The Bandit King

service.”

“You swore to the King.” A glimmer of eyes under her lashes. Was she examining me? She held herself so still, as if faced with a wild, unpredictable animal.

I was an animal, certainly. Look at what I had done to her. Shame bit me, hot and rank.

But I was exceedingly predictable once she knew where to apply the pressure. Once she knew that the sum of my desires lay in the form of one shivering, frightened, beautiful hedgewitch. What would I not do, to bring her where I needed her to stand? “He may have thought so. The world may have thought so. But in the end, Vianne, it was to you.”

She finally moved, curling on her side, away from me. I had not just torn her dress, I had savaged it. I hoped I had not bruised her. Or… hurt her.

You have, I realized. Of all the things you swore you would never do, and now you have. You did not ask her leave, you merely took.

“Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me be.”

“You still do not understand.” I stood, the light of morning drenching the bedroom, and loathed myself even more completely. “I cannot. You would have to kill me.” I swallowed, my throat moving. “Until you do, m’chri, my darling hedgewitch, my Queen, you have a hawk at the wrist. Set me after prey or hood me, Vianne. But you cannot rid yourself of me.”

I backed away from the bed, step by step. My face ached, and the wound on my chest stung. I found a chair by backing into it, and dropped down. I gripped the arms, but not in fear.

No, I held to them splintering-hard. Dear gods.

Loathing turned inside me, married to frustrated tenderness. She was deathly silent, and I cursed myself. Not for the first time.

And most certainly not for the last.

Chapter Seventeen

She did not look at me, and the new dress—rich crimson this time, its lacings loose because she had lost weight—rustled as she moved. Her hair was braided back; I had watched her trembling fingers perform the job. She did not wince as she settled into the hard chair at the head of the table, and the small fresh mark on her shoulder, where I had suckled hard enough to bruise, was covered by the red velvet.

What did it cost her, to look so calm? Her eyes were red with weeping, but none remarked upon it.

The Council, a collection of noblemen, took their seats silently once she had settled. My hands, crossed before me in a traditional posture, ached for my rapier-hilt. Outside the door was a fuming Jierre and a bruised Pruzian Knife; seeing the look that passed between my lieutenant and Vianne when she opened the door and he realized I was behind her had been… uncomfortable.

“You are called to order, chivalieri et sieurs.” Very quiet, very contained, she sounded every inch the Queen. Paper littered the table, and the Aryx gleamed. My gaze riveted itself to Vianne’s expression, seeking to decode every nuance. “Before we examine… my Consort, I will hear reports. Conte di Siguerre? Your preparations?”

“Complete.” The cranky old turtle hunched his shoulders and blinked. He was strangely subdued. Normally he was a whistling cantankerous rattle of a man. “All is in readiness.”

“Thank you. Conte di Dienjuste?”

He was a young blond chivalier, his excitability muted as well. He stole a glance at me, sidelong. “Avicial has declared for you, Your Majesty. Between a third and a half of Arquitaine, now. I’ve sent the proclamations; we should start seeing the results soon.”

Proclamations? She’s raising an army. Hm. I caught Siguerre glancing at me as well. I stood before the fireplace, its warmth a balm and penance all at once. At least she had not ordered me clapped in chains again.

She had been seeking to protect me. I should have known. I had thrown away every advantage, and I had perhaps lost her. Who knows what a woman can forgive, much less a Queen?

Gnarled old Irion di Markui’s fist crashed on the tabletop. “I see not why we must waste our time on this. Is the man a traitor or not? If he is, let us have him beheaded and done with!”

“If you speak out of turn again, sieur, you shall feel my displeasure.” Vianne gazed coldly at him. “Marquis?”

Di Falterne, a stolid dark man with his hair long as a chivalier’s, his face seamed as a mended kettle’s, nodded. “Our supply situation is… adequate. Trade with Navarrin is the deciding factor, of course, but they are continuing to uphold their bargain. A missive arrived not two hours ago…” He glanced at the window, as if wishing himself far away.

Interesting.

“And?”

“It did, my liege. It bore the mark you instructed to be watched for.”

Vianne sighed. Her head dropped forward for a moment, but she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Baron d’Arcenne.”

My father, seated next to Markui, had not ceased to stare, his bright blue eyes seeking to drill through me and into the wall. His displeasure was obvious, but muted. “The Damarsene, with di Narborre, continue to retreat. They are still in disarray; the entire province is harrying them forth.” My father paused, steepling his fingers before his face—a movement I recognized. “It will be difficult to keep control of the peasants, do they taste much more uncertainty.”

“Theirs is the blood that is shed,” Vianne murmured. “Advise me, Minister Primus. Can we win a war before winter?”

I could have answered, but I held my peace.

“Most likely… not. D’Orlaans will now know you have the Seal and the will to use it. Perhaps he will seek to treat with you. In any case, he will have many very distressed Damarsene to deal with, and the small matter of paying the army that is tramping back to the Citte to meet him.”

“Tribute. And whatever he has promised them.” Vianne sat bolt-upright, staring unseeing at the table. “I would give much to know…”

But she did not speak further. Instead, she sank into silence, and the entire room held its breath. My heart ached. She had dressed as a chivalier prepares for battle, doing her best to ignore my presence. I had cleaned off the blood as well as possible, and my face itched and burned. What did they think of the fresh slice down my cheek?

Did it matter? All that mattered was what she would do now.

The quiet stretched, an unsound fit to scrape nerves raw. Finally, Vianne sighed again. She looked up, and her dark eyes were clear and steady. “Sieurs et chivalieri,” she said formally, “my Consort stands accused of treason to Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin, the former King of Arquitaine. I wish you to advise me on the matter of his innocence, his trustworthiness, and his fitness to continue as my Consort. You are to examine him. He is to answer every question thoroughly and to your satisfaction. When you are finished, you may set him free or attend to the details of his execution.” A heavy pause, and she rose with a slight soft sound of velvet moving. “I leave the matter to you.”

Every one of them leapt to his feet. She swept down the fireside length of the table, and she did not glance at me. The pulse beat frantically in her throat, and moving air brought me a breath of bergaime and spice, green hedgewitchery and the indefinable note of her skin. I could still feel her under me, the marks of her nails in my back and a slight pleasant lassitude.

I swallowed the stone in my throat.

She paused at the door. “And…” Her head turned, I saw the curve of her cheek, the shape of her chin, and a glitter of swinging ruby ear-drops. “Should you judge him guilty, sieurs, tis not necessary for him to leave this room alive.”

And then she was gone, the door closing with a quiet, definite snick.