The Hedgewitch Queen

There it was again. Tristan d’Arcenne was calling me beloved.

A slip of the tongue, nothing more. He was close to death yesterday, that may make a man charitable. “Captain…” I chewed at my bottom lip, searching for something light and diplomatic to say. Nothing arose.

Jierre di Yspres yawned from his bedroll. “And a bright good morn to everyone,” he grumbled, sleep’s gravel evident in his tone. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Time for you to get our fair d’mselle some breakfast.” Tristan’s gaze had not moved from my face. I felt rumpled — I had slept in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and trousers. Someone had taken the leather vest — perhaps d’Arcenne. That thought sent a hot flare of not-entirely-unpleasant embarrassment through me.

Jierre grumbled a bit more, but he hauled himself upright and made a very pretty Court bow to me, sweeping a nonexistent hat. “Good morn, d’mselle Your Majesty, and lovely to see your fair face.”

I gathered myself. “And better to see your smiling face, sieur chivalier.” I found my accustomed tone, light and accented sharply, as all the Princesse’s women spoke. “What happened?” Is there yet another death lingering in this room?

“Breakfast, Jierre.” D’Arcenne’s tone brooked no discussion.

The lieutenant rolled up his bedroll and stumped cheerfully out the door, scratching at his face and yawning. But he wore two daggers at his belt that he had not before, and I caught a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. I have not seen that look often, except before a duel at Court — a duel I would not witness, being weak of stomach.

It was the look of a man prepared for violence.

I was left with Tristan d’Arcenne and pearly, rainy light filling a room that did not seem to have enough air for me. I sought to breathe deeply, and had little luck. He stood rapier-straight, as if he had not been sleeping in a chair all night.

There, Vianne. Speak of that. It is a safer subject than most. “You slept in a chair, sieur?”

He shrugged. “Jierre and I took turns at the door.”

So little was he disposed to keep to safe subjects. I supposed there was small use for such grace between us, then. “Who was he?” All my attempt at humor dropped away.

He shrugged. Even unshaven and after a night that could not have been comfortable, he was still sharp as a fresh-honed blade. “A nasty little boy who played assassin for the Duc d’Orlaans. I think he is probably the one who killed Simeon di Rothespelle. Cut and spelled his saddlegirth, at least.”

What little breath I had left escaped me. “To kill me?” I had difficulty making myself heard, though the room was quiet and I heard faint marketsong from the other side of the window — chanted songs of wares for sale, cart wheels, horse hooves, murmurs of conversation.

“I doubt he even knew you were here, and I doubt it was more than chance. He often visits his aunt at the manse less than two leagues from here, and he may have recognized me. I was his target, m’chri, and you stopped him.” The Captain took one step, two, away from the table. He did not look at me, now, but at some fixed point above my head. “I owe you my life yet again. And more.”

My hands trembled, so I clasped them firmly together. “I could smell the killspell. I—”

“I know.” He took another two steps. Then another.

He stopped next to the bed, a bare step and a half away. He looked down at me with his blue d’Arcenne eyes, and I had to remind myself to breathe. The fever returned, beating in my wrists and throat and chest.

No — perhaps twas only my heart.

“Would you have killed him, Vianne?” Then he dropped to one knee, a quick, graceful movement, and took my hands in his, almost roughly. “Would you?”

Either the shock of his tone, or the question itself, or the feel of his skin on mine robbed me of sense. “K-k- killed him?” I stammered, and my fingers closed in a convulsive movement, remembering the witchlight pooled in my palm, the glow against my fingers.

I had been so afraid the attacker would harm someone.

Do not be ridiculous, the calm, rational voice of my conscience told me. You do not have a killspell when you intend merely to frighten. A killspell is to kill. Tis why they call it what they do. It is not a peck on the cheek spell, or a goosefeather tickle spell.

I looked down at d’Arcenne, whose face turned up to mine. His dark hair fell away from his forehead, and I freed one hand. The back of my fingers brushed his forehead, his cheek. My fingers moved of their own accord, without any direction from propriety or even good sense.

His face changed between one moment and the next. Wondering, as if seeing me for the first time, his eyes wide and guileless as a child’s. “No,” he breathed. “I do not think you would have, had you thought of it. You did not think, did you.”

Had I done wrong? Stray strands of my hair fell free, touched his face. The ribbon must have come free during the night. I leaned forward, again without any volition of my own, as if drawn to him by sorcery, or as the needle is drawn to north’s invisible realm. “I…no, I did not think. There was not time —”

“I see.” He reached up with one hand, his fingers twining in a strand of my hair. “You were…” The hesitation pained me. He was not meant to sound so…unsure.

“I was afraid he might hurt you,” I whispered, as if someone else might hear.

“So you blinded him with a witchlight that could have torn the roof from this inn. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”

He is touching me. Had the fever come back? Or was it him? “I am not.” My voice refused to work properly. “The Aryx.”

His face hardened, and he nodded. My hair was tangled between his fingers, but he did not pull. Merely held it loosely, as he might a docile horse’s reins. “The Aryx.” He whispered as well, or something was caught in his throat. “Vianne.”

“Tristan.” My heart beat thinly in my wrists, in my throat. “What happened to him?”

“Di Palanton? He will never trouble another soul. Still, tis unsafe. He recognized me enough to attempt to kill me, and who knows what message he may have sent to his lord and master beforehand?” Tristan’s accustomed tone came back, sharp and logical, and his fingers slid free. “We must leave this place. The forest is our only friend now, and a false friend at best. Can you ride?”

He spoke as if I was one of the Guard. My chin lifted, automatically. I could see why they followed him. It was impossible not to, when he was so quiet, with such steely purpose.

A man who spoke thus could make other men do wondrous things.

“I can ride.” I sought to sound strong. “I am much better than I was. Have you a horse for me?” It would mean I would no longer ride with him. My good sense was returning, and it whispered that such an event might be safer. At least, to my weak, traitor-throbbing heart.

“I could not find a horse that can keep up with the Guard, nor even one that can stand hard riding. Do you mind?”

I could not decipher his expression. Was he pleased by this? Uncaring? Did he mind at all? “I shall manage,” I said around the obstruction in my throat.The furious heat in my cheeks would not abate. It was akin to being embarrassed at a fete, only at Court there are ways to hide such embarrassment. Here there was no embrasure to hide behind, and no powder to dull my cheeks, no richly hung ladies’ room to retreat to.

He stood, gracefully, his fingers tangled in mine. “Jierre should return soon. Do you require aid to stand, m’chri?” Why did he not free his hand from my grasp? I did not seek to keep him.

Or did I?

He said it again. “No, I am steady enough.” I forced my legs to straighten and carry the burden of the rest of me. D’Arcenne steadied me as I almost overbalanced. The floorboard squeaked again, and I found myself right next to Tristan, holding his hand, near enough for a dance.

Closer, actually. So near I could feel the heat of his body. “I think I had best visit the watercloset.” Why was I still breathless?

“I think you’d best.” He made no move. I did not try to take my hand back, either.