“Tell me what happened. After you left me, in the Palais. Retrace your steps.”
My heart knocked against my ribs, settled back pounding. I tasted copper, but my face did not change, schooled to indifference. “I like not to think on it.” Do not ask me. It will not do you any good.
“Please. For me.” Pleading, delicate, and careful, as if she expected sharp refusal.
By the Blessed, why inquire now? But I sought to sound merely weary. “For you, then. I left you in the passage and reached the Rose Room in time to see Henri dying. His pettite-cakes had been poisoned. As his soul left, the Duc’s guard burst into the room. I killed six of them before I was taken to that charming cell, where they beat me until the Duc paid me the honor of a visit. Then, I was left to contemplate my eventual beheading at the Bastillion until I heard your sweet voice through the bars.” There, does that satisfy you? I heard my own harshness, bitter as the lie.
The sharpest sword, di Halier once wrote after his Queen took him to task over some trifle, is directed at one’s own soul. Yet what is murder, or worse, if it keeps Arquitaine safe?
And yet. So easily, she reminded me of the man I should have been, instead of the one I was. When di Halier spoke of “Arquitaine,” twas easy to see he sometimes merely meant the woman who embodied, for him, the country’s rule.
Had Jeliane embodied far more to him, as my own Queen did to me?
Vianne examined my face as if I were a scroll or a dispatch. My heart mimicked a cobblestone caught in my windpipe. Do not ask more. Let the matter remain there.
“Nothing else?” Her eyes glittered, and she pulled her hood up with an expert movement of her fingers to settle the material just so over her beautiful bowed head. “Tis important, Tristan.”
You have no idea how important it is. “Why? Is there a question of my movements? You are perhaps believing the Duc when he accuses me of regicide?” It fair threatened to choke me. The truth will do so, when one least expects it. Di Halier never warned of that.
She hesitated. “I simply… There is so much I do not understand of this, and I would understand all.”
What more do you need to understand, m’chri? The King is dead, you are the Queen, I am the traitor who will keep you safe. If I must lie, and kill, and do the worst a man can do, I will.
I already have.
She said nothing else, her head bowed and her shoulders moving slightly.
We turned onto the processional way, hooves clopping on paving stones. Arcenne rose around us, the white stone quarried from the mountains the province is famous for glowing eggshell-delicate. There is very little as beautiful as my native city at dusk, as she gathers the last rays of the Sun’s beneficence. Even the sinks and fleshpots of the Quartier Gieron are well-scrubbed, and the spires of the Keep above rival the peaks themselves for grace. Arcenne is cleaner than the Citté, more tantalizing than Orlaans, and smells far better than, say, Marrseize. In spring, the orchards are a froth of paleness on her white shoulders, and she is a lady of freshness and grace.
Another held my heart now, but a man never forgets his first. No matter how far he rides, his birthplace will always be at his shoulder.
“Vianne?” Her name, uttered so many times in the privacy of my room or the secret corridors of my brain. For so long I had kept it a secret pleasure, a fruit to be indulged in late at night.
She did not answer, but a slight movement told me she had tilted her head, the better to catch my words.
“I would have you know only this.” I paused as Arran’s ears flicked, noting some sound I could not. When they returned to pointing forward, I continued. “All I have done is for your safety. If you should find yourself in doubt—any doubt, for any reason—simply remember that.”
The declaration earned me a startled glance. More tears, glimmering on her cheeks? In the uncertain light I could not be sure. “You were the King’s Left Hand.” Softly.
As if she thought I needed reminding.
“Now I am yours.” Even before Henri died choking on his own blood, I was yours.
I was left with a suspicion of my own to keep me company on the remainder of our short journey. There was no reason for her to ask unless she thought something amiss. Which was not comforting. Nor was the thought that followed in its wake.
I did what I wished to do. It was worth the price.
