The Bandit King

chest, a monstrous egg, and my legs sought to buckle.

No. Not yet.

Di Narborre folded, oddly boneless. For a moment I was in the Rose Room again, a King on my sword and the world about to fall to pieces. I twisted the dagger, but my hand was oddly weak.

The Black Captain’s gaze dimmed. A candle, swiftly carried down a dark corridor. Fading to a spark, then vanishing.

I cannot die.

He perhaps thought the same.

The world tilted. The dagger tore free of my nerveless fingers, buried in his heart. A pity that he had one. None would believe it.

A high, retching cough spattered more bright blood from my lips. Silence, holding me in vast, feathery, cupped hands.

I cannot die.

It was too late.

I died.

* * *

Glare of white light. Bergaime and spice filling my mouth. Slick fabric against my tensed fists, handfuls of scratch-embroidered material. Copper-gummed blood dry on my lips, scabs coating my throat. I tasted blood with every breath of my salvation.

I was told afterward of Vianne’s cry as di Narborre’s rapier threaded my chest, a needle in the fingers of an enthusiastic sempstress. Of the Aryx’s blaze, a crack of darkness in its heart as the serpents spun, their metal flowing like living scales. Of d’Orlaans’s swift attack after he had called forth the poison killspell, his foul sorcery calling down a blight upon the stones, cracking and scoring them, a line of murderous intent swerving at the last moment, failing as my d’mselle opened herself to the Seal completely.

There was an orb of brilliance, hung in midair. Silver radiance outshining the harvest-season sunshine. Those who witnessed it—and every man afterward told roughly the same tale—found himself on his knees. A great silence, broken only by a rustling, as of a vast wheatfield brushed by the wind’s caressing, invisible fingers. And somehow, every man of d’Orlaans’s army saw Vianne, her arms about me, my head on her silk-draped lap as I choked my last, reaching with bloodstained fingers to touch her cheek.

Jiserah, some of them breathed, as if that queen among the Blessed had come to earth. Perhaps she had.

The brilliance shrank, a pinprick of white-scorch intensity, and the rattling whistle of tortured breath echoed amid the rustling. My foolish body jerked, striking out with fists and feet, but Vianne did not flinch.

A knife of ice through my chest. Bubbling clear fluid spuming from nose and mouth as she rolled me aside, the torrent fouling her skirts. I convulsed, and the force of that seizure cracked me open.

Mercifully, I remember little of it. Merely the pain, and even that fades. My cheek against cold cracked bluestone, Vianne’s hands strengthless at my shoulders, plucking weakly at my doublet. She tilted back her head and screamed, a cry of utter negation.

And I… lived.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Weak as a newborn kitten. There was a cup at my lips—broth with bitter herbs; I drank. Sought to grimace at the foulness of whatever medicinal properties the draught had. Cursing, a lake of broth spilling over my face, a familiar voice answering my oath with an equally improper one.

“Do not drown him, lackwit!” Young di Siguerre grabbed at the cup, and a foreign voice cursed him roundly.

I found myself on a camp-cot, gracelessly sideways, my boots scraping at carpets as I recognized the fabric. Indigo, rich and expensive.

Vianne.

“Where—” My voice would not work properly. Burning invaded my cramped limbs. I coughed, harshly. A gobbet of something foul lodged in my throat, I retched, and the Pruzian cursed again, this time cheerfully, as a basin appeared to catch the bloodclot. Cold air stung all the way down, then, and I was suddenly exquisitely aware of the simple act of breathing in a way I never had been before.

“Son of a donkey-loving whore,” he finished in Pruzian, spitting each syllable disdainfully. “I am playing nursemaid to a babbling Hekzmeizten so weak I could knife him with no trouble—”

I jerked, twisting, and his harsh caw of amusement scraped my ears. “I jest,” he muttered. “The fralein, she left thee in our care. Ease yourself, friend, the Hekz takes a toll even while it heals.”

A Pruzian Knife, calling me friend? I blinked crusted blood and other matter away.

Young Siguerre cursed as he lifted my legs, managing to slop me onto the cot in passing-fair fashion. “There. You weigh a dray-and-cart, d’Arcenne, and you smell none too fresh either. You are to rest, and the hedgewitch is fetching something for tisane—”

Hedgewitch? “Vianne…” I sought to raise myself. Managed it shakily, but the tearing in my chest forced me to cease. “What in the name of the Blessed—”

“You are to rest, she said. We follow her as soon as you may travel.” Di Siguerre’s young face was graven. “She rides for the relief of Reimelles with those who did not follow the Duc d’Orlaans. He escaped, and no few went with him. Methinks he goes to join the hounds of Damar, or some other such black treachery. Much joy may they have of him, too, wherever he lands. The Queen let him leave with his life.” It was awe behind his gaze, I realized, uncomfortable but evident. “She says we will drive back the Damarsene. She says the gods have spoken.”

Reimelles? The world had gone mad. I stared at him, forcing my wits to work through a cotton-fog. Damn the woman. Will she never stay in one place?

But Reimelles was one of the first defenses on the road to the Citte. If the Citte fell, Arquitaine was lost. Had Badeau, that ancient hedge against attack from the north and west, granted passage to Damarsene armies? If they had not, there was a faint chance—but Badeau could not hold out for long, and the Damar might simply march through their territory first and ask forgiveness later.

That had happened before, and tis said to be the reason why those of Badeau are ever nervous.

“Gods. What have they to do with Reimelles?” I tested each limb in turn. My chest was a cracked egg of tenderness and aching, but I could move.

“I do not know.” Young Siguerre took the basin and blood clot from the Pruzian. “You were lung-pierced, Captain. She healed you. The Aryx broke d’Orlaans’s… thing, whatever it was.”

“He studied long on sorcery,” I managed, gaining another deep breath. Lung-pierced. Such a wound was likely a death sentence unless one had a greatly skilled physicker immediately by, but I was merely tender all through. And strengthless, my limbs heavy and inert. And he was never very careful of method. Only of results.

Oh, twas possible, I supposed. The dark half of Court sorcery is fueled with blood and pain, and tis not meet for a nobleman. Nor is it quite safe—those who take the Rose Path, as it is known, risk the thorns and sores of sorcery-sickness, not to mention insanity.

I did not think d’Orlaans would cavil overmuch at the risk.

Di Siguerre shrugged. “Good riddance, whatever twas. Here’s the hedgewitch now.”

Twas Coele, one of the pair who had tended horse and Guard during our ride. His broad face was familiar, and his phlegmatic mien doubly so. He thrust a cup of something thick, foul-smelling, and sulfurous under my nose. “Drink, an it please you, sieur.”

I had no choice, unless I wished to drown.