The Hedgewitch Queen

know very well I am only the silly, gawky, hedgewitch provincial that lucked into Court because her grand-dam was lightskirted. I know very well what I look like, Captain d’Arcenne. Please do not remind me.”

With that, I swept up the stairs and left him standing. Twas satisfying to have the last word for once.

* * *

I emerged blinking into morning sunshine, wishing for a kerchief to hide my braided hair, and found myself in a small stone bailey. Jierre di Yspres and a tall blond Guard were already mounted, but Tristan was engaged in a last-minute conference with the young, slim Tinan, who broke away to present me with his hat. It had a magnificent feather, but was a touch too big for me. However, when I coiled my braid atop my head, it fit a little better.

“I suppose I look a fool.” I glanced at the youthful chivalier, to gauge how idiotic I seemed. He grinned and ran his hand through his shoulder-length dark hair.

“Oh, no, d’mselle. You look, well. Very beautiful.”

He uttered it in a tone of earnest reverence, and I was hard-pressed to swallow a laugh. I had tucked the Aryx inside my shirt, but I thought I could still see it reflected in his eyes.

“My thanks for the compliment, chivalier,” I replied gracefully, offering my hand. He took it automatically and almost dropped it once he realized what he’d done. I covered for him as a lady could, moving forward, and we ended up ambling across the bailey as if on promenade. “I must say I disagree. In any case, it matters little. You are of Rocham?”

He nodded, his chest rising with pride. “My father’s people are the riverfolk, but I favour my mother and she’s mountainfolk. Our House is on the bank in Rocham, white colonnades and a red roof. My mother hates the roof, she says tis not well-mannered, and my father says tis well-mannered enough to keep the rain out and she should not complain. Then my mother remarks something, usually under her breath, and my father usually smiles, and—”

This time a thin, nervous laugh did escape me. It was not so amazing; he was very charming and I was exhausted, though I had slept so heavily. My laughter had the quality of a weary old cane being used for the last time. Hard on its heels the image of Lisele rose up, still and bloody while I was breathing, and I sobered.

Di Rocham saw this. “You look troubled, d’mselle.”

And you are not, young man? We should all be troubled, the more the better. But while you think me distracted, let us gather some information. “Where are we?”

“We are on the outskirts of the Citte, a house di Yspres bought some time ago. The Captain believes in planning for every possible contingency.”

“If it pleases you”—Captain d’Arcenne’s tone cut through the morning hush—“we have wasted half the day, and must be setting out.”

Tinan dropped my hand with a hurried bow and mounted his horse. He and Jierre trotted to the bailey entrance, and the tall blond Guard — his name was Jespre, I remembered, like the stone — followed, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. I was left alone with Captain d’Arcenne.

I regarded him. There I stood in sunlight, foolishly dressed in a man’s shirt and breeches and my garden- boots, which were good supple leather and waterproof but hardly dainty, and Tinan’s hat perched firmly atop my braid, covering my hair. I sought the first cut of the conversation, since the scholarly Juen Servanties of Navarre’s arid Eragon held it as a rule that to hold the offensive, in any verbal battle, was an advantage not to be thrown away. “Well. I suppose I am afoot, unless you have found me a horse.”

“Buying a horse would attract attention, and stealing one would not be meet.” He indicated his mount. Now I could see it was a large gray warhorse, and I felt my throat dry again. I was used to placid mares and occasionally a sprightly gelding, not the massive beasts the Guard bred and trained. “This is Arran. Come and meet him, Vianne; he is honored to bear the Queen.”

I folded my arms. “Please, Captain. Do not name me something I am not, I pray.”

His tone turned brusque and cool. “You are more our Queen than d’Orlaans is a king. What did I do to earn the sharp edge of your tongue today?”

The sharp edge is the only edge you shall receive, sieur. To think I believed the King’s jest. “Time is wasting, Captain. Am I to walk, and the rest of you can trot along in front of me? A pretty sight that will make.”

He moved forward, caught me by the waist, and lifted me as if I weighed nothing. My foot found the stirrup and I was in the low saddle in a trice, my entire body protesting. I had spent more time yesterday a-horseback than I had in the entire month previous, and my knees and shoulders were deeply bruised. But I would gift myself to the Duc wrapped in Festival silk before I showed Captain d’Arcenne any weakness.

I kicked free of the stirrups; the Captain swung up behind me. I held myself stiffly away from him as before. I did not know how long I could do so — but do so I would, for as long as was required. At least the saddle did not have a high back, which would force him to perch on the beast’s rump. It had to be uncomfortable.

I found the thought of his discomfort pleased me.

“You will wear yourself out,” he said in my ear as he twitched the reins.

Arran had a smooth gait, thank the Blessed, and I felt a little more secure when we trotted out of the bailey and joined the others, taking our place near the middle of a loose file down the cobbled street. The thunder of wagon wheels and voices rose in a wave, breaking over us. We were on the quays of the River Airenne, which explained the arrangement of the small stone house. It had in all likelihood been a boarding house for riversailors at one time. Nobody took notice of us — we could have been any noble hunting party, bent on hawking or riding down prey in the copses and woods around the Citte.

The Captain was taut and alert, almost starting every time a barge driver shouted or a riversailor cursed. He remained tense as we went along the river, making for the King’s woods, and a tide of beggars and human flotsam scattered in front of the Guard. They moved with an alacrity that bespoke familiarity with parties of noble-blooded hunters — for as the proverb says, Whips sting when a noble hunter is hurried.

Jierre di Yspres led the file, and he turned onto the road that pierced the wood. The sound of the quays faded slowly behind us. The horses picked up their pace to a steady trot.

I had thought I could lean away from the Captain all day, but I was simply too tired. By the time we reached the woods I had begun to sink. Besides, the saddle was too small, even if its back was low enough to perch on.

“Ease yourself, Vianne,” he said in my ear. “We have a long way to go, and twill tire you. Best just to rest.”

I did not believe he cared if I rested or not, but if I dropped dead of exhaustion it would slow him further and cost him his pretender to the throne. And there was little harm in it now, surely. The world had ended like a carriage overturning; we were merely wandering through the wreckage.

So I sank back ever so slightly and watched the countryside of Arquitaine pass on either side. We had been riding for perhaps an hour when a low whistle trilled from somewhere behind us.

As if by Court sorcery, the Guard faded back into the trees on either side of the road. The Captain took our horse to the side, behind a screen of sprawling lauryl bushes going wild. The horse stayed absolutely still, and I drew in a deep breath, held it until the world turned to a painted screen splotched with whirling colors.

“They will not see us.” He sounded so sure, and I caught a whiff of Court sorcery, blending with the hedges to screen us from view. The charm was so slight it would escape notice, unless our pursuers were going slowly and using a showing-spell.

I strained my ears, heard nothing.

Then, hoofbeats.

They came down the road at a gallop, and at their head rode thin, hungry Garonne di Narborre, angular and intent in a blue doublet. They wore the embroidered surcoats of King’s Messengers though any fool could see they were not, for they wore swords. The surcoats held black braid meaning a King had died, and gold braid meaning a new King had been crowned.

But the Duc does not have the Aryx. At the coronation, he will have to produce it. Ah, that is why they gallop.

I touched the hard warm pulsing of the Aryx, pushed under my shirt as an afterthought. It gave a double beat, and I felt an odd shifting inside my head. I was only a hedgewitch, not a well-practiced Court sorcerer like di Narborre, who was rumored to have dueled more than one man with Court sorcery and killed him. The King had