I remember little of the actual vows, except that they were — it gave me a shock to hear — the old pledges, longer and more archaic in their phrasing, as well as more violent in their content. No yearlong liaison, but a permanent Consort contract.
This meant I could divorce myself of him with traditional ease simply by returning the marriage band, but he was not free to do the same unless I repudiated him in a Temple and he took a year-vow of seclusion.
Such things are not done nowadays. At least, not often.
Tristan had produced the copper marriage bands while we signed the papers. They glittered in the temple’s smoky light. He spoke his “So I will” in a clear firm voice, and I as well, though my hand shook and my heart did its best to free itself of my chest and go merrily running toward the woods.
The priestess, her fingers quick and deft, wrapped the cord around my wrist, around his, tied the complex knot. “Bound in the sight of the gods, let nothing separate your hearts now. One in thought, one in word, one in deed; be honorable, honor each other and the gods will smile upon you.” Her clear gray gaze searched first my face, then Tristan’s. The Aryx glittered, power sparking from the serpent curves, its gemmed eyes winking as the metal writhed, tiny scales rasping cat-tongue at my dress. “By my hand and my vows, I pronounce you wed from this moment. Go forth happily, and may peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” I answered, Tristan’s voice matching mine. It was strange to hear us speak in unison.
The priestess’s fingers flicked again, freeing us. She took the cord to Jiserah’s altar, up three steps. A copper brazier fumed there; she tossed the cord onto the coals. There was a brief burst of perfumed smoke, and Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort, in the eyes of the gods and the law.
My knees threatened to give. Tristan steadied me. “There,” he said quietly. “Was that so horrible?”
I bit back another shaky, relieved laugh. “I seem to be a coward.” My fingers tightened in his. “Tristan, she spoke the old vows. I—”
“I wished it so. There are those who would say that I forced you into a contract to secure a hold on power. There are those who would—”
“I would not believe them,” I interrupted.
He seemed almost to wince. “Then I am content. Gods grant me the strength to honor your trust from this moment.” He glanced up, his forehead furrowed. “Where did she go?”
“I should beg your pardon,” a woman’s voice came from behind us, echoing down the columned hall. “I am late, I know, but there was a fevered sister, and I had to wait until someone could relieve me.”
We turned to find a priestess of Jiserah hurrying down the central aisle, her green and white robes glimmering in the dim light. “I am Danae,” she said, her round cheeks scarlet as she puffed. “D’mselle, chivalier, pardon me, and if you will just give me a moment, we shall have the ceremony.”
“We already did. The priestess of Kimyan—” Then I realized the priestess had not given us her name. “The gray-eyed one. She was at the altar but a moment ago.”
Danae stopped short, her robes shushing. She had a round, pleasant face, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. “Your pardon, d’mselle. But we have no priestesses of Kimyan here. We have not for two years. There are two priests for the Huntress — Shoyo and Dijirich — but they do not perform weddings. We have none of Torvar’s Elect either.”
“Then who—” I turned to gaze at the statue of Jiserah.
As I did, the Aryx sparked again, the serpents moving. The priestess gasped and fell to her knees, her face open and transported. Blazing, shocking in the dark torchlit gloom, the statue of Jiserah pulsed with light.
I did not kneel — my knees were now locked. The Aryx filled me, a rushing tide of melody prickling at my skin, as if I were a fruit bursting at the point of ripeness, light and song and power straining at the borders of my consciousness. The doors inside my head trembled on the verge of opening, I sought to look away, to deny the power rising in me.
No. Not now. Leave me in peace.
Tristan’s arm fell from my shoulders. He sank to one knee, his face upturned. I knew this even though I dared not look, the light filling my vision. The statue glowed, scorched, sizzled, white marble running with life. Iron bands seized my skill, the brightness threatening me with the half-head — strong light is dangerous, it can trigger the pain swiftly.
As quickly as it had happened, though, it was gone. Welcome dimness returned to my dazzled vision, and the Aryx’s melody quickly faded, draining away. I sighed and sagged, reached blindly for my Captain’s shoulder. What was that?
