The Bandit King

lifted her down. Her hood fell back, revealing a glory of intricate braids held together with blue ribbon, and I took the chance to brush at a stray strand, tucking it behind her ear. She wore a pair of emerald ear-drops, longer threads of gem-weighted silver swinging heavy against her cheeks, that I did not recognize. They were not my mother’s. Mere had all but fostered her, providing Vianne with dresses, hair-ribbons, jewelry—all the things a man would never think on, as well as sorely-needed gentle companionship. Vianne seemed easier with my mother than with most others, a smile blooming on her lately-solemn face whenever they met.

I took advantage of the momentary jostling to press a kiss to her forehead, a familiar rush of heat spilling through me as her skirts touched my breeches. I turned slightly, habitually, to keep my rapier-hilt free. She smelled of soap and heavy velvet, of sunlight and of woman, a peculiar aroma hers alone. At Court her hair-ribbons were imbued with bergaime and spice; it had taken a few gold coins to persuade the Court perfumier to blend me a tiny crystal bottle of the same mix commissioned by the Duchesse di Rocancheil. The vial had been lost in my room at the Guard barracks, along with all else—except the papers I had taken the precaution of burning the night before conspiracy broke loose.

I could not bring myself to destroy the tiny fluted crystal. The Princesse and her ladies favored lighter floral scents, but Vianne’s aura of green hedgewitchery would have overpowered those blends. The two times I drank myself into a stupor, with the door securely locked and the window barricaded as well, I had held the crystal to my face and inhaled its bloom between draughts of acquavit.

If a man seeks to drink enough to blind his conscience, tis acquavit or nothing.

She could rest her head below my shoulder if she wished. Yet she did not, gazing past me to the milling horses and the Temple novitiates even now taking Jierre’s mount. My lieutenant tucked his thumbs in his belt as I handed Arran’s reins to a gray-robed novice, accepting the boy’s bow with a slight nod. I had received my Coming- of-Age blessing in this Temple before going to Court, my birth had been registered here, and here I had held Vianne’s hands in mine and pronounced my marriage vows.

Here, also, I had seen the statue of Jiserah the Gentle blaze with silver light, and my Queen’s face also ablaze as she stared unblinking into that radiance, the Aryx’s three metal serpents writhing madly on their slim silver chain against her breastbone. I had thought the gods were about to strike me down for my effrontery, kneeling at her side. Even now, I could not shake the feeling of being watched within the Temple’s environs by eyes less human than a serpent’s.

The gods take an interest in Arquitaine, of course. But theirs are not the petty concerns of smaller fleshly beings. They had let the Aryx—the Great Seal that even now hung at my d’mselle’s breast—sleep since the death of King Fairlaine and his beloved Queen, and hard-pressed every monarch and Left Hand since had been to hide that slumber.

Now the Aryx was awake, and the gods had taken an interest again. I will admit I was made uncomfortable by the thought, and by another: that they would not have made me what I was and given me Vianne if they did not expect I would set myself against even their fury to see her safe.

She slipped past, her cloak brushing me, and I had a moment to admire her grace as she stopped four paces away to tip her head back and look to the sky. A quick glance assured me there were naught but stars overhead, and a slender quarter-moon just beginning its long nightly walk. I moved to stand at her shoulder, my gaze meeting Jierre’s as he exchanged a few quiet words with Adersahl and tilted his head in an unspoken question.

I replied with a fractional shake, no. And subtly, Jierre moved aside to let Adrien di Cinfiliet pass, the bandage glare-white against the bandit’s head. He had finally changed out of his bloody, torn clothes, and he had eyes for none of us except Vianne. Even now, his storm-gray gaze rested on her as she drew in a deep breath, steeling herself. She lowered her chin, her eyes closed and her shoulders coming up under a heavy invisible weight.

It was my task to make that encumbrance lighter, or at least share its burden. I closed my hand over her shoulder as a priestess appeared in the Temple door at the north side of the courtyard. Twisted jabak trees framed the rectangle cut from white stone, and the white-and-green-robed woman of Jiserah’s elect put up a hand to smooth her hair as she paused, looking out over this small courtyard used only by visiting nobility who did not wish to traverse the high stone steps of the front entrance. Twas Danae, the priestess who had heard our wedding vows—the second time, that is.

