The Hedgewitch Queen

Adersahl’s gaze met mine. I paused on the path, looking up at him.

“You are the Queen.” The stocky Guard did not smooth his mustache this time, but I sensed he wished to. As it was, he rested one hand on his rapier-hilt, and flushed like Tinan di Rocham.

I nodded, my chin set high. “Queen perhaps, but of what? A bare half-dozen of the Guard. I am not convinced of the wisdom of staying in Arquitaine for the Duc to catch us.”

He mulled this over, and I let him. Some chivalieri can be led to the water’s edge, and they will drink if you keep them there long enough. But all is lost if you try to force their muzzles down, no matter how thirsty they may be.

Adersahl was silent for a considerable while as we faced each other. When he finally spoke, twas in a level, serious tone I had not heard from him before. “Plague is spreading through Arquitaine. If the Seal is removed from the borders of the land of the Blessed, who can tell what will happen?”

I do not know the Aryx will allow itself to be so removed. Yet that is a problem I will solve when the time comes. “Tis the peasants who will suffer most,” I said quietly. “I find I believe they have suffered enough. What must I do, Adersahl? Whatever move I make, someone grieves, and there is pain aplenty.”

He cocked his head, and I saw strands of gray amid the dark curls. He was no longer young. “I do not envy you that. Yet I must say, if we are in your hands, I am content.”

I sighed, frustrated. Come, chivalier, I am inviting you to drink. “Adersahl, I am not fit for this.” I do not know half of what I wish to, and I cannot see my way through this tangle.

“Yet d’Orlaans thinks he’s fit to be a King. Can you guess why I would rather you ruled Arquitaine, d’mselle?”

For the love of the Blessed, stop being dense. I was about to reply, but the Aryx warmed against my chest. I stilled, my attention turned inward, seeking.

I heard the thunder of hooves, and men shouting. For a moment my heart leapt, thinking Tristan had returned; then a scream pierced the air. The copper of fear started to my tongue, and my hands turned hot and wet.

His face changed. Adersahl cocked his head, listening. “What is it, d’mselle?”

“I hear horses. And shouting.” I turned to retrace our steps, but Adersahl’s fingers sank into my arm, the sword-roughened hand of a Guard neither gentle nor overly harsh.

He shook his head. “Not the village. They will expect you there. Come, this way.”

I followed him, still stupidly clutching the bundle of washing. My emerald ear-drops were safe in a pocket. They were the only thing of any value I possessed, except the Seal, and the Aryx was not mine. Even if it was what they wanted of me, the Aryx is held only in trust.

Adersahl led me a good distance from the path. I heard steel clashing, and cries. Hooves resounded against the earth as fingers against a drumhead. It seemed a wonder he could not hear it; my skull rang as if the half-head was about to strike me in protest of the cacophony.

The elder Guard laced his fingers together, I stepped into them, and he lifted me into the branches of a tam tree, as if we were children in an orchard. He handed the washing up, and I clutched it to my chest.

“Climb, an it please you. I shall return with news. Here.” He lifted up a dagger that glittered briefly in the afternoon sunlight.

I leaned down, clinging to the rough bark, my damp braid spilling forward over my shoulder. “Surely tis not di Narborre?” My heart lodged in my throat. I felt like a fool the instant the words left me, for what else could it be?

He shook his head. “I cannot give you a comforting lie, d’mselle. Climb as high as you may, do not make a sound.”

I nodded. Tristan. Dear gods, let him be safe. “Be careful, chivalier.”

He made a brief noise of assent, then turned and ran back toward the village, with the step of a much younger man.

I clung to the branches, working only a little higher before my courage failed me and I decided to wait. It was a warm, bright afternoon, sunshine filtering through the treetops, a slight breeze carrying the faroff sound of something terrible. I heard one piercing scream and shut my eyes, clinging to the branches.

Risaine. Was she caught in the village? What of the shimmer of spells that kept this place hidden?

And Tristan. Where was he? Out searching for di Narborre’s tracks with di Cinfiliet. What of the rest of the Guard?

The noise grew greater, screaming and clashing steel. I clung to the tree, perched on a branch as thick as my leg, grateful the thick leaves hid me from view. But the foliage also obscured my view of everything but the tree. I could not look for danger or discover what transpired, even had I wanted to.

I rested my sweating forehead against the rough bark of the trunk, clutching at the bundle of cloth and the knife. Please let it be something else, not the Duc’s men. Please, let it be some other thing, some ordinary thing.

What ordinary thing could this be? We had tarried too long.

We? No.

I had tarried here too long, and others were paying the price.

The Sun had dropped in the sky, the light taking on a rich golden cast, when the noise finally ceased. Silence folded thick around me. I shifted uncomfortably. My body ached again — the aftermath of fever, hard riding, and now clinging in a tree. What a queenly picture I present. I had to bite back a laugh perilously close to panic.

What if night falls and I am still perched here? I listened as hard as I could. Heard only the wind through the trees and the sough of blood in my ears.

I had never noticed before what manner of silence falls with no human beings present. Since I was young, I had been surrounded by the clamor of the Court, barely a moment left to oneself, solitude grasped only in quick moments on back stairwells or a fraction of an hour hiding behind thick curtains. Even in my bedroom there had been a servant at the door, and Arioste and Lisele to listen for. Then with the Guard, I barely had enough time to find a moment for the privy — and during the day I was in the saddle with Tristan. Even in the village there were the constant sounds of human presence.

How many times had I wished for solitude, as well as the enviable freedom of men’s clothing? Now another of my wishes was granted in a way I would rather not have had.

I bit back another laugh.

The awful, ringing silence lasted through the afternoon, as I shifted every so often in the branches, aware of the deathly hush whenever the sound of trees moving broke it. Birdsong threaded through the hush, low and timid. Dusk came, purple and glorious. I saw a slender doe balanced on graceful legs wander by underfoot. I held my breath, my heart hammering, and she passed without remarking me — or perhaps being too mannerly to remark upon me.

Before the last of the light failed, I thought I heard more horses. I strained my ears, but the trick of hearing had deserted me. I could perceive nothing but the soughing of wind.

What will you do if anyone finds you, Vianne? You are a coward; you cannot spill an enemy’s blood. What will you do?

I set my jaw and peered down. I had climbed up too far to comfortably drop to the ground. I cannot tarry here forever. Night approaches, what will I do?

I was already moving, stiff and sore, dropping the bundle of wash. I flung the knife down too, judging its landing-point as best I could. I did not wish to land upon it and cause myself an injury.

I moved slowly, climbing as low as I dared. Slid my legs off the lowest branch large enough to comfortably hold my weight, clinging. The most terrifying moment was when I hung from the shelter of the tree, my hands slipping on bark, and finally fell. A moment of weightlessness, and I landed on the washing. My knee buckled, but I soon enough found myself unharmed and sprawled upon the ground, glad of Tinan di Rocham’s breeches.

I picked myself up, dusted bark and dirt from my hands, and spent a moment searching for the knife. My