The Hedgewitch Queen

The Captain was haggard, bladed cheekbones standing out over hollows, dark circles under his blue eyes. For all that, it still made my chest tighten when he stroked my cheek with callused fingers and pushed a stray curl of my dark hair back, tucking it behind my ear.

I must look a sight. This was what worried me, there in the Shirlstrienne. “I have not combed my hair, though.”

Perhaps I was not quite my usual self.

“Nor have I.” A brief smile lighted his entire face. “Come. We shall halt here.”

“No, I can go on—,” I protested. But his hand closed around my arm, and he all but dragged me to the center of a loose circle of the Guard, clustered under the shelter of a pinon tree in full leaf. It kept the rain off, though silvery beads gilded its drooping needles.

“We shall halt here,” he repeated, and there was no argument. Adersahl brought me his waterflask, freshly filled from the stream, and I took a grateful drink, though twas icy enough to sent a bolt of silver pain through my skull. My entire body itched miserably.

I handed Adersahl’s flask back to him and watched as they built a fire. Pilippe di Garfour stretched forth his hand and made a quick gesture, flicking his fingers, and the wood ignited, flames billowing. The wood, being wet, smoked dreadfully.

I leaned against the pinon’s massive trunk, resting my head against rough bark, watching. The presence of living wood helped, sinking into me as the tree recognized a hedgewitch and drew me into its embrace. It also helped quiet the persistent beat of the Aryx, a spot of molten heat under my shirt.

Jierre studied a waxed-parchment map near the edge of the tree’s branches, holding it to the light. Luc di Chatillon and Robierre d’Atyaint-Sierre stood with him, their heads bent together. Robierre had a head for woodscraft; he was often consulted about whither and yon in the forest’s trackless shadows. Tristan joined them, looking over Jierre’s shoulder.

“D’mselle?” Tinan di Rocham handed me the same battered metal travel cup, with steaming-hot chai in it. “Here. Drink, an it please you.”

“Thank you, chivalier.” I gave him a weary smile. After so many days, we were easier with each other, though I could not cease noting each man’s particulars in case I should be called upon to use them later.

I cursed myself for it, though I knew it was my only protection. A woman cannot afford to let her guard relax.

Tinan blushed to the roots of his dark hair and mumbled. I was glad we were not at Court, for all that. I would have been teased endlessly about the young, blushing chivalier. As it was, I took care to treat him kindly. Of all the Guard, he was the most careful of me — and the most potentially useful.

I sought to make use of him a little, now. “Why is everyone so grim? Besides the rain, I mean.”

He hesitated, but I had judged my quarry well. “We are being tracked,” Tinan said, in a low tone. “By who, we cannot tell, but tis sorcery, Robierre says. The Captain agrees.”

This caused a cascade of unpleasant thoughts, and I spoke unguarded, for once. “But why did not the Captain—”

“You have worries enough.” Tristan spoke from close enough to cause me to start. I had not even noticed him approaching; he was catfooted even in heavy boots when it suited him. Tinan nodded to me and retreated. “I did not wish your worrying on account of a pack of peasant trash.”

“Peasants with sorcery? More likely the Duc’s men.” I took a sip of chai. Twas oversweetened — they added stevya to it with abandon, endlessly seeking to bolster my strength. “Bandits seem hardly capable of noble sorcery.”

“There, you see? You are worrying, exactly what I wished to avoid.” He touched my shoulder, ran his fingers over my sleeve. The chai burned me less than his fingers did. “Tracking does not mean catching, Vianne. Once we leave the Shirlstrienne we are but a few days away from the borders of Arcenne, especially if we brave the Alpeis.”

“The Alpeis is full of—” I stopped. It was a childish tale, and one I blushed to repeat in the company of hardened chivalieri.

“Demieri di sorce. So they say. At least the tales may have kept the bandits away. Who can tell? But you have some of the finest swordsmen and sorcerers in Arquitaine, since entrance into my Guard requires proficiency in Court sorcery. If demieri di sorce haunt the Shirlstrienne, steel or sorcery will keep you safe.”

I took another sip of chai, leaning against the tree. My knees had once again grown suspiciously weak. “Does nothing frighten you, sieur?”

“Some things.”

Ah, there’s an admission. “When have you ever been frightened?” I challenged. He seemed more at ease now, certainly easier than he had ever been at Court. I could see traces of the beating he had received, but not many. They would quickly be gone forever.

He cast his gaze over the camp, noting, cataloging, ever the Captain. “I lay in a cell and wondered if you had been caught. The thought of you frightened and alone, possibly taken by the Duc, without knowing what game you had been caught in — that frightened me.” He smoothed his fingers down my shoulder. He did not look at me; he gazed at the fire, his clean profile presented as a sculpture. “Certainly, seeing you taken with fever, so ill you did not even recognize us — that frightened me. You have a talent for striking fear into my heart, Vianne.”

I sighed, took another sip of chai. “You should sup, Captain. You look ill-used.” What a magnificent thing to say. Why does he bring forth the idiot in me?

He smiled, an open boyish grin. “Well, at least you notice me now. That is something to be grateful for, no?”

My breath caught. I could find absolutely nothing to say.

He waited, his smile broadening. He looked like a boy caught stealing apples, yet supremely confident the punishment would be slight. “Where is that sharp tongue of yours? Nevermind. Do not trouble yourself, d’mselle. All is well.”

I gathered my courage, held my cup, and reached with my free hand to touch his elbow. My fingers brushed against his cloak’s damp roughness. “I do not worry for my safety. I worry for yours.”

He shrugged, turning his head aside to gaze at the fire as if it held a secret. “I treasure that, m’chri, I truly do.”

My gaze fell. Twas not just a King’s jest. Or does he think to treat me lightly? No, he is not the kind for dalliance, or else I would have heard of it, would I not? Though there was so much I did not hear.

It was no use. There was a question I burned to ask, and it escaped me before I could bolt my mouth shut. “Why did you watch me, Captain?”

“I had to, for your safety.” He checked, drawing back whatever he had intended to say next as a falconer will pull a lure. “You look pale.”

“I feel a trifle pale.” It is the fever speaking. He does not favour you, he favours his revenge. My hand fell to my side, and I sought not to feel the needleprick to my heart. I took refuge in formality. “I beg your pardon, chivalier. You would already be in Arcenne but for me.”

“Not without riding the horses to death.” Thoughtful now, still considering the fire. “I thank the gods you saw me in the passage, though I do not cherish the thought of you witnessing Simieri’s death. Had I not been watching — had you not met me by chance—I would be beheaded in the Bastillion and you perhaps dead or wedded to the Duc.”

Later, I would think of this conversation as if I held it suspended in crystal, like the classic Illusionne Iluminatrixe. I would think of it as the moment Tristan d’Arcenne spoke to me without reserve for the first time. I would think of it, as well, as the moment some tiny internal weight shifted — the first small stones falling in advance of an avalanche, the first thin drops that herald a storm, the uneasy waves that mark the sea’s furious rising.

The first time I realized what I felt for him.

It is ever so — those moments pass unremarked, and it is only later, in the wreckage, that one realizes