The Hedgewitch Queen

He stared blearily, blinking, and burped again. “‘F y’want me. Pretty Vianne, pretty pretty Vianne. Slip of a girl.”

That, at least, is a hopeful sign. I shall overlook the flattery this once. I nodded. “Very well, then. No more drinking.”

“No more drinkin’.” He blinked and then made a quick motion. I felt the tensing of the Guard behind me to a man, but Adersahl merely presented me with his swordhilt again. “Owe you m’service, d’mselle. Accept m’oath.”

I touched his swordhilt with two fingers, keeping the crock well away from him. For I have learned well that a drunken man may be cunning when it comes to soaking himself afresh. “Accepted, Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche. Now, on your feet. Take my hand.”

He grabbed at my fingers, clutching his sword loosely in his other sotted fist. I found myself struggling to my feet, praying I would not take yet another blow to any grace I might have. If I fell to the floor now I would look very silly indeed.

We hauled each other up, absurdly, like overtired Harvest Festival celebrants. Adersahl steadied me and nearly fell over, so I steadied him in turn. “There.” I brushed his shoulders. It did little good, but he seemed to have a fresh lease on life. At least, he was upright now. “You look a trifle more proper. Perhaps Tinan and Jierre can help clean you up and put you to bed, and when you recover we shall have a long talk. Well enough?”

He would have bowed to me, but I kept his hand, so he could not finish and topple himself. “Well ’nough,” he mumbled, and twas a good thing Tristan was at my shoulder now, for Adersahl promptly lost consciousness and would have tumbled us both to the floor if Tristan had not caught him. Tinan and Jierre were next, taking Adersahl’s weight.

“Well.” I shook at my skirts with one hand, seeking to adjust their hanging. “I made a right proper mess of that. Will he be well, do you think?”

It fell to Jierre di Yspres to answer me. “At least he’ll not be drinking tomorrow. Tis a wonder to have you back, d’mselle, for he would not listen to any of us.”

“I am not sure I have not made it worse.” I looked down at the crock. It smelled awful — I have never been one for drink. Tristan deftly removed it from my hand. “Tis awful stuff, that.” I hope he did not swallow enough to damage his eyesight.

“Very.” Tristan touched my arm. “I must take you to my father now. We are late as it is.”

“Well enough,” I said. Jierre and Tinan carried Adersahl between them. The rest of the Guard stood, hats in hand, some of them grinning like fools. “Tis good to see you. All of you.”

“Good to see you too, d’mselle,” Luc di Chatillon said in the silence that followed. “We were fair worried.”

So was I, chivalier. But I may not admit to it as you can. The Aryx cooled to the temperature of my skin, no longer singing its muted melody. Yet I could still hear the music below the surface of my mind, like the song of earth and wind that made up hedgewitchery’s background. I was still thinking on this when Tristan led me out of the barracks.

“Well.” He closed the door, offering his arm again. “Miracles, again. You are more a demiange than ever. I cannot wait to see what sorcery you work on my father.”

I rather think him unimpressed with me. But we shall see. “Will Adersahl be well? He’s so…thin.”

Tristan’s face paled slightly, his jaw set. “He took it hard when we found the bodies.”

“The bodies.” My stomach flipped. Tristan guided me up a flight of stairs, going slowly. He kept his hand over mine, tucked in the crook of his elbow, and I found myself worrying whether someone would see.

As if we were still at Court, and I had to be careful of propriety.

“The women, of a certain age, from the village. When it was clear none of them were you, di Narborre ordered them killed.” Flat and cool, the same tone he had used when speaking of the dead peasants. “Twas not a gentle end. But it was none your fault,” he added hastily. “I would not have you thinking it was.”

“Gods.” My breath left me in a great swoop. I hurried to keep pace with him, and the sound of my skirts was a balm. I felt myself again with heavy material swaying, the brushing of fabric against my legs a familiar reassurance. “And…Adrien?” I meant to ask if Risaine had been found, but my mouth shaped di Cinfiliet’s name instead.

He shortened his strides, granting me a single indecipherable glance. “He and his bandits are on patrol, riding the borders of Arcenne. Vianne, Risaine sought to fight di Narborre and his men.” Tristan steered me down another long hall. “She killed two of them.”

Blood drained from my face. “Gods,” I said again. Blessed, grant her peace.

“Twas not your doing, Vianne.” Tristan did not slow further, but his tone gentled. “The fault lies with di Narborre and his master.”

“You are certain twas not another who—”

“There was no doubt it was the Marquisse.” Tristan stopped short, surprising me, and righted me as I swayed. This hall was bare and plain, racks of weapons along either wall, lit by glowrocks and pierced with shafts of Sun-arrows from high, narrow windows. “Look at me, m’chri.”

Tristan’s face was grimly serious, his blue gaze winter-chill and sharp. The streak of gray at his temple glowed in the directionless light, and it was obvious how the stone of this place was in his very bones. “There was nothing you could have done. If you had been taken, their deaths would be for nothing. D’Orlaans would be King in truth as well as in name, and I would most probably have killed myself seeking to free you from him.” He clasped my shoulders, not hard enough to bruise but firmly enough to hold me upright. “I would not lie to you. There was nothing you could have done.”

I nodded. But something deep-buried in me did not believe him. “Tristan—”

“Strength, Vianne. If you have none left, use mine.” He kissed my forehead, stroking my shoulders with his thumbs. Silk crushed under his touch. “Do you understand? Use mine.”

I nodded. I have been using your strength as my northneedle since this ordeal began. “I do not feel very well.” Twas laughable understatement, to say the least.

He paused, and I knew he was on the verge of suggesting I go back to bed. My chin lifted, my shoulders coming up under the familiar weight of duty. Twas a heavier duty than the one weighting me at Court, but I was robbed of choice. I could not swoon like an empty-headed Court dame now, taking refuge in weakness. After what I had endured, I wondered how much more I could bear.

If I am wearing the Aryx, I must be as strong as I can.

“Yet I am to meet your father.” I made the words as decisive as possible. “I owe your mother a polite greeting as well. Lead the way.”

Chapter Thirty

The sitting room was a surprise, dressed in light colors and decorated with silk pillows and pretty floral hangings. A needlework frame stood in one corner, a large harp in the other. The windows were wide and airy, since this room faced the gardens inside the walls.

Tristan closed the door and I found myself enveloped, two soft arms around me and a woman’s greeting-kiss on my cheeks in turn. “Oh, you poor child.” Soft and clear, a cultured voice. She had me whisked away from the door and into a seat by the fireplace, tucking a blanket around me. “Tris has dragged you all through the Citadel, has he not? Of course. Regrettable, that boy, just like his father. Not a thought for us lesser mortals. Oh, child, you’re pale.”

Tristan’s mother, her long black hair piled atop her head and threaded with pearls, twitched her pale green skirts back and sank onto a footstool. Her wide hazel eyes were full of merriment.

Her perfume was apple blossom and silk, a scent that reminded me of Lisele just as the harp did. “Baroness—,” I began, a pretty speech summoned from the recesses of my brain, but she held up one pale, elegant hand.

“Hellsfire,” she swore cheerfully, hazel eyes sparkling. I could see Tristan in the softness around her mouth