The absurdity of the situation quickly made my merriment real — the Duchesse di Rocancheil in the Shirlstrienne with a group of King’s Guard, sick with fever and the plaything of the Great Seal. It sounded like a courtsong, and not a very good one at that.
“Vianne?” The Captain, using my name as if it belonged to him, stood taut and inquiring on the other side of the fire.
“Sieur di Yspres and I were trading riddles.” The lie rose so naturally I was almost afraid of it, my cheeks flushing as well. “Some are decidedly not fit for a lady’s ears.”
I do not know if Tristan believed me, but the other Guards laughed. Tristan’s eyebrows drew together, a faint line between them. His blue eyes were shadowed in the failing light, fixed on my hand on Jierre’s shoulder.
Di Yspres stood hurriedly, brushing his knees with a quick, habitual movement. “I gave her more ansinthe, Captain. She was shivering.”
That brought the Captain to my side. He knelt, pressing his fingers to my forehead.
“I am well enough,” I told him. “Sieur di Yspres merely worries.”
“He should.” Tristan’s jaw was set. “How much did he give you?”
“Merely a swallow.” I submitted to his touching my cheek, smoothing my hair down. “Truly, I am hale. He sought to ease my mood, for I confess I was most—”
“Ansinthe. What were you thinking?” He did not even look at me. His gaze had turned up to Jierre, who stood aside, pocketing his flask.
“I was cold, and I asked him for a swallow of summat to warm.” I sought to calm him. “It does no harm.”
He snapped me a glance that could have broken stone. I almost gasped at the violence in his expression.
Tristan straightened and glared at di Yspres. “Do not give her more. Ansinthe is dangerous.”
“I asked him,” I lied. “He was merely being kind.” The Aryx fluttered against my chest. I pushed the sensation away with an effort. No. I will not.
It subsided.
“Tis not a fit drink for hedgewitches,” Luc di Chatillon said in the ensuing silence. “Truly, d’mselle. Hedgewitchery makes one most vulnerable to the green venom. And you must not risk the fever’s return.”
I thought he perhaps tried to soothe troubled waters, so I did not answer. Instead, I looked at the tips of the Captain’s boots, muddy from the forest. I stared at that clinging mud for a long moment, until di Yspres made some movement — a shrug, perhaps, I could not see — and moved away.
I pulled the cloak closer about my shoulders, setting the cup aside. Rain dripped hissing into the fire. My fingers tensed, curling into fists in the harsh material.
I could use the Seal. It has chosen me, for now. I could use it — and do what? If I escape them, this will merely follow me, as crows follow the gibbets. Or I will let this thing at my throat use me, and become merely a vessel for it. Loneliness rose, fair threatened to choke me. Next was panic, a deep well of it. The Seal had worked that spell through me, as if I were only a door for it, and I was not certain I liked the feeling.
Not certain at all.
Silence stretched.
“Dinner.” Tinan’s voice was unnaturally bright. “Who hungers? They shall be fed!”
“And lo! Said the maid in the cow byre,” di Chatillon gave the next line of the old maying-song, and a ripple of amusement went through the men. “For the want of a sausage, I’m dead!”
The Captain said nothing. I could not tell if he watched me or not. I kept my head bowed, staring at his boot-toes, reciting a string of Tiberian verbs in my head. Eventually the laughter and banter returned to normal as they ate.
I remained closed in my bubble of silence. The Aryx pulsed.
What can I do? I wailed into the darkness of myself. I am far more helpless than before.
Stop being a ridiculous little twit. Come now, think. Use that practical brain of yours, and reason through this tangle.
Without me, they would not be in danger. If the Captain reached Arcenne safely there would be some hope of his crossing the border into Navarrin. Despite his protests, any Court would be glad of his skill. And I thought it passing likely the Left Hand would have agents in foreign lands to shelter him.
He would live.
The Duc will pursue us if we have her — but if we simply flee, we may escape with our lives. Jierre di Yspres, speaking truth, for all he apologized for it later.
It was one thing to think of leaving them, quite another to think of being left and any possible step I might take afterward. I shivered, pulling the cloak even tighter. The Captain stood, motionless. What was he doing? Why would he not join his men and leave me be?
