The Hedgewitch Queen

yet in season. There were wild herbs one could eat, and I had a handful of cressten from a stream and two pom d’tirre I ate raw after washing them. I wished for a fire, or a cup of chai, or a bath. I had no skin to carry water — nothing but the knife, and the Aryx.

There was some small hedgewitchery I could use for survival. Court sorcery would make me the quarry in a hunt I did not have the skill to escape, and I shuddered to think of the doors of the Aryx opening inside my head, swallowing me whole.

And no Tristan to call me back from that golden flood.

I did not have a horse — nor would I have known what to do with one. My horses had always been saddled for me at Court, and riding with Tristan had not taught me to do such things. Yet one more thing I should have learned and had not.

My list of such regrets grew long by the time afternoon sent golden spears through the treetops.

I found another small brook and drank, washed some of the soot from my stinging face and blackened hands. I scrubbed with a handful of soapweed plucked from the bank, and felt much better even if my clothes still stank of fire and carnage. Still, I spent a long time laving my hands, seeking to wash the feel of slippery hot crimson from my fingers.

It did not leave me, but my hands grew too raw to continue.

As night fell I was well and truly lost, simply striking south for as long as the light lasted and stopping by the shelter of a tam tree. I built a small circle of stones and gathered what deadfall I could, deciding it was better to have a fire than to risk freezing to death — or being struck with fever in the middle of the Shirlstrienne.

The hedgewitch charm to light a fire produced a small flame I coaxed into life with handfuls of pinon needles. I soon had a small but respectable blaze crackling merrily away, and the smell of it — clean, without the reek of burning human flesh — was enough to bring fresh tears to my eyes.

I could not find a comfortable space to lie on, and it was cold and damp, yet I did manage to catch broken snatches of sleep, waking to put more of my small supply of wood on the fire.

I have spent many sleepless nights since, but that was one of the worst. I started nervously, bolt-upright, when an owl’s soft cry echoed in the darkness. Every slight sound I heard made me think of stalking men with bright swords, coming to make certain.

After the owl, I huddled with my knees drawn up, staring into the fire and thinking on Tristan. I would have given the Aryx to d’Orlaans without demur and wished him joy of it, if he could have produced my Captain from the darkness.

When false dawn began to paint the trees with cold gray, I doused the fire and was on my way, nerve- racked, stiff, and chilled clear through. The chill faded slightly as I walked south, again judging by the moss on the trees. There were hedgewitch charms for marking a path in the forest, but I could recall little of them.

And I did not wish my trail marked.

About midmorning, I began to see how silence and solitude could be, as Diodiorin of Scythandra stated, a balm for a troubled soul — or, as Euphorin of Thebim argued, could drive a person mad. I did not have to worry about assuming a pleasing expression or keeping my thoughts from showing, or about the length of my dress and the cut of my bodice, as I would have at Court. I did not have to worry for the Aryx or the safety of a few men mad enough to swear service to me. I had nothing to worry for but my bare survival, which was chancy enough.

Yet solitude also means nothing to distract the mind from chewing at problems as a dog will at a bone.

Where was Tristan? Who had razed the village? How did I think I could reach Arcenne without a horse or even a waterskin? Had the Guard been slain in a pitched battle and di Narborre’s troops come to level the place daring to shelter them? That seemed most likely. But then, where was Risaine — and Adersahl? I had not seen either of them among the…

Say it, Vianne. The dead. You did not see them among the dead.

I was bone-weary and stumbling by afternoon, impelled forward more by will than by any real desire to continue. I stopped under a pinon tree and slid down to sit between two great roots, leaning against the rough trunk. I closed my eyes for what felt a mere moment, and when I opened them again the purple of dusk filtered through the trees, and I was thirsty.

There was no water nearby, but — thank the gods — there was a hollisa bush. A handful of the tart, not- quite-ripe berries cut the edge of my thirsty hunger, and I cast about for deadwood to use as fuel.

I found very little, but I dragged what I could to the pinon tree and spent a few moments making a fire. Thanks to Risiane’s tender care I did not feel fevered, though my eyes watered fiercely and my strength ran away like water.

The Aryx pulsed against my chest, and of a sudden, as I was feeding fallen wood to the small hedge- charmed blaze, I was startled into thin, unhealthy laughter.

The Great Seal of Arquitaine, awake and active, the source of all Court sorcery by the grace of the Blessed — and I dared not use it. Oh yes, a fine Queen, standing idly by while a whole village of children, women, and old men were assassinated. I was even powerless to give them a decent burial.

All the royalty in the world is worth naught in the face of catastrophe.

My merriment sounded strange as it rose sharp and mocking, echoing through the trees. I laughed until I feared the sound of it, clutching the trunk of the pinon tree, my eyes streaming, my braid torn free and mussed, covered in soot.

You are mad, Vianne. Mad.

Mad I might be, alive I was still. But for how long?

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next day I found such luck I could hardly credit it. Just past the brightest part of afternoon, I found a meadow and six goats.

It may not seem much of an event, but it froze me in place, stock-still and blinking, wary of leaving the shelter of the trees. The meadow lay dappled with sunshine, spring flowers carpeting its knee-high grass, and I heard the tinkle of a bell before the flock came into sight, driven by a dark-eyed boy in rough homespun with a long hazel switch he used to prod the wiry-haired creatures into motion.

I stared as if seeing a Court spectacular, then hastily made certain the Aryx was pushed below Tinan di Rocham’s shirt. He would not like the condition tis in now.

I stared at the small peasant boy with his mop of gingery-dark hair and coppery skin.

Where there was a young boy and a flock of goats, there had to be a steading nearby — or another bandit village? Perhaps. I had little choice.

I waited for the boy to notice me, but he did not. He merely prodded the goats about and then, satisfied, flung himself down on a small rise in the high grass. One of the goats wore a collar with a tiny bell, the source of a merry tinkling.

I had just relieved myself behind a tam tree, so I was relatively comfortable, if still hungry. I watched as the boy appeared to fall into a deep slumber in the sunlight. I stayed in the shade, watching as the flock browsed its well-mannered way through the meadow. The boy seemed supremely unconcerned.

Now I was to solve the problem of how to approach him.

I cleared my throat with a small mannerly noise, moving out from the shelter of the darker trees. The boy did not stir. I forged ahead, fighting the urge to plunge back into the forest. Who would have thought the Shirlstrienne so full of people? Or am I in the Alpeis now?

I reached what I judged was a safe distance from the boy and cleared my throat again.

Nothing. He appeared asleep.

I tried it again, and then managed to speak. “Sieur?”

The boy’s dark eyes drifted open.

For a moment we remained so, one battered noblewoman in men’s clothing and one small dark-skinned goatherd boy.

“Cor,” the boy said finally, “you doan look li’ no demieri di sorce.”

A wild braying laugh nearly choked me. If he thought me mad he might hesitate to render aid. “That is