The Bandit King

“Your instructions to Divris di Tatancourt fell into improper hands.” I hooked my thumbs in my belt, to disguise how my own hands wished to shake.

“Whose hands would those be?” As if she did not know.

Mine, of course. “I found it interesting who you addressed your missives to, m’chri. Who among your Council sought to kidnap you?” And you fled Arcenne both to put an end to the attempts and to move against d’Orlaans. Did you foresee this?

It was an uncomfortable thought. For if she were able to see the future so clearly, what need had she of me?

There is a need, Left Hand. However much she can see, she cannot bring herself to kill. That is your function.

She faced me fully now, her chin lifted, but she still did not rise. Instead, she folded her slim fingers together. The Aryx glowed against her skin, the dress’s neckline low enough to make a man sweat. She nodded, as if she had expected me to ask. But she did not answer.

It rankled.

“Very well.” I dismissed the questions she would not answer with a shake of my head. My hair had grown long as a chivalier’s fashion again, and it whispered against my collar. “What would you have of me, Vianne?”

The dark circles under her eyes spoke as she did not—of weariness, of worry, of the weight on her. Finally, she moved slightly, as if to ease her steel-straight spine. “I have a task to set you, Left Hand.”

“Say it, and tis done.” The traditional response, did she but know it. Had it ever tasted this bitter, any of the times I uttered it in Henri’s hearing?

She swallowed, her throat moving. I did not look at her mouth. “I am to meet d’Orlaans after the nooning.”

I nodded, slowly.

Then she told me, very softly, what she required of me.

What did I feel?

Regret. Relief. My heart leapt, settled into a high hammering rhythm. This was what she would ask?

She waited, as if expecting me to disagree. I nodded again. “Tis done,” I repeated. “Is that all?”

“Is it not enough?” She reclasped her hands, very prettily, as if she were on a divan at Court. “Tristan —”

So now I was Tristan instead of Captain or d’Arcenne. “Was my reply too complex, Vianne? Yes. There is my answer, and it is the only one you shall hear from me.” Unless you ask me to abandon you.

The candle fluttered inside its spun-glass holder. It touched the gold in her hair. “Even though I am asking you to—”

“Oh, you knew there would be little trouble in inducing me to this.” Did I say it to wound her? Perhaps. Her flinch scored me to the quick, and I instantly sought to reverse the damage. “M’chri —”

She recovered quickly. Far too quickly, and far too thoroughly. “It should please you that I am finally ordering such things.”

Yes, she had changed. What had she been about these past few weeks, to emerge so altered?

I finally managed to catch a glimpse of the copper marriage-ring. It glowed on the traditional finger, mellow in the dimness, and a spike of something hot and complex speared me. “What pleases me is that you are alive. Is there aught else you would have of me, m’dama Queen?”

“Not until afterward.” She tensed again, as if she expected me to cross the remaining distance and strike her. “You are dismissed until the nooning.”

I bowed. No hat, but there was no polish lacking in the courtesy I did her. “It surprises me, Vianne, that you would trust me in this matter.”

“It surprises me as well,” she returned, brittle and quick, and I retreated.

If I tarried any longer in that tent, I would have tried to touch her.

Tried? No. I would have added to the list of my crimes, and torn d’Orlaans’s gift-dress from her in ribbons. So, she had changed.

Or had I? If someone had told me that I would do half of what I had to her, I would have called him to a dueling-circle as a liar. I was not the man she thought I was.

I did not know whether to be grateful… or to curse who I had become.

* * *

A curious quiet hung over d’Orlaans’s army. It was a hush not of stasis but of anticipation and preparation. The false King wished to ride to Arquitaine’s defense—as soon as matters were settled with the Hedgewitch Queen.

Did it not occur to him that she would settle matters to suit herself? Or did he think her merely a catspaw?

The Field d’Or holds a stone Pavilion, gold leaf gleaming on its ornamental cupola and pillars of fluid sorcery-carved blue stone. That stone is not found anywhere inside our borders. Some say it is from the Angouleme’s home, the blessed Isle riven to splinters by the Maelstrom off our westron shores. Others hold that it was transported from Rus, a gift from their Zar to a new conqueror in the days when Far Rus’s borders lapped against the hedge of Badeau’s boundaries, before the bull-headed god of Damar awoke, before Polia slipped the yoke and became a blood-soaked, obstinate collection of proud rebels preferring death to slavery. Even Sirisse, safe behind their mountains, had been watchful of Rus’s power then.

In any case, the Pavilion d’Or is bluestone and gold leaf, kept safe from thieves by its air of sacredness. A round dais under its stem-legged dome, two wings curving forth and a gathering-ground of that same blue stone held in its arms, it was a ceremony-theater soaked in Arquitaine history.

Vianne approached it that day on my mother’s white palfrey, her hair lifted on a crisp wind smelling of approaching winter. Any summer-heat remaining had broken, coolness soughing across the fertile cup of Arquitaine, and in the Citte there would be relief from the oppressive clinging breath from the shores of the River Airenne.

But we were not at the Citte or the Palais. Instead, we—the fifty gaunt noblemen of the New Guard and the half-dozen or so of the Old, lacking only Tinan di Rocham—paced in honor-guard behind our Queen. Dust whirled, the Aryx’s song muted as Court sorcery threaded down our ranks, repelling the fine penetrating grit.

I did not walk with them. Instead, I held the palfrey’s reins, leading m’dmselle’s horse. The mare was sleek and glossy, and looked near to bursting with satisfaction at bearing such an august personage. She seemed to find my shoulder fascinating as well, and I held her to a stately pace.

There was not room for the entire army to see, despite the Pavilion’s crowning the highest point of the Field. There were nobles gathered, though, and the officers, lining the ribboning processional way.

It should have been Vianne on the dais, waiting for the conquered to kneel before her. Or d’Orlaans doing whatever he pleased, as long as my d’mselle and I were safe in Tiberia, beyond his murderous reach.

I took careful note of faces I recognized along our route. The closer to d’Orlaans, the higher they would be in his estimation, for whatever reason. Majesty flows from a fount, and those it trusts—or wishes to watch—are placed close to the source.

A ripple ran through them at the sight of Vianne. Not just of her straight slimness in blue and silver, but the fire on her chest. The Aryx glowed, its carved serpents shifting, and the ribbons of Court sorcery keeping the dust from us rose above her head, writhing as the Aryx did. Twas the sign of royalty, seen in many a tapestry and painting, those circle-twisting streams, and I suppressed a grim smile at the thought of d’Orlaans’s fury as he watched her so neatly rob him of legitimacy.

He thought to have her wander to him as a beggar, instead of this.

As we drew closer, the shade of the Pavilion quaked. There was a weak shimmer from under the dome, and it was with no little satisfaction that I saw the gleam from Timrothe d’Orlaans’s false Aryx stutter.

I halted Vianne’s horse before the Pavilion. Inhaled deeply, and performed a herald’s duty. “Her