My brain pawed at the problem like a trained farrat, turning it over and over. Slowly, everything outside me stilled as I turned inward, into that peculiar half-dream state of complete attention, where one’s faculties may suddenly cease thrashing, step aside as if following a pavane, and suddenly know every step of the dance.
If you may learn to use the Seal properly, you could do something, for good or for ill.
I straightened, taking in a sharp breath. Then, just as quickly, I slumped again, lest anyone had seen my sudden movement and guessed at the cast of my thoughts. I had already used the Aryx to protect the Guard. Could I do so again, to protect them further? Damp woolen material resisted my fingers as I pulled, twisting it tighter.
To have those doors open inside my head again, to feel that force pushing through me in its scalding tide, blind to the world, would be…gods.
It would be like…what? Ceasing to exist.
Like dying. I had not suffered death yet, but I imagined losing oneself in that swelling tide was very close. I shivered.
The Guard finished their meal. Some of them undid their sleeping rolls. The tingle of Court sorcery washed over my skin again — dry ground, the rain shunted aside from where they would rest. A toast was called out to me, for they would be sleeping in the rain if not for the Aryx’s protection from tracking-sorcery. I smiled wanly and nodded, seeking to appear pleased, then went back to hugging myself, desperately weighing the chance of being swallowed whole by the Great Seal against the pressure of their faith in me.
Tristan’s faith in me, however misplaced.
I sighed, rubbing at my forehead. I had only wished to change my clothes before waiting on Lisele. How on earth had I ended up pursued in the Shirlstrienne with a half-dozen noblemen and a head full of doors for the Aryx to open whenever it slipped the chain of my refusal?
The Captain brought a sleeping roll and laid it beside me. “You should sleep, d’mselle.” His tone was chill.
Then mine should be, too. “I suppose I should.” I did not dare look to his face, only his shoulder. “Captain?”
“For the sake of every god, Vianne, do not address me thus.” His jaw set, his shoulders stiffened.
Well, if you wish me to address you otherwise, sieur, I shall. “Very well. Sieur d’Arcenne, I wish to ask you something,” I persisted.
His shoulders stiffened, his jaw firming. Why? He smoothed a blanket over the sleeping roll, flicked his fingers. A breath of heat brushed my cheek — he was warming the blanket. Court sorcery tingled along my fingers, a familiar feeling.
“Ask what you will.” He settled back on his heels. His boots creaked.
Perhaps I can make you see reason. I marshaled my arguments, made my tone soft and conciliatory. “If I drew pursuit away — perhaps to the east — would you be able to reach Arcenne safely?”
I watched his hand tense against his knee, I barely dared to breath. See reason. Please, do not force this madness further.
“And how would you draw pursuit away, Vianne?” Yet he sounded oddly relieved. Had he merely been waiting for me to broach the subject again?
I had my list of requirements ready. “I would need a horse. I am fairly sure I could create a commotion, or use enough Court sorcery to be tracked.”
A shake of his dark head, tossing a thought aside. “If d’Orlaans—�
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“I wish to give you the Aryx.” If I can tear it from my skin. If I can rip it free, dear gods, I will. I did not let myself pause. “If you have the Seal, you do not need me. I can serve a better purpose distracting the bellhounds. You said yourself di Narborre has likely received word of our course.”
He shifted slightly, turning to me, and before I knew it his hand cupped my chin. He forced my head up until I had no choice but to look at him. His mouth was drawn tight, into a straight line. “You will not leave my care until we are in the Palais d’Arquitaine again and d’Orlaans is dead. If I must tie you to the saddle, Your Majesty, I will. Is that in any way unclear to you?”
I swallowed. My heart leapt into my throat, began to dance a maying there. His eyes burned, pale d’Arcenne blue, fixing my gaze as a serpent would trap a bird. “Cap — ah, Tristan…I would not—”
“At the moment, we shall make no decision until we reach Arcenne. Cease this, Vianne. You will not leave my side until we are in the Palais again and d’Orlaans is dead. Tis final.”
