The Hedgewitch Queen

could lead.

“They will speak of this.” Tristan’s chill expression did not alter.

I doubt it. “And admit to poaching in the King’s forest, with all the penalties that implies? No. Let them go on their way. They simply startled me.”

The blond peasant stared at me, perplexed. The dark one, his mouth half open, looked as if he had been struck with a sudden thought, and his gaze dropped to the stream.

“Your soft heart, d’mselle.” Tristan’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “Kill them.”

He started to turn, to lead me away, but I found my voice again. “No!” I slipped from under his hand. “No,” I repeated firmly. “I will have no more death on my account.” The brook chuckled merrily, laughing at me. Vianne, you idiot. Idiot Vianne.

His shrug was a marvel of disdain. “Tis not on your account, d’mselle. It is on mine. Now come.”

“Do not presume to order me about, chivalier.” I drew myself up, though my height was no match for his. “You were quick enough to promise me obedience when it served you. Now you must abide by it. I will have no more death on my account.” The words rang against fog and a rising chorus of birdsong. There was no more silence. The wood was alive once more.

He folded his arms, cocking his head and staring through me. “They are beyond your mercy, d’mselle. Poaching in the King’s woods is a treasonable offense. Even had they not threatened you, their lives would be forfeit.”

“If I am what you say, even that point becomes academic. Release them.”

He gave in suspiciously easily. “Very well; they will be released. Now, if you please, d’mselle, come with me.” His hand closed around my elbow, and I let him pull me away. He cast one look over his shoulder, but I was too busy, my feet slipping on moss and rocks, to wonder at it.

We plunged into the trees, moving so quickly I had difficulty keeping up. I set my jaw and did my best. When he rounded on me, blue eyes flashing, I almost lost my footing. But he had my shoulders instead of my elbow, and he shook me, once, as he had in the passageway two days — or a lifetime — ago.

“You noble little fool. You will cost us all our lives. Do you think this is a game? It would take only one peasant in his cups to tell the Duc’s spies we have gone this way, and the entire countryside will be roused against us. My men are few enough. I have no wish to lose more of them.”

I merely let my gaze accuse him. His fingers bit into my shoulders and I winced — I was already bruised there, and would be again. He did not notice, or care. And why should he?

I was only a thing to him. A means to an end.

D’Arcenne shook me once again, so sharply I flinched. “Gods above and below, Blessed witness me, why is it nothing I do pleases you?”

“I could ask you the same question.” I seemed to have been possessed by a completely different person — a Vianne with no discretion and none of my usual quiet. A strand of my hair fell in my face, the mixture of being disheveled, aching all over, clammy-cold, terrified, and heart-wrung as volatile as the sylph-aether used to fuel burners for distilling hearth-binding charms.

He stared at me for a few moments, his jaw working. I had never seen him angered thus. He looked on the verge of murder.

I remembered Baron Simieri’s plum-colored face with an internal shiver. But that had been a poison killspell. D’Arcenne would have used his dagger, or his sword.

But he has murdered, Vianne. The Guard in the donjon, do you think Tristan merely gave him a rose and a courtsong? And he is right, twould take only one peasant in his cups to rouse an entire province against us, if the Duc has laid his plans aright. Years this conspiracy was in the making; of course the Duc would plan for this. He has foresight enough.

Yet I could not brook it. Something in me rose up in rebellion, hot and brittle. The fog had begun to thin as birdsong exploded, every winged thing greeting the Sun’s fiery chariot wheels. I heard — but no. I could not hear that, not with the bird noise.

It sounded like a choked cry.

As the Captain of the Guard needed nothing but a single glance from his King to understand an order, so those of d’Arcenne’s Guard would need only a single glance — a nod over the shoulder, perhaps — to comprehend him.

And obey.

My body drew up against itself, every muscle tightening, yet my knees felt queerly loose. “Oh, no,” I whispered, my lips numb. A thin trickle of sweat touched my back. “You did not. You did not.”

His face darkened with something I did not want to name, so I took a step back. He let me, his hands dropping.

He did not even have the grace to look shamed. “Tis not on your conscience; it is on mine. I cannot risk the lives of my men for the sake of your gentle feelings.” His dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and the dew had been at him, too — either that, or there was a sheen of sweat on his sharp mountain face.

My throat was dry as the Days of Forgiveness. “They meant no harm.” They did mean harm, Vianne. You are lying even to yourself. The voice of good sense was faint and lost. My entire body quivered with a feeling too unsteady to be anger and too hot to be sorrow.

“Of course they did. Had you been alone…” He did not complete the sentence. We both knew what could have happened. There were stories and songs of young noblewomen caught in the woods without the protection of chaperone or male relative, left for dead or dishonored and committing suicide afterward. The mother’s blood is all that counts, the proverb ran — but dishonor tainted even that.

Tristan d’Arcenne and I stared at each other. What difference was there, between the peasants and the man who stood before me now? Either would seek to use me for their own ends; and what protection did I have? My wits, and the fact of the Aryx at my throat. Both such fragile protections.

“Blame me, Vianne,” he said finally. “You did seek to save their lives; let that be enough.”

I willed my hands to stop shaking, made myself as tall as possible. I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I must act like it. “You swore me your obedience.”

“I did not order their deaths on your account, d’mselle.” His voice turned taut and low. “I might have spared them for your asking it of me, had the lives of my men—your Guard—not been at risk.”

“They are not my Guard.” My throat ached with an unutterable scream. “They are yours—and the King’s.”

“The King is dead.” His hands had curled to fists, and I wondered if he would be so base as to strike me. “You hold the Aryx, and have the last drop of royal blood in Arquitaine not tainted by regicide.”

“I only hold the Aryx in trust.” My hand slipped up, touched the warm curve of the Aryx under my shirt. The peasants had not seen it, thank the gods — but that did not matter now. “I shall return it to a true Heir when it is time.” Gods willing. Please.

He tipped his head back, his jaw working again, and I took two nervous steps backward. My ankle turned on a rock, and I almost fell. By the time I had regained my balance, he had somewhat mastered himself. His blue eyes were incandescent, and a muscle ticked steadily in his cheek. “Under Arquitaine law, until the time the Aryx chooses another holder, you are the Queen, and you should act like it. You should not risk our lives, d’mselle. Tis not noble of you at all.”

I could have screamed, yet again. But it was useless. I possessed enough knowledge of the Law of Succession to know he was right. I was the Queen while I held the Aryx. It mattered little why Lisele had it, or how she came to entrust it to me. Entrusted it was, and I was trapped. Lisele had made me promise to keep the Seal safe, and traveling with Tristan d’Arcenne and the Guard was the safest place for the Aryx — and for me.

But I had cost Lisele her life, perhaps. If I had been with her, mayhap I could have distracted the men long enough to buy her an escape. And the King — if Tristan had not been with me, perhaps he could have saved the King.