The Hedgewitch Queen

Tristan turned my palm up, lifted it. My knees threatened to fail and he caught me, sliding his arm around my waist.

Dear gods.

I almost laughed. The long series of impossible events seemed to find its madly logical culmination in Tristan d’Arcenne holding me close enough to pavane in an inn room close to the Shirlstrienne, and then — impossible of impossibles — lifting my palm to his mouth. He pressed a kiss into the soft part of my hand, and my heart gave a leap so hard it was as if the drums of the maying festival beat in my chest. “There. For safekeeping. My thanks, Vianne.”

I nodded, unable to find anything even remotely sensible to think or do. I said the first thing that leapt into my silly head. “I can ride.”

I winced at my own stupidity.

“Good.” He folded my fingers over the still-burning kiss. Warm skin, callused from daily practice with sword and knife. “Do you require any aid? Any at all?”

“I think I am well enough.” I fought for air, tried not to gasp. The sudden need to explain something, anything, rose. “He would have killed you. I could not—”

“You still did not wish him dead.” He shook his head, gravely. “I understand. Truly. For now, an it please you, we shall break our fast and leave this place.”

I nodded. Tristan’s hand still enclosed mine, and the kiss scorched against my palm. How long would it take for the burning to fade? “Very well.”

He stepped back, reluctant, still holding my hand. I swayed, but stayed upright. New strength stole through his flesh into mine.

This man is dangerous, Vianne. What would you not do, for his asking? Especially if he turned this face to you more frequently.

“I watched over you at Court. Not because I feared your ambition, but because I feared for your very life. Once I began, I could not stop.” His fingers slid free of mine, and if he was not reluctant to let go he was certainly feigning it well enough to earn a prize.

Why does he say this now? I stood, my fist clenched around the feel of his mouth, in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and breeches, barefoot and rumpled. The Aryx pulsed in time to my heartbeat. “I thought you watched me to make sure I did not—”

Boots in the hallway, thundering in the quiet though whoever owned them was simpy striding normally.

I bolted for the safety of the watercloset, my legs threatening to shiver out from under me. I gained my sanctuary and pulled the door shut, just as I heard Jierre di Yspres open the door. “Breakfast, Captain, d’mselle.”

I let out a long, shaking sigh and leaned against the door. The sliver of mirror over the washstand revealed my face, flushed cheeks and dark eyes, my hair mussed and tangled, the copper serpent of the Aryx glinting above the collar of my shirt. There was nothing in the mirror to warrant attention.

Just the provincial hedgewitch, Lisele’s strange pet lady-in-waiting. That was all. Nothing to catch Tristan’s eye.

Yet it seemed I had.

Not just a King’s jest, perhaps? I could not even speak my hope to myself.

Find something else to fret at, idiot. You are at the edge of the Shirlstrienne, pursued by di Narborre, and entrusted to the care of a bare half-dozen men who may turn on you in an instant if their Captain decides you are not queenly enough.

Or not tractable enough.

The Aryx, much as I wished to hand it over to the Captain and be shed of the burden, was my best defense. I touched the copper edge above my shirt, fascinated by the play of light on supple metallic scales. Pulling down the material a bit revealed the rest of the Great Seal of Arquitaine.

“Why do you stay with me?” I asked quietly, aware I was speaking to a magical object. If I was exceedingly lucky, it would not answer. “I am not the one you want.”

But you may have to play at being so, like one of a Comedie-Trajique troupe. Imagine, Comtesse di Rocheburre used to say. Imagine, and you will do. She was speaking of being a noblewoman and moving gracefully, but I would hazard it applies here.

I may have to hazard it will apply here.

The Aryx only glinted, throbbing against my skin like a second heartbeat. I shook my head, my legs trembling with the aftermath of fever, and decided to set about making myself presentable.

But before I did, I studied myself for a long moment, one thought filling me until I thought I would cry out from the immensity of it.

Tristan d’Arcenne kissed my hand. I watched in the mirror as bright scarlet rose in my cheeks. When I could set the thought quietly down without blushing, I began to move again.

Chapter Twelve

Breakfast for me was broth and new bread, and I was finally hungry. I set to with a will, and the lieutenant peeled an apple for me, quartered it. They ate morning pies, full of egg and salted pork, and there was hot chai and fresh milk to wash them down. There were also slices of the Shirlstrienne cheese, soft and flavored with piniel, studded with nuts.

Afterward, di Yspres set to carrying saddlebags and gear downstairs. D’Arcenne gave me the leather doublet, and I retreated to the watercloset to make myself at least a little more ready to endure another day of horseback. I was combing my hair — Tristan had given me the servant’s bag back — when I heard di Yspres.

“We must make haste,” he said quietly. My fingers moved of themselves, braiding. “Tis an uneasy air in the town this morn. I think we should take the back way out.”

“Of course.” D’Arcenne was manifestly unsurprised.

“I thought she was not a Court sorcerer.” Leather creaked as di Yspres hefted gear around. He could catfoot when he chose to, but there seemed no call for it at the moment, so he was loud as a Navarrin metalsmith.

“She is not. The Aryx.” A slight, embarrassed cough.

“The Aryx?”

I finished my braid and tied it off with a blue hair ribbon brought from the Palais. Why could not I have brought something practical? Chiding myself for it comforted me. Something other than hair ribbons.

“It seems to have awakened.” The Captain’s tone did not alter. Still, di Yspres inhaled sharply, as if he had been pinched.

Awakened? I wrapped the braid around my head, threading another ribbon through it. No servant girl to help with this, either, though I did not feel this lack as much as I could have. It was not quite an affectation to braid my own hair in the style of di Rocancheil at Court, but twas close. It is the Great Seal, it never slumbers.

How long had the King had it? Easily thirty years of his reign, since his crowning. I attended Lisele’s dressing and had never remarked it in her possession. As far as anyone knew, the Seal lay in the treasure house of the Raven Tower, safely locked away until needed for a fete or particular ceremony.

I could not wake, Lisele had whispered. Had she been seeking to do so?

Why lock it away, unless it was dormant? The old books and tapestries spoke of the ruler of Arquitaine wearing the Aryx by the grace of the Blessed. Yet it had not been worn openly for many a year, many a reign. No war or invasion to make it necessary — Tiberius had not needed it; he made his diplomatic coup with the Damarsene by dint of sheer cunning alone.

Or so the histories said. Now I wondered, and my head hurt with the implications. Had Tiberius’s cunning been exercised in keeping the Damarsene from guessing that the Seal of the Blessed slumbered, instead of in other directions? Had they known, very little would have stopped their fine army — and the hateful Pruzians, always at the back of Damar to make mischief or pick at the leavings — from trampling our borders. Arquitaine is a rich prize,