He returned to a thorough examination of my face. I heard boots in the passage outside, low voices. Is Arcenne disloyal? If he is the Duc’s man I shall throw myself from this window-couvre rather than be taken captive, Seal or no.
The old Vianne would hardly have thought such a thing — and would not have been determined to do it, either.
His face changed. I could not call the transformation an easing, but neither could I call it cruelty. “How did you come to be here, child, dressed as tinkerfolk? Sit down, have a glass of wine, and tell me. Are you hungry? Perhaps you are.” He stalked for the door, opened it, and exchanged a few words with whoever stood outside. I sagged in relief. Possibly premature — who knew where his loyalties lay? — but I could do nothing more. I was in the hands of the Blessed, just as much as I had been among the R’mini.
In short order I was esconced in one of the leather ease-chairs by the fireplace, sinking into warmth and softness. Wine was brought, and flatbread, cheese, and fruit. The Baron settled himself in the other chair, his blue eyes steady. “Now tell me your tale. Leave nothing aside.”
I began with the passage, Tristan and the Minister Primus, the King asking my silence, then the conspiracy’s frantic unleashing. I told of Lisele’s death, and my hiding in the North Tower. I told of finding Tristan in the donjons and setting him free, and of our flight to the Shirlstrienne, the assassin in the inn, and finally Adrien di Cinfiliet’s bandits. I told of the attack on the village, how I found myself alone among the corpses, and of striking out into the woods and the great luck of finding a R’mini goatherd boy. More boots echoed in the hall outside, and I glanced toward the door, nervous, and continued my tale, with a brief account of traveling among the R’mini.
I spared myself nothing. I freely admitted how stupid I had been at all stages, how useless I had been to the Guard, how dangerous to the bandit village, and how weak I had been not to bury the dead bodies.
It bothered me, to have left them for carrion.
“And so, the R’mini brought me here,” I finished lamely. “As you see.”
He nodded, his fingers steepled in front of his face. I was hungry — the smell of the bread taunted me — yet I made no move to take any crumb. I sat bolt upright in the chair as if at a Court lévee, forgetting my clothes and how I must have reeked of horse, woodsmoke, and tinker.
The Baron opened his mouth to reply, but there was a thundering at the door. I started, my eyes round. The Baron gained his feet with more speed than I would have thought possible for an old, stiff man. He looked so like Tristan, his sword drawn and his eyes full of fire.
My heart gave a shattering leap.
The door flung itself open. I stayed frozen to the chair, craning my neck to see what new shock lay in wait. The Baron let out a curse I had heard the Guards use, one unfit for a lady’s ears, and my entire body was ice.
Tristan d’Arcenne shoved a Citadel Guard aside and stalked into the room, in breeches, bare feet, and an untucked shirt. He spared not a glance for his father’s drawn sword, but strode squarely across the Torkaic rug, skirted the table of untouched food, and descended upon me. He grabbed my shoulders, hauled me out of the chair, shook me twice, then crushed me to his chest, his swordhilt digging into my side. “Gods damn me for a fool,” he said. And, “Vianne, Vianne…gods…” Interspersed with this were most improper oaths in a ragged voice that did not sound like Tristan at all.
Tristan’s father sheathed his sword, watching this with no discernable expression. “I see you’ve forgotten your manners, m’fils.”
Tristan glanced at his father. “When did she arrive? How did she arrive?”
“Ask her. She has a very pretty tale, Tristan, and seems truthful enough. Even if she is a fool to come here and tell me half of it.” The Baron folded his arms and examined his son. “She could not have known if I was still loyal.”
I would have given a guilty start if Tristan had not been holding me too tightly to permit any movement. I breathed him in, staring witlessly.
I was beginning to believe he was alive.
“T-t-t—” My teeth chattered over his name.
Tristan let loose of me for only long enough to shake me again, print a bruising kiss on my forehead, and hug me even more fiercely. “I thought you dead and the Aryx lost. I thought you dead, Vianne, curse me for a fool—”
“Well,” the Baron said. “I shall leave you two to greet each other. Your Majesty, we shall speak at greater length tomorrow, an it please you. Arcenne is yours to do with as you will.” He bowed stiffly, and I thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his sharp blue eyes.
