The Bandit King

necessity of distasteful actions, and I wondered if she had another adviser willing to take on the duty.

Like my father. Or Jierre.

I kept track of time as well as I could, counting meals as the swelling in my jaw subsided bit by bit, covered over with stubble. I have seen the results of isolation and imprisonment, men forgetting their own names, reduced to groveling worms. There is only so much one can do.

On what I thought was the fourth day, a familiar face appeared at the bars.

Adersahl halted, touching the new growth of his mustache. Soon it would be its old, magnificently waxed self again. He looked into the cell, and his lip did not curl.

I had settled myself on the lone cot, where I lay when it seemed to me sleep was possible. The chains had rubbed weeping sores on my wrists, and a simple charm would rid me of the risk of infection.

It was not, however, a charm I possessed. What need, when there were hedgewitch healers in every town and army? What need, when my own sweet Vianne was a hedgewitch herself?

My magic was only of the sort that would kill a man, or conceal a death. The rest of Court sorcery is illusion made of light and air, beautiful and useless. Spectacles are wrought at Festivals and fetes, and during a duel the birthright of nobles is used to dizzy, distract, steal the breath, cut as steel. But to heal requires peasant hedgewitchery or Tiberian physicker’s training.

“Captain?” It was not like Adersahl to sound so uncertain.

Is it treason to name me thus? I decided against waving a languid hand and making the chains clash. Instead, I watched him through slitted eyelids, my jaw aching ever so slightly under the itch.

“I bethought myself that you would wish to know.” The slight hissing of witchlight underscored his words. “The army has arrived. Damarsene troops, and Arquitaine units as well. Some thousands, all flying d’Orlaans’s colors. With siege engines.”

My helplessness caught in my throat.

“The d’mselle is well, though she is working herself to the bone and spending every night in the Temple praying. Your father has prepared a defense for the city.”

I did not move. If he saw my face now, he might well regret carrying the tale.

“Di Narborre is at the gates. He is sending an emissary in the morning under a parlay flag.” Adersahl paused. “The Queen intends something, but just what I cannot tell. She closeted herself with your father this morning, and even now rides to the Temple with Jierre and some few of the Guard. The city is in a ferment.”

With an army at the walls? I should think so. I almost opened my mouth to ask questions, decided not to, again. You are best served by muteness here, Left Hand. Silence unnerves.

“I came to see if you needed aught.” Adersahl paused. “Or if you wished me to take a message…”

What message could I send to her? She has not even come to my cell to spit upon me. I bit at the inside of my cheek to keep the words from spilling free. No, I thank you, my loyal Guard, but it is best for you to hear no word of mine.

I still had my stiletto. And there was the knife in my boot. Did I wish to kill the man who would bring me my supper?

Was it time yet?

“D’Arcenne.” Adersahl hissed out the sibilant in the middle of my surname. “Tristan.”

Here in the bowels of the Keep, there were none to hear a scream or a struggle. I knew this pile of stone well; I’d spent my boyhood hiding in its passages before I was sent to Court and learned the terrain of the Palais D’Arquitaine and the Citte’s broad tangle.

Yet what would I do after I eased myself free of the cell?

You need a plan.

Had not all plans brought me here, no matter how well constructed?

Why had she not come? Did she think me so faithless? Was she afraid?

Adersahl sighed, the sound of a man with a heavy burden. He turned, the scrape of his heel punctuating the movement.

“Adersahl.” My throat was so dry it turned the word into a harsh croak.

“Captain?” Damn the man; he sounded so hopeful.

“Tell her I long to see her.” I sounded raw, unhappy. No wonder. I closed my eyes fully, the darkness spilling unkind into my brain.

“Is that all?” Softly, cajoling. Had he been sent to receive a confession? There was no confession I would give secondhand. If she wanted much else from me, she could come herself.

I did not reply. Let him make of it what he would. Let her.

“I shall, then.” A slight creak—was he bowing? To me, as I took my ease on a prison cot? Wonders did not cease in the wide world.

He left me, his steps receding down the long hall under the hissing of witchlight torches, and I touched the stiletto’s thin hilt. Escape was possible while I still had the strength.

I settled myself more comfortably. Or at least, I moved my arms so the chains did not weigh so heavily. The bracelets of raw flesh slid under the iron, and I was surprised into a quiet, humorless laugh. Not so long ago I ordered a Pruzian Knife beaten and tossed into an oublietta. She had taken me to task for it, sweet Vianne with the tender heart. And here I was, enchained and trusting that same tender heart for mercy.

If I am to get free of this, I must do so soon.

Chapter Seven

After the morning meal—or what I assumed was the morning meal—was brought, I fell into another uneasy sleep. An imprisoned man begins to slumber more and more, seeking to make the time pass quickly. There is also a manner of sleep where the mind slides the pieces of a conspiracy or plan together, then presents it whole to its owner when he awakens.

The wheels were turning and I slipped deeper, the borderland between waking and dreaming receding. Unfortunately, I was not left to find a solution to my predicament, for I heard the squeal of metal on metal and woke in a lunge, breathing in bergaime and spice as well as the peculiar greenness of hedgewitchery.

Perhaps my mother had found a perfumier. It was one of the little things a man would never think on, and twould perhaps soothe another woman’s nerves.

The rustle of silk filled the cell. Chains clashed as I struggled to rise, and Vianne paused just inside the barred door.

She regarded me. The dress was dark green silk, holding her lovingly, her skirts whispering as she moved. Pearl ear-drops, pearls woven into her long dark hair, the complex braiding in the style of di Rocancheil carried with a particular tilt of her head on its slender neck. One of my mother’s necklaces, an interweaving of thin strands of small freshwater pearls, dropped down to hold a large teardrop emerald just over her cleavage. Under it lay the silver chain holding the Aryx, its three serpents frozen in the act of writhing about one another, their gem-bright eyes winking. A ball of silvery witchlight hovered over her shoulder, casting her features into strange flat shadow.

The door stood open behind her, and I saw the edge of someone’s shoulder—it seemed to be Jierre, but I could not be certain.

I moved slowly, curling up to sit on the bed, dropping my booted feet off the side. I filled my eyes with her, hungrily.

We regarded each other, my d’mselle and I, across stone flags and empty air. The witchlight at her shoulder, tinted with green threads of hedgewitchery, sizzled. I breathed in the same air she was breathing, I watched her face, and I discovered I still wanted her as much as ever.

It was little surprise. I did not think irons would cure me.