Chapter Two
The Temple’s courtyard echoed with hoof strikes and ran with ruddy lamplight; I caught Vianne’s waist and lifted her down. Her hood fell back, revealing a glory of intricate braids held together with blue ribbon, and I took the chance to brush at a stray strand, tucking it behind her ear. She wore a pair of emerald ear-drops, longer threads of gem-weighted silver swinging heavy against her cheeks, that I did not recognize. They were not my mother’s. Mère had all but fostered her, providing Vianne with dresses, hair-ribbons, jewelry—all the things a man would never think on, as well as sorely-needed gentle companionship. Vianne seemed easier with my mother than with most others, a smile blooming on her lately-solemn face whenever they met.
I took advantage of the momentary jostling to press a kiss to her forehead, a familiar rush of heat spilling through me as her skirts touched my breeches. I turned slightly, habitually, to keep my rapier-hilt free. She smelled of soap and heavy velvet, of sunlight and of woman, a peculiar aroma hers alone. At Court her hair-ribbons were imbued with bergaime and spice; it had taken a few gold coins to persuade the Court perfumier to blend me a tiny crystal bottle of the same mix commissioned by the Duchesse di Rocancheil. The vial had been lost in my room at the Guard barracks, along with all else—except the papers I had taken the precaution of burning the night before conspiracy broke loose.
I could not bring myself to destroy the tiny fluted crystal. The Princesse and her ladies favored lighter floral scents, but Vianne’s aura of green hedgewitchery would have overpowered those blends. The two times I drank myself into a stupor, with the door securely locked and the window barricaded as well, I had held the crystal to my face and inhaled its bloom between draughts of acquavit.
If a man seeks to drink enough to blind his conscience, tis acquavit or nothing.
She could rest her head below my shoulder if she wished. Yet she did not, gazing past me to the milling horses and the Temple novitiates even now taking Jierre’s mount. My lieutenant tucked his thumbs in his belt as I handed Arran’s reins to a gray-robed novice, accepting the boy’s bow with a slight nod. I had received my Coming-of-Age blessing in this Temple before going to Court, my birth had been registered here, and here I had held Vianne’s hands in mine and pronounced my marriage vows.
Here, also, I had seen the statue of Jiserah the Gentle blaze with silver light, and my Queen’s face also ablaze as she stared unblinking into that radiance, the Aryx’s three metal serpents writhing madly on their slim silver chain against her breastbone. I had thought the gods were about to strike me down for my effrontery, kneeling at her side. Even now, I could not shake the feeling of being watched within the Temple’s environs by eyes less human than a serpent’s.
The gods take an interest in Arquitaine, of course. But theirs are not the petty concerns of smaller fleshly beings. They had let the Aryx—the Great Seal that even now hung at my d’mselle’s breast—sleep since the death of King Fairlaine and his beloved Queen, and hard-pressed every monarch and Left Hand since had been to hide that slumber.
Now the Aryx was awake, and the gods had taken an interest again. I will admit I was made uncomfortable by the thought, and by another: that they would not have made me what I was and given me Vianne if they did not expect I would set myself against even their fury to see her safe.
She slipped past, her cloak brushing me, and I had a moment to admire her grace as she stopped four paces away to tip her head back and look to the sky. A quick glance assured me there were naught but stars overhead, and a slender quarter-moon just beginning its long nightly walk. I moved to stand at her shoulder, my gaze meeting Jierre�
��s as he exchanged a few quiet words with Adersahl and tilted his head in an unspoken question.
I replied with a fractional shake, no. And subtly, Jierre moved aside to let Adrien di Cinfiliet pass, the bandage glare-white against the bandit’s head. He had finally changed out of his bloody, torn clothes, and he had eyes for none of us except Vianne. Even now, his storm-gray gaze rested on her as she drew in a deep breath, steeling herself. She lowered her chin, her eyes closed and her shoulders coming up under a heavy invisible weight.
It was my task to make that encumbrance lighter, or at least share its burden. I closed my hand over her shoulder as a priestess appeared in the Temple door at the north side of the courtyard. Twisted jabak trees framed the rectangle cut from white stone, and the white-and-green-robed woman of Jiserah’s elect put up a hand to smooth her hair as she paused, looking out over this small courtyard used only by visiting nobility who did not wish to traverse the high stone steps of the front entrance. Twas Danae, the priestess who had heard our wedding vows—the second time, that is.
