The Hedgewitch Queen

And what was the summit of Tristan d’Arcenne’s dreams?

“Duty is a high enough summit for me, m’dama.” His shoulders were stiff. “If I thought you meant her harm I would not hesitate.”

“Any fool could see as much.” The hedgewitch flattened her hand against my belly under the rough homespun blankets. “Now let me concentrate. I would hate to botch a charm for such an august personage.” Irony dripped acid from every word, and I almost winced.

This was most interesting, but I would have to wait before I could decipher it. The gray-clad hedgewitch closed her eyes, and a wonderful coolness laved me, washing away the shaky jittering of fever. It was a hedgewitch charm, true — but one of such power and elegant simplicity I longed to learn it.

When she finished and took her hand away, I felt much better. Still heavy and weary, but free of fever for the first time in weeks. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be warm, dry, and able to rest in a bed.

I gathered my voice. “A magnificent charm. Would you teach me, m’dama?”

Her fingers stiffened slightly as she checked my pulse again. “You would seek to learn peasant magic? Of course, you’re a hedgewitch too. Some talent, but not enough practice, I wager. Too busy dancing pavanes.”

Her tone needled me. And yet, she had the right of it. “It made me laughable, at Court. Yet it does seem to be useful.”

Her mouth twitched upward into a smile. “A hedgewitch Queen. What a marvelous jest for the Blessed to foist upon us.”

“I am simply holding the Aryx. In trust.” I struggled to sit up. She pushed me back down, gently but with surprising strength from one so birdlike-thin.

“The first lesson in sorcery is know thyself. You cannot disregard that simple truth. You hold the Aryx, the Aryx is awake; therefore, you are the Queen.”

I sighed. Why must I have this conversation with every noble I encountered? Why would they not leave me be? “I did not seek this.”

“I would rather serve a liege who did not want the Aryx than a liege who killed to possess it,” the hedgewitch Marquisse said briskly. “Now, I’ll be dosing you with fevrebit and dantarais. You will no doubt hate it, but twill make you stronger.”

I made a face. “No doubt.” I sank back into the pillows. “My thanks for your care, m’dama.”

“My nephew admires your bravery, Your Majesty.”

“Tis enough,” Tristan interrupted. “She is wearied to death. Is there a point to this, m’dama Marquisse?”

“Do not bark at me, d’Arcenne. The point is, Your Majesty, you must accept what you are, or all of Arquitaine will suffer.”

“Cease.” There was a touch of a growl to the word, and Tristan took a half-step to the side, as if he wished to advance on her. His hands tensed, flexing, surprising me. I did not think he would ever strike a woman. “Later.”

The white-haired hedgewitch shrugged. “Your wishing it otherwise does not alter truth, chivalier.” She stood and shuffled to the fireplace, dismissing us with an ease that was almost royal.

“What—,” I began, but Tristan shook his head. Dark hair fell over his shadowed eyes.

“Rest for now, an it please you.” He settled himself on the bed, taking my hand again, running his fingertips over my knuckles. The touch made a strange warmth, very much like the hedgewitch charm, start at my hand and flood the rest of me. “A few days abed under the Marquisse’s care, and you shall be strong enough to start for Arcenne.”

There were more questions to ask. “The Guard. When may I see them?” I wish to know they are hale — and there is a plan to set in motion, as soon as I know the map of this province, so to speak.

“Tomorrow, perhaps.” He settled himself as if he intended to stay a long while. I could not say I minded. “When did you notice the spells laid to trap us?”

“Not until the Aryx moved to push them aside. I should have noticed…I ask your pardon. Twas foolish of me, and you all suffered for it.”

He laid his finger against my lips. “No. I did not notice either, and I should have. Tis an old trick, to slow an enemy.”

“Why slow us, unless they are following? And there was another spell, a darker one. It almost found us that night — when we heard the crashing in the woods, do you recall?”

He went utterly still, thoughtful. “Another spell? Twould not surprise me in the slightest. D’Orlaans has had much time to practice.” His blue eyes fixed unseeing on my face. He stood abruptly, tall enough he had to duck slightly under a bunch of herbfiet hung up to dry. “I shall return.”

I obediently closed my eyes and waited for him to leave. He did, and they flew open again. I stared at bunches of drying herbs, moving gently as the breeze from the open door touched them.

Something is amiss here. I must think, and plan, and—

But the hedgewitch came with a dollop of tisaine as foul as she had promised, and my worry fled before my fatigue.

Chapter Eighteen

The fever resurged over the next three days, fighting for me, but Risaine di Cinfiliet — her name sounded familiar, though I could not think of why — was a skilled healer, and by the third day when the fever broke for the last time in a gush of sweat, I was well on my way to mending. Risaine was marvelously patient, saving her sharp tongue for her nephew and Tristan, whom she disliked intensely — or pretended she did.

She treated me as an old m’dama auntie might cosset a beloved niece, cajoling me into eating, her voice soft but inflexible. Blotting my forehead, soothing me when I woke from nightmares — for terrible dreams there were, every time the fever crested, and Lisele bled in each of them.

Tristan visited, but he said little. He was unfailingly calm and polite, but he did not look at my face overmuch. Instead, he gazed at my hands, or at my knees under the blanket, or at the fire.

I must have looked dreadful.

By the fifth day, I could sit, shakily, in bed. I was sipping at a cup of broth into which Risaine had crumbled dried pungent fevrebit, grimacing a little at the sharp taste, when Adersahl and Jierre ducked into the low room. Jierre’s forehead was clouded with worry, and Adersahl’s mustache drooped a little, which alarmed me almost more than Tristan’s new policy of distant kindness.

“Only a moment, mind,” Risaine said sharply, following them into the sudden crowding. This house had only one room and a privy, and I had taken Risaine’s bed. She slept in a wooden rocking chair by the fire with a quilt wrapped around her more often than not, and chided me briskly when I begged her to let me sleep upon the floor. Fine physicker I would be if you caught chill after fever from sleeping on a Shirlstrienne floor. Do not be ridiculous, child. And I meekly bowed my head.

Jierre ignored her, came straight to the bedside. He gripped his hat in his hands as if afraid it would fly away did he loosen his fingers. “D’mselle. You’re well? Truly?”

“Not well,” I admitted, offering him my hand. “But much better nonetheless, chivalier. My thanks for your concern. What ails you?”

“Grim news, d’mselle.” Adersahl spoke as Jierre took my hand and bent over it perfunctorily. “There is word from—”

“No,” Risaine said sharply, from her position by the fireplace. She was preparing a tisane for woundrot, jars and jars of it. I did not dare ask why. “Let her rest for a little while longer, sieurs, an it please you.”

The lieutenant shot her a look that could have cut stone. “M’dama Marquisse. I am under my Captain’s orders, not yours.”