The Bandit King

Bleeding mallow was for the grievously wounded, or those whose ills could not be cured and whose passage needed easing.

Despite the strength of the draught, she moved uneasily as my shadow fell over the bed. Her arms were up, cradling her head, and the sound she made—a slow, terrible moan of pain—tore something inside my chest.

The half-head. She had kicked free one soft velvet slipper, meant to keep a woman’s feet from the chill of stone floors; her small feet worked uselessly, seeking an escape from the pain. The Aryx shivered, a thick note of distress not heard by the ears, but thudding through the bones.

Dear gods. I dropped the knife onto the night-table, almost touched her hair. Caught myself. The light is painful for her. So is sound. Well, then.

Court sorcery is not very practical unless one wishes a duel or a delicate illusion. But there are things that can be done with light and air—a simple bit of work to plunge the room into utter darkness, a muffling-charm to deaden noise. Blackness lay against my eyes, and I found the edge of the bed by touch. My swordbelt fell to the ground, useless against this foe.

Slowly, carefully, I sank down, wincing each time she moved.

She sighed. Her hair was loose and tangled. Her brow was fever-damp; I pressed my fingers against her lips and felt the passage of her breath.

All is well, I wanted to whisper. I am here.

And now that I was, layers of cloth between us but the shape of her underneath remembered with fierce exactness, the familiar urge to touch what I could all but shook me.

There is a blind part in any man, who thinks it perhaps easier to take than to ask. If he denies it, he is lying. He who does admit it is a liar as well, for a man will never admit to the full depths of what he is tempted to commit when a woman is that close, and that helpless, and so achingly sweet.

Even after she had me clapped in chains and turned from me in disgust, even after she unwittingly caused my downfall, even as she drove me past every shred of honor or decency, she was still…

She is not to blame. You are the criminal here.

And what did it say of me, that even as she writhed with pain, my thoughts turned in such a direction?

My hands tensed, to keep them from roaming. She gasped, stiffening, and struggled. “Be still,” I whispered in her ear, stroking sweat-damp curls back. The sound-deadening charm held us in a bubble of stillness, absolute blackness pressing fiery phantom images against my eyelids. “Shhh, m’chri. Let the draught work.”

“T-T-Tr—” The sedation betrayed her, made the attempt slow and slurred. “Tris. Is… it… time?”

Time for what? I did not care to guess. “Sleep.” She was in too much agony to note the effect she had on me; I am no more than flesh, after all. “I would take the pain for you.” My whisper was a bare mouthing of the words, but it still hurt her. She moved, restless. The half-head makes every murmur a gouging inside the skull; any light is a spear of misery. I sought to say no more, simply pressed my lips against her temple and held her. Clumsy, I had not removed my boots, but she did not move again when I wrapped my leg over hers, the irritating fabric between us a bar against the animal in my flesh, and I did my best to hold her so tightly the pain could not slip between us.

* * *

A cold, sharp point touched my throat.

I half-opened my eyes, lunging into wakefulness though my body did not dare move. On my back, arms spread wide, I was seemingly helpless—and Vianne stood at the bedside, one knee braced near my hip, the black- bladed knife to my throat, her hair a tangled mess and bright fever-spots on her gaunt cheeks. She was shaking; her half-unlaced dress had slid aside to expose a slice of her pale, perfect shoulder, and I realized the light through the window was morning.

I felt more clear-headed than I had in a very long while.

“How did you—” She halted, perhaps aware of the uselessness of the question. “What are you doing?”

I barely even dared swallow, the point at my throat was so keen. I took refuge in levity. “Hoping your temper improves?”

“My temp—” she began, but I had her wrist locked and surged up from the bed. She stumbled back, . I kept pressing her, and her shoulders hit the wall near a low bookcase, next to the watercloset door. Her wrists were so thin; she struggled uselessly. Even fresh from the donjon I was more than a match for her slightness. She did not let go of the knife, though I kept it well away, her arm stretched overhead.

“You were saying.” I pressed against her. “About your temper.”

She heaved against me, achieved nothing. The fine down at her temple was edged with gold; gold threaded through the dark honey of her tangled curls as well. The urge to lean a little closer and bury my face in her hair all but made me sweat.

“Sieur.” Brittle and haughty, she lapsed into stillness. “What must I do to free myself of you? Take your hands from me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, m’chri.” She was so thin, I felt her ribs as I leaned against her. I eased my grip on her wrists slightly. She might well snap in half, did I press too harshly. “Not until you listen.”

“Listen to what? You were to be examined in Council, you—”

“I did not care to have a clutch of old men wasting my time while you were abed with a half-head.” I noted the shadows under her eyes had eased somewhat, and was grateful for that, at least. “My place is with you, Vianne. At your side, so the foolishness you fling yourself into does not kill you. I will not have that.”

It was not what I had intended to say.

“You did kill the King.” She all but choked on the words. “You did. Get away from me!”

A lie trembled on my lips. I had it prepared, the words that would make this salvageable. To soothe her, to lead her away. To repair what I could, to build on the foundation I had laid last time she was this close to me. She had not believed then, but now, perhaps, I had a moment’s worth of her weakness to use.

Instead, I heard myself say dully, “Yes.”

What am I doing?

“Yes,” I repeated, a trifle louder. “Very well, yes. It was a choice. Between Henri, and you. I would do it again, did the gods grant me another chance.” As many times as necessary.

She hung in my grasp. Her eyes were so dark, I had not found their true color until our wedding-night. Indigo, the deepest summersky evening shade before night truly falls. And now I wondered at her expression, for she seemed as amazed as I was by the admission.

Every lie I had thought to hide behind broke inside me.

“Tristan…”

“Tis very simple, Vianne.” My fingers eased, slid up her hand. I did not take the knife from her. I lowered it, the point trembling, and it touched my cheek. Cold metal, and the Pruzian would no doubt be happy to see my blood on it. “I am a traitor; make me bleed for it. I am more useful alive, though. You need me for the Aryx, you need me for protection, you simply need me. But do it, if you like. I am at your service.”

In every way.

The relief was immense, as if I had just spent myself in her. I had not realized the constant draining tension of examining her face, guessing if she knew or did not, if she suspected, what she would think of my actions. Instead, she knew, and I was exposed to her in a way I never had been.

“I did not truly believe…” She stared as if seeing me for the first time, or as if I had suddenly melted into a loathsome monster, a demieri di sorce with claws and fangs ready to rend and eat human flesh. “I thought to shelter you from whatever game the Duc had planned. I thought to protect you.”

By throwing me in a donjon? But, of course. It made a great deal of sense now— she had perhaps thought to draw out whatever traitors lurked in the shadows by allowing them to think me