The Bandit King

The quarters given to Vianne’s use were… adequate. This had perhaps once been a queen of the Caprete’s line’s bedroom, its window-casement looking onto a sadly bedraggled garden of roses gone to rot and wither. It must have hurt her to see it so neglected; any hedgewitch would feel a pang to see such disrepair.

The bed was wide but its curtains were stiff-dusty, its linens threadbare, and dust also lay on heavy graceful antiques last fashionable in King Archimvault’s time. The watercloset worked, however, and fresh clothing arrived for me. At least, I think twas intended for my use, and I took the stack from a young wide-eyed pageboy who attempted to peer past me into the room. Vianne was safely in the watercloset, the sound of splashing and an occasional rushing spatter as the ancient fallwater inside choked on fluid spilling through uncertain pipes. Twas lucky water was not rationed; the Marrenne had not fallen very far this summer.

Merely far enough.

When she emerged, re-laced into her dress and her hair merely damp, her eyes were red-rimmed. She gave precious little evidence of weeping, merely crossed to the bed and dropped down with a sigh. I was left, still filthy with blood and ditch-muck, holding a stack of linen and doublet that might have been intended for another man, pointedly ignored by the woman who turned her back to the room and pretended immediate slumber.

My throat had gone dry. Again. I was hungry, but that was of little account. The scar on my chest burrowed deeper, green traceries of hedgewitch charming almost visible to Sight as my strength waned.

“Vianne.” Hoarsely. “Please.” Forgive me. If you will. If you can.

She did not respond.

It strikes at a man, that brand of a woman’s silence. Not quite as a mailed fist to the gut, but close enough —and a little lower, as well.

“I could not stay away.” As an explanation, it left much to be desired. “I still cannot.”

Did she move? No, twas merely a flicker from the dim glowglobes in their wall sconces. She retired still- gowned, so she could be dressed when fresh crisis arose. Ever practical, my Vianne. But she should not have to be, not in this manner.

“Merun will fall,” I continued, quietly. “They cannot hold. You must be a-ship and away before that happens. Must I drag you?” Would her temper rise?

It did not. The silence stretched. Her breathing evened itself. She could perhaps be truly asleep. Exhaustion is a wondrous aid when one seeks to ignore a man, I suppose.

Finally, I stamped into the watercloset. Most of the filth had fallen from my boots; twas a joy to have a real fallwater again, even if it did choke with alarming regularity. The clothes could have been meant for me—the breeches a trifle loose, the shirt and doublet a trifle too large, both plain and dark.

And there, folded into the middle of the shirt, a red sash. Which did not solve the riddle of quite whose clothes these were.

I cannot gainsay you.

How right she was. I could stride into the bedroom, shake her awake. Strike her. Make her respond. She was only a woman, despite the Aryx.

And what was I?

The slice of looking-glass over the sink was ancient and cracked. I touched it, fingertips scratching and still faintly stained with grime. Hard riding does not wash out so easily. I turned away, not wishing to see the dusty ghost of my reflection. Stopped in the watercloset door, gazing at the bed’s stiff brocaded draperies.

Only a woman. I could do what I liked. Truly, who was there to halt me or say me nay? She needed me, by all appearances far too much to do more than leave me behind with nursemaids. I had won her once; I could win her again. Patience and time—but my patience was sorely lacking, and there was no time.

Was it not just this morn I had resolved to make myself into a man she could be proud of? And now, simply look at what I contemplated. There was a word for it, and it was not noble.

I stood in the ashes of my dreams, in the midst of a city that would suffer the sword in a short while. I had betrayed my King and my family, brought unimaginable suffering to my land, and drove the woman I loved into a Damarsene hell.

I had done this, and none other. I had even died for it. Were I more religious, I could consider everything before that moment a stain washed away.

But I was not, and there was no water for the stain on me. There was not enough even in the wide salt seas to cleanse the first layer of dirt smirching my self, and I had applied every inch of it myself.

Did I even truly love her, if I would use her thus? And yet she had not let me die, and had believed in my innocence until I had riven that belief with the truth.

I am not fine enough for you, Vianne. I have not ever been.

The gnawing suspicion that I would not ever be was familiar. That emptiness had always been within me, and it had led me to do the unthinkable and unspeakable, thinking it would earn me what I coveted.

The room was dim and quiet. You could almost imagine no battle outside, a d’mselle from a courtsong sleeping as her chivalier stood, loath to wake her. I had sworn her my service not once but twice, she had touched my rapier-hilt and accepted both times. I prided myself on being her Left Hand—and yet, look at the pass I had brought Arquitaine to.

If I had left Henri alive, what would have happened?

Such a question is useless. Think on what must be done now.

Well, what was to be done? I could hope not to make aught worse. And most likely fail in that, too.

There was one chair in the room—a rickety ironwood thing, carved with ancient spikefruit and possessing a mouse-eaten cushion. It looked decidedly uncomfortable, and I cast another longing glance at the dusty bed. The tapestries hung rotting on the walls, hanging in a stasis that would continue until their threads frayed and they folded to the floor in puffs of dust. By that year, would there be songs of how I betrayed my King? Would I be a footnote in the secret archives, my name blackened?

She would be buried in the chapel of royalty, and I… in a nameless hole, perhaps, my bones crying out for hers as they moldered.

What would the man she could love do at this moment, Tristan d’Arcenne?

When I opened the door, a familiar face met mine. Jierre paused, crouching, caught in the act of unrolling a sleeping-pad on the opposite side of the hall. He gazed at me dully, exhaustion plainly written on his gaunt face. “Robierre di Atyaint-Sierre and Adersahl have the reins.” He turned back to the pad, smoothing it down. “They shall send for us, if there is need.”

Us. Does he mean “Vianne and me”? Or does he mean all three of us? Or, even, “Captain, you and me”? There was no way of knowing save to ask, and I did not feel like asking.

I closed her door softly. Leaned the chair against the wall, dropped into it, my sword to the side. The ache in my chest would not cease. Was the charm holding? It had held through a short vicious fight, but that was no indication.

“You have done well, chivalier.” I leaned back, propped my head against the wall. “I owe you my thanks.”

Sound of cloth moving as he settled himself. The witchlight torches hissed slightly—no glowglobes here in the hall, too expensive for merely a passageway. “Merun will not fall tonight.” Flat, monotone. “She should take ship for the Citte. She has some plan; she keeps its particulars close. Tinan di Rocham was sent, to do I know not what. She says we shall not leave Merun, that relief is nigh. I fear she may have gone mad.”

“Not mad.”At least, not yet. “Now you see the steel in her.”

“I could wish she had less steel and more sense.” He sighed, and perhaps twas exhaustion that made him so unwary. “Tristan?”

Are you about to tell me I should hang myself to spare her pain? I might. I settled myself, seeking any comfort I could in the chair. There was none to be found. I had slept in worse, though, and though I had done nothing but sit and watch through that long afternoon, I was fair worn through. “Aye?”

“I do not think you a traitor. I never did.” His tone was harsh, but the lie—if twas such—was kind.

My eyes squeezed shut. Do not break her confidence. I sighed. “It matters little now.” And I cannot tell if you are misleading me.

“It matters.” He paused. “If we die here, I wish for you to know.”

“We will not die here.” I sounded as certain as she did. Had I not just been