I managed to stammer out something courteous, difficult to do with Tristan still crushing me. The Baron quit the room, shutting the door quietly, and his son held me at arm’s length, examining every inch of my dishevelment. He looked haggard, unshaven, and I saw the beginnings of lines around his eyes. I saw a streak of gray over his right temple that had not been there before.
“You look awful.” Twas hardly the thing to say, but it escaped me before I could measure the words for their fitness.
He grinned, his eyes lighting, and there was the Tristan I knew. “And you are lovely, Vianne. Even in this costume. How did this come to be? How did you survive? Tell me all, tell me everything.”
I swayed on my feet, his grasp the only thing keeping me standing. Something occurred to me. “Adersahl!” I cursed myself for not asking sooner. “Where is he? Tell me he is hale.”
Tristan nodded. “Hale enough. Sunk in his cups most nights, cursing himself for losing you. Twill be a relief to have him cease.”
I nodded. Good. If he was alive, some part of this tangle could be mended. “And di Cinfiliet? Is he well?”
“He is well enough.” Tristan’s expression changed, harshness settling into his features. Twas not sadness, but I was so relieved to have him before me I did not care to examine precisely what it was. “We found no survivors.”
“I did not see Risaine’s…” I could not stop watching his face, touching it with my eyes. I freed one hand and tested his cheek with my fingertips, to prove to myself he was in front of me and real. “Gods.” I shuddered. “I did not see her, among the…” I could not bring myself to say it again.
“Some of the women were taken, killed as soon as di Narborre found they were not you.” He pressed his cheek into my touch. “Not now, tomorrow’s soon enough. Tell me, where were you, what did you do?”
My knees very nearly gave out on me, and my hand fell back to my side. “I long to tell you. I also wish most heartily for a bath and a real bed. I’ve been traveling a-wagon for two months.”
“We can find you a chamber,” he started, but I shook my head. Took my courage in both hands, so to speak, and tossed my dice.
“No. I want…I wish to stay with you.”
My courage abruptly failed, and I dropped my gaze. It was not what a lady should say. One could hint, certainly, or delicately insinuate, but not baldly state. Still, I had asked him to be my Consort, and he had accepted, nevermind there were no proper proclamations published or copper marriage rings exchanged. I found I cared less for propriety than for the knowledge that he was safe and breathing.
Silence. Tristan let loose of my shoulders. I swayed again. His hand cupped my chin, forced my gaze to meet his.
He looked thoughful, a slight smile tilting the corners of his mouth. The fire popped and crackled, shadows easing the worst of the ravages of care marking him.
“Of course,” he said softly. “I…yes. Come with me, m’chri.”
He half-turned, holding my elbow, meaning to lead me to the door, but I stopped him by catching at his shirt with my free hand. “Tristan?”
I did not even know what I wished to say, but he looked down at me with a mixture of amusement and concentration I had not seen in him before. “If you ask me news of any other man, Vianne, I might take it ill.” Yet his tone was light enough.
I shook my head, biting my lip. The world se
emed very dim, and very far away. “No. I simply wished to…” What? What do I wish? I want you to speak to me, to take away this fear, and prove to me that you are real and I am not dreaming.
Though I was fairly certain I was not sleeping. There was no blood on my hands, and I did not feel a nightmare stalking me. I feared to close my eyes lest he vanish, and all thought of intrigue had fled me. Even the thought of saving him from himself had disappeared in the great sharp swell of relief.
He shook his head, as if shaking away an unpleasant thought. “Time enough later. Come with me.”
