The Bandit King h-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I should have hated myself. But it was worth it. It was.

  I would do it again, as well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The knife was, of course, bastard-sharp. It had not cut deep enough to endanger me, but I would scar.

  I cared little. Drying blood stung as I moved slightly, brushing her hair back. I had torn her dress, my boots still on, clothing and bedding tangled around us, thrashed and beaten into a mess. I kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Tears welled between her eyelids, vanishing past her temples into her hair. Her mouth, smeared with crimson, was still the sum of most desires, so I kissed her again. Greedy, as if she were an exotic fruit, our tongues sliding, and the thirst in me was not slaked.

  The woman was dangerous. What would I not do, for her?

  I found myself murmuring endearments against her skin, leaving bloody prints as I kissed every part of her I could reach. She lay very still, trembling slightly as she wept. I tried to press the tears away with my lips, over and over again.

  You are not meant for this. Let me take the pain away. “Shh, all’s well. All’s well—”

  “It is not well!” she finally choked. “It is not well! You… I… you—”

  “I am not a gentle man.” I had told her as much before. I felt the need to repeat it, and immediately gave myself the lie by kissing her again. “But now you know. I am sorry for it, I can explain—”

  She struggled uselessly. “Stop. Let go.”

  The first thread of unease touched me. This should be so simple now. Had I not just proven…

  Well, what had I proven? That I was a vilhain? I already knew as much.

  “Not until you see.” The man using my voice sounded far harsher than I liked. “I am not your enemy, Vianne. Everything I have done is for you, for your safety, for you to—”

  “Left Hand,” she spat, going limp and glaring at me, drying blood streaking her face. “You betrayed the King, Tristan. You swore to him, just as you swore to me—how can you say you are not my enemy?”

  “I swore to you before I ever did to the King. The first moment I saw you, everything afterward was part of it. I had to find a way.” I stumbled over the words—after love a man is stupid, and I was doubly foolish to be seeking to explain this now. “One thing led to the next, but it was all in service to a single end.”

  “This?” She struggled again, seeking to free herself of my hands. “All this death? You intended this?”

  I pushed her deeper into the bed’s embrace. At least she could not run away; she had to listen to me. Dried blood flaked over us both. “I intended to be with you!” The force of the cry made her flinch. I sought to contain myself, failed miserably. My fingers bit her wrists, she flinched again. “I intended us to escape through Marrseize, taking ship to Tiberia. I intended for Timrothe d’Orlaans to have what he wished and much joy of it. I intended for you to be safe; I intended so much. Everything turned to ash, Vianne. They caught me, and of a sudden I was not only without you, I had nothing. Not even my honor. And you… You were depending on me. And the damnable Aryx, making it even more… I could not forsake you.” I ran out of words. Struggled blindly with all I wished to say. How could the truth turn into such a complex mess?

  “Lisele married off to a Damarsene, the King dead, d’Orlaans pillaging Arquitaine—all because of me? Because you…” She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to look at me.

  Of course she cannot. You cannot even stand to look at yourself, d’Arcenne. What makes you think she can? “D’Orlaans wanted Henri’s throne for decades, Vianne. If he had not succeeded at this toss of the dice, there would have been another. Twas only a matter of time; I have known as much for years. I saw my chance and took it. The King had made the arrangements, Vianne. You were to be shipped to Damar, forced into—”

  “A marriage? With a man I did not care for?” She laughed, a tiny, bitter sound. “Too late to save me from that.”

  It cut unexpectedly deep. I loosened my grasp on her wrists and slid from the bed. At least I had not torn my breeches as well, in the madness. She lay as if broken, her throat moving as she swallowed.

  “You do not have to love me,” I lied.

  “Oh, if I do not, you will kill me as you killed the King? Or marry me off? What will you do to me? What could be worse than this?”

  “I am your Consort,” I reminded her. “Until you repudiate me in a Temple. I am your Left Hand, and you shall not be free of that as long as I breathe. As one already dead, I swore myself to your service.”