“Tristan?” My voice was a pale shadow.
He rose slowly, his face tilted up to the statue of Jiserah, now mute and dark, only torchglow running over the marble. “Vianne.” Hoarse and pale, drawn and sweating, he seemed awakened from a dream. Or a nightmare. “Do you doubt yourself, even now?”
I found I did not know how to answer.
“I…I am sorry. Your Majesty.” The priestess rose behind us, I could hear her robes moving, cloth against cloth. “I think…” But she did not say what she thought, and I did not care to guess. “I did not know. Forgive me. I did not know you were—”
Oh, gods. This is the last straw the cart-horse can bear. “Not a word of this. I shall have your silence, m’dama priestess.” I forced myself to turn away from the statue, chills roughening my skin into gooseflesh. “An it please you.”
She was pale, her apple-cheeks now flour-white. And the way she gazed upon me was uncomfortable, for it was the same face I suspected she turned on the statue of her goddess during prayers. “But — but the goddess — that is a blessing, and you are the holder of—”
“No. Not a word. Your oath, m’dama.” My tone took on an unwontedly hard edge. “Swear by your goddess, not a word of this.”
She swore, finally, in a trembling voice, her gaze fixed on the Aryx, still shifting lazily against my chest. Tristan said nothing until she was finished.
“Do we ask for another wedding, then?” He took my hand. But his own fingers shook. However irreligious one may be in the whirl and glitter of Court, when the Blessed speak, tis wise to listen.
I did not know what this sudden light and strangeness meant. Later I would speak privately with this priestess, and discover what I could. For now, I simply wished to escape, backing away from the sense that a stricture had been laid on me, or that the gods had bent their gaze to earth and suddenly noticed the Seal they had gifted to Arquitaine was alive and in new hands.
Which brought me to the question of whether the gods had been paying attention to the King, his brother, and the tax farmers. And the bandit villages in the Shirlstrienne. And—
But my attention was called in a different direction. I rallied. “I suppose so. Though I might faint, if tis anything like the first.” Might? No. If that happens again, if the Aryx seeks to take charge of me again…but Tristan is here. Nothing can harm me if he is here.
Such faith I had in him.
“Twice-vowed, bound all the more surely.” Very quietly. “To be certain, Vianne.”
I eyed the priestess of Jiserah, who was still chalk-pale. “You do not intend to disappear as soon as the ceremony is over, do you?” I sought for levity. After the fantastical, laughter serves to smooth the fabric of life.
She shook her head, gravely. Her hood fell back, her gray-threaded hair lying sleek-braided. “No, Your Majesty. I am merely a priestess, and an uncertain one at that. The gods have pronounced their will; I can only follow.”
“Wise of you.” Tristan mercifully did not sound as sarcastic as I suspected he wished to. “Let us continue, then, before I lose my courage.”
The second ceremony was a little easier than the first. The priestess stumbled over some of the words, her eyes round as she watched the Aryx’s slow shifting. When she tossed the silk cord onto the brazier, the same puff of perfumed smoke burst free. I waited, nervous, but the priestess came down the steps, tur
ning back to the statue of Jiserah to genuflect quietly, murmuring an old prayer and pulling her hood up to cover her hair.
It was a relief when it was finally over. We thanked her, and Tristan let out a long, jagged breath. “Shall we leave, m’chri?”
“Before aught else happens? Absolutely.” My voice was high and nervous now. I could not seem to take my accustomed tone. “There is a reason why I never went to Temple. Gods have a way of disarranging one.” It was something Comtesse Rochburre might have said. “I have no desire to tarry.”
I half-expected one of the statues to take me to task, but we escaped the Temple without mishap. Standing on the white stone steps, night gathering close, yet another shock awaited me. For when I raised my hand to greet the assembled people, I heard a cheer that fair threatened to shake the Temple off the mountainside.
The townspeople of Arcenne had gathered, drawn perhaps by the procession of armed nobles. Torches flared. The Aryx responded, shaking the air with a welter of melody. I waved, thinking of Lisele’s Coming-of-Age and the crowds in the Citté d’Arquitaine, and the way their cries had blown the snapping silken banners away from the wind.
