The Hedgewitch Queen

I smoothed my skirts — pale green watered silk, cut to my measure by the Baroness’s eagle-eyed dressmaker; it was a never-ending relief to be clothed properly — and took measure of my Consort.

I had never seen him this livid. His eyes flamed blue, his jaw seemed made of steel, and the air around him swirled with tension.

“He cannot afford to acknowledge that I took you as a Consort of my own free will,” I pointed out. “And now he knows where the Aryx is, and how it came to me. I wonder if he truly thinks you hold me against my will.”

Tristan paled. Two fever spots of color burned high on his whitened cheeks. “He has dared insult me for the last time, Vianne. I swear by the gods I will—”

“Tristan!” I am not ashamed to report that I yelled. He stopped short, staring at me, his eyes infernos of chill blue. “Tristan, m’cher, my darling, please. Halt your tongue before you utter an ill-considered oath.”

I think it was the first time I dared to say anything of the sort to him.

Amazingly, he shut his mouth with a snap. Nodded, once. His fingers wrapped so tightly around his swordhilt I could almost feel the bloodless aching in my own hand.

I heard a slight cough outside the door — one of the Guard. From the open window came a breath of sound — shouting from the practice-ground, the clash and clatter of an afternoon weapons-drill. An idea struck me. “Does it occur to you, m’cher, that this missive is not necessarily sent to entice me back to the Citte, but to drive you into a rage? He must know that I saw the carnage in Lisele’s rooms, though he may not know you were with me when the trap sprang, and therefore I have proof of your innocence.”

Tristan started, almost as if struck, but I looked down at the table, lost in thought. “I think tis likely he considers me a pawn and you his real opponent.” I studied the scroll, lying innocently on the table over a pile of dispatches from the Baron di Timchaine, Arcenne’s neighbor shared with Siguerre. “If he ever guessed at Court you had any regard for me—”

Tristan drew in a deep breath. “It seems your open secret was royal blood, and mine was my regard for you. I thought I kept it well hidden, Vianne. I sought not to let it be used against either of us.”

“Very well indeed, since I had no idea.” I still contemplated the scroll. Calm him, Vianne. “Why on earth did you dance with me, Tristan? I have often wondered.”

“I could not stay away.” His hand eased from his swordhilt. “At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age — you wore the red velvet. You looked…” Now he dropped his gaze to the floor as I glanced at him. “And the Festival, I tried to summon the courage to ask you for a favour. I failed miserably.”

I smiled, unable to stop myself. The smile faded as I continued to gaze at the scroll.

“What are you thinking?” He sounded worried. “Vianne? You have that look again.”

What look? But I suddenly glimpsed another turn to this labyrinth. I leapt to my feet. “Where would the Guard hold him, this Messenger?”

“Probably in the barracks under the West Tower.” He fell into step beside me. “Vianne, what—”

Do you not see? “I have the Aryx,” I said. “If I free the Messenger to return to d’Orlaans, he runs the risk of one more person who has seen the truth of the Aryx with his own eyes. He will kill the man, or has—”

“—already laid a killspell on him,” Tristan finished, and swore. I ran for the door.

I am certain the Guards did not expect to see me bolt past them and down the hall, Tristan close behind me. He snapped an order over his shoulder and such was the accord between us that by the end of the hall he said, “To your left, up the stairs,” and continued to guide me through the maze of Arcenne. I had explored no few of its corridors, but not yet all, and was glad of his guidance.

I was breathless and aching from a stitch in my side as we arrived at the barracks under the West Tower, and Tristan flung the door open. I skidded in, for once cursing my skirts, and several Arcenne guards rose hastily. Some were at table, others at a card game — and there, by the fire, sat a man in the blue surcoat of a King’s Messenger, gold braid on his sleeves, a tall Arquitaine with thick dark curls long as a chivalier’s.

I barely paused. Flung out my hand, tasting the beginnings of the peculiar sour flavor of Court sorcery meant to kill, triggered by the presence of its intended victim. I recognized it, as well — wet fur and sour apples, a poison killspell to match the one laid on the Minister Primus.

The Messenger straightened, his face blanching as he saw Tristan behind me, my Consort’s eyes blazing, hand on his swordhilt.

The Aryx let loose a welter of sound, and a wall of hedgewitchery and Court sorcery smashed outward, catching the killspell as it struck, a flare of silver light jetting from my outstretched palm.

The noise was incredible, and a table between me and the Messenger exploded into matchsticks, smoke and wood whickering away to strike the walls and pepper the onlookers.

The killspell snapped, recoiling on itself like a gittern string stretched too far, splitting and shredding. Another door inside my head, flung open, showing me a far country of magic lying thrumming and obedient to my will.

The drowning sense of being swallowed alive was slightly less this time. I held fast to the only thought that could survive the riptide overpowering my senses.

Tristan. The killspell is meant for him. Protect him, just as he would protect you.

Screams, shouts, the thick reek of poison and fear, Tristan’s voice raised to a battlefield shout. I came back to myself slowly, standing, holding the glowing ball of sorcery that was the killspell in my palm, draining the power from it. The Aryx sang a slow, sleepy, sated song. Tristan touched my shoulder. “Vianne?”

“Not merely a poison killspell,” I said dreamily, “but a spell designed to kill someone with him when triggered.” I blinked, returning to myself. “Twas set as a snare, Tristan. You were its target.”

There was a murmur of sound. I looked, and found one of the Arcenne Guard had the Messenger at swordpoint. The others stared at me, men I recognized, now kneeling on the stone floor.

“Put that away, Stefan,” Tristan barked, and the guard, slightly shamefaced, sheathed his sword.

The Messenger, fever-pale, stared at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. I leaned into Tristan, grateful for his strength.

Grateful, too, that the thought of him stayed with me even in the devouring maelstrom of the Aryx. “One crisis averted,” I managed, through numb lips and a sand-dry throat. “Tristan.”

“Your Majesty.” Was that awe I heard in his voice as well?

Please, no. I cannot bear it. I pitched my voice loud enough to carry through the room. “Stand, chivalieri, an it please you. Sieur Messenger, would you be so kind as to accompany us? I think it best to speak to you sooner rather than later.”

One by one, the Citadel Guard rose. I saw the open adoration on several faces, and wished it had not been necessary to use the Aryx. The Messenger stammered something, and two of the Guard stepped forth to accompany him.

Tristan gave a few quiet orders to bring lunch to the library, then ushered me out into the hall. He said nothing else as we retraced our steps, the Guards behind us with the Messenger. I would have dearly loved to speak to my Consort, but it was impossible with the others watching. “Are you hale?” he asked me, quietly, as we rounded a corner.

I had to use the Seal again. My head ached, and I hoped I would not fall prey to the half-head. “Hale enough. Tristan, that spell could have killed you, had you decided to question him alone.”

“True. And you, m’chri?”

“If you were questioning the Messenger, it might have looked as if he had murdered you, with steel and magic. I would be unlikely to view such an event, being an empty-headed Court frippet.” My tone was less calm than I would have liked. “What does he hope to gain? He must know the Aryx—”

“The Aryx was sleeping from the time of Queen Toriane’s death. He has no way of knowing it has awakened. Despite the sudden strength of Court sorcery returning…” He sounded thoughtful, and I looked up at him, my hands moving automatically to gather my skirts.

I kept my tone low, conscious of the footsteps behind us. “But how can he not feel the Aryx is awake? He uses Court sorcery!”