  “You swore to the King.” A glimmer of eyes under her lashes. Was she examining me? She held herself so still, as if faced with a wild, unpredictable animal.

  I was an animal, certainly. Look at what I had done to her. Shame bit me, hot and rank.

  But I was exceedingly predictable once she knew where to apply the pressure. Once she knew that the sum of my desires lay in the form of one shivering, frightened, beautiful hedgewitch. What would I not do, to bring her where I needed her to stand? “He may have thought so. The world may have thought so. But in the end, Vianne, it was to you.”

  She finally moved, curling on her side, away from me. I had not just torn her dress, I had savaged it. I hoped I had not bruised her. Or… hurt her.

  You have, I realized. Of all the things you swore you would never do, and now you have. You did not ask her leave, you merely took.

  “Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me be.”

  “You still do not understand.” I stood, the light of morning drenching the bedroom, and loathed myself even more completely. “I cannot. You would have to kill me.” I swallowed, my throat moving. “Until you do, m’chri, my darling hedgewitch, my Queen, you have a hawk at the wrist. Set me after prey or hood me, Vianne. But you cannot rid yourself of me.”

  I backed away from the bed, step by step. My face ached, and the wound on my chest stung. I found a chair by backing into it, and dropped down. I gripped the arms, but not in fear.

  No, I held to them splintering-hard. Dear gods.

  Loathing turned inside me, married to frustrated tenderness. She was deathly silent, and I cursed myself. Not for the first time.

  And most certainly not for the last.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She did not look at me, and the new dress—rich crimson this time, its lacings loose because she had lost weight—rustled as she moved. Her hair was braided back; I had watched her trembling fingers perform the job. She did not wince as she settled into the hard chair at the head of the table, and the small fresh mark on her shoulder, where I had suckled hard enough to bruise, was covered by the red velvet.

  What did it cost her, to look so calm? Her eyes were red with weeping, but none remarked upon it.

  The Council, a collection of noblemen, took their seats silently once she had settled. My hands, crossed before me in a traditional posture, ached for my rapier-hilt. Outside the door was a fuming Jierre and a bruised Pruzian Knife; seeing the look that passed between my lieutenant and Vianne when she opened the door and he realized I was behind her had been… uncomfortable.

  “You are called to order, chivalieri et sieurs.” Very quiet, very contained, she sounded every inch the Queen. Paper littered the table, and the Aryx gleamed. My gaze riveted itself to Vianne’s expression, seeking to decode every nuance. “Before we examine… my Consort, I will hear reports. Conte di Siguerre? Your preparations?”

  “Complete.” The cranky old turtle hunched his shoulders and blinked. He was strangely subdued. Normally he was a whistling cantankerous rattle of a man. “All is in readiness.”

  “Thank you. Conte di Dienjuste?”

  He was a young blond chivalier, his excitability muted as well. He stole a glance at me, sidelong. “Avicial has declared for you, Your Majesty. Between a third and a half of Arquitaine, now. I’ve sent the proclamations; we should start seeing the results soon.”

  Proclamations? She’s raising an army. Hm. I caught Siguerre glancing at me as well. I
stood before the fireplace, its warmth a balm and penance all at once. At least she had not ordered me clapped in chains again.

  She had been seeking to protect me. I should have known. I had thrown away every advantage, and I had perhaps lost her. Who knows what a woman can forgive, much less a Queen?

  Gnarled old Irion di Markui’s fist crashed on the tabletop. “I see not why we must waste our time on this. Is the man a traitor or not? If he is, let us have him beheaded and done with!”

  “If you speak out of turn again, sieur, you shall feel my displeasure.” Vianne gazed coldly at him. “Marquis?”

  Di Falterne, a stolid dark man with his hair long as a chivalier’s, his face seamed as a mended kettle’s, nodded. “Our supply situation is… adequate. Trade with Navarrin is the deciding factor, of course, but they are continuing to uphold their bargain. A missive arrived not two hours ago…” He glanced at the window, as if wishing himself far away.

