“You doubted me?” Did Lisele? Did she know aught of this? I would have thought there few secrets between us, my Princesse and I. Tears pricked my eyes, I denied them.
“Only for a week or so. Then I heard you taking a hedgewitch lesson from that peasant woman, the one everyone at Court bought love-philtres or swellfree from. You scolded her for not taking better care of herself and brought her a cup of chai, and you spoke — not much, just a touch — of your loneliness. She did not know enough to listen, but I did. I realized — to my great relief, I might add — you were innocent of both conspiracy and counterplot.”
I cast back in memory, at first unsuccessfully, to remember such a time. There was a hedgewitch lesson, before Drumiera died. She had been old, and ill, and I had brought her a cup of chai. We spent the day speaking of Court and hedgewitchery — carefully, for Drumiera was discreet and I was cautious. I had not even dreamed I was overheard.
Where could he have hidden to hear such things? Drumiera’s quarters had been tiny, and just on the edge of mean. I struggled to remember that conversation now. It had been the only time I even hinted my life at Court was…unsatisfactory. Hooves clopped on the dusty track as I thought this over. “You were listening? How?”
“Do not you understand? I have watched over you for years, m’chri.”
My blush was most improper, and I was glad there were no eyes to see it. “Why name me thus? I am only of use to you, d’Arcenne, and dependent on your kindness. There is no need to sweeten me.” I closed my eyes.
“Is it possible to sweeten your temper? But I ask your pardon. It must slip out. I did not think you would notice.” Now, all the Blessed damn the man, he sounded amused. “Rest, then.”
I saw nothing amusing, but much that was dangerous, in this turn of conversation. “How could I not notice when you call me that?”
“You have been oblivious of other suitors.”
Which other suitors? I have had my share of attentions, but none I cared enough to jeopardize my position for. I wished to pursue the line of questioning further, but there were more pressing concerns. My mind seemed finally to be working again, and he seemed disposed to answer questions. I sorted through the many I had, chose the most important at the moment. “What did you do to him? The…assassin?”
“Nobody will find him.” His tone now was calm and chill. “Do not trouble yourself over such refuse.”
“Did he suffer?” And why do I think there is something else, something you are not telling me?
He was the Left Hand, was he not? He probably knew more than I had ever dreamed. And now, stealing a glance at that knowledge, just as a curious child might lift a blanket and peep underneath, had convinced me I wished to see no more.
“He did,” he admitted without any discernable emotion. “He would have killed me, and brought harm to you. I had to know if the dog had sent word to his master.”
“Did he?”
“It is very likely.”
Very likely, but you do not know. So was the suffering useless? Do you care? Silence again. My heart lodged in my throat, above the Aryx’s pulse. “I wish this had never happened.”
“I would give much for…” Yet he would not say what he would give much for. In any case, I could guess. He would wish for the King’s survival, so he was not forced to these measures, depending on, of all people, me. And his sudden silence warned me.
Fever rose hot and weakening in my wrists and forehead once more, yet I felt safe. Other questions fell away. What use was asking more at the moment? “I wish I were home in my own bed. I could sleep for a week.”
He whispered into my hair. “Sleep if you can. We’ve a long way to go.”
I did not sleep, but I leaned against Tristan d’Arcenne and watched the forest from under my lashes. The light was failing, though it was morn, the clouds from the north cloaking the Sun’s wheel-eye. My skull ached with the pressure, but perhaps I would escape a half-head. I could hope to be granted such luck, at least, and since I had been so unlucky of late perhaps the Blessed would take pity on me.
There was a slow ominous roll of thunder, but the storm did not break. Not yet.
Chapter Fourteen
Deeper in the Shirlstrienne, the trees drew together and grew much greater in girth, while the underbrush turned spindly and hunched like whipped dogs. I knew some of the plants from treatises, and cataloging them inside my head provided me with some relief from the growing pressure inside my skull.
