The Hedgewitch Queen

threadbare velvet ribbon it was tied to, and then felt at the pocket again.

Two hard lumps. My emerald ear-drops. Jaryana’s quick fingers must have slipped them back into my pocket. “Oh.” My eyes filled with tears.

“Vianne?” Tristan approached, cautiously. How he could move so quietly in such heavy boots was a mystery.

I wiped at my eyes with the flat of one hand, but tears still wet my cheeks. “Oh.” It seemed all I could say. If I had kept my vow to Lisele, I had broken one to myself — the vow never to weep again. It seemed I was made of water.

“Vianne?” he repeated. It was almost a shock, to hear him so uncertain.

I turned, held them up. Emeralds glittered in the fresh mountain-bright sunlight. “I offered these in payment for passage and they…they would not take them.” We do not steal from the poor, Tozmil had said, and I was poor indeed. I had nothing in the world to call my own anymore. Nothing except these baubles.

And your wits, Vianne. Though those are threadbare enough you may still consider yourself a peasant.

Tristan touched my shoulder. “Was it very bad?” And there was an awkwardness, new indeed in the Captain of the Guard. “I would not have had this happen, not to you. Not for anything.”

“Oh, I know. Yet if we were still at Court, Tristan, what then?”

He shrugged. “I supose I would still be gathering the courage to ask you to wed me,” he answered, matter- of-factly. “I shall order breakfast for you, m’chri. I suppose you cannot wait for a bath.”

“No.” I curled the medallion and my ear-drops in my fist. “No, I cannot.”

He smoothed the shirt over my shoulder, gently. Silence stretched between us, thin and glittering in the golden air.

His face was far less drawn than it had been last night, and I wondered still at the brief patch of gray at his temple. But the lines on his face had eased. His mouth now relaxed, a brief smile all the more precious because twas fleeting.

“I have never known you to lack courage,” I offered, tentatively.

“I find myself a coward when it comes to you, d’mselle.”

Oddly enough, a smile broke through my tears. I sobered almost instantly as well. “I thought you dead. I wondered what direness had befallen you.”

His arms slid around me and I leaned in to him, grateful for his solidity. For the first time, I embraced him as hard as I could. He kissed the top of my head, stroked my back, and rocked me slightly, as a nurse will soothe a child. I wept into his shirt, a dam broken and a storm unleashed, as if Lisele had just died. The numbing tension I had been wandering in snapped, leaving me breathless.

He held me until I quieted and produced a kerchief I used mercilessly, sopping at my streaming cheeks and blowing my nose. “L-l-look at this,” I stammered. “What a m-m-mess. I b-beg your p-par—”

“Oh, hush.” Gently, taking my chin and tilting it up. He looked relieved, the lines easing on his now-familiar face. “Tis no sin to weep, Vianne, when you’ve managed to survive conspiracy, armed attack, and the Shirlstrienne. I would be rather surprised if you did not shed a tear. Or many. That soft heart of yours.”

It eased me, as no doubt he meant to, but shame still curdled in my throat. I searched for anything respectable to say. “I suppose I should take a bath.”

“I suppose you should.”

“I smell of the R’mini.” Woodsmoke, the spices in their food, horse and oxen and the comforting breath of Jaryana and Tozmil’s wagon. When I washed it from my skin, I would be adrift again.

Yet there was Tristan.

“Did they harm you?” A mere whisper, his blue eyes intent and focused. “Tell me.”

“Of course not.” I sounded horrified at the very thought. “They are not so bad, Tristan. Fair enough, if a bit harsh. They asked that I work, and Jaryana taught me of their hedgewitchery. Tis passing interesting—”

“Trust you to find something to learn from even the R’mini.” He was definitely smiling now.

“Learn what you can, where you can.” I felt better, now that I had eased him. “Tis a Tiberian proverb; Catorus the Elder mentions it often. I survived at Court because I learned how to make myself agreeable. Even, it seems, to hedgewitch tinkers.”

“Not just agreeable, m’chri. But truly, did they hurt you? Were you offered any insult, any at all?”

Why? Would you seek to avenge it? I do not cherish that thought, d’Arcenne, much as I… “No. I am merely fatigued, and very happy to see you again. I missed you terribly.”

Between one moment and the next, the smile drained away. He looked down at me, his blue eyes shadowed, his mouth a thin line, as a hungry man contemplating a feast. That shadow was strange, and a thread of uneasiness worked its way through me.

“You missed me?” His seriousness might have frightened me, did I not know him.

Do I? I nodded, biting my lower lip.

“Missed me terribly?” he persisted, examining my face.

I nodded again, breathless, my heart racing. “I had awful nightmares.”

He brushed my cheekbone with callused fingertips. Why did he not look happier at the thought of my longing for him? He seemed pained.

How on earth did I come to be standing here in Arcenne, with Tristan d’Arcenne’s arms about me? “You look grim, chivalier.” Why did I always say the stupidest things to him?

“Not grim. Thoughtful.” He was bending down, slowly, his hand cupping my chin.

“Thoughtful—” I was about to say something silly once more, but his mouth met mine, and I forgot the very idea of speaking.

My hands crept up about his neck, one still clutching his sodden kerchief. I forgot the taste of morning in my mouth and the fact that I wore only a sleeping shirt. He flattened both hands against my back and pulled me against him, the Aryx giving forth a rippling thunderous melody. I had never kissed thus before, but it seemed I knew how, the knowledge springing full-born into my body, perhaps from his.

I had heard enough courtsongs to know what he wanted, and to know I wanted the same. I did not care if it was proper, or if manners were served, or if twas my duty to do summat or aught, as Drumiera would have said.

I knew only the man in my arms and the Sun through the window, and the blessed relief of a moment in which I did not need to plan, or think, or do. I merely existed, melting into him, with no barrier of duty to remind me of what I should instead of what I wanted.

Tristan broke away, kissed my cheek, my forehead, my other cheek. His lips traced my jawline and I tipped my head back, allowing all.

“Vianne,” he whispered against my skin. I could find no breath to answer him. “Gods above, you’re enough to make me forget my duty again, m’chri.”

“Duty?” I managed, blankly. To the seven hells with duty. What now?

“Breakfast for my lady Queen.” He smoothed my hair with one hand, pressing another kiss on my forehead. “Then to bring you to your Guard, so they can see for themselves you are well. And my father, and my mother. We must plan.”

“Plan?” I finally found my normal voice. “Oh, yes. That. We do need a plan.”

And suddenly there was business at hand. “Do you still require a Consort, Vianne? There is a Temple here. I do not ask for—”

A sharp pang lanced the region of my heart. “There is no one in the world I would rather have for my Consort. And my Left Hand.”

He nodded. But his expression was still serious, too serious. “You do not mistrust me?”

How could I? I touched the lock of gray at his temple. “And where did this come from, chivalier?”

He grimaced, an expression so unguarded it warmed me. He would not twist his face so where others could