The Hedgewitch Queen

length, looked me over for damage.

I was very glad I had fallen asleep in my clothes. The idea of facing this chain of events in a shift — or, Blessed forbid, without a stitch to cover me — was, for a moment, more daunting than what had actually just occurred.

“I am unharmed. There is someone in the room, Tristan.” My voice trembled to match the rest of me. “He had a curved dagger. And his hair was in a tail bound with black ribbon—”

“A Pruzian Knife.” He still examined me, from my soles to my crown and back again, his gaze roving over my dress, my face, my shoulders. “Three to attack me, three to attack my father. If you saw another one, there are two left in the Citadel. We shall find them. Come, let us bring you to safety.”

“A P-P-Pruzian Knife?” I actually stammered. He drew me away, his boots clicking and my bare feet soundless. “But they’re myths!”

“No, they are very real. And very deadly, not to mention very expensive.”

Expensive? How does he know? I did not care at the moment. I had a more pressing concern. “How b-badly are you h-hurt?” He has blood on his shirt, he’s bleeding. Dear Blessed, he is wounded.

“I am well enough,” he said grimly. “Come quickly, Vianne.”

Shouts, more clattering feet. Tristan pulled me aside into a shadowed hall, pressed me back against the wall. Several more of the Citadel Guard passed at a run, Tristan shook his head. Pressed another kiss onto my temple, through the fraying mat of my hair. He swore, in a low shaking voice. “Nine knives,” he whispered. “Nine. This rather changes things.”

I was about to ask again how badly he was hurt when he clapped his hand over my mouth. I looked past him, out into the running torchlight of the hall, and saw the two remaining assassins, each masked and dressed in black, their hair in tails clubbed and bound with ribbon. They drifted in the wake of the clattering Citadel Guards, deadly shadows. The Guard was making enough noise to warn even a deaf man of their passage.

Tristan moved away from me. His gaze met mine, a silent warning; words and breath died in my throat. No. No, stay here with me, where it is safe.

Yet I could not tell what was safe. If there were assassins boldly trailing after a pack of Guards, could more not be hiding in this passage?

Oh, gods…

His sword whispered free of its sheath, and the two Pruzians froze.

Tristan attacked.

If I live a centuriad I will never forget that sight, Tristan d’Arcenne dueling two Pruzian Knives in the hall of the Citadel. I understood then why he was Captain of the Guard.

He fought as if the blade was a part of his hand, forgotten until the hilt met his palm, the steel weaving in a complicated pattern that kept the Pruzians at bay. He backed them away from the mouth of the darkened hall, their longknives sorely unprepared for the reach his rapier gave.

One of them actually flung a knife, and I gasped. But Tristan ducked and lunged, his boot sliding along stone and his knee grating against the floor, and in the same movement had run one Pruzian through. Blood whipped free of his blade as he flung himself backward, somehow on his feet in one sharp movement, the rapier describing a complex movement I do not have the knowledge to name even now. The black-clad man dropped without a sound, and Tristan faced the last Pruzian as the sounds of the Guard returning grew louder.

I bit down on the soft fleshy part of my hand under my right thumb, unaware that I had covered my mouth. Tristan, oh be careful, gods, please—I could barely even pray. The fear threatened to smash me as the Aryx did, robbing me of myself.

The Pruzian’s gaze, dark and narrow above his mask, flickered toward me, but Tristan lunged at him, both men moving back toward Tristan’s room, out of my field of vision.

Thus it was I did not see the end of the duel: the Guard coming from Tristan’s chambers with a bloody but unbowed Jierre at their head, the last flicker of the knife, Tristan moving in on the assassin and smashing the knife away with a contemptuous movement, his hilt-armored fist blurring in to crunch at the man’s masked face. The Pruzian dropped, and Jierre told me later Tristan looked sorely tempted to run him through, but halted himself. “Strip him, bind him, and chain him. Then put him in an oublietta and wait further orders.” His voice was quiet but harsh. “But before you place him in the pit, Jierre, teach him a lesson.”

They dragged the Pruzian away past the darkened hall I cowered in, Jierre favoring his left shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt, and his eyes wore a fey glitter that warned me not to speak. I stood there stupid and useless, biting down on my hand. Four of the Guard remained; there was shouting in other parts of the Citadel. Every room and corridor would be searched now.

Tristan’s voice. “Vianne? Are you hale?”

It took a fair bit of courage to step out. I bit down harder, afraid I would start screaming if I loosed the pressure of my teeth. I did not dare to look to see how badly Tristan was injured. Luc di Chatillon knelt by the fallen Pruzian and made certain he was dead by the expedient of sinking a dagger in his throat with a meaty crunching sound.

I swayed. Make certain. Shoved the thought away. I could not afford to keep it.

Tristan caught me, his fingers coming up to gently free my hand from my mouth. “Gods.” His voice had lost its hurtful edge. “You need a physicker, d’mselle.”

I almost choked on the final crowning absurdity. He was bleeding, and Jierre too. And yet he said I needed a physicker for a hand bruised by my own teeth. I summoned every scrap of my wit that remained. “I have never seen you duel before.” I sounded faraway and strange even to myself.

He shrugged. “Peasants armed with knives. You are pale, m’chri.”

“Should not I be?” It was a faint witticism, but he laughed. Took my right hand in both of his, gently.

“Come, to the hedgewitch with you, Your Majesty. The rest of you, take care of that…thing.” Faint disdain colored his voice. How could he be so calm? I was only holding to my composure by a thread. “Burn it. I wish a report in less than a candlemark. I want every corner searched and every person in the Keep accounted for.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

They came over the west wall,” the Captain of the Citadel Guard — thin, intense di Vantmor — said. His fine waxed mustache was now sadly drooping, his curly hair ruffled. But his blue mountainfolk eyes were keen, and his sword had seen blooding this night, too. “One of yours was on the wall with the night-watch, sieur.”

Tristan shut his eyes as Bryony, the Citadel’s head hedgewitch physicker, probed at the slash on his ribs with gentle fingers. The small infirmary cubicle was stone-walled, with a faded red curtain drawn over the door. Tristan sat on a high bench while Bryony examined him. A cot was made up in the corner, but Tris had no need of it, for which I was profoundly grateful.

I stayed sitting up only by sheer force of will, in a hard chair next to the healer’s table.

“The di Rocham boy. He is alive, but—” Di Vantmor’s blue gaze flicked over to me. I sat numbly with my bandaged right hand lying quiescent, placed prettily on my silken lap.

“Tinan?” I gained my feet in a single convulsive rush. My skirts made a low sweet sound. “Where is he?”

“They are bringing him now.”

My Consort sighed. “Patch me up quickly, then. Jermain, would you have someone bring me a fresh shirt?”

“Sieur.” Di Vantmor bowed. I felt a slight twinge — I should have thought of that.

I was at the door of the small cubicle, all but on di Vantmor’s heels, when Tristan spoke again. “Vianne? Wait a little, an it please you. I would accompany you.”

I looked over my shoulder. My hair was a tangled mass against my back. “The infirmary is full-to-choking of