I searched for an argument, found one. “If you think me a Queen, why order me about?” But the heat of him, and his blue gaze, did strange things to my well-ordered wits and my carefully arranged plans.
“Even a Queen needs counselors,” he returned, callused fingers gentle against my cheek. “I was Left Hand once, and it seems you would need one more than Henri ever did. You are not ruthless enough, Vianne. Not ruthless enough by half.”
Thunder rattled overhead. The trees moved uneasily. “So you were the Left Hand.” It was different, hearing him say it so casually. Did his arm shake slightly? It seemed so.
He shrugged. “Did you ever doubt it?” He stroked my jaw with his thumb, the touch spilling a different heat down my throat. “I shall have your word you will not leave my side, m’chri.”
“Why do you—”
“Your word. I want your promise.” Something dark passed over his face, graving lines upon it, the firelight leaping oddly across the plane of his cheek. Seen in this light, he was even more handsome than at Court — but different.
More dangerous.
My heart quivered like a rabbit’s shudder in the snare. “Tristan—”
“Your word, Vianne,” he repeated, inflexible.
I could not look away. “I promise,” I heard myself say. “I give you my word.”
“Good.” He did not press the point, but neither did he look away. We stayed thus — his hand cupping my chin, me perched on a pad of blankets under the giant tam tree — until another vast wallow of thunder filled the air. “Sleep if you can, m’chri,” he said, as soon as the cannonade died away. Someone laughed on the other side of the fire, but twas a hushed, sleepy sound. Someone else — it sounded like Jai di Montfort — was humming a song popular in the Citté about a noble, penniless damsel and her heart-true chivalier.
It was a pretty tune, but oh it made me think of Lisele.
My heart twisted savagely, and water rose behind my eyes. I denied the tears with every ounce of strength I possessed, swallowed the rock in my throat. He released me, and I huddled deeper into the shelter of the cloak. Tristan rose fluidly and stalked away.
It is hopeless. For good or ill, you are bound to his course.
Was it craven to feel relieved? Perhaps.
I stared at the fire, beginning to burn blue now as the rain found its way past the Shirlstrienne’s canopy and sorcery forced the wood to stay alight. My eyes half-lidded, heavy and full of sand. The men spoke quietly over di Montfort’s singing.
He was on the fourth verse now. Telling of how the chivalier gave up his pride and his place in the Guard for the love of the fair noble d’mselle, who sacrificed herself in an act of sorcery to keep the chivalier safe from the blade of a jealous rival. The song had been much sung at Court last season, a backdrop to the affair of the duel between Miche di Varonne and Alois di Cheremorce.
Di Varonne’s mother had been rumored to be a royal by-blow, and he had died on di Cheremorce’s rapier. I never had discovered what their duel concerned, since whatever intrigue it was did not touch my Princesse. I thought I would farrat out the cause later, for no knowledge is ever wasted. Yet I had never discovered another twist to that tale.
The King had been wroth, his face full of thunder at several suppers. I thought long on this, staring into the fire and hearing the storm walk the sky above, prowling through the vaults of the Blessed’s heaven.
The Bandit
Chapter Fifteen
We passed deeper into the Shirlstrienne, days without sunlight because the rain kept washing over us. It was awful weather even for the season of late-spring storming, and I was soon an aching mass of misery from riding a-horseback in the dankness, our cloth damp no matter how many charms we used. At night, thunder walked among the clouds, and we saw lightning-charred trees as we rode.
It sometimes seemed to me that the world had shifted, that we had ridden into the Forests of Night that haunted Damarsene tales, those stories of blood and sorcery under the shade of huge black trees. In Damarsene legends the woods are hungry. There is no sunlight, and their hedgewitches feast on the blood of young children who blaspheme their bull-headed, jealous god. It is enough to make one shudder.
The nights were the worst. Each dusk I repeated the trick of hiding us from pursuit, struggling to keep the Aryx from shoving me through another temptingly-open door. It told on my strength to do so, but twas the only useful thing I seemed capable of. D’Arcenne sought to help, but the tide of sorcery took me so swiftly he could not do much but force me to drink sweetened chai afterward, his mouth drawn tight as the heat of the drink and the sound of his voice brought me back to myself.