  Interesting.

  “And?”

  “It did, my liege. It bore the mark you instructed to be watched for.”

  Vianne sighed. Her head dropped forward for a moment, but she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Baron d’Arcenne.”

  My father, seated next to Markui, had not ceased to stare, his bright blue eyes seeking to drill through me and into the wall. His displeasure was obvious, but muted. “The Damarsene, with di Narborre, continue to retreat. They are still in disarray; the entire province is harrying them forth.” My father paused, steepling his fingers before his face—a movement I recognized. “It will be difficult to keep control of the peasants, do they taste much more uncertainty.”

  “Theirs is the blood that is shed,” Vianne murmured. “Advise me, Minister Primus. Can we win a war before winter?”

  I could have answered, but I held my peace.

  “Most likely… not. D’Orlaans will now know you have the Seal and the will to use it. Perhaps he will seek to treat with you. In any case, he will have many very distressed Damarsene to deal with, and the small matter of paying the army that is tramping back to the Citté to meet him.”

  “Tribute. And whatever he has promised them.” Vianne sat bolt-upright, staring unseeing at the table. “I would give much to know…”

  But she did not speak further. Instead, she sank into silence, and the entire room held its breath. My heart ached. She had dressed as a chivalier prepares for battle, doing her best to ignore my presence. I had cleaned off the blood as well as possible, and my face itched and burned. What did they think of the fresh slice down my cheek?

  Did it matter? All that mattered was what she would do now.

  The quiet stretched, an unsound fit to scrape nerves raw. Finally, Vianne sighed again. She looked up, and her dark eyes were clear and steady. “Sieurs et chivalieri,” she said formally, “my Consort stands accused of treason to Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin, the former King of Arquitaine. I wish you to advise me on the matter of his innocence, his trustworthiness, and his fitness to continue as my Consort. You are to examine him. He is to answer every question thoroughly and to your satisfaction. When you are finished, you may set him free or attend to the details of his execution.” A heavy pause, and she rose with a slight soft sound of velvet moving. “I leave the matter to you.”

  Every one of them leapt to his feet. She swept down the fireside length of the table, and she did not glance at me. The pulse beat frantically in her throat, and moving air brought me a breath of bergaime and spice, green hedgewitchery and the indefinable note of her skin. I could still feel her under me, the marks of her nails in my back and a slight pleasant lassitude.

  I swallowed the stone in my throat.

  She paused at the door. “And…” Her head turned, I saw the curve of her cheek, the shape of her chin, and a glitter of swinging ruby ear-drops. “Should you judge him guilty, sieurs, tis not necessary for him to leave this room alive.”

  And then she was gone, the door closing with a quiet, definite snick.

  * * *

  They questioned me. Not ruthlessly, and I could sense my father’s hand as if behind a screen.

  Of course. She is not as tractable as they thought. I am a way to keep hold on her, and most of them are his friends of old. They attend the provincial Assizes together. I forced myself to concentrate, spinning my story. To Vianne I would admit my guilt. Not to these men.

  Of them all, it was di Rivieri and d’Anton who gave me the most trouble. Over and over they asked small questions, manifestly not believing my answers. In their insistence I saw Vianne’s influence—she had laid her ground well, perhaps hoping their calm thoughtfulness would sway the others. But di Markui still fumed over her taking him to task, di Siguerre thought it a load of nonsense and foppery intrigue, di Falterne simply listened, and di Dienjuste took up my cause with almost courtsong fervor. I had often noticed di Dienjuste seemed half in love with Vianne himself, and he seemed to consider me a proxy for his own suit. It was odd that he would defend me so strongly… so odd I wished I had the opportunity to sit and quietly think until I could wily-farrat out why.

  But I needed all my wit to face them, and to keep my lies in proper order.

  My father, after noting that he could not very well be expected to judge his son dispassionately, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his gaze an uncomfortable weight. I had thought I had outgrown such discomfort.

