The Bandit King

Twas meant to be transient; it required far too much force and concentration to maintain for longer than a few moments.

Yet maintain it she did, the Aryx ringing and the rest of them curiously motionless, perhaps shocked. This was, no doubt, not the way they expected this interview to pass.

Di Narborre’s knees folded. He clawed at his throat, and the Damarsene tensed to a man, sensing something amiss. The one closest to me—a stocky man with the red-raven hair common among them, his mustache waxed and his hand at his rapier’s hilt—had far more presence of mind than most, and I lunged forward a split moment before he had committed himself. The knifehilt at his belt smacked into my palm, the blade serving me far better than him at this moment, and I had his belt slashed with a twist of my wrist. Shoved him, hard, and the rapier rang free—but in my hand, not his. Adersahl had drawn as well, and I was briefly both thankful and disappointed that Jierre was not at my side.

He would have enjoyed the challenge.

“Ah, no, sieurs.” I showed my teeth as Vianne made another slight movement, di Narborre’s knees hitting the carpeting as he began taking in great heaving gasps. “My Queen did not give you leave to move.”

The substance of a threat must be such that the first among equals does not dare to test it. With di Narborre neatly immobilized, the rest were unsure. I marked di Vantcris as the one most likely to give us some trouble, and the Damarsene I had so neatly disarmed as the likeliest among his fellows as well. So I moved to the side, a light swordsman’s shuffle, and Adersahl moved forward as if directed to do so.

It was gratifying to see he still followed my lead.

“Murderer.” Vianne’s right hand was half-lifted. Slender fingers held just so, threads of Court sorcery woven among them, ribbons sparking silvery as the Aryx flamed with light.

“No… more… than him,” di Narborre choked, and he was staring at me instead of at my Queen. I did not seek to hold his gaze. “Orders. Given.”

“Oh, I know your orders.” Bitter as kupri-weed, she laughed. “Make certain none still live. Those were your orders for Arcenne too, I wager. And for Risaine. Is it so easy to kill, then, sieur?”

Risaine? Then I knew—the hedgewitch noblewoman in the Shirlstrienne, slain once di Narborre realized she was not Vianne. My Queen had taken her death hard, as hard as the Princesse’s, though I wondered at why.

Di Narborre sucked in a whooping breath. The plummy shade of suffocation faded; more was the pity. “Ask d’Arcenne. Do you know what he did, d’mselle? He—”

I could have stood to see him choke for the rest of his life.

A single peremptory gesture, Vianne’s fingers fluttering. “I know what you would have me think he did.”

Di Narborre almost cowered. I will not lie—it gave me a great deal of pleasure to witness.

A very great deal indeed.

“Whatever he did, whatever you would have me think, matters little.” The Aryx rang under her words, and that thrill along my nerves returned, stronger than wine or acquavit. “Return to your master. Inform him you have seen me, and that a few Damarsene and some Graecan witchery will not save him from my wrath. I am the holder of the Aryx, I am the Queen, and you are forbidden my presence again, on pain of death.” She tilted her head. A pause stretched every nerve to breaking. “I will give you a gift to take back to Timrothe d’Orlaans, as well.”

The noise was massive, a welter of melody from the Aryx, screams and shouts and the coughing roar of flame from outside. The tent’s walls flapped, lines straining against a sudden wind. Heat roared through the hole behind us, and the rest of the tent burst into flame. The Damarsene shouted, wisely dropping to the ground; every d’Arquitaine, however, stayed bolt-upright, their knees locked.

Every one but Garonne di Narborre, who stared up at Vianne. The mocking smile was gone from his sharp hungry face, and he gaped as if he had never seen her before.

Like a man witnessing a miracle.

Flags of charred fabric flapped, lifting away, the heavily resined tent-lines sparking and fizzing as they burned. Vianne stood, straight as a sword in the midst of the chaos, and my heart lodged itself in my throat. It forgot to beat, that senseless organ; it forgot everything but her name.

A final lick of silvery witchflame, and the map-table went up in a burst of orange and yellow. Smoke lifted, a cleaner reek than the Graecan fire. A hush descended outside, and I did not dare to glance away from my Queen, who gazed down on the cringing di Narborre. Her curls lifted, stirred by the hot, playful breeze.

The flagrant power was almost as terrifying as the precision of her control. The sensation of her using the Aryx was a velvet rasp against every inch of me, reaching down to bone and spilling out through my fingertips. How could the rest of them seem so unaffected? Perhaps terror robbed them of the ability to react.

“This is the gift,” she said clearly. “I allow you to live, Garonne di Narborre. Run back to your murdering master. Tell him I am coming.”

Her pale hands lifted; she settled the velvet hood over her hair and turned. Rich material fell forward, hiding her face, and her thin shoulders trembled.

Help her.

I dropped the sword, spun the knife to reverse it along my forearm, and reached her just as she swayed. The movement tipped her into my arms. I did my best to make it appear as if it were intentional, as if she had sought my presence, without making her appear weak. Still, di Narborre’s close-set, red-tinted eyes lit, hungry as ever, as I took her under my wing.

So to speak.

He came up in a stumbling rush, but Adersahl di Parmecy was there before I could even cry warning. His rapier point dipped, resting at the hollow of di Narborre’s throat.

“Do not,” the Queen’s Guard said, coolly. “Or another shall carry your message, and you shall dine with Death tonight.”

Vianne almost staggered. I held her upright, glanced through the ruins of the tent.

The vats of Graecan fire had exploded. The siege engines lay twisted and useless, moans and shrieks rising in a chorus of the mad, horses screaming with fear. The half-fan siege-shields before Arcenne’s Gate burned merrily, sending up plumes of black oily smoke.

Blessed save us. She did this?

“Tristan,” she whispered, and leaned in to me. For a few moments I almost thought she had forgotten.

But no. She stiffened, the Aryx’s melody receding, velvet turning to a scraping along my nerves. “Vianne,” I answered, stupidly, pointlessly.

The Pruzian Knife appeared, wreathed in smoke, his gloved fists holding the reins. His eyes were round, and he was ashen.

I did not blame him.

Whatever she thought, whatever she suspected, for that moment Vianne clung to me. And it was enough.

Chapter Fourteen

“Decamped. In an unseemly haste, as well.” My father sounded far more amused than the situation warranted. The decanter gurgled as he poured a measure of heavy red unwatered wine. He looked fair to bursting with satisfaction, and of a sudden, I longed to smash something.

Freshly bathed, freshly clothed as well, my sword returned by a blushing Tinan di Rocham, I stood at the casement, the window before me begging to have my fist put through it.

Vianne had retreated to the chambers we had shared—my own rooms, now hers. I did not grudge her the use of them, but I most certainly did grudge the way she freed herself of my hands with a decided moue of distaste once we had dismounted in the safety of the Keep, her eyes almost-closed and her mouth tight, as if one of the