The Hedgewitch Queen

After the war-trained behemoths the Guard rode, this gelding was far less daunting. And after coaxing and feeding and harnessing the horses the R’mini used sometimes to draw their wagons in place of oxen, I had learned at least not to fear a horse, even if it was more sprightly than a placid saddle-trained mare. “Easy there, k’vrim,” I crooned to the gray in R’mini. “Ah, big fellow, be easy in your skin and hooves, be easy in your mane, eh?” I could almost hear Jaryana as she soothed a nervous beast, clicking her tongue and half-singing.

The gray shuddered, hung his head. He had been ridden almost to death.

Adrien reeked of sweat and horse and blood. “Vianne.” Hoarse and urgent, my name pronounced as a talisman. “Tis good to see your face.”

“Likewise.” Arquitaine was strange in my mouth now after murmuring in R’mini. “Adrien, I—”

He shook his ragged dark head. “Later. Listen to me. There is news, grim news, and right glad I am to see you first and alone.” He sought to calm his breathing and slumped, running his hand along the horse’s trembling, lathered neck. “An army approaches, milady. Arcenne will soon be besieged.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. You predicted this, did you not? And I did not listen. “Siege? By whom?”

He spoke the words I dreaded hearing.

“Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors, though.” My cousin coughed rackingly. Blood coated his sharp, tanned face like paint. Iron-shod hooves rang against stone. The bailey ran with sound, echoed with it, spilled over with the shouts and shrills of horses.

“How many?” My knees threatened to buckle. Damarsene. They do not leave once they have marched past a border, not without much bloodshed. Is d’Orlaans mad, or does he think them easily fobbed off once he has what he wishes? The horse’s heaving sides eased. He had run his course, and mine was just beginning.

“Enough to take this city, fair lady Riddlesharp. Some few thousands, with a siege train and engines.” He caught my arm, fingers sinking in carelessly hard. “I have other tidings, cousin mine. Later, if I may speak to you? Alone?”

Had I realized how he would soon rob me of all peace, I might have refused. No, that is not correct. I could not refuse, even if I looked back on this moment as the last before my world crumbled yet again.

The Aryx rasped uneasily against my dress. “Of course. Adrien—”

His fingers dug in, merciless. “Listen to me. Trust no one. I have a tale for you, my fair one.” His lips skinned back from his teeth, a wolf’s grimace. In the distance, a battlefield yell cut through the noise.

“Vianne!” Tristan, searching for me.

Court instinct rose. I did not struggle and cause a scene. Adrien’s fingers prisoned my flesh, a bruise already rising on my arm. I did not flinch, simply gazed into his bloody face. “Tell me a tale, cousin.” What could be worse than Damarsene approaching, and the Duc—

“Vianne! Vianne!” Tristan’s voice, ringing through the bailey.

“I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.” Di Cinfiliet’s whisper dripped venom in my ear. “He was a part of a conspiracy, and was so close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes. I have proof to give you, m’cousine, captured from di Narborre himself. Your Captain, m’cousine—” Adrien’s fingers fell away, but his gaze held mine. I saw again how much he resembled Risaine, both in the shape of his face and the set of his mouth. There was another resemblance, under the dust and weather and blood.

The King surfaced from Adrien di Cinfiliet’s features, as if rising from his tomb.

My heart pounded thinly. I tasted metal.

“Vianne!” Tristan arrived, and spun me to face him. “Are you well?”

It took every scrap of Court training I possessed to face him. “There is an army approaching, Captain. Your father — I must speak to your father. These men have ridden to warn us. We must stable the h-horses…How many? How many of yours have arrived, Adrien?” I was well to witless, but it could be supposed that the news of an approaching army would maze my humble brains.

I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.

Bile scorched my throat.

No. Tristan was the King’s Left Hand. Proof? What proof could Adrien have? It was the Duc’s lie, that Tristan had killed the King.

And yet.

Whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you…tis more important than you think.

Or had she only mistrusted any man who could be the Left Hand to the King who had discarded her so ruthlessly?

He was my Consort, and had led me through the tunnel under Mont di Cienne.

Yet the Duc had ordered Tristan’s tongue be taken so he could not speak. Tristan had been waiting in the passage for me, with Simieri — or had Simieri come along to take Tristan unawares?

Or had Tristan been the one to catch the Minister Primus at a different game?

I had not seen my Captain the entire time of the conspiracy’s unwinding. He had left me in the passage when the alarums began. And something had bothered me for a long, long while, never quite articulated.

It simply did not make sense that the King had been poisoned, for I was not so untalented a hedgewitch as to miss poison in pettite-cakes no matter how exotic the toxin…and why, oh why, had Tristan been waiting for me in that passageway?

No. I could not mistrust him, could I?

“Fifteen.” Adrien’s voice cracked harshly. “Fifteen of my riders left, tis all. We slowed them, killed some sentries. Much as we could do. They fear the countryside now. And the night.” He patted the horse’s wet neck. His grimace was fey, an animal’s bared teeth. “We caused some damage.”

“Good. How many? And who?” Tristan’s tone was needlessly harsh, but this was dire news for both of us. It was slim comfort that he thought to ask the same questions I did.

“Some thousands,” I said. “Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors. And with a siege train.” This time my knees did buckle. Tristan caught me, swore, and pushed a strand of my hair back. His fingers were tender, but the thought would not leave me.

Were you part of the conspiracy, Tristan? What proof could this bandit have? “When all is revealed,” Adrien taunted him once before. So, did he suspect, or…

The noble bandit was my newfound kin, and he had little reason to lie so grievously to me, unless he hated Tristan d’Arcenne beyond reason.

Or unless there was truth to this tale, of a man who killed a King.

There were too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries conspiring to cloud my Consort, dogging his heels. If Tristan had lied about poison in pettite-cakes, why?

And what other words of his should I mistrust?

“Inside. Come, di Cinfiliet, there’s wine for you. And bandages. The physicker’s been called.” Tristan sounded just the same. Just as he always had.

My heart turned to ice. I could not doubt him, my Consort, my love.

And yet.

I had only his word for what had happened to the King. Divris di Tatancourt could not tell me anything but rumor, which painted Tristan as the blackest of murderers. At least, the official tale spread by the Duc was that Tristan was the King’s killer. Now I wondered just who Tristan truly was a traitor to.

Or was I the traitor for even entertaining the thought?

Proof captured from di Narborre. A poison well to draw from, to be sure. Or proof so damning it could not be denied.

Everything hinged on the remainder of Adrien di Cinfiliet’s tale. I could only wait, and see.

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