  I was wrong.

  “And you bear her no ill will for clapping you in chains?” di Rivieri persisted. “For if a woman had done so to me—”

  “She is not merely a woman.” Immediate disagreement leapt from me. She is Vianne, she is mine, and you shall watch your words. “She is the Queen. She could not take the chance of leaving such an allegation unexamined. And I did lie—to ease her mind, I told her of poison, not of a bloody murder. She did not know what to trust.” And I am pinning the blame for the King’s murder on di Narborre’s men. Some of who are most likely dead now. Others are no doubt reserved to speak against me, if d’Orlaans ever finds the chance. We shall see what can be done about that later, though. Much later, when all is settled. “I have oft chided her for having a soft heart.” I looked down at my clasped hands. Modesty was called for now, the right note of male chagrin. “I did not expect her to listen so closely to my advice.”

  A ripple of unwilling amusement went through them.

  “By Danshar!” di Markui snapped. “Why do we waste more time on this? He was Captain of the Guard. Henri trusted him enough to set him to barking at his brother’s heels. D’Orlaans—we know him of old, do we not? We have had his boot on our necks, whether his brother was alive or not, for a very long while. And if d’Arcenne’s son wished to harm the Queen, he would have during their escape. He could have snapped her neck and left her in the Shirlstrienne.”

  I tensed. So did Dienjuste, and my father wore a very slight smile.

  “Besides, the woman is mad,” he grumbled. “Aryx or not, she is mad.”

  I took two steps forward, my face burning afresh. “I will pretend,” I said softly, “that I did not hear that. Examine me all you like, sieur, but if you speak against the Queen I will call you to account.”

  “See?” Di Markui beamed, his salt-and-pepper mane glowing in the afternoon sunlight through the rippling windows. I heard hooves in the bailey below, decided it must be a dispatch, and kept myself tense, staring at him. “He will not hear a word against her. Arcenne is always loyal to the Aryx, my friends. This is all a load of nonsense, and the sooner we finish it the sooner we can return to guiding the Aryx—ah, the Queen—through the current unpleasantness.” He settled back in his creaking chair, and the longing to strangle him even though he was useful rose under my skin.

  Calm yourself, Tristan. This is going well.

  “Very well.” Di Dienjuste stood. “I pronounce the man innocent.”

  Markui lumbered to his feet. “Innocent.”

  Di Rivieri was silent. So was d’Anton.

  “Innoce
nt,” Siguerre rumbled as he rose. “Gods above. Let us be done with it.”

  D’Anton glanced at my father. “Perseval?”

  “He is my son.” My father’s jaw set, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

  The chivalier considered this, then slowly stood. “Innocent.”

  Di Falterne and di Rivieri remained seated. Finally, both stood, but they did not speak. They were unwilling to pronounce me guilty, they would countenance the others calling me innocent, but they would not add their voices to the chorus.

  My father pushed his chair back. “Are we agreed, then?”

  “We may as well be.” Di Rivieri folded his arms, a lean, dark man with a peasant’s breadth of shoulder.

  “Very well. Halis?”

  Di Siguerre coughed. “Tristan d’Arcenne, you are ajudged innocent by peers. Be on your way.”

  Not one of you is my peer, sieurs, but at least this gives me room to maneuver. Which is a boon in any battle. “My thanks, sieurs et chivalieri.”

  The feeling of liberation lasted only until I opened the door and found the hall deserted. I set off to find Vianne and begin, in whatever way I could, to repair the damage, but she was not to be found.

  For while I had been examined so thoroughly, the Queen of Arquitaine had ridden forth from Arcenne’s still-smoking Gate with her Guard and a Pruzian Knife. Her instructions, handed to my father on a sheaf of parchment bearing the impress of the Great Seal, were explicit. We were to stay at Arcenne until she gave us leave to move, under pain of her displeasure.

  We sent out riders to comb the province, but she had evaporated into Arquitaine.