The Hedgewitch Queen

“Tristan?” My voice was foggy, slurred as if I had been at mead during a wedding celebration.

“What is it?” Worried, far more worried than I had ever heard him before. It was not right — the Captain, my Captain, should not sound so.

My unease crested, sparking through the dragging weight. When had I become so heavy, so inert? “Something is wrong,” I managed, my lips not quite meeting.

“Halt!” Tristan called. Between one step and the next, the hair rose on my nape.

A shrill whistle split the air. A crossbow quarrel buried itself in the leafy mould before Robierre’s horse, and I let out a short, sharp cry. The Aryx sprang to life, thundering against my chest, a wall of force expanding outward. The doors inside my head revolved, flinging themselves open, and I gasped, struggling to retreat, seeking to close myself away from the riptide of sorcerous force.

Several of the Guard cursed in surprise. The milky shimmer of a globe-shield blurred in the air. I gasped, my heart laboring, and Tristan’s arm slid around my waist. “Let it go, Vianne.” Quietly, but with great force and utter command. “Let it go. Tis not worth your life.”

If he had taken any other tone but quiet authority, I would not have heard. As it was, the Aryx’s force glided through me, rumbled in the spaces between my veins…

…and the globe shimmered, folding down into the earth, draining away.

Most of the Guard had their bows out, and Jierre di Yspres held up a hand, the red glimmer of a firebolt limning his fingers. Twas a showy way to strike an enemy, but a bolt of Court sorcery would unerringly find its target — once Jierre caught a glimpse of whatever that target should be.

“Bandits,” Tristan said crisply. “Let them show themselves, if they dare.” Then, more quietly, in my ear, “Do not use the Aryx again, m’chri, not even to guard us. The fever will return if you do.”

“Tristan—” My head fell back against his chest. Something had just become clear to me, some idea just on the very tip of my tongue. It fled, and I could have cursed with frustration had I not needed my breath. The Seal muttered, disconsolate, its pulse as tardy as my own.

“A fine morn to you, sieurs,” someone called from the woods, a weird directionless voice. I recognized the hint of greenbreath sorcery — it was a hedgewitch charm to distort the sound of one’s voice, and I felt a weary satisfaction at finally remembering a charm on my own, without my books. “Welcome to the Shirlstrienne.”

“A fine welcome, served on a crossbow bolt,” Jierre di Yspres returned clearly.

“Nobody was hit,” the voice answered, cheeky as a Citte urchin. “So you have naught to complain of, sieurs. We have yet to discuss your toll for passage.”

“A tollmaster should show his face,” Jierre barked. “Not hide behind a peasant charm. Coward.”

“I like the word cautious. Not that it matters — Adrien Jirlisse does not care. Now, sieurs, your purses, and be quick. You may leave them on the road, and we shall let you pass unhindered.” The voice, directionless, filtered through the dark woods.

I heard an odd trilling whistle.

I suddenly understood the Guard were spreading out, ready to commence a battle with sorcery or steel.

Just like men. Why must this all be so difficult? A solution suggested itself, and I lunged for some certainty in the soup my brain had become.

“Wait!” Silence descended on the forest. I was half surprised I’d been able to voice so clear a cry.

“A d’mselle. Well. This is a surprise.” And indeed, the directionless voice sounded surprised.

Careful, Vianne. You are playing for the safety of others, be quick and cunning. “Are you the same Adrien Jirlisse they sing of?” My tone was pitched to carry, and the Aryx rang under my words. Its pulse had hurried, shaking off deadly languor.

“What are you doing?” Tristan hissed in my ear.

Do not trouble me at the moment, Captain. I am otherwise engaged. I ignored him. “The one they call the Scourge of Shirlstrienne?” My entire body was leaden, but my wits suddenly returned. If there are more hidden in the trees, we may fight free but at a cost. If I can feed this man’s pride he may well let us pass; tis not worth a bandit’s time to fight a pitched battle against nobles on warhorses, even though we are few.

Let us hope I am right.

“I might be.” Now he sounded pleased. “Tis good to see a woman who knows quality.”

Ah. So we may bargain, my fine friend. I struggled to force my tongue to work. “I am no merchant’s wife, to test the cut of a word. Tis sung you are passing fond of riddles, sieur.”

Murmurs among the Guard. I prayed they would not do anything silly. Other murmurs, too — if my ears did not fail me, there were bandits in every direction.

Dear gods, let this pique his interest. We may yet avoid bloodshed.

“Twenty of them.” Tristan murmured. “Vianne—”

“I might be,” the directionless voice repeated. Yet there was an edge to the words that had not been there before. “And you are?”

I took a deep breath. The hook has been swallowed. Give the line a tug, Vianne. “If you are so fond of riddles, I shall play you a game of riddlesharp. If you win, we shall give up our coin with good grace. If I win, you shall let us pass unmolested.”

The pause that followed was so long I felt sweat prickle under my arms. Please, gods. Please. Let us have no more blood spilled.

“We have you at arrowpoint, d’mselle. Why should I play riddlesharp at all?”

I sighed, loudly, theatrically, as if I were at Court and all eyes were on me. The very situation I hated and avoided, and yet I acquitted myself with some skill when twas necessary. I hoped my skill was still with me. “Then you are not the noble bandit the songs make you.” I sought for the quarter-mocking tone of Lady Arioste di Wintrefelle, who had near every man at Court for a swain. Arioste could make even a priest of Danshar forget his vows, and she knew exactly the right edge of scorn mixed with faith that would tempt a man into performing some ridiculous feat for her momentary amusement. “And I should be gravely disappointed not to hear such a riddlemaster’s skill.”

There was a rustling in the bushes.

I had to admire the flair with which he vaulted from a low-hanging branch of a giant tam tree. Dressed all in brown and green, a bow slung at his back and a rapier at his side, a lean man with weather-brown skin and sharp glittering eyes regarded us from the faint track leading into the trees. “Well enough. Never let it be said Adrien Jirlisse disappointed a d’mselle, especially one so fair.” He bowed, sweeping his hand back. It was an approximation of a Court bow, and I dearly hoped none of the Guard would laugh at him. If he had shown himself, he did not wish a pitched battle, and if they had been truly hungry for coin, one quarrel from a crossbow would not have sufficed for an opening thrust.

“What are you doing?” Tristan, in my ear again.

My head cleared slightly. This game is mine to play, Captain. And it will require no bloodshed. “Let me down,” I whispered back. “Please, Captain. Trust me, I beg of you.”

“What if he—”

“Tristan, please.” I did not raise my voice. But he stilled as if I had shouted. “They do not wish a battle any more than we do. If I overmatch this man in wits, there’s no shame in losing to a d’mselle in the woods. Twill be out of a tale, and we shall go our way.”

A long pause, during which the bright-eyed bandit folded his arms and regarded us. I could not be certain, but I thought I sensed a smile on his weather-darkened face.

Stiffly, Tristan dismounted. I half-fell from the saddle into his hands, but he lifted me down so lightly it looked as if I had planned it. He set me on my feet, yet his touch lingered at my waist. “As you like, Vianne,” he said softly.

That was strange enough, but he set me free. I half-turned, and made my way through the screen of horses and my Guard. My legs shook with effort. The Aryx rang quietly, a bell-tone I suspected they would not hear. My eyes threatened to fall closed, I forced them wide and set myself the task of walking straight.