I had never thought to hear such a baying for me.
I have tied myself to this course even more securely. I glanced up at Tristan. He nodded, his blue eyes dark and thoughtful, spared me a smile that warmed me all the way down to my chilled bones. But he looked strained, and worried. Nothing will ever be right again. Lisele is truly dead, and I am Queen of Arquitaine. Queen without a throne, with a murderous half-uncle nipping at my heels.
I smiled, waving, and arranged my face so the sudden fear would not show. I had practice, after all — I merely wore my accustomed Court mask, and even though I had not had cause to do so for months, it still felt familiar. Not natural, but not strange either.
Tristan helped me to mount the white palfrey, who stood obediently flicking her tail. I lifted a hand as I had often seen the King do. The cheering was immense, I was newly wed, the Aryx was singing — but the weight of responsibility settled on me, grinding into my shoulders more heavily than duty had ever weighed. I did not have time to stop to wonder if the light from a god’s statue was a blessing, a warning, or merely a symptom of the Aryx’s wakefulness.
If I had wondered, I might have felt even more afraid.
The Queen
Chapter Thirty-Two
I was glad to escape the usual wedding festivities; the ribald jests during supper, the escorting of the Consort to the lady’s chamber, the shouting of highly improper jokes, the showing of the linens. Instead, there was a small, quiet sup with Tristan’s parents in the Baron’s study, papers to be looked over — dispatches from several provinces, information and declarations, my head hurt to think of it all. The Baron and Baroness drafting a proclamation—whereas the Duc d’Orlaans in violation of all holy and common law murdered his brother, etc., the Aryx has chosen a new bearer, etc., Queen Vianne di Tirician-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, formerly Duchesse Vianne di Rochacheil et Vintmorecy, escaped the Duc by the grace of the gods, so on, so forth, dear gods, has taken Tristan d’Arcenne as legal Consort, loyalty, all subjects loyal to the Crown freed from the burden of taxes to d’Orlaans’s administration, so on, so forth, all aid and succor denied to d’Orlaans or his lieutenant, Garonne di Narborre.
I would much rather have been composing Tiberian quatrains until a half-head struck me. And given the agony of the half-head, that rather says something.
I ate slowly, without much appetite, and drank enough straw-yellow wine to make the world spin slightly when Tristan finally rose to his feet and offered me his hand. “Vianne?”
I nodded; he steadied me as I gained my feet. I wore the slippers he had brought me, and Tristan himself had taken off his boots before supper. His own slippers were leather-soled, impervious to the stone.
“Do not worry,” the Baroness said, patting my other hand. “Tomorrow will be easier, dear. I promise.”
“I certainly pray so,” I answered, my tongue strangely dull in my mouth. “I doubt I could stand another day like today.”
“Wedded life is a trial, child.” The Baroness’s eyes all but sparkled. “Gods know how I have survived it.”
The Baron made a slight sound, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Do not frighten her, Sílvie. Tomorrow is soon enough for everything else. And may I say, Your Majesty, that I feared the worst before meeting you. I am far more sanguine about the future of Arquitaine than I have been since news of King Henri’s untimely passing reached me.”
I felt only weary surprise, and a great longing to settle my face against a pillow. “My thanks for the compliment, sieur.” I was too weary to even think of making a courtesy, though I was sore tempted to give him a subtly cut-rate one. “If I manage to live up to your standards, I shall be none the worse for it.”
That earned me a very startled, very blue glance from the Baron, who set his pen back in his inkwell. The Baroness laid her hand on his shoulder. She wore dark green velvet, her fair skin contrasting with the rich material in the mellow lamplight. Together, they were a beautiful painting — and the way her lips pursed told me she could barely contain merriment at my ill-tempered sally.
Tristan drew me out into the hall. “Well.” He nodded to the guards, who both saluted him. “Tis the first time I have ever seen my father struck speechless.”
“I do not wi—,” I began, but he waved it away.
