The Hedgewitch Queen

“Halt!” The guard sounded very young. I caught a glint — perhaps an arrowhead throwing back a stray gleam of torchlight, or a sword’s point, aching to cleave unprotected flesh.

I stopped, my head held high. The Aryx sang below my heartbeat, power sparkling in my blood. “Sieur,” I said, calmly enough. “Is this Arcenne?” I meant to inquire if Arcenne was still loyal, stopped myself just in time.

“Well…yes.” He sounded far too young, and far too nervous. I prayed he would not grow so nervous he arrowed me on the step.

“I must see the Baron d’Arcenne. Tis passing urgent.”

There was a hurried whisper. I could not see with whom he conversed, the shadows were too deep and the torches too few. Was there more than one guard? “The Baron has retired for the evening,” the young voice said.

“Wake him. Tis dire, and I am passing desperate.”

“Give me a name to take to the Lieutenant of the Guard, and he shall judge,” another voice came, older and steely. “Who are you, to disturb the Baron thus?”

Well, what do I have to lose? I had to swallow a laugh. “I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I bear a message from the murdered Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimesten to your lord, the Baron d’Arcenne.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

It took nearly an hour before I was brought to the Baron, and my nerves were worn past fraying. I had been up since before dawn and ridden in the wagon all day — and been fretting myself dry to boot. They searched me for weaponry and found nothing, since Adersahl’s dagger was still with the R’mini. Yet the men were kind, even if silent, and I could understand. If Arcenne was loyal, they had to be cautious — and if they were not, they would want to find if I truly was who I claimed, and could not have me bolting at a chance word.

The book-lined study was quite warm because of a roaring fire newly kindled. Leather ease-chairs crouched before the fireplace, a massive desk under a drift of paper and parchment, a tasseled Eastron sling hung on the end of one bookcase, red velvet drapes and a threadbare but priceless crimson Torkaic rug. Glowrock lamps in metal cages shed their soft silvery light, warring with the ruddy fire.

I chose to stand near the open window. Below, the lights of Arcenne glittered; torch, candle, and lamp. I wondered if the R’mini would suffer for helping me. Was Arcenne still loyal? And would the Baron listen to my tale? I could be judged as something other than I was, mayhap, even despite the Aryx—

The door opened, and I whirled, my skirt belling.

It could not possibly be anyone other than Tristan’s father. He had Tristan’s build, his faint sardonic smile, and the likeness was fair to take my breath away. My heart squeezed inside my chest. I swept a Court courtesy, momentarily forgetting that I was dressed as a R’mini.

He was tall and had blue d’Arcenne eyes, his face sharply handsome even if graven. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and his thick dark hair was salted liberally with gray. He carried himself straight, albeit a bit stiffly, and he wore boots and breeches and a white shirt that had been left untucked.

He also carried an unsheathed sword, its bright metal glittering. I tasted bright copper fear, took care to keep my face a mask.

“Who are you?” he demanded, with no preamble or courtesy.

“Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” I thought grimly that I could have introduced myself as V’na di R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan and perhaps gained a warmer reception. “I bring a message from Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin, lately slain by treachery. I have traveled far to escape the treacherous regicide Duc d’Orlaans, and if you are loyal to him than I am in dire straits indeed, Baron.” I paused, more to breathe than for effect. “I come also to ask for news of your son, for I sorely miss his face.”

The Baron stared, as if I had just announced I was going to turn myself into a fish.

I reached up slowly, keeping my gaze locked with his, and drew the Aryx out from my R’mini blouse. “Princesse Lisele pressed this into my hand as she lay dying from a traitor’s sword. She told me with her last breath to come to Arcenne. They are loyal in the mountains, she said. Sieur, I await your answer.”

With that, I stoppered my mouth, holding the Aryx up. The serpents stirred uneasily against my fingers, their scales rasping.

The Baron sheathed his sword. His expression did not change.

“Gods above and below. You are a fool.” He stalked across the room, and it took a great deal of my waning courage to stay still, my chin lifted, holding the Aryx as a shield.

He could push me out the window. I shivered. Or I could fling myself hence and dash out my brains, did he seek to imprison me for d’Orlaans.

Whether or not the Seal would seek to dissuade me, or even if it would fuse itself to my flesh again did I try to remove it from my neck, were two more hideous possibilities I did not like to contemplate.

He skirted the rug and reached me, and I noticed his hair was mussed and his belt-buckle askew. He must have been hastily wakened.

The Baron examined my face for a long while, and I suffered it. Then he dropped his gaze to the Aryx. He reached up, cautiously, and extended a finger, as if he would touch it.

I wished him much luck of the attempt.

A spark snapped. His hand flung back, and he nodded, shaking his fingers out. “Well,” he said finally. Nothing more.

I could never remember the Aryx responding in such a manner before, but none had sought to touch it before, either. I gathered my courage with both hands. “Sieur, is there any news you can give me of your son Tristan?”

He returned to a thorough examination of my face. I heard boots in the passage outside, low voices. Is Arcenne disloyal? If he is the Duc’s man I shall throw myself from this window-couvre rather than be taken captive, Seal or no.

The old Vianne would hardly have thought such a thing — and would not have been determined to do it, either.

His face changed. I could not call the transformation an easing, but neither could I call it cruelty. “How did you come to be here, child, dressed as tinkerfolk? Sit down, have a glass of wine, and tell me. Are you hungry? Perhaps you are.” He stalked for the door, opened it, and exchanged a few words with whoever stood outside. I sagged in relief. Possibly premature — who knew where his loyalties lay? — but I could do nothing more. I was in the hands of the Blessed, just as much as I had been among the R’mini.

In short order I was esconced in one of the leather ease-chairs by the fireplace, sinking into warmth and softness. Wine was brought, and flatbread, cheese, and fruit. The Baron settled himself in the other chair, his blue eyes steady. “Now tell me your tale. Leave nothing aside.”

I began with the passage, Tristan and the Minister Primus, the King asking my silence, then the conspiracy’s frantic unleashing. I told of Lisele’s death, and my hiding in the North Tower. I told of finding Tristan in the donjons and setting him free, and of our flight to the Shirlstrienne, the assassin in the inn, and finally Adrien di Cinfiliet’s bandits. I told of the attack on the village, how I found myself alone among the corpses, and of striking out into the woods and the great luck of finding a R’mini goatherd boy. More boots echoed in the hall outside, and I glanced toward the door, nervous, and continued my tale, with a brief account of traveling among the R’mini.

I spared myself nothing. I freely admitted how stupid I had been at all stages, how useless I had been to the Guard, how dangerous to the bandit village, and how weak I had been not to bury the dead bodies.

It bothered me, to have left them for carrion.

“And so, the R’mini brought me here,” I finished lamely. “As you see.”

He nodded, his fingers steepled in front of his face. I was hungry — the smell of the bread taunted me — yet I made no move to take any crumb. I sat bolt upright in the chair as if at a Court levee, forgetting my clothes and how I must have reeked of horse, woodsmoke, and tinker.