The Hedgewitch Queen

and our gods are not as bloodthirsty as the Pruzian’s black bird-god, or the Damarsene’s jealous, bull-headed blasphemy.

The Aryx did help me with the witchlight. A chill touched my back. But why? If it could do so, and yet not aid Lisele…

I bit my lip, looking at the washstand. Porcelain shone white, as I worked the problem inside my skull and found my wits thankfully less dull. At least, there was not the maddening sensation of seeking to think through porridge. I felt much more my usual sharp-eared, intrigue-catching self.

If the Aryx fed Court sorcery, would it do the same for hedgewitchery?

I pulled the medallion from under my shirt easily. It glowed mellow in the skylight’s shaft of gleaming sunlight. Three serpents — copper, silver, black gold, twisting around each other, two with ruby eyes, the black serpent with eyes of diamond. I cupped it in my palm, listening to its pulse.

It will not let you remove it, some deep part of me whispered suddenly, both awed and frightened. It will never willingly let you remove it.

I knew better than to doubt — it was the same voice that had told me once to comfort my Princesse while she sobbed, when she had sent all her other ladies-in-waiting away. The King had not come to celebrate her birthday, being delayed by a diplomatic crisis — something about the Navarrin ambassador’s sudden about-face during trade treaty discussions, I thought, although I had only been twelve and had only the foggiest notion of politics. Their Prince was now a King, and his greed was likewise kinglike in size. Thank the Blessed the mountains made him an ally, by dint of Arquitaine being too difficult to attack. Of course, the fact that our naval power kept Tiberia in check as well had summat to do with Navarrin’s good graces.

In any event, I had crept into Lisele’s chamber and held her during that long-ago storm of tears, and afterward my place as her favourite was assured. Particularly since I never told a soul. The better I kept my Princesse’s secrets, the more assured my place became. The voice of warning had risen since then, during difficult intrigues, when I had to navigate not merely myself but Lisele through treacherous waters and to safe harbor, with her pride intact and my own reputation kept small and eccentric.

The deep voice had never led me astray.

Coils moved against my palm, metal sliding as supple as living tissue, the serpents writhing, straining. Gemmed eyes watched me, unblinking. Beautifully carved scales rasped against each other, a faint whispering in the silence of the tiled washroom.

My mouth went dry as a Tifrimat sand dune. Even Court sorcery could not prepare me for this. If I tried to remove it from my throat, would it stick to my fingers, fusing to my flesh again? Bile rose to the back of my tongue, the breakfast I had been so hungry for craving escape.

My flesh shuddered on my bones at the thought of dropping the Aryx down my shirt again and feeling those delicately carved metal serpents slither-rasp against my chest.

The serpents slowed and ceased, but now the black gold was the uppermost and would show over my shirt. Trembling returned, settling into my marrow. I cannot hide this. I cannot brook the feel of this against my skin.

Then, I must. Tristan would wish it.

I braced myself against the wall, a most unladylike sheen of sweat on my forehead. I forced myself to consider this as if it were a riddle, or an intrigue. I had studied the Graeca philosophers’ Rules of Logic — one could not study Tiberian and not hear of the Rules — and they would tell me to cease my thrashing and begin in a particular place.

First, what could I state with any certainty?

The Aryx will not harm me — or at least, it has not yet. And it does not slumber. I had used it to power the witchlight. Whatever it had been before, it was most definitely awake now.

What if the Aryx remembered I was not the royal it wanted — merely a hedgewitch pressed into service to hold it until someone else could be found? “Do not strike me down, I beg of you,” I whispered to the Seal. “I mean no harm.”

The snakes stirred again, slightly. I managed to restrain a flinch, but only just.

There was a courteous tap on the door that nearly sent me out of my skin. “D’mselle? Are you well?”

I had to try twice before my dry throat would give out a word or two. “Well enough.” It took another effort to make my clutching fingers loosen and let the Seal nestle against my shirt over my breastbone.

I flinched. Heavy sluggish warmth spread from the contact, and the sensation was at once terrifying and queerly comforting.

I exited the watercloset to find the lieutenant alone, leaning at the mantel with his feathered hat clasped in one brown hand. His lean face changed at he gazed upon me. “D’mselle? Your Majesty?”

I swallowed again, drily. “Chivalier di Yspres.” It took yet more courage I did not know I possessed to lift the Seal with damp fingertips. “Might I have you examine this?”

He took two steps away from the mantel, and paled, stopping dead. “Gods,” he breathed. “The serpents… they have moved.”

“So I am not crazed.” I should have felt relieved, but fresh unsteadiness welled through me. “I…”

His dark eyes widened until I saw an echo of the child he must have been. “You are the Queen. I thought…but you…”

To hear him flounder snapped me back to some manner of sense. “I seek only to be the Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, sieur. I must stop Tris — ah, the Captain from pursuing a ridiculous course of action and finding himself murdered for it.” You are not ideal, but I have you off balance now. You may even help me. “Will you help me?”

His throat-apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze moving from the Seal to my face. “The Aryx has not awakened since the time of King Fairlaine.”

“I thought…” There were indeed stories of the power of the Aryx before Queen Toriane’s death — but none after. It was not spoken of, for the wonders of Court sorcery practiced by the nobles still held at festivals and fetes. Hedgewitches practiced only among the peasants, and physicked their betters for coin.

Yet had not the nobles been using less and less Court sorcery? After all, it had become more difficult, even for those of noble birth. Some said the illusions wrought now were more wondrous and complex, yet…

I did not wish to travel further down that road. I had Jierre di Yspres in a state most conducive to intrigue now — or as conducive as he would ever be. I decided to return us to a more promising line of conversation. “I do not wish the Captain to kill himself seeking to field an army and put me on a blood-soaked throne. I do not want this, sieur chivialier.” I used his given name, then, judging the time right. “Jierre. Please, aid me. Help me.”

He looked about to reply, but just then Tristan d’Arcenne opened the door after a token knock. “Is she — ah. D’mselle. Are you ready?”

I dropped the Aryx back down my shirt, despite the crawling in my flesh at its warm living pulse. Distract his attention, or di Yspres’s face will tell all. The man is almost useless. Irritation boiled under my breastbone. I had been so close.

“Ready enough.” I tried a bright smile as if for a dress fitting. The Captain paced into the room to take my arm. The touch of his hand on my elbow sent a firebolt through me.

“You still look pale, Vianne. I wish there were some other way.” A faint, vertical worry line between his charcoal eyebrows gave the words some truth.

“I shall be well enough,” I lied, and let him lead me from the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Tierrce d’Estrienne huddled under red tiled roofs, narrow cobbled streets Tristan guided us through like thread through needle-eye. The market sounds came from a street away from the inn, which was a scrubbed-white