“No need, m’chri. He has ever been hard to please. When not well-nigh impossible.” Tristan walked slowly enough that I was not breathlessly trotting beside him, and we threaded through corridors that did not feel familiar.
I shrugged, searching for something to say. My heart had taken to pounding again. I found a subject not likely to lead us into war or treachery, with a sigh of relief. “Among the R’mini, there would be music, and dancing, and drinking rhuma — but none for the Consort, he stays sober. Sometime during the dancing, the wedded pair would slip away, and pass their honey-night in a wagon, or under the stars.”
Oh, dear. Perhaps this is not such a safe subject after all. My nerves were most definitely not steady enough for this.
Tristan’s smile took me unawares. “You sound different when you speak of them, Vianne.” He glanced down at my hand caught in his. I could not remember how we came to be walking, our fingers linked as if we courted. “Almost, dare I say it, happy.”
An unfamiliar smile teased at my own mouth. “They were kind enough, and brave to a fault. If the Aryx were to go elsewhere, I think I might travel with them, would they have me.”
“Why?” We reached the door of his chamber while I was still mulling the question. I halted, seeing no guards, and Tristan stopped too.
Could I explain? I thought on the question. “Because they did not want me to be other than I was. To them, I was V’na di R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan. That was enough. A poor R’mini hedgewitch…and yet twas better than Court, where every smile was a lie and every glance a danger.” Intrigue under every skirt, every glance a potential trap, and my Princesse to keep safe at all costs. Poor Lisele, she did try…but she could not see the venom under a honeyed word. The sweetness would blind her.
He cupped my face in his callused hands. He seemed to be…trembling? Tristan d’Arcenne, the Captain of the Guard, shaking?
Twas a day for miracles at every turn.
He gazed down at me for a long moment, his jaw tight and his expression odd. “I would free you, Vianne. Or follow, wherever you led.”
I bit my lip. Would you? Or is this merely another way to serve the King, and a softer service than others you have been called upon for? “Why?”
The question took him aback. He examined my face, his fingers warm against my cheeks. The trembling would not cease, it seemed. He stroked my jawline with his thumb. “Do you not know, even now? I am an utter fool for you, Your Majesty. I would give up my honor for you, and count the cost small.”
I must tell hi
m. My breath would not come smoothly. It seemed I could not fill my lungs. “I have never done this before, Tristan.” I tried to speak firmly, but what came out was a frightened whisper.
Did that ease him? Or had his shaking infected me, so I could not feel his? “I know,” he answered softly. “Or at least, I guessed. Else I might have had to fight a duel or two more, at Court. You noticed none of your admirers, m’chri, saving them from untimely doom. Wise of you, no?” He spoke lightly, but with a serious face. It won a shaky laugh from me. If he had taken any other tone, it might have made me weep. But instead, he kissed my forehead gently. “Come. A few more steps, tis all.”
It was kind of him, to speak of other admirers. Still, there had been none — or none I could risk granting a glance to, since the danger of them seeking to compromise me for some dark reason involving Lisele’s position had been too great for me to indulge myself.
I have a duty too, Tristan. Perhaps we are locked into a pair of duties, like two cart wheels, and we shall never truly touch. I let him lead me into his chambers. He locked the door behind us. I stood just inside the door, my arms crossed, cupping my elbows in my palms. My nervousness demanded I speak further. “Truly. I have never done this before. I never found a man I would share myself with before, or a man who would not seek to use me.”
He flinched, and I wondered at that. But his voice was steady and calm. “I would not hurt you, Vianne. Or frighten you.”
The only light was from the fire and two candles, a low glow that was kind to his sharp face. “I am not frightened.” I merely do not wish to fail at this. I can turn aside a man’s interest with a pretty word and play the game of courtsongs, but this is something different.
This is something more, for all I suspect you of serving a dead King with it.
He approached me cautiously, folded me in his arms, rested his chin atop my head. “Shhh, m’chri,” he whispered, soothing. “I would not touch you until you are ready. I do not wish your fear of me.”
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