The Hedgewitch Queen

d’mselle.” He laid particular stress on the our, and pushed past Tristan, their shoulders striking. “Besides,” he said as he walked away, his bootheels clicking, “I look forward to the day all is revealed.”

He vanished into the darkness at the other end of the gallery. There was a soft sound as the door to the bailey opened, his gaunt figure silhouetted for a moment against the purple dusk outside.

Jierre relaxed a trifle, his shoulders dropping. I drew back further, behind the arch, and prayed they would not notice me.

“It can be arranged,” di Yspres said after a long silence. “Captain?”

What can be arranged? Are you asking what I think you are, Lieutenant? Another long pause. My heart was bitter in my throat. Be logical, Vianne. They do not like each other at all. Yet there is somewhat else here. What am I to think of this? I am spying in a corner, and I do not know what occurred before I came along.

It could not have been much; I had run to catch Adrien. What had I missed?

“He is useful enough.” Tristan’s tone had taken back some of its wonted warmth. He did not sound so furious now. “For now. Our concern is d’Orlaans, not a backwoods bandit.”

“The Queen?” I heard faint sounds, their boots on stone. Were they coming toward me, or away?

“She has worries enough.” Now Tristan sounded heavy, and weary. “I would not add one more.”

Are they coming toward me, or going away? Please, gods. The Aryx cooled against my skin, its muted song threading through my head. I reached up, clutching at the Seal and the velvet of my bodice, one hard supple curve against my thumb.

“I do not think she will break,” Jierre said.

Away. They were moving away. I slumped against the wall. Tristan’s reply was almost too far away to be distinguished, but I strained my ears.

“She may not break, but I would shield her from all I can. Come, I am due at dinner.”

I stood there trembling, the chill of stone seeping through my dress. Copper filled my mouth.

I must take care to keep them apart. For if the man I loved and my only remaining kin came to blows, what would I do? True, I had just discovered my kinship with Adrien, and I could not weigh him against my Consort.

Still, they had both sheltered me, in their fashion.

I would shield her from all I can. The words made my heart turn warm and soft inside my chest. Men flung harsh words at each other sometimes, and they were both weary and strained.

You are not such a mystery to me as you are to our d’mselle.

It meant little, for Tristan was not a mystery to me. Or if he was, he was the mystery of a man I wished to spend my life decoding. He was my Consort.

All the same, I wished the Aryx had chosen Adrien. If I let it take me, if I wandered through those doors of sorcery, could I find the one that would teach me how to shift this burden from my shoulders?

And onto his? You would wish this on anyone?

Perhaps not, but certainly he was better fit for it. Why the Seal persisted in this folly was beyond me.

I gathered myself as best I could and retraced my route to the turning that would take me to Silvie’s sitting room. I could not speak of this, and there would be no need to, as I suspected Tristan would not, either. I would merely resolve to keep him and Adrien separated. It should not be too hard.

An uncomfortable thought remained. Were I called to intervene, I suspected I would choose my Captain. I had lived without kin before.

I did not wish to live without my Consort.

I was right. Two weeks passed, and Tristan made no mention of Adrien. I was glad of it, and held my own peace.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The door flung itself open, banging against the wall with a violence that gave my heart an ugly shock. Jierre di Yspres strode into the room, a scroll clutched in his fist. “Your Majesty. News.”

“Dear gods. What?” I gained my feet, paper shuffling on the tabletop. Tristan’s hand eased itself from his swordhilt, and I noticed how he was suddenly between me and the door. How quickly had he moved to set himself there?

“A message.” Jierre strode grimly through a square of sunlight from the open window. Tristan’s father had offered me the use of Arcenne’s library, a pleasant book-walled room that looked out onto the garden, once it became apparent the study was far too small. I was glad of it, for every day seemed filled with nothing but paper and unpleasantness — dispatches, reports, decisions to make, Councils to attend. It was small wonder the King had only rarely attended to his daughter — if he had been choked with this much paperwork I did not much blame him. “From the traitor himself, d’mselle, and addressed to you.”

What now? At least tis a scroll and not an army. I took the offending article with numb fingers and looked at Tristan. “I think your father had better hear of this.”

“Aye. Take word to my father, Jierre. Tell him to bring who he sees fit. Where is the one who brought this?” Tristan’s eyes were hard and cold as late-winter frost.

“A Messenger. Held under Guard, awaiting the Queen’s pleasure.” Jierre’s eyes were as cold as Tristan’s.

“Offer him no violence. Be as courteous as you can; I shall wish to speak to him.” I held di Yspres’s gaze for a few moments, measuring him. “Feed him, stable his horse, and tell him he will spend the night at our hospitality. Not one hair of his head is to be harmed, di Yspres, but keep him under guard.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” He assented with a small bow.

I looked at the scroll thrust into my hands while Jierre saluted and ran for the door again. It was tightly wound, sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of the Lesser Seal, two serpents twined in a dagger, with d’Orlaan’s personal device below it — another serpent, crowned.

I broke the seal, cracking the red wax.

“Vianne?” Tristan’s hand rested on his swordhilt. “It may hold some unpleasantness.”

I would smell a killspell strong enough to anchor itself to parchment, my darling. I did not say it, contenting myself with misunderstanding him. “Tis said to be for me. I might as well read it.” I unrolled it, the crackle of parchment oddly loud in the hush.

It was written in a fair, clear script, in archaic High Arquitaine.

To Our Best-Beloved Niece and Best-Beloved lady of the Realm of Arquitaine, Duchesse-Royale Vianne di Tirecian-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, Our greetings and most perfect love.

We have received an ill-considered proclamation, in which the lies of rebels have been spread, purporting to come from your mouth. We say unto you that We do not believe you would in truth flee the justice of the King of Arquitaine. The murderous regicide Tristan d’Arcenne hath kidnapped you and forced you to his will in an alliance most unwise. Therefore We say unto you, We demand your release from the treachery of Arcenne and your safe transport to Our Capital, where We shall welcome you as Best-Beloved Consort. The fury of Our anger will be unleashed upon the traitors of Arcenne unless your merciful intercession spares their lives. Your release is demanded immediately and your presence in the Citte d’Arquitaine is requested no later than the third day of the fourth month of the Year of the Stag.

By Our hand, bearing great love for you, signed and sealed, His Majesty Timrothe Alonsin di Tirecian- Trimestin, Duc d’Orlaans, Comte di Tavrothe, Marquis di—

I did not go through the list of pointless titles. “Well. He must think I am very stupid.”

I handed the parchment to Tristan, whose eyes had not moved from my face the entire time. He scanned it, twice, then flung it down on the table with far more violence than necessary.

I did not flinch. I had thought perhaps this would displease him.

“He addresses you thus, knowing you have a Consort,” he said through rage-gritted teeth. He was pale, and his eyes blazed.