Soon enough, a cannonade sounded and water crashed onto the forest’s canopy. I roused myself when the thunder sounded, and we halted. Oiled cloaks were pulled from saddlebags, and Tristan wrapped a large one around both of us. The cloak trapped his warmth, closed it around me. Oddly enough, the heat soothed my aching head.
We joined the Guard an hour or so into the forest, and I only dimly remember the event, for I was half conscious, the relief of an averted half-head conspiring with the exhaustion of fever to make me a loose-jointed doll. I sank deep into my thoughts as if through a weight of cold water. We resembled nothing so much as cloth-swathed turtles atop horse legs moving through misty darkness though twas near nooning, each with a crested-feather hat, like an illustration in a bestiary from the Angoulême’s time.
The day turned aqueous, and troubling thoughts lurked under the surface of my consciousness. I heard Tristan murmur once or twice, and I felt a tingling in my fingers and toes. The feeling melded into damp heat sticking my hair to my temples and collecting under my arms, at the back of my throat, and at the small of my back. Fever-heat, kept only slightly at bay by the soft prickling that crested every time Tristan whispered. Twas a long, weary day, and one I heartily wished over by the time we halted, early because of the swimming darkness.
I found myself half-falling from the broad back of the horse into Tristan’s hands. He wrapped me in a smaller cloak, and I was set under the sheltering boughs of a giant tam tree. The tree made a half-cave that was actually quite dry and fairly level, and the abrupt ceasing of the tingling in my limbs made it somewhat easier to think. Someone had set down a pad of blankets for me, and I dropped gratefully onto them, pulling the cloak tight around my shoulders.
Tinan di Rocham brought me a cup of hot, sweet-spiced chai. Someone had started a fire — the tingle of Court sorcery warned me and I looked up in time to see flame bloom through the infrequent drips from the Shirlstrienne’s roof. The wood hissed, and smoke billowed up. The fire would burn as long as the sorcery held. Dangerous — we could be tracked by it — but necessary.
“Drink, an it please you, d’mselle.” Tinan’s young face was grave and drawn. “I think we’ve more of the tisane. And meatpies for dinner.”
“Not all at once, I hope.” I sought for levity. He gave me a quick smile, unlike his usual easy merriment. That shook away some of my lethargy. “Why so worried? What it amiss?”
He was young to look so grave. “We have seen no bandits, but they may be about. We shall set a heavy watch tonight.” He closed his hands over mine, around the battered metal cup. “No worries, d’mselle!” he added hastily. “You are safe enough with us.”
Safe enough? I seem to have lost the luxury of safety. Still… “After the past week, nothing could terrify me,” I said slowly, to calm him. He was the most impressionable of them…and my plan tickled the back of my brain. Tis never too early to prepare your ground, Vianne. Intrigue and gardening have both taught you as much. “Certainly not bandits.”
“Oh, aye.” Tinan took heart, and his dark eyes shone. “I must help with the horses, d’mselle. Call if you need aught.”
I shall call upon you soon enough, young one. I gave a small sound of assent and sipped at my chai, watching them work. I felt useless, a burden easily cast aside. All that held me to them was the Seal.
I closed my eyes, the Aryx thrumming under my heartbeat, against my skin. The comforting darkness behind my eyelids ran with ghostlights, as if I had pressed my fingers too hard against the tender flesh.
What could I do? My hand uncurled, unwillingly, from the chai-cup to touch the lump of the Great Seal under fabric. If I knew enough Court sorcery to keep them hidden from trackers, I might be less of a uselessness.
The Aryx pulsed.
Hedgewitchery could hide them, if I had the power for such a charm. The magic of the peasants and healers was opposed to Court sorcery, difficult and slippery to track even for a bellhound; since it took its power from the land itself it tended to be well camouflaged. Yet I sighed. I was only a fairly good hedgewitch with the aid of my books and treatises, not good enough to hide a half-dozen men seamlessly from Court sorcery and sensitive bellhound noses, not to mention tracking-spells.
The Aryx pulsed again, insistently.
