The Hedgewitch Queen h-1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I wondered what that roughness would feel like under my fingertips. Surely it did no harm to wonder, as long as I remembered he would not, did not, care for me. “My thanks for the compliment. I feel a burden and a fool. If I had not been in that passage—”

  Did the smoke sting his eyes as it stung mine? For he blinked, quickly. “Twas luck, Vianne. Or fate. Had you not happened along, you would have been with the Princesse, and taken or killed.”

  “If I had not been in that corridor, mayhap I could have saved Lisele.” I touched the bowl again, running my fingers along the metal rim.

  “One unarmed woman against men who slew two of my Guard, then killed the Princesse and her ladies? You will drive yourself mad if you think such a thing.” Shadows now leapt away from the firelight. Night falls swiftly with no candle or witchlight to hold it back, even in spring.

  “I wonder if madness might not be a comfort,” I said bitterly. My feet ached; the boots, however sturdy, were not made for this abuse. Nor was the rest of me. “I was not with Lisele when she needed me.”

  “You could not have saved her. You rescued the Aryx, and freed me from an iron cell.”

  Did he seek to ease my conscience? It was gallant of him, but I did not wish any comfort from his quarter. Still… There is another donjon holding him, d’mselle. And you hold the key to that one. “I would free you from your oath, and you could find service with another Court. Navarrin, perhaps, or even Badeau. They would be glad of you.” And their borders would keep you safer than most. The Damarsene would not take you, the Pruzians would kill you, and the Torkai, barbarians that they are, who knows what they would do? The image of d’Arcenne in the turbaned Court of Torkai, spreading himself on the floor to bow to their King, would have been highly diverting once. Now it merely irritated me.

  “A man accused of killing his own King?” His mouth drew into a firm line. “What folly are you speaking?”

  It is not folly if it saves a life, Captain. I gathered myself. “Think practically, Captain. There is no hope of success. The Duc has been laying his plans for years, if what sieur di Yspres says is true—”

  An almost-violent start bumped his shoulder against mine. “What else did Jierre tell you?” he broke in, rudely.

  I pulled the blanket closer. The night would be cold, a coolness already touched my cheeks. “He told me those with royal blood, however begotten, have been dying for four years now. It does not take a bludgeon to make me see truth. If you arrive at a foreign Court, you can find a position for yourself and your men. If I may find a safe place to leave the Aryx I can perhaps trade on my smile and my knowledge of riddles and charming companionship to make my way in the world until I find a means to make the Duc pay. In any case, his rule will founder of its own weight without the Aryx. I am asking you to be released of your oath, and to cease your determination to throw your life away.”

  I had not realized my voice had risen dangerously until I finished, and heard the ringing silence around the campfire. All eyes were on us. “Look well upon me, sieur d’Arcenne,” I continued. “Do I look anyone’s idea of a Queen? Court protocol stifles me, games of politics and rumor disgust me even when I must play them for my Princesse’s safety. I was taught to have no ambition. The lesson’s held well enough everyone who conspired to teach it should be proud. An accident of blood — so my grandmother dallied with a King? What of it? Plenty of ladies have done both more and less; tis not my fault or failing. I do not want this — and I care not if you do kill me; it would be a blessing to die after what I’ve seen.”

  My voice broke, and I was perilously close to another fit of weeping. Instead, I rose blindly to my feet, dropping the blanket. “Look upon me!” I cried, and they did to a man. “Do I look a Queen? Nonsense. Am I dignified? Regal? I caught you at your game in that passageway because I was covered in mud, Tristan, is that a very queenly picture? And I crept down to the donjon to free you because I believed a King’s idle jest. Very well, I am a fool, a provincial little fool, punish me for it! I have spent my life smoothing and covering the mistakes others have made and I am sick to death of it!”

