The Hedgewitch Queen

He left me standing on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was a large clothespress on one wall; he opened it and extracted a neatly folded sleeping shirt. “Here.” He pressed it into my hands and pushed me gently toward the watercloset. “Go. I will wait.”

I found myself in the watercloset, the door locked, a real privy and — oh, luxury of luxuries — a sunken bathtub. The tiles were clean, fresh drycloths sat folded on a rack. A glowing mirror showed me a dark-haired Arquitaine woman, utterly ridiculous in her R’mini braids. But my cheeks were flushed and my eyes glowed despite the circles under them. Tomorrow I shall take a bath. Relief burst hot and sharp inside my chest. Tristan’s alive, and tomorrow I shall take a bath.

There seemed nothing more to want in the world.

When I finally emerged, in a sleeping shirt that reached below my knees, my hair free of its braids, I made it only halfway to the bed, carrying a neat stack of my R’mini clothes. Tristan appeared from the sitting room and took the pile of cloth from me. “I suppose even the hedgewitch tinkers were charmed by you, Vianne.” He set the clothes aside on a chair, and it hurt me to see their threadbare state.

I looked longingly at the bed. Then I set myself to reassure him, if I could. “They were kind enough. They did not have to take me through the Shirlstrienne. They could have left me to starve.”

“Then I owe them a great favour.” He took my elbow and led me to the bed. A real bed, with crisp white linens and actual pillows, though twas thrashed a bit. I sank down gratefully. He pulled the covers over me and drew another chair I had not noticed to the bedside. “I shall keep watch. Sleep.”

“I did not mean to push you out of your own bed.” Or was I thinking I should sleep on a stone floor? Though I am tired enough not to mind. Too tired to care about gossip. He is alive, and here with me.

He shook his head, stripping his dark hair back. My eyes snagged on the patch of paleness at his temple. Had he worried himself into gray hair?

“Go to sleep, m’chri. I wish to watch over your dreaming.”

“Did I wake you?” My eyes drifted closed. He is alive. I am not imagining him. “Where were you? Where did you go?”

“Tomorrow, m’chri.” He said it gently, then leaned forward, took my hand in both of his. He touched my palm, held my wrist gently as a spun-glass figurine. My hand was lost in his. “I thought you dead, Vianne. Every day that passed killed me afresh.” His voice broke.

Where was the stern Captain, the one I feared? Somewhere in the Alpeis, perhaps, I had lost him. And gained instead this man, who called me “beloved” and worried for me. “Tis all well,” I said dreamily. “You are alive. Everything is better now.”

He kissed my knuckles, stubble rasping against my skin. “I feared you dead or taken. Everything, all for naught. I thought…”

“I feared for you as well,” I whispered in return. “I did not know if you still lived. It frightened me.”

“I will not leave you again.” His lips moved against my knuckles. Instead of heat, the touch filled me with quiet comfort. “I swear it, Vianne.”

For that moment, it was enough. He said no more, and nor did I. And again, there were no nightmares.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I woke slowly, in unaccustomed comfort. Curled on my side, hugging a pillow, I blinked at the fall of afternoon sunlight. Had I slept through the morn’s work? The wagons were not moving, and the world eerily hushed. Was there something amiss? Had an axle broken, or someone fallen so ill we could not travel?

I sat, of a sudden, clutching the blankets to my chest, and let out pent breath as I realized where I was. My heart, spurred into terrified pounding, eased slightly. I pushed my hair back from my face and sighed.

I was in Arcenne. I had done what I had set myself to do.

The Seal rumbled uneasily against my chest. I saw with no real surprise the serpents twisting against each other, straining, the copper serpent on top, now the silver. “Quiet.” I reached up with a trembling hand to stroke the medallion. It stilled, though still thrumming nervously, soothed like a restive horse.

Tristan was not in the bedroom. The chair was still by the bed, but pushed back, as if he had leapt to his feet.

I stretched, felt the sharp familiar bite of hunger under my ribs. Braced myself on my hands, luxuriating in the clean warmth of the bed, and tasted morning in my mouth, grimacing. My heart fair threatened to burst with joy.

I had reached Arcenne. I had accomplished what Lisele had asked of me. And Tristan was alive.

I slid free of the bed and padded barefoot to the window, stretching afresh with rare contentment. For at least this moment, I could rest.

From the casement I could look down into the middle of the Citadel: a white stone practice-ground to one side, a garden unrolling its lovely green to the other. I tugged on the lock and finally managed to open the window, breathing in mountain air still crisp with morning coolness — summer never truly overwhelmed Arcenne, I later learned. The heat and dust and close stifling air of the Palais and Citte did not reach here to the mountains.

“By the Blessed,” I said wonderingly. “I survived.”

I spent some time at the window, enjoying the view and free of any pressing need to set my hands to work, before I felt the temperature of the room change slightly. I half-turned to see Tristan, fully dressed and armed but hatless, in the door. He wore a plain dark doublet instead of the uniform of a Citadel Guard, but the tilt of his chin and the signet ring glittering on his left hand made it plain he was a nobleman, accustomed to command. His hair was still shorter than was fashionable for a chivalier’s. He had a fall of some dark mellifluous material over one arm, and he stared at me, his mouth a thin line and his eyes burning.

Have I done something wrong? I stepped hurriedly from the window. “Tris — ah, Captain. Good morn. I beg your pardon — I slept so late.”

He shook his head, abruptly, as if shaking away unpleasantness. I was suddenly acutely aware I wore only a sleeping shirt, and nothing else. I blushed from my toes to the crown of my scalp, a wave of heat rising through me.

“You were exhausted, Vianne. I expected you to sleep later, in fact.” He still stared outright, in a most improper way.

I shifted from foot to foot. “I suppose I should bathe.” Then I realized I had no clothes, save for the ones the R’mini had gifted me.

Idiot, Vianne. Have the shocks robbed you of all sense?

However, that seemed to bring him back to earth. “Oh.” He held up his arms. “We…ah, well. This is for you. Pere remarked you seem much my mother’s size, and she sent this dress and has called for her dressmaker to appear tomorrow. She’s looking forward to meeting you, especially since you’re a scholar of Tiberia.”

“Oh, gods,” I groaned. “Tristan, no. Not Tiberian verbs.” I doubt I could remember any past the first declension by now.

“Ease yourself, m’chri.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “A few moments, nothing more, since you’re weary from your journey and no doubt a bit stunned. Mere is very easy, you shall see. And my father would speak to you at length. We have plans to make.”

My shoulders slumped. I glanced back at the window, wondering if the R’mini had escaped the town and were already on the open road. I devoutly hoped so. I approached the pile of threadbare, brightly colored cloth he’d left on a chair. “Did the R’mini leave this morning?” They will not suffer, will they?

“Not a single one to be found in the city. Tis passing odd.”

Not so odd. Merely another thing to be grateful for. Perhaps they would escape the ill luck that dogged me.

I dug in the pile of clothing, finding my pocket and pulling out Jaryana’s gift.

Twas a small, flat medallion, gilt paint scored with a few peculiar angular signs. I examined it and the