Slight blond Tinan di Rocham halted before Vianne. “D’mselle?” His dark gaze spoke too, worshipping her; the boy’s open adoration earned him much jesting in the Guard barracks. For all that, the teasing was good-natured and gentle instead of ribald. We did not grudge him his blushes, though I think some of them envied his youth and the grace with which she accepted his sallies.
“Tinan. How is your wound, chivalier?” She favored the boy, taking comfort in his easy humor. For that, I allowed him familiarity.
“Well enough, d’mselle. Is there aught you require?” He cast a nervous glance at me; Vianne seemed not to notice.
“I am as any other supplicant here.” Now she sounded sad, as the priestess approached, sandals shushing on paving-stones. Jierre and Adersahl were deep in conference, Adersahl stroking the rebirth of his fine mustache as he glanced warily at di Cinfiliet, whose own inspection of the courtyard paralleled mine. The bandit had not survived in the depths of the Shirlstrienne without wariness, and I had a healthy respect for that caution. It might make him difficult to… surprise.
But not impossible, should the situation require it.
The priestess reached us, her fair round face crinkling with merry lines around her eyes and mouth. “Your Majesty.” A bow, a trifle lower than it should have been, and held a trifle longer. “You honor us.”
Vianne’s chin lifted fractionally, a queenly gesture. “I come not as royalty but as a pilgrim, Danae da’Jiserah,” she said formally. Adrien di Cinfiliet watched with narrowed eyes, stroking his swordhilt. My hand rested upon my own rapier. There has been royalty enough slain in Temples, whether the gods willed it or no. “Tis guidance I would ask. Is the penitent’s cell ready?”
“Ready and waiting.” The priestess straightened, her dark gaze touching me. We are a brunet people, the Arquitaine—not ill-favored as the Damarsene, though. Arquitaine breeds beauty, just as Pruzia breeds harshness and Rus cold, exotic cruelty. “D’mselle, your instructions—”
Vianne held up a hand; Danae’s tongue halted. “Tinan, Jierre, accompany Tristan in seeing to the safety of the Temple. Adrien, I would speak to you privately; Adersahl shall attend me while I do so.”
Adersahl saluted, as did Tinan. I felt the first faint stirrings of trouble. I would not leave your side, even here. But neatly done, I cannot argue. Ordering Adersahl to watch the door while she conferred with Adrien was a touch worthy of the lady who had caught many intrigues in the female world of Court, where the women played for privilege and position—and sometimes, the eye of a nobleman.
While Vianne di Rocancheil’s sharp gaze was at Court, none dared offer her Princesse overt insult. Still, I had smoothed the way where I could, marveling at her loyalty to Henri’s spoiled little half-Damarsene farrat of a daughter.
“If it please you,” I said. “Though I like not leaving your side, m’chri.”
“It shall not be for long.” She did not meet my gaze, and my unease sharpened. “It would please me to know I may sleep safely tonight.”
If I am at your side, you will ever sleep safely. But she wished the penitent’s cell, which meant she planned on a lonely slumber. “As you will it.”
Danae visibly swallowed a question. I wondered what secrets my face was telling, smoothed my features. As ever, Vianne. As you will it.
“My thanks, chivalier.” A small smile, as if she had to force her mouth to it, and she was gone, ushered away by the fluttering priestess.
I dreaded even her innocent questions; a guilty conscience leaps even at a pinprick. I nodded at Jierre, the command answered almost as soon as it was given, and he turned on his heel, a slight gesture bringing Tinan to his side. They would sweep the Temple and make a report later.
Adrien di Cinfiliet’s gray gaze passed over me. If it were the first salute of a duel, I do not think I was the worse for it. He followed Adersahl. I watched as Vianne’s slim shape silhouetted itself in the low door, her step light and graceful.
Before she entered the house of the gods, she did glance over her shoulder. Yet if her face held any expression other than resignation, I could not see it.
I was left to myself in the empty courtyard, but not for long. For the Left Hand, there is always a way, if there is a will.
And I had a will to hear what Adrien di Cinfiliet would tell my Queen.