Yet that was not the worst of it. Each night I dreamed of Lisele, in many ugly, broken, bloody guises, and I woke in the darkness hoping I had not screamed. I was grateful to discover none of the Guard said aught of it.
Perhaps some few of them had their own nightmares.
Tristan did not speak much. Nor did I, but oft I would feel the tingling in my fingers and toes as he repeated one charm or another to draw some warmth into me. It was a small bit of Court sorcery, and he gave without comment as I accepted without question. It helped me to stay awake, to push back the swirling double weakness of fever and the Aryx’s persistent throbbing against my skin.
Ten days into the forest I felt even stranger, as if we rode under a weight of clear heavy water. The forest shifted and blurred like ink on wet paper. When we stopped for our nooning the tenth day beside a small stream swollen with the recent rain, I had barely enough strength to fall into Tristan’s hands from the horse’s back.
He felt at my damp forehead, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with rain. He had put his hat aside for some reason. “You are fevered again.”
“I am not.” My immediate refusal did not seem to convince him. I could not afford him to think me weak. “Only weary.”
The Captain was haggard, bladed cheekbones standing out over hollows, dark circles under his blue eyes. For all that, it still made my chest tighten when he stroked my cheek with callused fingers and pushed a stray curl of my dark hair back, tucking it behind my ear.
I must look a sight. This was what worried me, there in the Shirlstrienne. “I have not combed my hair, though.”
Perhaps I was not quite my usual self.
“Nor have I.” A brief smile lighted his entire face. “Come. We shall halt here.”
“No, I can go on—,” I protested. But his hand closed around my arm, and he all but dragged me to the center of a loose circle of the Guard, clustered under the shelter of a pinon tree in full leaf. It kept the rain off, though silvery beads gilded its drooping needles.
“We shall halt here,” he repeated, and there was no argument. Adersahl brought me his waterflask, freshly filled from the stream, and I took a grateful drink, though twas icy enough to sent a bolt of silver pain through my skull. My entire body itched miserably.
I handed
Adersahl’s flask back to him and watched as they built a fire. Pilippe di Garfour stretched forth his hand and made a quick gesture, flicking his fingers, and the wood ignited, flames billowing. The wood, being wet, smoked dreadfully.
I leaned against the pinon’s massive trunk, resting my head against rough bark, watching. The presence of living wood helped, sinking into me as the tree recognized a hedgewitch and drew me into its embrace. It also helped quiet the persistent beat of the Aryx, a spot of molten heat under my shirt.
Jierre studied a waxed-parchment map near the edge of the tree’s branches, holding it to the light. Luc di Chatillon and Robierre d’Atyaint-Sierre stood with him, their heads bent together. Robierre had a head for woodscraft; he was often consulted about whither and yon in the forest’s trackless shadows. Tristan joined them, looking over Jierre’s shoulder.
“D’mselle?” Tinan di Rocham handed me the same battered metal travel cup, with steaming-hot chai in it. “Here. Drink, an it please you.”
“Thank you, chivalier.” I gave him a weary smile. After so many days, we were easier with each other, though I could not cease noting each man’s particulars in case I should be called upon to use them later.
I cursed myself for it, though I knew it was my only protection. A woman cannot afford to let her guard relax.
Tinan blushed to the roots of his dark hair and mumbled. I was glad we were not at Court, for all that. I would have been teased endlessly about the young, blushing chivalier. As it was, I took care to treat him kindly. Of all the Guard, he was the most careful of me — and the most potentially useful.
I sought to make use of him a little, now. “Why is everyone so grim? Besides the rain, I mean.”
He hesitated, but I had judged my quarry well. “We are being tracked,” Tinan said, in a low tone. “By who, we cannot tell, but tis sorcery, Robierre says. The Captain agrees.”
This caused a cascade of unpleasant thoughts, and I spoke unguarded, for once. “But why did not the Captain—”
“You have worries enough.” Tristan spoke from close enough to cause me to start. I had not even noticed him approaching; he was catfooted even in heavy boots when it suited him. Tinan nodded to me and retreated. “I did not wish your worrying on account of a pack of peasant trash.”
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