  Now I was weeping, after swearing not to. My eyes were blind with hot water, and I restrained the urge to stamp my feet with an effort that left me trembling yet more violently. “I should have died in her place!” I cried, aware only of the silence cloaking the firelit group of men. “My only friend — my only friend — and I was not there to save her! She gave me the Aryx by accident — and you call me a Queen. Queen of fools, perhaps. Queen of idiots.” Twas as if all the words I had ever refrained from were rising up to betray me, a torrent of what should not be said. A breeze blew smoke from the fire, made the branches sough. “Now you ask me to be responsible for the death of you and your men. You could have left me to the Duc’s tender mercies, and no doubt most of you wished to. But you did not, and I am most grateful, it would be poor indeed to repay you thus.”

  The effort not to scream left me gasping. I turned on my heel, stalked to the edge of the firelit circle and sought to master myself. My fingers clutched as if I still possessed skirts and could use them to hide my fists. I addressed the night beyond the circle of fireglow. Here was as good a place as any to cease this madness.

  “I will not be the cause of your deaths. The Duc cannot rule without the Aryx. All I must do is keep the Great Seal from his hands for long enough and his rule will crumble, and there will be no need of any more death. I have seen far too much of death already.” I shuddered at the thought. Make certain. The wet, crunching noises. The blood. The smell. “I will not be the cause of more.”

  “Vianne.” Tristan’s voice.

  You presume great familiarity, chivalier. “Hold your tongue, Captain d’Arcenne,” I snapped. “I will not be the cause of more death. I refuse.”

  Silence, except for the crackling of the fire. I swallowed the lump in my throat and wiped at my streaming cheeks, wished I had a kerchief. I could have thought to bring one instead of a comb, twould have been more useful.

  I took a step, another. A third.

  “Where will you go, then?” It was not the Captain, it was Jierre di Yspres. “Tonight is no night for traveling, d’mselle. Stay with us, an it please you. Morning will make things look less bleak.”

  “Aye.” Tinan di Rocham, grave and quiet. “We are all stunned at the death we’ve seen, d’mselle Vianne. We laugh and banter to keep from weeping. There is no shame in it.”

  Oddly enough, the words salved some of the aching in my chest. I dropped my head into my hands and stood, wishing the earth would open and swallow me, lightning would strike from the heavens and incinerate me. I should not have said even a quarter of what I had just flung at d’Arcenne. The black fit of sobbing threatened to drown me again, and I wondered if I would ever learn to be strong, and not such a sodden mess of weeping.

  Like a heroine in a courtsong. Dark, unhealthy amusement rose at the thought. I will dissolve in a puddle of salt, and there will be no more discussion of Queen this and Aryx that and the Fate of Arquitaine the other.

  “Then why do I feel so ashamed, Tinan di Rocham?” Muffled by my hands, I was amazed he heard me.

  “Because you are breathing, and one you love is not.” At least he was truthful. “Tis a common thing, to feel shame at surviving. I felt it when my brother died, and near it killed me. My mother pleaded with me…” He trailed off, uncomfortably. “Please, d’mselle. Do not do something rash now. There’s time enough between here and Arcenne — if we reach the mountains whole, that is — to decide with clear heads what to do next. We are proud to have you with us. At least I am.”

  “And I.” This from di Yspres. “It was no mean feat to rescue our Captain, d’mselle, or to hide in the Palais itself when you knew the Duc was searching for you. You are as brave as any Guard.”

  “Aye to that,” Pillipe di Garfour echoed. There was a murmur of assent that fair threatened to break my heart in its well-meaning eagerness.

  “Braver
than any one of us,” someone said — perhaps Luc di Chatillon.

  I do not need empty words, sieur. I need a hole in the earth wide enough to swallow me. The strength ran out of my legs, and I dropped down again, put my head on my knees. It was no use. I had nowhere to go. I sat like that until someone brought the blanket, wrapped it around me, and sat near enough I could feel a friendly warmth.

  There was not much talk after that. At least, I did not hear much before I fell asleep sitting up, leaning into someone’s shoulder with my face buried in my knees.

  * * *

  I half-woke in darkness. Someone had removed my boots, and the ground was hard though I lay on something that sought to cushion it a trifle. There were two blankets over me. It felt very late, and the fire had burned down to a low glow.

  “…garrisons,” Jierre said softly.

  “Or we risk bandits in the forest, yes,” Tristan replied, and sighed. A faint rasping, as if he rubbed at his face. “Tis no pretty choice.”