A silent shockwave blurred through me as wine pours into a cup, filling empty spaces, setting me alight. A perfect circle — I saw it from above, a wall of magic large enough to enclose the Guard, protecting them. It was not quite hedgewitchery or Court sorcery, but a seamless blend of both, doors inside my head thrown open, showing me.
You could do thus, it whispered. The touch was light and slow, scouring along the inside of my head, a hall of doors receding into infinity. One blew open, golden light spilling forth, and the glow scorched along my skin, filled the channels of my blood, and pushed through me, leaving a scalding wave of weakness in its wake.
I returned to myself with a jolt like a cart’s axle breaking, my entire body trembling, chai slopping in the cup. The fever drained away, as did the power. Yet part of the knowledge remained, as if the doors had been closed…but not locked. Corridors of a magic I did not know how to use.
Yet.
You could do thus, beloved, the voice whispered again. I pushed it away, chai spilling, burning my fingers. I slumped, trembling afresh, and shook my head to clear it.
An idea rose slowly. My own thought, not an alien voice whispering inside my head: The Aryx is indeed awake. It seeks to teach me.
Why does it stir itself now?
Shouting, confusion. I sought to steady myself, the world whirling most distressingly underneath me. My heart beat a thin tattoo in my wrists and temples. My pulse now matched the silent beat of the Seal against my skin, its metal scorching and the serpents writhing. Their scales rasped pleasantly, not quite rough as a cat’s tongue.
“Vianne?” Tristan’s hands closed around mine. “Vianne!”
I found myself wide-eyed, meeting his gaze. “The Aryx,” I whispered. Rain misted down, each drop a separate colorless jewel with its own name.
“You nearly flattened us all with that sorcery.” Was he pale? Perhaps it was merely the chill in the air. His eyes were darker than usual, and worried. Behind the worry was something else, an expression I could not decipher since my head was aswim. “Drink your chai.”
“Captain!” someone called.
He looked over his shoulder, his dark hair disarranged as he had shed his dripping hat. “Bring her something to eat, now. Pilippe, Adersahl is to set the watch. Tell him double. Find di Chatillon, send him to me.” Tristan’s fingers were hard and warm, and clasped too tightly in mine. “Vianne, m’chri, speak to me.”
I managed another drink of chai, Tristan letting go of my hands for that brief moment. Then he caught my hands again, my fingers burning between his and the chai-cup. “Speak to me, Vianne.” It was a command.
“Captain?” Was that me, the uncertain wonderment? For the love of every god that ever was, I thought, desperately, stop whining, Vianne!
“Here, and hale enough, though we’ve received rather a shock.” He freed one hand to push Tinan di Rocham’s hat back, peering under it to see me. “Can you tell me aught, m’chri? What does it feel like?”
I found a word for the expression under his worry.
It was awe. Of course, I had just performed a feat I should not have been able to even think of attempting. Any noble with even a touch of sorcerous Sight would have seen the moment the Aryx plucked the reins from my hands and pushed the spell through me, a wall of magic protecting them from tracking-sorcery.
“The Aryx.” My voice came from very far away. “Tis awake.”
He nodded. “It is. I do not know why it has awakened now.”
Strangely enough, that Tristan would admit to not knowing something made a thin curl of fear rise up from my belly. “Tis…” I struggled to find words. There are doors in my head, and they are so easy to open. What lies behind them? Do I wish to know? “I am frightened.” I finally whispered.
For the doors are easy to unlock, but what comes through them drowns me.
“I know,” he murmured, as if he did. “I would not have had this happen. I tried to prevent it.”
You do not know, sieur. None can know what this is. Tinan di Rocham’s hat had been knocked aside, and my braid had suffered. Stray hair fell in my face. I blinked, and could finally see him clearly, blue eyes, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “I cannot do this. It will eat me whole.” I managed to sound a little less stunned. “The Seal…it is hungry.” My wits returned, slowly. Do not admit weakness. What will he do, if he judges you unfit?
But it was too late. I had just said what I should not. Again.
“Do not cast any sorcery without me,” he said quietly, still holding my hands. “I would add my strength to yours. That may keep the Aryx from swallowing you. It is dangerous to attempt such things while fevered, m’chri.”