Once again I was towed in his wake, letting him do as he wished. No more decision was required of me, and for that I was secretly, shamefully, completely grateful.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tristan led me through the stone halls of the Citadel, sometimes passing guards who saluted him and eyed me curiously. The corridors were narrow: glowstone lamps hung from iron holders at even intervals, tapestries of past battles and the Arcenne family crest hung neatly to make the stone a little less harsh. I stumbled with fatigue by the time he pushed open a door and led me into a suite of dark blue and green: a sitting room with ancient weapons hung on the walls, a tapestry of yet another battle hung behind a long low padded bench. Elsewhere a rack of practice weapons, a stand holding a suit of armor, and two bookcases filled the room. He did not pause to let me look at this, and truth be told, I did not care. A great swimming relief had come over me, so deep I could barely put one foot in front of the other. This was a pleasant dream I would wake from to find myself still in the burning village — or in the wagons of the R’mini. I only wished for it to last as long as possible before I was forced to endure more unpleasantness.
He led me into the bedroom off the sitting room, also done in blue and green, a banked fire warming the air deliciously. “The bed is in a sorry state, I am afraid. I have not slept well these past weeks.” He paused, looking down at me.
Nor have I. “Do you have…” I blushed, my cheeks hot as the fire. “Do you have a shirt, perhaps, or a shift I may sleep in?”
He left me standing on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was a large clothespress on one wall; he opened it and extracted a neatly folded sleeping shirt. “Here.” He pressed it into my hands and pushed me gently toward the watercloset. “Go. I will wait.”
I found myself in the watercloset, the door locked, a real privy and — oh, luxury of luxuries — a sunken bathtub. The tiles were clean, fresh drycloths sat folded on a rack. A glowing mirror showed me a dark-haired Arquitaine woman, utterly ridiculous in her R’mini braids. But my cheeks were flushed and my eyes glowed despite the circles under them. Tomorrow I shall take a bath. Relief burst hot and sharp inside my chest. Tristan’s alive, and tomorrow I shall take a bath.
There seemed nothing more to want in the world.
When I finally emerged, in a sleeping shirt that reached below my knees, my hair free of its braids, I made it only halfway to the bed, carrying a neat stack of my R’mini clothes. Tristan appeared from the sitting room and took the pile of cloth from me. “I suppose even the hedgewitch tinkers were charmed by you, Vianne.” He set the clothes aside on a chair, and it hurt me to see their threadbare state.
I looked longingly at the bed. Then I set myself to reassure him, if I could. “They were kind enough. They did not have to take me through the Shirlstrienne. They could have left me to starve.”
“Then I owe them a great favour.” He took my elbow and led me to the bed. A real bed, with crisp white linens and actual pillows, though twas thrashed a bit. I sank down gratefully. He pulled the covers over me and drew another chair I had not noticed to the bedside. “I shall keep watch. Sleep.”
“I did not mean to push you out of your own bed.” Or was I thinking I should sleep on a stone floor? Though I am tired enough not to mind. Too tired to care about gossip. He is alive, and here with me.
He shook his head, stripping his dark hair back. My eyes snagged on the patch of paleness at his temple. Had he worried himself into gray hair?
“Go to sleep, m’chri. I wish to watch over your dreaming.”
“Did I wake you?” My eyes drifted closed. He is alive. I am not imagining him. “Where were you? Where did you go?”
“Tomorrow, m’chri.” He said it gently, then leaned forward, took my hand in both of his. He touched my palm, held my wrist gently as a spun-glass figurine. My hand was lost in his. “I thought you dead, Vianne. Every day that passed killed me afresh.” His voice broke.
Where was the stern Captain, the one I feared? Somewhere in the Alpeis, perhaps, I had lost him. And gained instead this man, who called me “beloved” and worried for me. “Tis all well,” I said dreamily. “You are alive. Everything is better now.”
He kissed my knuckles, stubble rasping against my skin. “I feared you dead or taken. Everything, all for naught. I thought…”
“I feared for you as well,” I whispered in return. “I did not know if you still lived. It frightened me.”
“I will not leave you again.” His lips moved against my knuckles. Instead of heat, the touch filled me with quiet comfort. “I swear it, Vianne.”
For that moment, it was enough. He said no more, and nor did I. And again, there were no nightmares.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I woke slowly, in unaccustomed comfort. Curled on my side, hugging a pillow, I blinked at the fall of afternoon sunlight. Had I slept through the morn’s work? The wagons were not moving, and the world eerily hushed. Was there something amiss? Had an axle broken, or someone fallen so ill we could not travel?
