The Hedgewitch Queen

d’mselle.”

I was all too ready to leave. But he did not turn to lead me out through the gate. Instead he drew his sword and dropped to his knees, offering me the hilt.

“You have saved my life.” His ruined face lifted to mine. “I owe you my service, d’mselle. I give you my oath.”

I almost choked. At any other time it might have been a pretty picture, and very romantic, even if terribly embarrassing. But this moment I was tired and hungry, and the entire world had gone spinning merrily off its course. And Tristan d’Arcenne, Captain of the King’s Guard, was acting like the hero of a silly courtsong.

“For the sake of all the gods,” I hissed, “get up and let us go!”

Something dark crossed his marred face, but he stayed where he knelt. “Accept my oath. Please?”

I touched the hilt of his bare sword with two fingers. “Very well, then, I-accept-your-oath- chivalier-now-may-we-please-flee? They shall catch us, and if they do they shall kill us both.”

He rose to his feet in one motion and sheathed his sword, his eyes — eye — gleaming balefully. “They shall try to kill me, but they will seek to take you alive.”

“Why?” I still held the ring of keys, hastily offered them to him. He pushed them into a pouch depending from his belt, gazing so steadily over my shoulder I expected to hear someone behind me, and I sidled nervously.

His hand twitched, but he brought it back to his side. “Because your father was an illegitimate son of King Taristide.” Slowly and softly, as if talking to an idiot. “The King is—was—your half-uncle, and so is the Duc. You are the last person alive who can challenge his hold to the throne since the Princesse is dead. But he will not kill you; he will marry you, and found his new dynasty.”

For perhaps the hundredth time that day, my jaw dropped. I stared at the Captain, stunned and speechless, and he took my hand and started not out the half-open gate, but deeper into the donjons.

Marry the Duc? “But I do not wish to marry him,” I finally managed, stupidly. “And where are we—”

“There is a passage that will take us from the Palais, and I will take us from the Citte as quickly as possible. It does not matter if you wish to marry him, Vianne. If it is a choice between marriage or death, I would counsel you to marry and live. There is no princesse of marriageable age from any other country, and any other noble domestic House will become dangerous if a daughter of theirs marries a King who attained the throne with bloodshed. Bloodshed does remove a king so throned.” He made no attempt to shorten his stride; I had to run to keep pace, my bag bouncing against my hip. “Perhaps the Duc thinks you are stupid and tractable. Though I cannot see how he can reach that conclusion.” He glanced down at me and slowed abruptly. “Your pardon, Duchesse. I do not mean to run you to death.”

“Tis no matter.” My voice sounded choked and thin, small in the gloom. There must be other royal bastards, plenty of them female and more suited than I. Why would the Duc want me?

We passed out of the reach of the torches, the ground sloping down and becoming rocky. I wondered if there were other prisoners locked down here and shuddered. Perhaps a moldering body or two — I did not think the King had ever ordered anyone held in the Palais donjon.

No, he had them sent to the Bastillion before execution. The Duc, perhaps, wanted Tristan kept close at hand. But why? Something to do with the conspiracy, no doubt.

“What do you have in your bag, Duchesse?” Tristan asked in the darkness. I stumbled but he righted me, and we continued to descend. I was now wholly at his mercy, in the dark and confused.

“F-fruit. I took it from Lady Arioste’s rooms. And a d-d-ress, the one I wear now. I brought a comb, and a sewing kit, and some stockings…I could not bring anything useful, it seems. I wish I had thought.”

“You did well.” He slowed even further. I sensed him feeling along the wall with his other hand, but his fingers were warm in mine. I realized his hand was bruised, and he held mine so tightly it must have hurt, but he made no mention of it. “I would not have thought to bring a bag of apples. It was probably the only food you could find. No water, though — you must be thirsty.”

His words reminded me, and of a sudden I was parched. “A little.”

“Tis been rather a trying day for you.” It struck me that he spoke not out of need, but because he sensed my panic and sought to soothe me. Ridiculous. I was worse than useless to him now, and well I knew it.

Go to Arcenne. Loyal…Lisele’s tortured voice echoed in my ears. “Lisele told me to go to Arcenne. She said you were loyal; she said to go to the mountains.”

“Eventually we shall.” He sounded grimly pleased. “First we must escape the Palais, and then the Citte, and learn if any of my Guard have survived. Then we traverse league upon league of hostile territory until we reach Arcenne. There the mountains will protect us. The difficult part is reaching safety and surviving the winter. Then we can set our thoughts to war in the spring.”

“War?” I let out an undignified, thready squeak of alarm. He paused, made a quick movement, and there was a rusty screeching sound. I jumped nervously, though we were far out of the gate-guard’s hearing, had he even been still alive.

“Do not think on it. Right now, follow me, and go carefully. The door will close of its own weight. The passage is close, so hold my hand.”

I squeezed his fingers, and he inhaled sharply. “I beg your pardon,” I said immediately. “Captain—”

“Tis Tristan, and you are Vianne. Surely we have passed the point of formality.” He drew me through the door — at least, I thought it was a door. I could only see very faintly, and of course neither of us would risk a witchlight to alert any trackers. “Hold my hand as tightly as is needful. I do not mind.”

I remember very little of the nightmarish sqeeze through the narrow rock passage out of the donjons. The air was still and foul, and sometimes the Captain had to turn sideways to fit through the gaps, the hard length of his sword once sharply striking my knees. The passage twisted until I was lost, and I could see nothing. It was blacker than any night I have experienced before or since, and my breath came short. I could imagine all too well Mont di Cienne bearing down on us, squeezing the life out of our fragile human bodies. Even though the Mont, set in the middle of the rolling fertile land of Arquitaine, was little more than a hill compared to other mountains, it seemed still large enough to crush us.

I repeated to myself the first cadre of Tiberian verbs, starting with the irregular esse, but that did not help. I fell back on a teaching-rhyme about the Twelve Blessed.

I suppose anyone would have thought of the gods and prayed for help, down there in the dark.

These are the gods of our land, listen well. These are the Blessed of Arquitaine, six Old and six New, married by the Angouleme. Gentle Jiserah, hearth, hopeless, and home; Danshar her consort, warrior unknown. Kimyan the Huntress, maiden and bow; her twin is Torvar, of Sun, rain, and snow—

“Breathe, Vianne,” the Captain said, kindly enough. It interrupted my inward recitation. “If you swoon I shall have to carry you.”

How undignified that would be. Still… “Will the mountain crush us?” Childishly, the hot flush of embarassment rose to my cheeks again.

“Of course not.” He paused. “Look, tis not so dark. Courage, we are almost through.”

He was right — I could see the faint outline of my free hand as I lifted it before my face, and I further saw the Captain as a shadow cast by a pale glow. Starlight, or moonlight.

My chest unloosed. My arms and legs were made of lead, the relief was so intense.

We ducked out of a low cave scarcely big enough for a goat to pass through, and found ourselves on a long, rocky slope. Faint light struck my hot, aching eyes, sweeter than any candle or glowglobe lit in a nursery to comfort a dark-fearing child.

The Palais reclined, a white-glimmering bulk, in the distance. Below, the torches and lamps of Citte D’Arquitaine sprawled in glimmering patchwork; the river was a mellifluous gleam at its heart, a bright thread bridged with thin stonce arcs. I gasped, startled, and a flare of brilliance surprised me. It was a beam from a covered lanthorn, shone directly into my face. I heard steel drawn from the sheath before the Captain spoke.

“In the King’s name,” he said, calmly enough, and clearly, too.

I held my breath.

“For the King’s honor,” replied a tenor male voice. “Tristan? Gods above, is that you?”