  “The bandits will likely do us less harm. We are well armed, and can travel swiftly.” This was Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, the stocky one with the fine mustache.

  “What of the d’mselle?” Jierre, now. “Her strength may not hold if we ride much harder.”

  “True,” Adersahl said. “Have you ever seen such spirit, though?”

  Mock me, I thought sleepily. I have no means of stopping you. Do as you please. I care little. A stone dug into my hip, but I did not chance moving.

  “Aye to that.” Jierre sounded anxious now. “Tristan?”

  “The question is, the low route, or the road through the forest?” Tristan, oddly sharp. The fire crackled, banked and low. I longed for my own soft bed, a servant closing my door and taking away an empty glass of wine; I longed for the two leather-bound tomes on Tiberian history I had been reading and the small jeweled statue of Jiserah at my elbow as I dimmed the witchlight and settled back with a sigh, the door to Arioste’s closette and the other door to Lisele’s sleeping chamber wide open so my Princesse had only to call and I could attend. Most nights she would steal past Arioste’s narrow bed — Lady Wintrefelle rarely woke, and for all her beauty she snored like a pig — and we would fall asleep in my bed, giggling or quiet with the silence that comes only after you have known someone since childhood.

  I stirred uneasily. They were mute for a long while, and I had almost fallen back into sleep’s black softness. The darkness behind my eyelids held shapes I did not care to examine too closely. Crumpled shapes in bloody dresses, lying so still.

  So, so still.

  “I would say through the forest.” Jierre, finally. “Bandits are a lesser danger to us at the moment.”

  “I agree.” Tristan sighed. “Did I go amiss, Jierre?”

  There was another long, uncomfortable silence. “I would not presume, sieur,” Jierre replied. “You acted honorably. I was wrong to doubt you.”

  “Tis not what I meant.” Tristan sounded amused now, and bootleather creaked. “Gods above, this is a mess.”

  “Aye,” Adersahl coughed, but it did not cover his laugh. “I never thought I would live to see this turn.”

  “Many thanks, Adersahl,” Tristan said drily.“You are enjoying this courtsong?”

  “Of course not,” the older man returned. “I wish you luck, tis all.”

  Tristan cursed, but it was good-natured, and they all three laughed softly, so as not to wake the others. It was shared merriment, and I envied it.

  Stealthy footsteps, going to different parts of the firelit clearing. Someone settled next to me, and I could not hold my peace. “Is something wrong?” Slow and sleepy, as if I dreamed.

  “No,” Tristan d’Arcenne said very softly. “Sleep, Vianne. We are standing watch.”

  “Captain?” I wished him to speak again. For when I heard him, the ugly visions faded somewhat.

  “Try to rest,” He did not sound angry.

  Say something diplomatic, Vianne. My tongue was thick with fatigue. “Your pardon, Captain. I was not kind to you.”

  “Kind enough.” He sounded amused. “You needed to lance that wound. I was beginning to worry.”

  “You never worry.” I sought to wake myself. He laughed, catching the sound back as if it pained him somewhat. “D’Arcenne?”

  “Hm.” An affirmative sound. I watched the fire’s glow through my heavy, heavy lashes.

  I wanted to ask him so many things, but I could not seem to make my mouth work. Instead, I fell back into the darkness of sleep. Before I did, someone’s fingers smoothed back a loose strand of my hair. It was a gentle touch, and I welcomed it.

  The Captain

  Chapter Seven

  The floor of the Sculpture Hall echoed underfoot as I hurried along, trying the doors. Each was locked, rattling like rusted chains, and I wept with frustration and fear. Behind me, they came — the Duc’s Guard, with lean, black-eyed Garonne di Narborre at their head, coming for me to make certain, make certain, make certain.

  “Vianne?”

  Behind one of the doors was my Lisele, and she was bleeding. The blood washed under the doors, rising around my ankles, so much of it, and the walls between the doors were festooned with broken harpstrings. I knew the hedgewitch charm to save my Princesse but I could not remember it, and I could not remember which door she was hidden behind, and all of them were bleeding. I tried them all, and my hands slipped on the doorknobs. My hands slipped because they were sweating, and covered with blood as well, Lisele’s blood, for I was to blame—

  “Vianne!” Someone had my shoulders, shook me. “Vianne, wake. Tis a dream, nothing more.”