Slight blond Tinan di Rocham halted before Vianne. “D’mselle?” His dark gaze spoke too, worshipping her; the boy’s open adoration earned him much jesting in the Guard barracks. For all that, the teasing was good-natured and gentle instead of ribald. We did not grudge him his blushes, though I think some of them envied his youth and the grace with which she accepted his sallies.

“Tinan. How is your wound, chivalier?” She favored the boy, taking comfort in his easy humor. For that, I allowed him familiarity.

“Well enough, d’mselle. Is there aught you require?” He cast a nervous glance at me; Vianne seemed not to notice.

“I am as any other supplicant here.” Now she sounded sad, as the priestess approached, sandals shushing on paving-stones. Jierre and Adersahl were deep in conference, Adersahl stroking the rebirth of his fine mustache as he glanced warily at di Cinfiliet, whose own inspection of the courtyard paralleled mine. The bandit had not survived in the depths of the Shirlstrienne without wariness, and I had a healthy respect for that caution. It might make him difficult to… surprise.

But not impossible, should the situation require it.

The priestess reached us, her fair round face crinkling with merry lines around her eyes and mouth. “Your Majesty.” A bow, a trifle lower than it should have been, and held a trifle longer. “You honor us.”

Vianne’s chin lifted fractionally, a queenly gesture. “I come not as royalty but as a pilgrim, Danae da’Jiserah,” she said formally. Adrien di Cinfiliet watched with narrowed eyes, stroking his swordhilt. My hand rested upon my own rapier. There has been royalty enough slain in Temples, whether the gods willed it or no. “Tis guidance I would ask. Is the penitent’s cell ready?”

“Ready and waiting.” The priestess straightened, her dark gaze touching me. We are a brunet people, the Arquitaine—not ill-favored as the Damarsene, though. Arquitaine breeds beauty, just as Pruzia breeds harshness and Rus cold, exotic cruelty. “D’mselle, your instructions—”

Vianne held up a hand; Danae’s tongue halted. “Tinan, Jierre, accompany Tristan in seeing to the safety of the Temple. Adrien, I would speak to you privately; Adersahl shall attend me while I do so.”

Adersahl saluted, as did Tinan. I felt the first faint stirrings of trouble. I would not leave your side, even here. But neatly done, I cannot argue. Ordering Adersahl to watch the door while she conferred with Adrien was a touch worthy of the lady who had caught many intrigues in the female world of Court, where the women played for privilege and position—and sometimes, the eye of a nobleman.

While Vianne di Rocancheil’s sharp gaze was at Court, none dared offer her Princesse overt insult. Still, I had smoothed the way where I could, marveling at her loyalty to Henri’s spoiled little half-Damarsene farrat of a daughter.

“If it please you,” I said. “Though I like not leaving your side, m’chri.”

“It shall not be for long.” She did not meet my gaze, and my unease sharpened. “It would please me to know I may sleep safely tonight.”

If I am at your side, you will ever sleep safely. But she wished the penitent’s cell, which meant she planned on a lonely slumber. “As you will it.”

Danae visibly swallowed a question. I wondered what secrets my face was telling, smoothed my features. As ever, Vianne. As you will it.

“My thanks, chivalier.” A small smile, as if she had to force her mouth to it, and she was gone, ushered away by the fluttering priestess.

I dreaded even her innocent questions; a guilty conscience leaps even at a pinprick. I nodded at Jierre, the command answered almost as soon as it was given, and he turned on his heel, a slight gesture bringing Tinan to his side. They would sweep the Temple and make a report later.

Adrien di Cinfiliet’s gray gaze passed over me. If it were the first salute of a duel, I do not think I was the worse for it. He followed Adersahl. I watched as Vianne’s slim shape silhouetted itself in the low door, her step light and graceful.

Before she entered the house of the gods, she did glance over her shoulder. Yet if her face held any