The Hedgewitch Queen

smoky light. He spoke his “So I will” in a clear firm voice, and I as well, though my hand shook and my heart did its best to free itself of my chest and go merrily running toward the woods.

The priestess, her fingers quick and deft, wrapped the cord around my wrist, around his, tied the complex knot. “Bound in the sight of the gods, let nothing separate your hearts now. One in thought, one in word, one in deed; be honorable, honor each other and the gods will smile upon you.” Her clear gray gaze searched first my face, then Tristan’s. The Aryx glittered, power sparking from the serpent curves, its gemmed eyes winking as the metal writhed, tiny scales rasping cat-tongue at my dress. “By my hand and my vows, I pronounce you wed from this moment. Go forth happily, and may peace be with you.”

“And also with you,” I answered, Tristan’s voice matching mine. It was strange to hear us speak in unison.

The priestess’s fingers flicked again, freeing us. She took the cord to Jiserah’s altar, up three steps. A copper brazier fumed there; she tossed the cord onto the coals. There was a brief burst of perfumed smoke, and Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort, in the eyes of the gods and the law.

My knees threatened to give. Tristan steadied me. “There,” he said quietly. “Was that so horrible?”

I bit back another shaky, relieved laugh. “I seem to be a coward.” My fingers tightened in his. “Tristan, she spoke the old vows. I—”

“I wished it so. There are those who would say that I forced you into a contract to secure a hold on power. There are those who would—”

“I would not believe them,” I interrupted.

He seemed almost to wince. “Then I am content. Gods grant me the strength to honor your trust from this moment.” He glanced up, his forehead furrowed. “Where did she go?”

“I should beg your pardon,” a woman’s voice came from behind us, echoing down the columned hall. “I am late, I know, but there was a fevered sister, and I had to wait until someone could relieve me.”

We turned to find a priestess of Jiserah hurrying down the central aisle, her green and white robes glimmering in the dim light. “I am Danae,” she said, her round cheeks scarlet as she puffed. “D’mselle, chivalier, pardon me, and if you will just give me a moment, we shall have the ceremony.”

“We already did. The priestess of Kimyan—” Then I realized the priestess had not given us her name. “The gray-eyed one. She was at the altar but a moment ago.”

Danae stopped short, her robes shushing. She had a round, pleasant face, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. “Your pardon, d’mselle. But we have no priestesses of Kimyan here. We have not for two years. There are two priests for the Huntress — Shoyo and Dijirich — but they do not perform weddings. We have none of Torvar’s Elect either.”

“Then who—” I turned to gaze at the statue of Jiserah.

As I did, the Aryx sparked again, the serpents moving. The priestess gasped and fell to her knees, her face open and transported. Blazing, shocking in the dark torchlit gloom, the statue of Jiserah pulsed with light.

I did not kneel — my knees were now locked. The Aryx filled me, a rushing tide of melody prickling at my skin, as if I were a fruit bursting at the point of ripeness, light and song and power straining at the borders of my consciousness. The doors inside my head trembled on the verge of opening, I sought to look away, to deny the power rising in me.

No. Not now. Leave me in peace.

Tristan’s arm fell from my shoulders. He sank to one knee, his face upturned. I knew this even though I dared not look, the light filling my vision. The statue glowed, scorched, sizzled, white marble running with life. Iron bands seized my skill, the brightness threatening me with the half-head — strong light is dangerous, it can trigger the pain swiftly.

As quickly as it had happened, though, it was gone. Welcome dimness returned to my dazzled vision, and the Aryx’s melody quickly faded, draining away. I sighed and sagged, reached blindly for my Captain’s shoulder. What was that?

“Tristan?” My voice was a pale shadow.

He rose slowly, his face tilted up to the statue of Jiserah, now mute and dark, only torchglow running over the marble. “Vianne.” Hoarse and pale, drawn and sweating, he seemed awakened from a dream. Or a nightmare. “Do you doubt yourself, even now?”

I found I did not know how to answer.

“I…I am sorry. Your Majesty.” The priestess rose behind us, I could hear her robes moving, cloth against cloth. “I think…” But she did not say what she thought, and I did not care to guess. “I did not know. Forgive me. I did not know you were—”

Oh, gods. This is the last straw the cart-horse can bear. “Not a word of this. I shall have your silence, m’dama priestess.” I forced myself to turn away from the statue, chills roughening my skin into gooseflesh. “An it please you.”

She was pale, her apple-cheeks now flour-white. And the way she gazed upon me was uncomfortable, for it was the same face I suspected she turned on the statue of her goddess during prayers. “But — but the goddess — that is a blessing, and you are the holder of—”

“No. Not a word. Your oath, m’dama.” My tone took on an unwontedly hard edge. “Swear by your goddess, not a word of this.”

She swore, finally, in a trembling voice, her gaze fixed on the Aryx, still shifting lazily against my chest. Tristan said nothing until she was finished.

“Do we ask for another wedding, then?” He took my hand. But his own fingers shook. However irreligious one may be in the whirl and glitter of Court, when the Blessed speak, tis wise to listen.

I did not know what this sudden light and strangeness meant. Later I would speak privately with this priestess, and discover what I could. For now, I simply wished to escape, backing away from the sense that a stricture had been laid on me, or that the gods had bent their gaze to earth and suddenly noticed the Seal they had gifted to Arquitaine was alive and in new hands.

Which brought me to the question of whether the gods had been paying attention to the King, his brother, and the tax farmers. And the bandit villages in the Shirlstrienne. And—

But my attention was called in a different direction. I rallied. “I suppose so. Though I might faint, if tis anything like the first.” Might? No. If that happens again, if the Aryx seeks to take charge of me again…but Tristan is here. Nothing can harm me if he is here.

Such faith I had in him.

“Twice-vowed, bound all the more surely.” Very quietly. “To be certain, Vianne.”

I eyed the priestess of Jiserah, who was still chalk-pale. “You do not intend to disappear as soon as the ceremony is over, do you?” I sought for levity. After the fantastical, laughter serves to smooth the fabric of life.

She shook her head, gravely. Her hood fell back, her gray-threaded hair lying sleek-braided. “No, Your Majesty. I am merely a priestess, and an uncertain one at that. The gods have pronounced their will; I can only follow.”

“Wise of you.” Tristan mercifully did not sound as sarcastic as I suspected he wished to. “Let us continue, then, before I lose my courage.”

The second ceremony was a little easier than the first. The priestess stumbled over some of the words, her eyes round as she watched the Aryx’s slow shifting. When she tossed the silk cord onto the brazier, the same puff of perfumed smoke burst free. I waited, nervous, but the priestess came down the steps, turning back to the statue of Jiserah to genuflect quietly, murmuring an old prayer and pulling her hood up to cover her hair.

It was a relief when it was finally over. We thanked her, and Tristan let out a long, jagged breath. “Shall we leave, m’chri?”

“Before aught else happens? Absolutely.” My voice was high and nervous now. I could not seem to take my accustomed tone. “There is a reason why I never went to Temple. Gods have a way of disarranging one.” It was something Comtesse Rochburre might have said. “I have no desire to tarry.”

I half-expected one of the statues to take me to task, but we escaped the Temple without mishap. Standing on the white stone steps, night gathering close, yet another shock awaited me. For when I raised my hand to greet the assembled people, I heard a cheer that fair threatened to shake the Temple off the mountainside.

The townspeople of Arcenne had gathered, drawn perhaps by the procession of armed nobles. Torches