The Hedgewitch Queen

I found myself smiling, through the bitterness. “He would enjoy this, I think.” I could perhaps even persuade him to dance. That would be a sight.

She nodded. Her braids swung forward. “Lucky man. For a g’ji.”

The weight inside me lightened. When I made my bed that night inside Tozmil and Jaryana’s wagon, I thought of Tristan before I settled, pillowing my head on my arm.

For once, I had no nightmares.

Chapter Twenty-Four

They never asked me why I had been wandering the Shirlstrienne, and they never asked what I was hiding. Yet for the five days it took us to reach Arcenne on the Siguerre Road, I found myself in the wagon instead of walking outside, given bits of make-work to do when we stopped for the night, and kept in the camp. Normally R’mini settle on the outskirts of towns, but the R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan stopped their wagons a fair distance away. I noticed also they did not welcome strangers or the curious to their fires, but closed around me, keeping me from unfriendly eyes.

Golden late-afternoon glow spilled through slim, carved wagon windows as we approached the walls of Arcenne, and the troupe ground to a halt at the city’s Gate. I heard the sound of a deep male voice, questioning in Arquitaine. I had been among the R’mini long enough that the sound of my native tongue was strange.

Tozmil answered, a high, jolly tone. He would speak for all of us, and among the jan his decisions were final. He was, however, elected every three years. If the jan did not like his methods, another would take his place at the next Gathering.

That was something to think of seeing — the jans coming together, the young courting and the great dances where every R’mini from every corner of Etharial who could make it to their secret fastness participated…yes, I would give much to see that.

But I was g’ji.

I heard something about plague. My heart flipped inside my chest. I was alone in the wagon — the rest of the women walked outside.

A long, nerve-racking pause made my heart thunder. I wrapped Jaryana’s old shawl about my head, hoping it would hide my paleness, and the fact that I was not R’mini.

One of the women — I thought it was Mauryana — sang quietly, a R’mini ballad of the open road. There was a breath of magic to the song, the R’mini’s particular hedgewitchery. Twas dangerous, for if they were caught magicking the guards there would be dire consequence.

I closed my eyes. The Seal pulsed quietly against my breastbone. Please, I prayed. Let me in. This is where Lisele wished me to go.

Is Tristan here? I cannot hope. A hot flush scalded me. I found myself unbreathing, frozen, trembling in the wagon like a small animal in its burrow.

The Arquitaine man said something that must have been an affirmative, for the wagon jerked forward. I did not breathe until I was sure we were inside Arcenne’s high girdling walls. The sounds of a city pressed around me. Horses, bellowing oxen, wheels grinding, people singing, laughing, speaking. The Aryx turned to muted song against my chest.

Tis awake and stronger. What does that mean?

So I entered Arcenne in the back of a R’mini wagon like a thief, with the Aryx singing no less loudly than my heart.

* * *

Close to nightfall I found myself in the walled portion of the city housing the Citadel of Arcenne, at a fire with the R’mini. They were allowed to camp in an abandoned district, their wagons between a few boarded-up houses, the ground littered with refuse. For all that, they were cheerful as they went about setting their wagons in a circle and kindling their fires, just as if we were still in the Alpeis’s green cavernous depths. It was a comforting sameness.

My throat closed as I contemplated the stew in my bowl, staring as if I could see the future there.

Jaryana patted my arm and told me to eat. “Take you to the g’ji lord’s house. After.”

I nodded, my heart knocking anew at my ribs. What I would do when I reached the Citadel, I had no idea. I knew little of Tristan’s father, only that Lisele had judged Arcenne loyal. “Jaryana?” I held my bowl in both hands.

She raised her eyebrows slightly, her coppery face splitting into a very white smile.

“Thank you.” I smiled back. Twas impossible not to.

“Is he tha? Your man?”

I shrugged. “I do not know. He might be dead.” I was surprised I could speak the words so steadily.

“I think not.” She handed me another piece of the flat, sour bread the R’mini favour. “Here. Hav’more.”

* * *

There was but one gate into the Citadel, and it was closed and barred with iron. However, there was a smaller postern around the corner, with a man standing guard. He wore the uniform of Arcenne, a crimson doublet over white shirt and black trousers, the doublet blazoned with the black Arcenne mountain-pard clawing at the left shoulder over two broken arrows. The guard paced in front of the postern and retreated to an alcove, melting into shadow. He had repeated this operation twice so far.

The R’mini women gathered about me, whispering. There was some argument over who would accompany me.

I pressed the emerald ear-drops into Jaryana’s palm. “I shall proceed alone. Do not be caught here; go back to the camp.”

She gave me an arch look. “Your dress R’mini. Na’ worry. We can vanish. Here.” She pressed something cool into my hand as well. “Take this. Show to R’mini, we help you.” She leaned forward, her hand brushing my hip, kissed my cheek, then pushed me gently by my shoulders. “Go find him, V’na.”

I do not wish to find anyone. I merely wish to loose myself of the weight of duty. Oh, how I wish I could. “Thank you,” I said in my halting R’mini. “Gods smile upon you.” For their gods are not ours, and they do not speak of them to g’ji. “Thank you so much.” I could not stop repeating my gratitude.

They whispered together — someone protesting I should not be left to go to the g’ji alone, another hissing to keep their voices “down, idiots!” I drew in a deep breath and stepped out into the street. They went quiet and still, sinking back into shadow.

Good. Gods grant they do not suffer for helping me.

I was praying more and more, despite my Court upbringing. I hoped the Blessed were listening and well disposed. Though I could not make up my mind which was worse — that the Blessed might be taking an active interest in events, so to speak, or that they were ignoring all of us, including the King and his brother who had brought us to this pass.

My worn bootheels clicked across the paving. I slipped whatever Jaryana had given me into my skirt-pocket, a chill touching my spine as I thought of Lisele gifting me as she died. The guard at the postern had surely noticed me, a lone woman out past dark. I forded the street, deserted except for shadows. A few torches burned on the walls, their flames hissing with blue-sparking Court sorcery against the wind.

The Citadel was a massive chunk of rock, five castellated towers with arrow-slits, an outer wall with the buildings of the city squeezing up to it. Here in Arcenne there were none of the Citte’s graceful fictions — no, here the Citadel was a fortress, the lord’s castle, meant to withstand attack if the other walls were breached.

The Baron d’Arcenne’s seat of power, too, the ancestral hold of Arcenne. Had Tristan grown up in this stone block? Had he looked up at these towers before he left for Court?

I did not know, and the lack of knowledge obliquely pained me.

I was across the street before I knew it, Jaryana’s old shawl slipping down my shoulders, my run-down boots clicking on the white stone Arcenne was famous for.