The Hedgewitch Queen

Shirlstrienne with a group of King’s Guard, sick with fever and the plaything of the Great Seal. It sounded like a courtsong, and not a very good one at that.

“Vianne?” The Captain, using my name as if it belonged to him, stood taut and inquiring on the other side of the fire.

“Sieur di Yspres and I were trading riddles.” The lie rose so naturally I was almost afraid of it, my cheeks flushing as well. “Some are decidedly not fit for a lady’s ears.”

I do not know if Tristan believed me, but the other Guards laughed. Tristan’s eyebrows drew together, a faint line between them. His blue eyes were shadowed in the failing light, fixed on my hand on Jierre’s shoulder.

Di Yspres stood hurriedly, brushing his knees with a quick, habitual movement. “I gave her more ansinthe, Captain. She was shivering.”

That brought the Captain to my side. He knelt, pressing his fingers to my forehead.

“I am well enough,” I told him. “Sieur di Yspres merely worries.”

“He should.” Tristan’s jaw was set. “How much did he give you?”

“Merely a swallow.” I submitted to his touching my cheek, smoothing my hair down. “Truly, I am hale. He sought to ease my mood, for I confess I was most—”

“Ansinthe. What were you thinking?” He did not even look at me. His gaze had turned up to Jierre, who stood aside, pocketing his flask.

“I was cold, and I asked him for a swallow of summat to warm.” I sought to calm him. “It does no harm.”

He snapped me a glance that could have broken stone. I almost gasped at the violence in his expression.

Tristan straightened and glared at di Yspres. “Do not give her more. Ansinthe is dangerous.”

“I asked him,” I lied. “He was merely being kind.” The Aryx fluttered against my chest. I pushed the sensation away with an effort. No. I will not.

It subsided.

“Tis not a fit drink for hedgewitches,” Luc di Chatillon said in the ensuing silence. “Truly, d’mselle. Hedgewitchery makes one most vulnerable to the green venom. And you must not risk the fever’s return.”

I thought he perhaps tried to soothe troubled waters, so I did not answer. Instead, I looked at the tips of the Captain’s boots, muddy from the forest. I stared at that clinging mud for a long moment, until di Yspres made some movement — a shrug, perhaps, I could not see — and moved away.

I pulled the cloak closer about my shoulders, setting the cup aside. Rain dripped hissing into the fire. My fingers tensed, curling into fists in the harsh material.

I could use the Seal. It has chosen me, for now. I could use it — and do what? If I escape them, this will merely follow me, as crows follow the gibbets. Or I will let this thing at my throat use me, and become merely a vessel for it. Loneliness rose, fair threatened to choke me. Next was panic, a deep well of it. The Seal had worked that spell through me, as if I were only a door for it, and I was not certain I liked the feeling.

Not certain at all.

Silence stretched.

“Dinner.” Tinan’s voice was unnaturally bright. “Who hungers? They shall be fed!”

“And lo! Said the maid in the cow byre,” di Chatillon gave the next line of the old maying-song, and a ripple of amusement went through the men. “For the want of a sausage, I’m dead!”

The Captain said nothing. I could not tell if he watched me or not. I kept my head bowed, staring at his boot-toes, reciting a string of Tiberian verbs in my head. Eventually the laughter and banter returned to normal as they ate.

I remained closed in my bubble of silence. The Aryx pulsed.

What can I do? I wailed into the darkness of myself. I am far more helpless than before.

Stop being a ridiculous little twit. Come now, think. Use that practical brain of yours, and reason through this tangle.

Without me, they would not be in danger. If the Captain reached Arcenne safely there would be some hope of his crossing the border into Navarrin. Despite his protests, any Court would be glad of his skill. And I thought it passing likely the Left Hand would have agents in foreign lands to shelter him.

He would live.

The Duc will pursue us if we have her — but if we simply flee, we may escape with our lives. Jierre di Yspres, speaking truth, for all he apologized for it later.

It was one thing to think of leaving them, quite another to think of being left and any possible step I might take afterward. I shivered, pulling the cloak even tighter. The Captain stood, motionless. What was he doing? Why would he not join his men and leave me be?

My brain pawed at the problem like a trained farrat, turning it over and over. Slowly, everything outside me stilled as I turned inward, into that peculiar half-dream state of complete attention, where one’s faculties may suddenly cease thrashing, step aside as if following a pavane, and suddenly know every step of the dance.

If you may learn to use the Seal properly, you could do something, for good or for ill.

I straightened, taking in a sharp breath. Then, just as quickly, I slumped again, lest anyone had seen my sudden movement and guessed at the cast of my thoughts. I had already used the Aryx to protect the Guard. Could I do so again, to protect them further? Damp woolen material resisted my fingers as I pulled, twisting it tighter.

To have those doors open inside my head again, to feel that force pushing through me in its scalding tide, blind to the world, would be…gods.

It would be like…what? Ceasing to exist.

Like dying. I had not suffered death yet, but I imagined losing oneself in that swelling tide was very close. I shivered.

The Guard finished their meal. Some of them undid their sleeping rolls. The tingle of Court sorcery washed over my skin again — dry ground, the rain shunted aside from where they would rest. A toast was called out to me, for they would be sleeping in the rain if not for the Aryx’s protection from tracking-sorcery. I smiled wanly and nodded, seeking to appear pleased, then went back to hugging myself, desperately weighing the chance of being swallowed whole by the Great Seal against the pressure of their faith in me.

Tristan’s faith in me, however misplaced.

I sighed, rubbing at my forehead. I had only wished to change my clothes before waiting on Lisele. How on earth had I ended up pursued in the Shirlstrienne with a half-dozen noblemen and a head full of doors for the Aryx to open whenever it slipped the chain of my refusal?

The Captain brought a sleeping roll and laid it beside me. “You should sleep, d’mselle.” His tone was chill.

Then mine should be, too. “I suppose I should.” I did not dare look to his face, only his shoulder. “Captain?”

“For the sake of every god, Vianne, do not address me thus.” His jaw set, his shoulders stiffened.

Well, if you wish me to address you otherwise, sieur, I shall. “Very well. Sieur d’Arcenne, I wish to ask you something,” I persisted.

His shoulders stiffened, his jaw firming. Why? He smoothed a blanket over the sleeping roll, flicked his fingers. A breath of heat brushed my cheek — he was warming the blanket. Court sorcery tingled along my fingers, a familiar feeling.

“Ask what you will.” He settled back on his heels. His boots creaked.

Perhaps I can make you see reason. I marshaled my arguments, made my tone soft and conciliatory. “If I drew pursuit away — perhaps to the east — would you be able to reach Arcenne