped uneasily against my dress. “Of course. Adrien—”

  His fingers dug in, merciless. “Listen to me. Trust no one. I have a tale for you, my fair one.” His lips skinned back from his teeth, a wolf’s grimace. In the distance, a battlefield yell cut through the noise.

  “Vianne!” Tristan, searching for me.

  Court instinct rose. I did not struggle and cause a scene. Adrien’s fingers prisoned my flesh, a bruise already rising on my arm. I did not flinch, simply gazed into his bloody face. “Tell me a tale, cousin.” What could be worse than Damarsene approaching, and the Duc—

  “Vianne! Vianne!” Tristan’s voice, ringing through the bailey.

  “I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.” Di Cinfiliet’s whisper dripped venom in my ear. “He was a part of a conspiracy, and was so close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes. I have proof to give you, m’cousine, captured from di Narborre himself. Your Captain, m’cousine—” Adrien’s fingers fell away, but his gaze held mine. I saw again how much he resembled Risaine, both in the shape of his face and the set of his mouth. There was another resemblance, under the dust and weather and blood.

  The King surfaced from Adrien di Cinfiliet’s features, as if rising from his tomb.

  My heart pounded thinly. I tasted metal.

  “Vianne!” Tristan arrived, and spun me to face him. “Are you well?”