The Hedgewitch Queen

“—truly chills the blood.”

“—Tristan—”

Confused motion. A group of men all speaking at once, yet seeking to keep the noise down. For all that, they would be lucky to escape notice.

Why must we escape notice? What is happening?

“No.” Tristan d’Arcenne sounded ragged, and furious, as if he had been weeping. His voice broke. “No. Vianne—Vianne.”

“I will kill you — I will kill you!” A man, Court-accented, but not one of the Guard.

What are they doing in my room? For a mad moment, I once again thought I was safe at Court. Had I swooned? I was not given to fainting fits, that was Lady di Wintrefelle’s trick—

“Keep him quiet. Gag him, if you must,” Jierre di Yspres hissed. “For the love of the gods, Tristan, calm yourself!”

“I am still alive?” I asked wonderingly, high and breathless. Nobody could be more surprised than I at the thought.

Breathless silence. Someone smoothed my forehead, picked up my hands. I found myself reclining, the sheets still smelled of lavender. Warm, callused fingers traced the back of my hand, touched my cheek. “Vianne.” Tristan d’Arcenne, husky and ragged. “You saved my life yet again, d’mselle.”

Hazy shapes played as my eyelids fluttered. “Twas a killspell, I knew you would be returning.” I blinked, finding my gaze could focus now.

“You blinded him with a witchlight, m’chri.” D’Arcenne’s blue eyes blazed, and he had pushed his dark hair from his forehead. There was a fresh cut on his cheek, and a trickle of blood had found its way down to his chin. “And a fair one, too. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”

“I never was,” I protested weakly, and he stroked my cheek again. It was a strangely intimate, highly improper touch, and I would have blushed had I had not been looking wildly about for the source of the killspell. Sense was flooding me, and uneasy was too pale a word for the terror returning as I gathered myself. “Where — what did you—”

“Safely bound and awaiting questioning.” D’Arcenne’s gaze turned dark, and he ceased touching my face. “I think I will take particular pleasure in interrogating him. How do you feel, Vianne?”

“Tired,” I breathed. “Dear gods. I thought he would kill you. Who is he?”

“I believe he is Yveris di Palanton. Do you remember him?” D’Arcenne recommenced touching my cheek. Oddly, the touch made me feel better. Comforted.

The name meant nothing. “Do not hurt him,” I whispered. He seemed fearfully angry, for all his tenderness. Why does he touch me so? It is improper. “Please.”

“When death comes for him, it will be merciful.” Low and conversational again, and I knew enough of him now to guess at the danger such softness held. I shivered to hear it, and he touched my eyebrow, ran his fingers over my cheek, touched my lips.

Comtesse Rochburre would have been scandalized. “Why was he trying to kill you? None of this makes sense.”

“I shall solve the mystery, Vianne. Rest.” He held a small cupful of the tisane to my lips, and I took it gratefully. It tasted foul and medicinal against the copper fear coating my tongue. I almost gagged, but I knew it would help me. “What were you seeking to do?”

“I wished to be dressed.” My eyelids were so heavy. A great lassitude stole over me. The Aryx pulsed against my chest. Now was not the time to admit I had wanted to leave him the Aryx and flee. Or that I had been planning to intrigue among the Guard to do so. “And the watercloset.”

“Rest, m’chri,” he urged quietly, and I wondered if I had misheard him. Why did he name me thus? It was such an intimate term I would have flushed if I had not been so sick and weak. “We shall speak of this when you wake.”

“Be…careful.” I sighed. My eyes closed, and I sank into the bed. The tisane formed a hard lump in my stomach, spread out in waves of warmth.

When next the Captain spoke, it was that soft considering tone of leashed violence far more frightening than screams or shouts. “Adersahl. Stay here, stand guard. If even a mouse moves in this room, kill it.”

“Aye, Captain.” I had never heard the elder man sound so grave.

“Jierre, Luc, bring our guest. I have a few questions I would ask of him.” He sounded so calm, so reassuringly ordinary, that I sighed again. All was well. D’Arcenne would make it well.

“And if he tries…?” A di Yspres I had never heard before as well — a crisp, almost peremptory lieutenant. No, he would not intrigue against his Captain, even for his Captain’s own good.

“Stick him in the kidneys. It will not matter much later.”

I curled on my side among the pillows. Something pressed against my forehead. It was a kiss, a gentle one, and the smell of Tristan d’Arcenne, leather and steel and male musk, enfolded me for a brief moment.

It was the second kiss he had given me. “My thanks, m’chri.” His breath warmed my ear, as if we were a-horseback and fleeing again.

They dragged the man out, and I wondered even in my daze that they were all alive. The man had a Court accent. How had he found us?

And could di Narborre be far behind?

Chapter Eleven

The angle of sunlight falling into the room said twas morning. I was also hungry — famished, in fact. I was about to reach for the bell on my night table to summon a servant when I remembered, yet again, that I was no longer at Court.

I pushed myself upright and saw the room lying quiet under its gilding of gray, muffled sunglow, and I blinked. I felt lucid, clear-headed, and very weak.

D’Arcenne was at the table, his head on his arms, asleep. His face turned toward me, his eyes closed, and the deep regularity of his breathing was…comforting. He looked as if he had been studying, and merely put his head down for a moment to rest.

The marks of the beating they had gifted him with were only shadows now. His eyelashes lay against his cheeks in two perfect arcs, charcoal-black, and his mouth was slightly open, relaxed. His cheeks were faintly brushed with stubble.

Jierre di Yspres slept on a bedroll by the door. I swallowed hard, and returned to myself in a rush. What had happened to the man last night?

Had he survived until morning? Somehow I doubted it.

Yveris di Palanton. I did not know the name. I thought I knew everyone at Court, at least by sight. I slid my feet out of the bed, inch by inch. The floor was cold, especially after the warm nest of blankets. I felt as one does after prolonged bedrest — weak, itching to move, but not quite sure how far one’s strength will hold.

I tried to stand, my knees shaking, and a floorboard squeaked.

D’Arcenne bolted upright, his sword leaving the scabbard with a whisper. I let out a gasp and sat down so hard my teeth clicked together.

D’Arcenne blinked, examined every corner of the room with a swift glance. The sword vanished. His blue eyes met mine. “Good morn, d’mselle.”

“Captain.” My throat dried like a drought-parched field. It seemed a bloodless way to greet him. So did d’Arcenne. Perhaps I had earned the right to address him otherwise. “Tristan.”

“Vianne.” A slight bow. “You saved my life again.” His gazed locked itself to mine, and his shoulders were stiff. He stood straight as his own rapier, as if he were at drill in a courtyard. “I am beginning to think you a demiange sent from the gods to watch over me, m’chri.”