  I woke fully in one terrified lunge, the scream dying on my lips. Swallowed the last half of the cry and looked up at d’Arcenne while I clutched the blanket to my chest as if it could shield me.

  It was early morn, and thick fog hung between the trees. One of the Guard doused the fire, but d’Arcenne gave me a cup of hot chai. “Here. Take this. Twas merely a dream. You are safe.” He folded my hands around the cup, his warm callused skin against mine. My hands shook, but he held them steady for a few moments until I could draw a breath. My mouth tasted foul, and the sudden urge to tear my hands from his and examine them for traces of blood shook me.

  He had shaved, and his face looked better too. The bruising and swelling was going down; perhaps one of the Guard had some skill at healing. Had I thought, I would have offered to charm the bruises for him myself, though it was faintly improper.

  My breath came harsh and ragged. Was there blood on my hands? I could not tell. All I could feel was the warm metal of the cup, just on the edge of scorching.

  The Guard moved about the camp, jostling each other, rolling up sleeping pads. I wondered whose I had occupied so thoughtlessly. I felt incredibly rumpled, and as the last vestiges of sleep fled I longed for morning chocolat and a hot bath. D’Arcenne still knelt at my side, his fingers warm and solid.

  If my hands were bloody, he would not hold them so. The idea came and fled in less than a moment.

  “Captain.” I searched for something to speak of to push the dream away. Anything. “I never asked what happened to you, after you left me in the passageway.”

  He almost flinched, gave me a sharp look, his fingers tightening. Of course, who would wish to speak of something so awful?

  His careful examination of my face made me blush, and when he finally spoke it was not in his usual calm tone. No, his words turned lame and halting, as if he chose them with care, blue eyes dark-shadowed and his mouth tight with distaste. “I found my way to the Rose Room. The King was dying. The pink petitte-cakes, they were poisoned. The Duc’s Guard burst in, and I killed four of them before they took me down. And carried me to the donjons in chains, then beat me until the Duc paid the honor of a visit.” His gaze had turned steely.

  Now I was sorry I had asked. It could not have been pleasant to remember. “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to wound you.” Poison? I sensed no poison. There were
scentless poisons, though, even if a hedgewitch tended to be sensitive to the slightest breath of toxins. I had not been at my best in the Rose Room.

  And yet…

  He shrugged, loosed his fingers from mine. “I know, Vianne. Do not trouble yourself. The King asked if you were safe, and Lisele.” D’Arcenne ducked his dark head, examining the ruin of the sleeping roll I had been tossing upon. “I lied. I told him I knew you and the Princesse were safe. I told him I would watch over you. That, at least, is true, and I shall see it remains so.”

  “Oh.” Furious heat stained my cheeks, I wished I could stopper it. It was merely the King’s jest. You must be wary, this man may turn on you. You have no protection here.

  “I do not wish to wound you, either.” Quietly, as he settled his knee more comfortably on the damp ground.

  I gazed at the blankets and the rumpled sleeping pad. Something else to speak of, Vianne. Quickly now. “Whose are these?” The fog made the morning eerily quiet.

  “Mine. Three stand watch at a time, so there are a few to spare.”

  Oh, dear gods. “My thanks, Captain.” I found enough presence of mind to sip the chai. It was hot and sweet with stevya, and I was grateful. I felt queerly light and drained, as if the dream were still happening around me. The predawn hush was immense; even our voices seemed not to break it. “I feel I am dreaming still.”

  Why did he examine me so? “Break your fast, d’mselle. We have a few sweet rolls, and some cheese. We shall stop in Tierrce d’Estrienne for supplies before we enter the Shirlstrienne.”

  I shivered. The forest had a dark name as a haunt of bandits and thieves, and Lisele and I had thrilled to the dangers of the wood in the romances and songs. High adventure, lovers in disguise, honorable thievery and less-honorable menace. Rescues by chivalieri of fair ladies distressed by bandits, always in the very nick of time.