Chapter Three
The penitent’s cell is usually a bare stone room with a cot, a watercloset, and a gem-jeweled statue of Kimyan the Huntress. She is the Blessed who rules the Moon, and thus rules dreaming sleep. Brought from the Old Countries with the Angoulême, the first conqueror of Arquitaine, she was the goddess adopted most thoroughly in her new land. To receive instruction from her, the penitent swallows a draught meant to guarantee dreaming, and when morn comes they have their answer, for good or for ill.
What few know is that one of Kimyan’s elect often secretes him or herself in a small closet, whose cunningly constructed wall is riddled with small eye-holes, and from whence could be heard the speech of the dreamer who had asked to receive guidance from the gods who steered the world’s course. The closets are not visible from inside the cell, and few outside the priests and priestesses know of them.
The Hand is one of those few.
I took care to ease the door shut, soundless. Small swords of light crossed my path as I lowered myself silently to the padded bench, keeping my rapier well out of the way.
Danae was speaking. “—and there is a bell-rope, should you need immediate assistance. Is there aught I can bring you, before…?”
“Some light sup, for my chivalieri.” Vianne, with the light, laughing accent of Court. “My thanks, Danae.”
“I shall return in an hour’s time to prepare you. An it please you, I take my leave.” The priestess slid away on her sandaled feet. She would not interfere, should I wish to listen to my d’mselle’s dreaming; my father’s support of the Temple bought that much.
Even the elect of the gods are corruptible. Or, if not precisely corruptible, then merely amenable to the clink of hard coin accompanying a nobleman’s polite request.
The door closed, and I heard velvet move. Her cloak, perhaps, falling to the floor. No, she was not so careless; she would drape it over the bed. A long, weary sigh.
“D’mselle?” Adersahl, uncertain. If there were a Guard most likely to aid her without question, it was he. “Shall I wait outside?”
“No, Adersahl. I would have you hear this. Di Cinfiliet? We have little time. Speak, I beg you. What proof do you bear?”
Of what? But my heart knew before the rest of me, and grew cold as the wastes of Far Rus.
“Proof not meant for gentle ears, d’mselle.” Di Cinfiliet’s boots clicked as he made a circuit of the room. A shadow slid across the thin spears of light bisecting the closet. I breathed quietly, falling into the peculiar state common to assassins and spies: listening so intensely every sound is magnified, every hair on the body erect and qu
ivering to catch all nuance. “I beg your pardon for what I am about to tell you.”
“I hardly think I shall shatter at shocking news, chivalier.” Velvet moving again. Where was she? Abruptly, her tone changed. “Besides, you have already given me the worst news possible. I would hear the rest.”
What has he said to her? And when? Silence. I barely breathed.
When she spoke again, it was very softly, and every nerve in my body leapt into singing alertness. “Adersahl bears witness of my recognition of you, m’cousin, and of your mother, who shall receive full honors in this very Temple.” The last word broke, and the temptation to put my eye to a spyhole was nigh overwhelming. I denied it. “It grieves me that she was taken by di Narborre. She was the best hedgewitch I have ever known, and I mourn that I could not alter her fate. You are my cousin, and my Heir, should the worst befall me.”
My brilliant darling. Of course she had guessed his parentage—or had the bandit told her outright? I would not put it past him.
Di Cinfiliet finally spoke, hoarsely. “It… it means much to me that you would acknowledge her.”
A small sound. Was she weeping? When she spoke again it was without her usual lightness; twas the tone of brittle, impossible-to-refuse royalty she had so lately acquired. “Adersahl, please, come farther in so we may speak softly. Begin your tale, sieur di Cinfiliet, an it please you. We have little time.”
Di Cinfiliet needed no prompting. “We came upon the Damarsene force bound for Arcenne from their rear, as we had turned aside to make a foray into the lands patrolled by the Tierrce-di-Valdale garrison. Consequently, we saw the dust they raised, and went cautiously. Then we happened upon a rare piece of luck: dispatches.”
“A King’s Messenger.” The brushing of a woman’s skirts. She is pacing; I can hear her feet. My back was alive with chill gooseflesh. What mischief was he seeking to wreak upon her now? “Dead now, I presume.”
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