The Hedgewitch Queen

No! Lisele! Do not!”

“Vianne!” He caught my wrists, held me, kissed my temple, I collapsed against him. “Hush, Vianne. I am here. Gods above, how did you bear it?”

It seemed I would never reach the end of weeping, not even as he kissed me, my forehead, my cheek, and finally my mouth. He kept repeating, over and over, that he was sorry, that he was here, and that I had nothing to fear. He took his time, gently, until the terror of the dream faded, replaced by the reality of Tristan d’Arcenne. His skin against mine, his hands sliding up my arms, cupping my face, his thumbs wiping away my tears.

It was the only defense against my despair, and I took it, grateful he was there to give. In his arms I could forget, however fleetingly.

And he was right — it was far better the second time.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Adrien di Cinfiliet returned a fortnight after my wedding, bringing dispatches from the road and the news that all was quiet. His small band of dusty, weary men had harried di Narborre forth from Arcenne, but I knew better than to hope the Duc’s dog gone for good.

Jierre di Yspres brought the news of Adrien’s return while I was at chai with the Baroness, and I hurriedly excused myself. Adersahl, who had accompanied me to chai in Tristan’s stead — since the Baron had wished his son’s attendance at a drilling of the Citadel Guard — paced at my side as I found my way down to the stables, a seething mass of activity.

I saw Adrien, his head bent together with a slim dark man — one of his bandits, I surmised, for he looked passing familiar and had the gaunt fierceness of all di Cinfiliet’s chivalieri. Tristan had told me some of the Arcenne nobles asked to ride with Adrien on his border patrols, and there was even a song in the lower quarters of the city, extolling his almost-suicidal bravery against di Narborre and the men hoping to bear the Duc’s authority as King into the province. It seemed a brutal business, cat-and-mouse ambush, but at least di Narborre had not wanted to stay in Arcenne.

It was a long way from the Citte, and di Narborre’s numbers were too few.

“Adrien!” His name bolted free, and the high note of a woman’s voice cut through the confusion of men’s cries. Di Cinfiliet straightened, pushing his ragged hair back from his silvery eyes, and a hot bolt of shame lanced me.

“My lady Riddlesharp,” he said as I reached him, giving the man at his side a nod. The bandit bowed his head and disappeared, and Adrien’s dusty horse whickered. “I hear you braved the Alpeis without me.”

His tone — informal, easy, yet not mocking — brought me to a halt just outside his horse’s stall. A stable boy pushed past me with a murmured apology, tugging his forelock. The heat-haze reek of horses rose thick to my nose.

“I did indeed, though I would rather not have. Tis good to see you, I thought—” My throat did not seem to be working properly. “You look weary,” I finished lamely. “I will not trouble you further until you have had lee to rest and break your fast. Do they treat you well here? What news? Are you well?” Risaine, I wanted to say. I beg your pardon, noble bandit, and I fear you will not give it.

His face changed, his lips thinning. Dust clung in his hair, and instead of the brown and green of the Shirlstrienne he wore plain, serviceable cloth, doublet and shirt and breeches, good boots that had seen hard use. Still, his hair was indifferently trimmed, and the weather had darkened his skin still further. “They treat me well enough; I am out riding the country more often than not. Arcenne holds its breath before the plunge.” His eyes flicked past my shoulder, perhaps at Adersahl, who had flattened himself against one stall door, staying out of the way. He had regained some little of his bulk, had di Parmecy, though the former glory of his mustache was missing. “I sent the dispatches up to the Baron. Tis a wonder any of the northern ones came through, the land is thick with d’Orlaans’s spies and dragoons.”

There was a fey gleam to his light eyes I did not know if I liked. Had I not been so quick at reading glances at Court, I might have missed the flash of sullen anger crossing his countenance.

“I am passing glad to see you.” Vianne, you idiot, he needs a bath and a good meal. He is thin as a Seivillia rapier. “I shall leave you to it, and speak with you anon.”

He caught my arm as I turned. “I would have audience with you, Vianne. But privately. There is summat I would say to you not meant for prying ears.”

My heart leapt to my throat. Risaine. “Of course. Have them bring you to my study in the West Tower when you are ready. I…” The words rose in my throat, were denied, and fell away. “I crave your pardon, sieur Adrien di Cinfiliet, and I would beg for it without prying ears as well.”

He released me, a faint gleam of surprise entering his gaze, and I turned away. Adersahl caught my elbow to maneuver me through the now-orderly confusion of horses being unsaddled and cared for. They had all seen hard use, it was evident, and were coated with road dust.

We left the stables, turning to the right, and Adersahl stopped as I did when we rounded the corner. The main bailey was full of echoes, and I leaned against warm white stone, turning my face up to sunlight reflecting from the pale wall towering opposite.

“D’mselle?” Adersahl sounded uncertain.

“A moment, an it please you.” My voice was thick. “I merely need a moment to recollect myself.”

He stood silently aside, as the noise inside the stables died down and Adrien’s men trooped off to the barracks set aside for their use. I closed my eyes, feeling my pulse in my throat and wrists. The Aryx sang, rippling under the Sun’s welcome gaze.

My shoulders came up, I opened my eyes, and I stepped back into the wagon traces of my duty. Adersahl said nothing as we wended our way back, for which I was grateful indeed.

* * *

The afternoon kept me occupied with plenty of work, the dispatches to be read — news was still not complete enough for my taste, and the country was in a roil. At least some news was reaching us, mostly from Tristan’s network of informers left over from his days as the King’s Left Hand. A cadre of sturdy Arcenne peasants had dispersed through the border provinces to spread our own news, and sent back by hook or crook such things as might be useful. In some of the provinces — Siguerre directly to the west, and Markui to the south, as well as Dienjuste with its fertile fields — the lords had declared themselves openly against d’Orlaans, and all manner of correspondence flooded in from them. The post service was also so far uninterrupted, which was all to the good. Whoever the Duc had appointed as Minister for that department had not tightened his grip sufficiently to cease deliveries to restive provinces.

Twas enough to make one’s head spin. That afternoon also saw the arrival of the cranky old Conte Siguerre, who looked me over and snorted something a trifle impolitic at seeing the Aryx against my chest on its chain. Yet the Baron recommended him, and once I had exchanged words with the hatchet-nosed man I could see why. He was disagreeable, true, but under that crust lay a mind both fine and loyal. As the beginning of my Queen’s Council, with Perseval d’Arcenne, he would do very well indeed.

I collapsed into a chair after he and the Baron had trundled off to dinner, rubbing at my temples. “Lock the door. As you love me, Tris, if I must listen to one more—”

Tristan shot the bolt on the study door, but he smiled. “My mother will wish to see you for dinner. And you gave a good accounting of yourself, m’chri. I have rarely seen Siguerre’s temper so sweetened.”

“Dear gods, you mean he had put his best boot forward?” I rubbed harder at my temples, seeking to dispel the headache. Twas not a half-head, but painful nevertheless. “I never dreamed this would be so disagreeable. Dispatches, proclamations, drafts, plans — I swear I shall throw the next set of papers out the window. Where does one find all this paper? Tis a wonder the forests are still standing!”

He crossed the comfortable, cluttered study, his blue eyes alight, and leaned over the chair to kiss me. Miraculously, the headache had abated by the time his mouth pulled away from mine. “At least there is an antidote,” he murmured. “Think of the maying bonfire we could build of all this.”