I nodded. Say something else. Make him speak to you. For the sound of his voice was an anchor, and if he turned silent I was afraid I would not stay here in this misty glade. I felt as if I might slip out of my flesh and into the long hall of the Aryx’s sorcery, passing through those doors in a dream of golden light. “I never saw you duel.”
His mouth twitched slightly, whether with anger or amusement I could not tell. “There was once or twice. I suppose you never noticed.”
“I suppose I never did.” The pulsing subsided below the surface of my conscious mind. I shuddered, my ribs heaving. The sensation of drifting outside my skin receded, bit by bit.
“Always with your nose in a book, or in a garden plot.” His tone was light, but he examined my face intently. “Vianne, if I told you…” Maddeningly, he stopped short.
I dropped my gaze, studied the cup. It was of blue metal, with a curved handle, full of rapidly cooling, sweetened chai. “Told me what?”
But someone came with a meatpie, and Tristan told me to eat. I did, suddenly ravenous, the sorcery burning a hole in my stomach. Luc di Chatillon appeared, and felt my pulse while his fair blond face turned serious. He lacked hedgewitchery but had some physicker’s skill, and pronounced me well enough, if still suffering the aftereffects of fever. He measured out the tisane and scolded me into taking it, and refilled my chai-cup.
The Guard seemed much easier now, laughing quietly, bantering back and forth. “Cook us something new, Tinan!” Jai di Montfort called from one end of the fire, and Tinan replied with an oath that would have made me blush at Court. As it was, I produced a wan smile, licking my fingers free of crumbs.
Jierre di Yspres brought me his flask of ansinthe. “Only a mouthful,” he said quietly, sinking down into an easy crouch next to me.
I coughed as the green venom burned all the way down. “My thanks, chivalier.” And what do you wish from me, to bear me such a gift?
“Think nothing of it, d’mselle.” He shifted slightly, accepted the flask’s return, and capped it with a quick efficient movement. “We seem never to finish our conversations.”
On the other side of the fire, Tinan di Rocham and Jai di Montfort bantered back and forth. “You come and cook, then!” Tinan said.
“I am no woman.” Jai’s lip curled.
“You certainly complain like one,” Tinan shot back, and there was a general shout of laughter. Tristan stood close to Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, conferring, but his gaze rarely left me.
I found I did not mind as much as I should. “Then tell me what you wish to
tell me, and have done with it.” I had lost all desire to be decorous. “More to the point, Lieutenant, will you help me?”
I had chanced a throw, and his answer told me I had lost. “You ask me to act against my Captain. I cannot do that, d’mselle. Wait out the harvest and winter in Arcenne, then we may decide what course is best.”
My heart plummeted. The weakness in my hands taunted me. Were they not clasped around the cup, they would shake, showing my feebleness even more plainly. “My thanks for your honesty, chivalier,” I murmured. I even meant it. The fire’s leaping light filled my vision.
His tone turned low and urgent. “You are a scholar, and a practical woman. You must set that sharp wit of yours to leading us aright. We have wagered our lives on this cast of the dice, d’mselle.”
“Do you think I do not know? Why do you think I am asking your aid in such a manner?” My shoulders sagged. “If I had not seen the Captain in that passageway—”
“—we would all be dead. We would have waited for Tristan until d’Orlaans closed his jaws on us. You saved us all. Please, be kind to Tristan. He…he prizes you, d’mselle.” His eyes were level, dark, and intent.
Oh, for the love of the Blessed. I almost choked on a sip of chai. “Will you cease with that?” My voice hit a decidedly indecorous pitch.
Silence fell. Di Yspres’s cheeks flushed, and his gaze cut away from mine.
I searched for a bit of Court wit to use. A laugh rose out of me, a thin unhealthy sound but well enough to bear up appearances, as if di Yspres had jested, perhaps a riddle with an end not meant for a lady’s ears. I leaned forward, touching his shoulder with my free hand, and the laugh quickly became natural.
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