The Bandit King

Was she waiting for me to speak? Her face changed, but it could have been the witchlight’s treacherous shadows. She had saved my life with a witchlight once, one bright enough to tear the roof off a Shirlstrienne inn.

She folded her arms defensively, cupping her elbows in her palms. The copper marriage-ring glittered.

So she still wore it. She had not repudiated me yet.

“They should not have left you chained so long.” A trifle defensively.

Still the same tender heart. I spread my hands loosely, listened to the metal rattle and clash, dropped my arms.

Did she wince? Perhaps slightly.

She looked away, and I caught a flash of expression. There were shadows under her eyes the witchlight did not disguise. And another shadow lay upon her—sleeplessness, and worry.

Had I been unchained, I could have shared the weight. I ached to share it.

She half-turned, as if leaving me.

“No!” The cry burst free. “Do not go, m’chri.”

As soon as it was out I cursed myself. I should have held my peace to force her on the defensive. But I could not be so cold, so calculating. Not with her.

Not when she was about to leave me alone again in the dark.

She swung back to face me. And now I could see she had not meant to leave. An advantage, thrown away so needlessly. I did not begrudge it.

She regarded me again. Her hands dropped to her sides, curled into fists.

Will she fly at me? Strike me? The thought of it sent an oblique pang through me —her flesh against mine again, in whatever fashion.

“Why?” One short syllable, the word I dreaded. “Why, Tristan?”

When have I not told you why with every glance I gave you? Every time you allowed me to touch you I gave you my reasons. I swallowed, my heart a stone in my throat. And yet I could not let her take the field completely. A defeat at her hands I could stomach, but on my own terms. “Why what, Vianne?”

“I shall tell you a tale, Left Hand. Of a man who killed a king.” Her chin up, no quarter asked or given.

I would grant her the quarter nonetheless. So I answered. “Perhaps I should tell you a tale in return, of a falcon at the wrist.”

Her silence was grave, her face settling against itself. It only made her lovelier. “I am far more interested in your tale than you would be in mine.”

No doubt, my love. “Then I shall sing you a harsh one.” I gained my feet fully, the chains making their cruel music. “Do you know much of falconry? You train the bird with a lure, and you must reward it or it will cease to rise for you.”

She made a restless movement. “I would have truth, Tristan. Not pretty Court-talk.”

Ease yourself, m’chri. There is a moral to this song. “There was once a young boy sent to Court, and he fell in love.” I could not help myself. It was like the lancing of a wound. “He beheld a girl dancing, and she stole his heart. And so he set himself to become more, so she would notice—but there was a barrier. She, a noblewoman of the first order, a noble of the sword, was not free to wed without a king’s leave.”

Did she start at that? No, she only became graver.

There was no retreat now. I pressed on. “The boy possessed ambition, and ambition is noted at Court. The boy was brought to wrist so easily, and with the lure sweet in front of him, he became something…”

I remembered, of a sudden, the first man I had killed at Henri’s bidding, a troublesome minor noble knifed in a dark alley. How easy it had been, and the feeling of accomplishment afterward, as if I had proved something. And how that feeling had faded, because now I was set apart from my fellows. Now I was the keeper of secrets, and not merely that—now I was as far away from my father as it was possible to be.

“You have no idea, Vianne.” Now I only sounded weary. “I became a thief, a murderer, the lowest of the low—and it was for you. You were the lure that kept the falcon hooded at the wrist, stooping only to the King’s prey. Then Henri told me he intended to barter you, wed you to a petty Damarsene to stop the tribute payments. I could not brook that.” The scalding flush went through me again at the thought of her under some filthy Damarsene, far from home and sold like a thoroughbred racer broken to a peasant’s plow. My hands ached, and I could not stop their knotting into fists.

“You could not…” She ran out of breath halfway through, staring at me as if I were a new creature, neither fish nor fowl, found crawling in her chambers.

“I could not, Vianne. The King meant to sell you. Do not mourn his passage; the underworld has enough and to spare for him.”

She wet her lips, and the flush that raced through me was of a different sort. “Lisele,” she whispered.

Of course. Her Princesse, Henri’s daughter. “I did not know they meant to kill her. Why would I have sent you to her chambers otherwise? You were my prize, my lure. Why would I have sent you into danger? I thought Lisele safe; I thought you safe at her side. Then, d’Orlaans—”

“There was no poison on the pettites, Tristan.” Color rose high in her cheeks. “I would have smelled it. I am a passing-fair hedgewitch.”

And so much more. “Oh, aye, passing fair.” And then I cast my dice. “What was I to do, describe every moment of blood and bowel-cut to you? You were near to fainting with shock and grief, and carrying a burden far greater than mine. I misled you about the poison, yes. To ease your mind, and I would do it again.”

“The papers. They involve you swearing yourself to the conspiracy.” She did not look so certain now, my Queen. If I were to fan the flame of her suspicion, I could—and I could also, if luck let me, direct that suspicion’s course away from my threshold.

“Of course I was involved with the conspiracy. I was hunting it. They thought me a prize too, and knew exactly the lure to cast. If you think I killed Henri, Vianne, you are correct. I killed him by being too late.”

I almost expected the cell walls to shake with the enormity of the falsehood. Yet if you aim to cast your dice, to regain the only thing that matters, there is no use doing it by halves. It was salted with truth. Had I not stayed to gloat I would have been one leap ahead of pursuit.

Believe me, I prayed. And I had burned the only copy. Whatever paper she had seen, with a hand upon it similar to mine and its quality not enough to catch a nobleman’s blood, it was not mine. D’Orlaans’s lie would help me give an even greater falsehood the ring of truth.

“A pretty tale.” Her shoulders slumped, came up again to bear that burden, one far too heavy for her. “Which presents a pretty choice indeed.” Brittle, chill, and royal, the tone she had found so recently. A curl of dark hair feathered over her ear, loosening itself from the braids as if eager for my fingers. “Whatever alliance I have made will crumble, for I built it on the strength of my Consort and the loyalty of his father. If I cast aside the son, what will cement that loyalty?”

I could have laughed fit to wake the dead. My father’s loyalty would never be in question.

“Or,” she continued, “I could keep the son at my side, and wonder when the blade will find my own heart.”

Is that what you think? The strength spilled out of me. I sat down hard in a clash of chains.

“I think we understand each other.” Her chin was still tilted up. Still no quarter asked, and would I beg for respite? Her dark eyes were terribly sad, and determined. “What dagger do you have reserved for me, once I no longer fit your plans? Once I am no longer your lure?”

Dear gods. My mouth was dry as high summer in the Tifrimat wastes, where the sand burns itself to glass and sorcerous salamanders roam. Did she think I would strike at her? “Vianne—” A harsh croak, not even fit to be called her name.

“When, Tristan? When am I expendable?”

What? I would never… I could not. Was that what she expected? How could she misjudge me so?