The Hedgewitch Queen

“Yet nothing.” Risaine screwed a jar lid on with a practiced, savage twist of her wrist. “Your task is to mend your health. If you die, the Seal might not have a choice but to land in d’Orlaans’s royal-bloody hands, and that would be a tragedy.”

Tristan watched me, his mouth a straight line, his cheeks — was he blushing? And what was that glimmer in his eyes? Fear? The world had indeed gone mad. I searched for something appropriate to say, found nothing.

“An it please you,” Tristan said finally, “I would speak with you privately, Vianne.”

What now? Do you wish to take me to task, Captain? Why do it in seclusion? Your hand is strengthened by two of your Guard here, one of whom has no doubt told you of my idea of escaping you. I nodded, struck speechless, my wits racing to catch up. Recollected myself with an almost physical effort. “Jierre — my thanks for the news. I think I should speak with the Captain, indeed.”

“That you should.” Jierre left with a hurried bow, and Adersahl followed him, turning once to glance back at me. It was a meaningful look, but what it meant I could not say.

Risaine chuffed out a sigh, setting the jar down with a click. Today she wore an overdress of blue, and it suited her pale hair. “I suppose you wish to throw me out of my own house.”

“Stay and hear a private conversation, as you like.” Tristan did not look away. His eyes were so infinitely blue, I wondered for a mad moment if everything he saw was tinted with skyshade.

Risaine replied with a cheerful curse she might have heard from a Guard and left, shaking her head. She pulled the door to, and I heard her speaking outside, a low fierce tone — probably scolding Jierre.

My mouth was dry as sand. “Is this true? And what else, by the Blessed? What now?”

“Tis as true as I can tell.” He sighed and settled himself gingerly on the bed at my side, setting the cup away. “Di Narborre comes, and the fool of a bandit thinks the woods and a hedgewitch’s muttering will hold him back.”

I am a hedgewitch too, Captain, and I kept us safe for a short while. Still, that is not the most pressing matter here. “Tis not what angers you. It angers you that the Duc thought to proxy-marry me. You did not anticipate that.”

Amazingly, he dropped his head. I caught a flash of anger on his face, wondered why I could suddenly decipher his feelings so easily. “True. I should have thought — should have planned—for such an occasion.”

“Is it true, that if I contract a liaison and make it public, that a proxy marriage will not hold?” I wished suddenly I had spent some time studying Arquitaine law instead of Tiberian verbs. Of course, our legal code is built on the foundation of Tiberia. It took Graeca to make art, and Tiberia to make law, as the proverb went.

I held myself in readiness, watching d’Arcenne. Waiting for him to indicate what dance he intended to lead us into, since he had gone to such trouble to clear the floor.

Tristan shoved one hand back through his hair. It rumpled him most fetchingly. “Vianne—”

Answer me, Captain. Why is this so difficult? “Is it?”

His words spilled out in a rush. “Tis true. You hold the Aryx, you must be wed in person. The law dates from the Angouleme’s time.”

Relief so intense it curdled my stomach made me sag against the pillow. I chose my next words carefully. “Good. I think tis time I made some decisions. Jierre said twas time for me to use my sharp wits to keep us all alive, and perhaps he is right.” Come, Captain, perhaps I should do the leading in this pavane. You are not as graceful as is your wont today.

“Jierre is a fool.” Tristan dropped his head forward into his hands. “Vianne, I…”

It frightened me, seeing him thus, his shoulders bowed, holding his head as if he was mazed with grief. Did he not wish to take me to task, then? What game was he playing?

Perhaps there is no game. I hardly dared credit it. Hesitant, I touched his shoulder, and he leaned into my hand. The bed creaked slightly.

He is accepting comfort, at least. My throat was still sand-dry. “He’s a sharp- witted fool, to have chosen you for his Captain.”

“Mistake after mistake, I have been so blind.” His voice was muffled, choked. Was he weeping?

If he was, dear gods, how could I stand it? “Oh, no.” I pulled at his shirt, a tiny tug as if to make the fabric hang aright. “Tristan? Please.”

He tore away from my touch, bolting to his feet. Stood, shoulders hunched, staring at the fire, his broad back to me. The Aryx rang under my skin, distress and an electric pain spilling from warm metal into my bones.

Or perhaps mine was the pain, and I shared it with the Seal.

I watched, pulling my knees up under the blankets, a lump blocking my dry throat, all thoughts of intrigue fled. “Captain,” I whispered. How do I make this right? I do not know, and yet I must. “I need your strength. If you cease now, I do not…I do not know what I shall do. Please, Tristan.”

“How can you trust me?” The shout took us both by surprise. He rounded on me, his bootheel grinding sharply into the sweet-fairthwell Risaine scattered on her floor. His cheeks were wet, his blue eyes blazing. “I sent you to the Princesse, and almost caused your death. I was caught and you—you—had to come down into the donjons and fetch me like an errant child. And I have done nothing but make mistake after mistake. I almost cost you your life. That is not the worst. I am a traitor, Vianne!”

You hold yourself to such a fierce standard, Captain. It will break you, unless I hold you back somehow, like a horse that will run itself to death. I do not know how to rein you.

Yet rein him I must. For as little as I liked the idea of his casting me aside the instant I did not serve his revenge, I found I liked the sight of his grief and shame even less.

My hands turned to fists, and my heart gave a painful shiver inside me. “You saved my life,” I pointed out calmly enough. “If you had not sent me to Lisele, d’Orlaans would have the Aryx at this very moment. If you had not given me the keys, I could not have hidden in the North Tower…and if not for you, your lieutenant would have left me behind on the Mont. You have kept me safe so far, and I—” Tears rose to choke me. Oh, Vianne, calm him. He is fearfully upset, and likely to do some damage to everything. “Please, Tristan!”

I did not say what I wished to say. I am frightened, I longed to shout. I am frightened, and I do not know what I have become. You are the only safe thing in this madness, even though you are more dangerous to me than you can possibly know.

He tipped his head back, his jaw working, his cheeks powder-white.

Come, Vianne. Tell him. Give him some hope, and stop being such a dimwitted frippet.

When I could speak over the tears seeking to force their way out, I found I knew what to say. There was only one possible avenue to take. “You are the Captain of my Guard. And my Left Hand — and future Consort. I need you.”

That managed to get his attention, at least. His chin came down, his jaw dropped slack, and he stared at me gape-mouthed, like a Festival fool.

“How do you not know?” I tried again. “If there is one man in Arquitaine I can trust, Tristan d’Arcenne, tis you.” I held his gaze, willing him to understand. My heart twisted afresh. Give him strength. If he feels aught for you at all, use it to help him! “I need you,” I whispered. “Please, do not leave me adrift.”

Tristan laughed bitterly. “What makes you think I would leave you, Vianne? Leave the only woman I have ever—” Maddeningly, he shut his mouth so quickly I was amazed his teeth did not take a piece of his tongue. But his cheeks were no longer so pale, and he was no longer shoulder-slumped and desperate. Instead, his fists clenched at his sides and his gaze blazing, he looked far more like the man I knew.

Or thought I knew, enough to save him from himself. At least, for the moment.

I smoothed the blanket over my knees, as if it were a silken skirt. I do not think you are the kind to give an empty promise. My heart throbbed painfully. Do not let me embarrass myself, gods, please. “Is it that you do not wish to be my Consort?”

It seemed to be exactly the right thing and the wrong thing to say. It broke him