The Hedgewitch Queen

searched the Shirlstrienne — as much as we dared. It took three weeks for Jierre to convince me to flee to Arcenne. He threatened to tie me to the saddle, and di Cinfiliet had some fool’s fancy of broaching the thinnest pass to Navarrin. We could not believe you could survive in the Shirlstrienne without even a waterskin.”

I am glad to see you, Tristan, but I wished you had listened to di Cinfiliet. It would do my heart good to know you safe in Navarrin, where the Duc could not touch you. “I do not know what might have befallen me, if not for the R’mini.”

His arms tightened. “I owe the tinkers my life, then.”

I leaned against him. “I did not know if you were alive or if di Narborre had fought a pitched battle with you, then razed the village. When I could not find Adersahl, it seemed I had to reach Arcenne myself, or die trying. For my Lisele.”

He paused, as if searching for words. “I would have had you wait for me, but you could not have known. I am simply glad the gods have seen fit to give me another chance at honor.” He had turned steel-hard, and I wondered at it. It seemed impossible he could be so worried; I could not imagine a dishonorable Tristan.

I did not wish to move, and there seemed no answer I could make. So I simply rested against him, content, breathing him in.

A few moments later, he reluctantly loosened his arms. “Come. We are late.”

“Late?”

“They are eager to see you again, m’chri, no less than I was.”

“They?”

“Your Guard, Your Majesty. Your Guard.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Guard was housed in a long barracks hall, and when we stepped inside Jierre let out a whoop and leapt from his chair. Cots ranged along either side of the hall for a distance. There was a space of long tables and benches, a fireplace with chairs and benches set before it, a large cauldron of something familiar-smelling bubbling over the fire.

I had missed the smell of their stew, without knowing it.

I found myself surrounded. Luc di Chatillon embraced me, Jierre kissed me on both cheeks, Tinan di Rocham, blushing fiercely, clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. The hall became a hubbub of shouted questions, congratulations, and oaths cheerfully yelled.

Though I have been greeted in many ways, I believe this is the welcome I cherish the memory of most.

I was hugged, kissed, buffeted from one place to another before Tristan gave a sharp bark of an order and the fuss died. I looked around the wall of leather doublets and swordhilts. I did not see Adersahl. Tristan offered me his arm, but I peered around Jierre, whose lean dark face held two tear tracks none commented on.

Adersahl sprawled in a low chair tucked almost behind the chimney, a deeply shadowed corner.

I looked up at Tristan. “A moment, please?” I had fallen into sharply accented Court Arquitaine again. The R’mini drawl so quickly fled my tongue, for all I still carried Jaryana’s medallion in my skirt-pocket.

An expectant hush fell over the Guard, broken only when Luc di Chatillon let out a sharp breath. “He is drinking himself to death, d’mselle.”

Jierre’s hand closed over di Chatillon’s shoulder. “Let her.” He nodded to me. Jespre di Vidancourt folded his arms over his lean chest, his blond eyebrows arched.

I approached Adersahl quietly, my skirts brushing the clean wooden floor. A scabbarded rapier lay across his knees. You could scarce see Adersahl’s face, but his shoulders slumped and he seemed frailer now.

Older.

I was less than six feet from him when Adersahl lifted his head. He’d lost his fine mustache. His chin and cheeks were marred with stubble, hollows lay under his eyes, and his gray-salted hair stuck up in wild tufts.

“Oh.” I could not help myself; I sighed. “Adersahl.”

He had a crock of something that smelled stronger than rhuma tucked into the crook of his elbow. “As you see,” he croaked, lifting the large jar slightly. I did not allow my nose to wrinkle, though the smell of unwashed man soaked in alcohol and stale sweat was enough to make even a seasoned courtier sniff. “Come to mock me?”

This may not end well. I searched for something useful to say. “I must beg your pardon. For I lost your dagger, chivalier, and you entrusted it to my care.”

He snorted rudely. I had seen no few men in their cups, at feasts or fetes, but this was some other type of drunkenness, bleak instead of gluttonous. “Lost’er. Slip of a girl. Too brave by half. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

His slurred speech was no surprise; he smelled as if he had drank a sea’s worth. It must have been valadka, that clear liquor that can make a man blind if overindulged. I strove for a gentle tone, no laughter or pity. “I should thank you. If I had not the dagger, I would not have survived.”

There was a fierce whisper behind me. I paid no attention, kneeling down, my hands taking care of arranging my skirts as they had not for months. The silk pooled about me, and I touched his knee with two fingers.

Adersahl’s weary, baleful glare sharpened. He was bleary enough to serve as a caution to younglings. “D’mselle? Duchesse?”

“As you see.” I found myself smiling. “You did well, chivalier. If not for your advice, di Narborre would have caught me. I barely escaped him, and would I have stayed where you set me, I would not have been lost.” The Aryx tilled against my skin, as a softly stroked bell. “Next time, I swear I will listen to you more closely.”

He blinked at me. “D’mselle?” As if he could not quite credit it. “Lost. You were lost.”

“Lost no more.” I peered up into his face. Give him a task, he requires summat to focus on. “I require your assistance, chivalier.”

He grunted, unimpressed, settling further into the chair with a creak. I could not judge his expression with any surety; the firelight was simply not enough to penetrate this corner.

I tried again. “I shall need every member of my Guard.” I leaned earnestly forward. “For the border provinces are preparing for war, and d’Orlaans will learn soon enough that I live.” I sighed, as if saddened. “And if my Guard is less than it was, I am sorely afraid I shall be in peril.”

Twas not very elegant, but Adersahl mulled over my words, some life stealing back into his shadowed face. He burped, and I was hard-put to stifle a gasp. Valadka slopped against the side of the crock as he leaned forward.

I took the earthenware jar from him. He made a grab for it, but I was quicker, having spent two months working among the R’mini, who prize dexterity. They had not taught me the secrets of R’mini thievery — I was, after all, still g’ji—but I had learned enough to keep liquor away from a drunken man.

Adersahl’s hand curled around his swordhilt. Tristan said something I did not hear, but his tone was fierce and cold.

“Not fit!” Adersahl half-shouted, harshly. “Slip of a girl! Dead in the woods.”

A chill spread through me. Very nearly, my friend. If not for a goatherd, you would be right.

“Chivalier di Parmecy et Villeroche,” I said crisply, “your Queen requires your service. Are you, or are you not, a member of my Guard? You swore your oath to me, and I call upon you now.”

Silence crackled in the barracks. Then Adersahl slid forward off his chair, going to his knees. He was near as thin as I was, a far cry from the solid, stocky man I had known. He still wore the crimson sash of the Guard, but twas soiled and dull. His cloth was sorely the worse for wear.

He presented his swordhilt to me. “Not fit t’be a Guard.”

“Nonsense. No more valadka, Adersahl. Are you a member of my Guard, or not?”