The Bandit King

moving along the finely-scaled serpents.

I did not understand until Bryony nodded and Vianne’s eyes closed. The hedgewitch charm burst over me, a tide of cool warmth, my wrists giving one last bruised flare of pain before subsiding.

Hedgewitchery takes its strength from free earth, sky or living things, or from the charmer him- or herself. Somehow, Vianne had found a way to make the Aryx fuel it through her own body.

But it cost her so much to wield the Seal, and even with the Aryx’s help such a charm would take a toll on her physical frame. Vianne staggered as the hedgewitchery ceased, and I sought to rise to her aid. Bryony pushed me back down, and I swore at him with an inventiveness that surprised even myself.

He was unaffected. “Such language. And in a d’mselle’s presence, no less.”

Vianne sighed. Her eyes opened, and she swallowed hard. She was paper-pale, and I did not like the way her gaze did not quite focus. Her pupils were huge in the dimness. “There is much work to be done,” she murmured. “Baron?”

“My liege.” My father, hushed for once. “It will do no good if you collapse during negotiations.”

Negotiations? Did he mean to have her surrender? My hands turned to fists. Caught in the lassitude of a fresh charming, twas the only protest I could offer.

“It might almost be a relief to collapse.” A momentary flash of tired, wry wit lit her face. She turned away, not even glancing at me. Her dress rustled stiffly, and she swept at curls falling in her face, irritated. “They cannot hold the Gate for long without me. And if di Narborre breaks in—”

“He will not. He can siege us, but he cannot overwhelm; they can and will hold the Gate without you for a time. You serve us better by regaining your strength, my liege. The only pressing matter at the moment is what to do with… my son.”

Your son will do with himself, thank you, sieur. “Vianne.” A husk of a word, my throat full of dry burning. “Are you hale?”

Her thin shoulders came up, as if she expected a blow. “Hale enough.” Even such a gentle lie lay uncomfortably on her tongue. “Jierre will mend, too; he has already been charmed. His shoulder aches, but will be well enough.”

Of course she would turn my concern aside and speak of another. “I did not seek to kill him.” I pushed aside Bryony’s hands, sought to rise. “I meant to—”

“I care little for what you meant. But at least we have acquired valuable information from that display of disobedience.” She took a single step, faltered, and her chin came up. She looked to my father, who was straight-backed, imperturbable, and, now I could see, covered in a thick layer of grime and firebreath as well. The lines graven in his angular Arcenne face were a trifle deeper, and his blue gaze was shadowed. That was all. Had he been on the walls too? Perhaps at the westron walls, for they were the weakest. “Baron. Set a guard upon him, in a comfortable room. Send for me at dawn; that is the longest I may tarry.”

“Vianne.” She would not even look at me.

“Dawn, Baron.” And she swept from the room. Bryony pushed me back, and for once, I could not simply shove him aside. I sagged back on the cot.

“My liege.” My father bowed as she passed, the obeisance due to royalty. There was a murmur outside; I thought I heard Adersahl di Parmecy. My father watched the entrance for a short while, a muscle in his cheek flicking. “Bryony. Leave us.”

The hedgewitch rose. His expression changed—a warning, perhaps. It was the same look he had worn when he was sent to find me and deliver the news that the Baron wished my presence for some punishment or another. He rose slowly, and in a few moments I was alone with my father.

I have always disliked such an event.

He stood, arms folded, by the grate, the low glow of the fire casting his face in sharp relief. How many times had I seen an echo of his features in the mirror, and been tempted to curse my own face as a traitor? To match the rest of me, I suppose.

“So.” My father did not move. “And so.”

I gathered myself. The best defense against him is often an attack. “A birch lashing? Or perhaps you’re thinking of leaving me in the donjon again, until she can be induced to forget my existence?”

“You were not left. You were to be under guard. There have been other pressing matters to attend to.” His arms loosened, and he dropped his hands. One tapped his swordhilt.

I lacked weapons, had not even the stolen potmetal blade. I read the consideration passing over his face— swift, a momentary thought, no more.

And yet. I began a consideration of my own, a faint sheen of copper laid against my palate. Twas not fear, simply the metallic taste of approaching action, the body readying itself to shake off lethargy and battle for its bare survival.

“Or even worse.” I settled back on the cot, watchful. At least I was not chained—but a chain could be a weapon, especially against a blade. “Run me through? And be rid of the disappointment I have always been to you.”

“Disappointment?” My father considered this, cocking his head. He held himself so stiffly, as if a momentary bending would shatter his very bones. “No.” A long pause. The words came, very evenly spaced, each carrying a heavy load. “Your mother. She is of the opinion that we are too alike, you and I. That our… difficulties… spring from the fact that both of us are…”

I waited. There was no use in anything else.

“Stubborn.” My father gazed steadily at me. “You left your cell, acquired a sword somehow, and almost killed two of her Guard.”

Only Jierre. “Two?”

“The Pruzian Knife.” His mouth pulled sharply against itself in distaste. “She insists.”

“She allows the Knife to—” I levered myself up shakily. “Blessed save us! You allowed this? He was sent to kill her, or take her to d’Orlaans!”

“I am fully aware. However, she is my liege, and she is of the opinion that she is Fridrich van Harkke’s client now. I cannot dissuade her.” He sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped. “Di Narborre is observing another parlay. Tomorrow. You will attend her.”

In that you are absolutely correct. I will. “Will she have me?”

“She has no choice.” He turned on his heel, as if he could not stand to be in the room one moment longer. I heartily agreed, but his next sally drove the breath from me as I set my burned boots on the floor and assayed rising once more. “The Aryx, you see. She has informed me she requires your presence to use it effectively.”

The breath left me in a rush. What? I could not even frame the word, and struggled again to push myself upright. There was no hint of that in the archives!

“So, it seems, whatever cloud hangs over you, m’fils, you are necessary.” His shoulders sagged briefly. On him, it was like a shout. “I tell you this as your father, and as I am very conscious of our… difficulties. Take care.”

“I—”

“Take better care, I mean. Of yourself.” And with that, he was gone as well. I was left with an empty stone cube, legs that would not hold me, and a fire in a grate.

She requires your presence to use it effectively. Now there was a mystery. What message did it aim to convey? That she still trusted me? Was this an intrigue, one my d’mselle was playing? What was its endgame? Against me, or around me?

There was a movement at the door. I looked up, and Tinan di Rocham’s dark, boyish face appeared atop a ragamuffin’s collection of torn, ash-stained clothes. His swordhilt glinted, and his dusky eyes were ablaze with something other than his usual good humor. He studied me closely.

“Di Rocham.” I gave up trying to make my legs work. Strength would return as my body realized I was still its master. “You look terrible.”

His grin was a balm, and the shadow of manhood on him fled. “No more than you, Captain. I’m to guard you. But I would wager you’d take a bath and fresh clothes, and your word of honor you won’t stray can be your surety.”

You are too trusting, and if I meant harm you would be foolish to offer me an opening. “Straying is the last thing on my mind, di Rocham.” I considered him, taking stock of my