The Hedgewitch Queen

armed men, Tris. I doubt I am in any danger.”

His face changed, and I leaned against the wall by the door. It was no affected pose — I was simply too weak to stay upright on my own unless I was moving. Tristan did not look threatening, simply weary — but I knew that if I went through the door he would follow me, disregarding the physicker’s care. My heart gave a huge throttled leap.

“This should just take a moment,” the young peasant healer in his pale shirt and green trousers said. He had been wakened roughly, as had we all.

I smelled the peculiar green of hedgewitchery, dropped my eyes as Bryony’s power became evident. He was a much better hedgewitch than I had ever been. I longed to have time to study with him, as I had with Risaine and Jaryana.

“There. Try not to fall on any knives anytime soon, Tris?” Bryony had been a child in the Keep with Tristan, and was easier with him than most of the Guard.

“If the Pruzians would stop sending assassins, I would. Is my Vianne well?”

“The d’mselle is well enough, a bit of rest and some food will ballast her nicely. I would offer her a drop of wine, but she has already said nay.”

I felt the weight of Tristan’s gaze on me. “Vianne, m’chri, would you bring me some wine? I feel a trifle pale.”

I peeled myself away from the wall and managed to reach the wine jug, poured both Tristan and myself a healthy dollop — and tossed the contents of one cup back and poured another measure. Warmth exploded in my stomach. Well. I’ve survived my first assassination attempt.

If I did not count Lisele’s murderers among assassins, that was. Had the Pruzians come to kill me, or Tristan, or Tristan’s father? Or all of us? And so soon after the other attempt.

I needed to think on this, to tease out the implications. First, though, there were questions to be asked. “How is the Baron?” At least I sounded relatively calm.

“Well, and cursing at everyone in sight. The Baroness is doing her best.” Bryony sounded amused. “Well, you’re ready for more mischief, sieur. I am to take care of other poor souls.”

I brought my Consort the winecup, awkward with my bandaged hand, and settled on the bench beside him. Bryony swept from the room with one last eloquent glance at me. If he meant to give a message, it was one I did not understand

Tristan took a swallow of wine, rolled it in his mouth. Grimaced as if it had turned, though it seemed perfectly fine to me, if strong. “You did not stay in the room,” he said quietly. “Tis a good thing, too; the other Knife would have found you. But in the future, Vianne—”

Gods grant there is never another episode such as this. “I shall tarry still and quiet, I swear. I simply could not stand the thought of…you were alone. And I could not stay there with the…the bodies.” I wished to add, Yes, I am a coward, but I did not.

“My apologies.” He smiled, a little ruefully, over the top of his goblet. “I did not wish to leave you, Vianne. I had to.”

“I know.” I poured down the rest of my second cup of wine in four long swallows. Blinked owlishly at him. “I believe I am handling this rather well.”

“Good, for I am halfway to a nervous wreck.” He took another swallow. “I adore you, m’chri. You are too brave for my comfort.”

I leaned in to his shoulder, happy for his solid warmth. “Who would hire a Pruzian to kill you and your father? And why?”

“Besides d’Orlaans and whoever he is depending on to prop up his claim to the throne?” Tristan leaned against me, too, a subtle movement but one I cherished. “Have I told you how lovely you are, m’chri?”

“No.” A silly smile spread over my face as a warm haze swirled through my middle. “You could, though. Before we visit di Rocham.”

“Ever duty, hmm?”

“I am worried for him.” I rested my head on his shoulder, the goblet loose-held in relaxing fingers, resting in my lap. “How pretty am I, Tristan?” For I would like to hear this, even if tis vain to ask.

“Beautiful enough to bring a man to his knees crying out in praise of Alisaar.” He turned, kissed my forehead gently. “Are you hale enough to stand?”

“You should finish your wine.”

“I have lost my taste for it. Here.” He offered me the goblet.

Why, very sly of you, my Consort. Nevertheless, I drained it with good grace. “I know I am merely Lisele’s plain little lapdog. I was told enough.” And it does me well to hear you gainsay it.

And so he did, as a good Consort. “You were lovely when I came to Court, Vianne. Time’s only made you more so. Here, lean on me; we shall see what misfortune befell Tinan.”

The world tilted slightly under me. “Dear gods; the wine’s at my head.” Or the fear. Both were equally likely.

“Tis unwatered, the strongest we have. Bryony believes in it as a tonic, I think. I also think you should have more.”

For once I did not argue. “I think that is a most excellent idea.” I rather suspected I would need it.

* * *

Di Rocham was feverish, and Bryony looked grave. I settled into the chair by the cot in another cubicle, watching Tinan’s fair young face as he lay drug-quiescent, sweat sheening his brow. Bryony lifted the dressing over the wound on the boy’s belly, and his sharp mountain face grew even graver.

“He will recover, will he not?” I felt childish for asking, my head muddled with wine.

A low knock sounded at the door. I looked up to see Jierre di Yspres. “The Knife has regained consciousness.” A bandage glared white against his shoulder, under his shirt’s open throat-laces. I could see a bead of drying blood on his collarbone. His lean face was chalky, and grim. “How is our d’mselle?”

I lifted my chin. “Hearty and hale.” My mouth did not seem to work quite properly. And well- tonic’d, though now I regret the last glass. Twill not do me well for long.

Tristan shrugged. “Unwounded. Her nerves have taken a shock, tis all.”

“And Tinan?” Di Yspres did not glance at the bed, but I sensed he wished to. We all turned our gazes to the physicker, and hope rose under my pounding heart.

Bryony opened his mouth, closed it, glanced at Tristan, at me. “He will not last the night,” he said heavily. “I can do nothing for him.”

What? I could not contain myself. “But you are a hedgewitch!” And a fine one, too!

“There are other wounded.” Gently enough, his jaw set, his hands curling into fists, relaxing. “This young one’s gut-cut. I cannot sew his intestines up. I have not the charm nor the power for it. The most I can do is ease his passing—”

“Get away.” I did not recognize the harsh, croaking voice as my own. “Now.”

The peasant physicker paled swiftly. Twas gratifying to see he did not look to Tristan; he simply bowed and obeyed.

“Is he ready to speak?” Tristan asked, as Bryony retreated to the door. Tinan did not moan — Bryony had dosed him with poppy and caresfree — but his breathing was labored.

“Pruzian. And difficult.” It was di Yspres’s turn for a shrug.

“I care not how difficult he is,” Tristan said. “Make him speak.”

It occurred to me they were speaking of the assassin, the one who had survived. My Consort’s gaze, extraordinarily blue, met mine.

I read his expression, and sick unsteady heat filled my stomach. “No, Tristan. As you are my Consort and I am the Queen, no. I will question him tomorrow, as soon as I know if Tinan lives or dies.” The Aryx warmed against my chest. “I will have your obedience on this,