The Hedgewitch Queen

fingers finally closed on the hilt, and I took a deep breath. Adersahl had told me to stay, but how could I? He would have returned by now, if…

I shied away from the thought.

It took a little doing to find the trail to the brook. Once I found it, I stood, irresolute, in the shelter of a pinon tree, sweet, pungent sap dyeing the air with scent. I needed the privy, and if any of the women had been doing washing, perhaps some of them had survived?

I thought this, and then turned miserably toward the village.

I had to know.

I relieved myself behind another tam tree and picked my way back to the path just as dusk deepened and cool evening wind began to sing among the trees. The path was a little more difficult to traverse this way, for I had to force my way up a slight hill and remain poised to dive into the scant undergrowth at any moment.

It seemed to take forever, and burning choked the air the closer I drew to the buildings. Thick acrid smoke drifted between the trees, full of a sick roasted sweetness.

I found myself on the outskirts of the village, hearing crackling and snapping sounds.

I forgot soon enough to shrink back into the undergrowth. There was nothing left to hide from. Risaine’s shimmering curtain of hedgewitchery, drawn close to the village and encompassing the washing-stream, had evaporated.

Mounds of char that had once been houses now lay in smoking ruins. I did not vomit when I found the first body — it was a child, a child, so small — but twas only because breakfast had been so long ago.

It seemed a lifetime.

Hot bitterness rose in my throat. The sickly smell was roasting human flesh. I retched once, twice, and wandered from place to place, one hand across my rebelling stomach and the other clutching Adersahl’s dagger. I had not smelled the smoke because the wind had blown it away from my hiding place.

I found nothing living. Even the dogs had been slaughtered, most with arrows buried in their flesh. I saw faces that were half-familiar from my stay, each one a fresh scar upon my heart. The smallest, sodden bodies were the worst.

I found Risaine’s house, simply a smoking skeleton by now. There was no sign of Risaine’s body, though I circled the fuming wreck to be sure.

Night fell while I wandered, dazed, from flaming house to broken house. The trees had not caught fire, still wet from the spring rains. At least I would not have to worry about the entire forest burning down about me.

I realized I had seen none of the Guard among the dead. Nor had I seen Adrien di Cinfiliet and most of the quiet, thin bandit men who followed him about. The dead were women, children, dogs. The few elderly peasants who stayed in the village.

None of Tristan’s Guard. No sign of Adersahl. None of the bandits hale enough to fight.

What this meant, I could not fathom. I sank down before Risaine’s burning cottage under the spreading willum tree, the crackling of flames echoing in my head. The tree’s questing fingers that had made a veil over Risaine’s roof were scorched now, curling back singed from the heat.

Dead, all dead. Death followed me like a swain from a courtsong, dogging my steps. Inviting me to dance, then turning away to strike elsewhere.

I wept until full dark descended and the only light was a venomous glow from the smoldering ruins. Then I crept to the rear of Risaine’s house and sat with my back against the willum tree, my knees drawn up and the knife clenched in my nerveless fist. If di Narborre came back, I would strike however I could. I would not let them take me.

What will you do tomorrow? I asked myself. Tis imperative you think, Vianne, you witless worm.

Bury the dead as best I can, then strike south for Arcenne, even if that route is watched. I must keep the Aryx from the Duc. Such a thing as this must not happen again.

My free hand rose, touched the Aryx under my shirt. “Tristan,” I whispered. The Aryx’s pulse under mine was strong and steady.

Women, children, even animals, murdered. My presence had brought the attentions of di Narborre upon these people, whose only crime was to shelter me.

I wiped slick wetness from my cheeks with one soot-blackened hand. I do not know how long I hunched there, sobbing, watching the smoke and flames through blurring eyes. My neck ached, my knees throbbed, my shoulders tight as ship’s cables. I finally fell into a troubled doze, clutching the dagger, waking every time I thought I heard a footfall.

Each time I woke, I repeated to myself, No more. I will not allow this.

Never again.

The Traveler

Chapter Twenty-One

When dawn broke I wandered from house to house, wondering how I would bury them all. The ground was full of tree roots, and I searched, and I searched, but I could not find aught even resembling a shovel. By midmorn I was hungry, and far more terrified than I thought possible. I had not realized how much I depended on Tristan to tell me go here, or do thus. Even at Court, I was at the mercy of Lisele’s schedule and the stifling etiquette, the propriety, the iron strictures of what could and could not be done.

Think, I scolded myself. Think, you brainless ninny! Think!

I stood at Risaine’s shattered house — I always seemed to return to her door — and hugged myself, cupping my elbows in my hands. There was not a single thing living in the bandit village. Deep hoofprints scored the earth, but I had no skill at reading or tracking such things.

Where is Adersahl? I had not seen him among the dead.

I shivered. Di Narborre’s orders were to capture, not kill me — or were they? What could have spurred him to level this hidden village? Or was it someone else, some other enemy?

Faint hope of that, Vianne. This is your doing, as surely as if you had ridden and slain with your own hands. The blood is on you, it will not wash away.

It will never wash away.

I took the dagger Adersahl had left me, and a square of smoke-darkened cloth pulled from a drying line and trampled into the ground. I wrapped the dagger in the cloth and tied it to my belt, then paused, staring at the wreck of the village.

“Forgive me,” I pleaded, my voice thin in the morning birdsong and the soughing of wind brushing treetops with a velvet glove. “I would bury you decently, as you deserve, but I can find no shovel, and I must reach Arcenne. I cannot brave the path to Navarrin, and must take my chances.”

I waited, but of course no answer came. I judged which way south stood by the moss on the trees and the slant of sunlight — being a hedgewitch was good for something; my heart twisted to think of Risaine — and struck out for the southron edge of the village. This took me through a haze of smoke, and before I realized it I was running, tripping over scattered, broken things and dodging through arrows stuck in the earth. I did not stop my flight until I plunged into the trees, hot salt water streaking my face again, though I had thought I had no more tears left.

* * *

I walked steadily through the day, aiming south as best I could, occasionally coming across a berry bush not