I sat, of a sudden, clutching the blankets to my chest, and let out pent breath as I realized where I was. My heart, spurred into terrified pounding, eased slightly. I pushed my hair back from my face and sighed.
I was in Arcenne. I had done what I had set myself to do.
The Seal rumbled uneasily against my chest. I saw with no real surprise the serpents twisting against each other, straining, the copper serpent on top, now the silver. “Quiet.” I reached up with a trembling hand to stroke the medallion. It stilled, though still thrumming nervously, soothed like a restive horse.
Tristan was not in the bedroom. The chair was still by the bed, but pushed back, as if he had leapt to his feet.
I stretched, felt the sharp familiar bite of hunger under my ribs. Braced myself on my hands, luxuriating in the clean warmth of the bed, and tasted morning in my mouth, grimacing. My heart fair threatened to burst with joy.
I had reached Arcenne. I had accomplished what Lisele had asked of me. And Tristan was alive.
I slid free of the bed and padded barefoot to the window, stretching afresh with rare contentment. For at least this moment, I could rest.
From the casement I could look down into the middle of the Citadel: a white stone practice-ground to one side, a garden unrolling its lovely green to the other. I tugged on the lock and finally managed to open the window, breathing in mountain air still crisp with morning coolness — summer never truly overwhelmed Arcenne, I later learned. The heat and dust and close stifling air of the Palais and Citté did not reach here to the mountains.
“By the Blessed,” I said wonderingly. “I survived.”
I spent some time at the window, enjoying the view and free of any pressing need to set my hands to work, before I felt the temperature of the room change slightly. I half-turned to see Tristan, fully dressed and armed but hatless, in the door. He wore a plain dark doublet instead of the uniform of a Citadel Guard, but the tilt of his chin and the signet ring glittering on his left hand made it plain he was a nobleman, accustomed to command. His hair was still shorter than was fashionable for a chivalier’s. He had a fall of some dark mellifluous material over one arm, and he stared at me, his mouth a thin line and his eyes burning.
Have I done something wrong? I stepped hurriedly from the window. “Tris — ah, Captain. Good morn. I beg your pardon — I slept so late.”
He shook his hea
d, abruptly, as if shaking away unpleasantness. I was suddenly acutely aware I wore only a sleeping shirt, and nothing else. I blushed from my toes to the crown of my scalp, a wave of heat rising through me.
“You were exhausted, Vianne. I expected you to sleep later, in fact.” He still stared outright, in a most improper way.
I shifted from foot to foot. “I suppose I should bathe.” Then I realized I had no clothes, save for the ones the R’mini had gifted me.
Idiot, Vianne. Have the shocks robbed you of all sense?
However, that seemed to bring him back to earth. “Oh.” He held up his arms. “We…ah, well. This is for you. Pére remarked you seem much my mother’s size, and she sent this dress and has called for her dressmaker to appear tomorrow. She’s looking forward to meeting you, especially since you’re a scholar of Tiberia.”
“Oh, gods,” I groaned. “Tristan, no. Not Tiberian verbs.” I doubt I could remember any past the first declension by now.
“Ease yourself, m’chri.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “A few moments, nothing more, since you’re weary from your journey and no doubt a bit stunned. Mére is very easy, you shall see. And my father would speak to you at length. We have plans to make.”
My shoulders slumped. I glanced back at the window, wondering if the R’mini had escaped the town and were already on the open road. I devoutly hoped so. I approached the pile of threadbare, brightly colored cloth he’d left on a chair. “Did the R’mini leave this morning?” They will not suffer, will they?
“Not a single one to be found in the city. Tis passing odd.”
Not so odd. Merely another thing to be grateful for. Perhaps they would escape the ill luck that dogged me.
I dug in the pile of clothing, finding my pocket and pulling out Jaryana’s gift.
Twas a small, flat medallion, gilt paint scored with a few peculiar angular signs. I examined it and the threadbare velvet ribbon it was tied to, and then felt at the pocket again.
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