The Bandit King

scythes were also much in evidence—but the measure that tipped the balance was the detachments of ragged Shirlstrienne bandits and less-ragged Navarrin under a strange device, a simple red flag.

And who should be riding at their head but Adrien di Cinfiliet?

Adersahl and Mauris held me up, the boy openly weeping, Adersahl’s cheeks wet as well. The walls were full of cheering men, the crossbows hummed, bolts laden with death-sorcery crackling into the mass pinned close to the walls. When the Damarsene broke into full flight, harried away from their trenches and the walls, abandoning their siege engines and supplies, another massive cheer went up. Even a fool could have seen the battle was over. The Temple bells of Merun rang wildly, peal after peal, and I was told later that the scenes of joy at the quays were almost as dangerous as the melee outside the walls.

Vianne did not weep. For some while she stood on the battlements, motionless, watching, her face colorless and her hands fists in her skirts. She sent for Jierre, left orders that I was to be taken to the infirmary, and retreated to the Keep to begin preparations to welcome the relieving army.

Thus it was that I did not see the scene at the battered Gates of Merun, where the old Conte di Siguerre, in armor that was older than his grandson Tieris, swept the Queen a bow and greeted her with fine flowing oratory. I also did not see when Adrien di Cinfiliet rode to the Gates, dismounted, and my Vianne ran to his arms. Their embrace caused a round of fresh cheering, and the bandit and the old Conte were the heroes of the day.

No, I was in the infirmary. It was there that Bryony, sunburnt and dusty, found me. The hedgewitch, my childhood friend, sent the Merunaisse boy from the room with its walls of wool-bale, and examined the charm on my chest.

“You are a right welcome sight!” I had actually been laid atop a couch made of wool-bales, and I must say, twas more comfortable than any bed I had been possessed of lately. “How does Arcenne fare? How did you come to be here?”

“Arcenne still stands.” He looked grave, but I thought twas because he was peering at the scar on my chest. “You have been seeking to kill yourself, as usual. Dear gods.”

“How did you—”

“I bring word. One message from your mother—she says to take care and sends her regard. One from… your father. Divris di Tatancourt was found on Rieu di Heifors. He had been set upon and stabbed several times. Your father thought it best to ride with what army we had gathered.”

“I last saw di Tatancourt in the Quartier Gieron.” I thought on this. “Stabbed?”

“Aye. Your father… Tristan.” He ceased poking at my chest and looked up at me. “I bring news.”

Outside the wool warehouse, the entire city was still pealing and cheering with joy. Even the wounded and burned packed among the bales sought to cheer instead of moan with pain. “Well, out with it, Bry!”

He stepped back, spread his feet, and clasped his hands together. “There is no easy way to say this…”

“Bry, for the love of the Blessed, simply spit it forth. I must be fit to ride in short order, and have little time to waste.”

“You will not be riding soon, sieur, with that charming on you. I bethought myself to find you first. You will be seeing Siguerre soon.”

For a moment I thought he spoke of Tieris, and I made an impatient movement. “Of course, but what…”

I suppose twas then that I knew. The words halted. I lay, near to witless with shock, and stared at him.

“Conte di Siguerre has your father’s signet.” Bryony took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself. “He… Sieur, your father has fallen. He fell at Bleu-di-Font. D’Orlaans was there, with some Damarsene from the Dispuriee. The false king was riding for the Citte; we gainsaid him. Your father…” The hedgewitch swallowed hard, his dark eyes suddenly full. “Your pardon, Tris. I was not able to… there was no… He fell against d’Orlaans.”

I stared, unable to quite credit what my ears heard. Surely there was a mistake. This was a dream brought on by fever and foul tisane. It could not be true.

“D’Orlaans.” My mouth shaped the word.

“In a tumbril, kept under guard. Siguerre wished to kill him outright, but the Conte di Dienjuste said twas the Queen’s pleasure he was remanded to. Di Dienjuste was left to guard him; he follows our army within a day or so. I am… I am sorry, Tris.”

“Tis not your fault,” I said, woodenly. “I thank you for your pains, Bry.”

“We sought to save him. Twas… there was nothing—”

A nobleman does not strike an underling for bringing ill news. My father had oft quoted the proverb, usually with a grim smile and his hand to his rapier. “I understand. Ease your mind, my friend. If he could have been saved, I know you would have done so. Please, withdraw a little.” I would not unman myself with an audience.

He nodded. Unwilling pity and relief warred on his countenance. “You are Baron now. We have not sent word to your mother. Siguerre did not think it wise.”

“He was right,” I said through the numbness descending on me. “She has enough to bear. My thanks, Bry. Leave me.”

He did.

My father. I tried the words inside my head. They refused to form. Is dead. Someone is dead. It cannot be him.

He had told me to take care as I left him in Arcenne. Had even granted me his blessing, and now…

Now what?

I did not know.

My eyes were dry, and burned fiercely. I could not even weep. I lay on the bales, looking at the ceiling beams, smelling wool and foulness and my own unwashed illness, as around me a city celebrated deliverance.

* * *

Twas a day and a night before Conte di Siguerre appeared. At least I had lee to stand, and could wash myself. I was moved from the infirmary to a drafty but more comfortable room in Merun’s Keep, and attended by Tieris and a new hedgewitch physicker, a wide-hipped dame with the sharp face and blue eyes of Arcenne, a newly arrived and most welcome addition to the physickers. Beadris was her name, and rarely have I had a more grueling commander. I would mend, she announced, and she would see to it, for she had been commanded to do so by the Queen herself.

Tieris found this highly amusing.

The Conte tapped lightly at the door, on one of the rare occasions m’dama Beadris was off mixing ever-fouler concoctions to pour down my throat. Tieris opened the door and stepped back quickly as if discovering a coiled serpent. “Enter, an it please you.”

His left thigh was bandaged, but his gaze was still keen, and Conte di Siguerre did not hobble overmuch. He merely moved stiffly, showing his age. His hair had whitened considerably, and the Sun had touched him with bronze. His doublet was blazoned with Siguerre’s device—the crag-ram, with its curling horns and stubborn hooves, rearing in defiance.

He nodded shortly at Tieris. “P’tifils.”

Tieris bowed. He had gone pale. “Granpere.”

“D’Arcenne.” The Conte’s gaze turned to me. At least I was clean, and shaven, and had the benefit of fresh cloth. Including a new red sash. I was still of the Queen’s Guard, perhaps only until she could find enough time and attention to formally deny me the honor.

Or perhaps she did not mean to. Hope is a drug, and I could not give up the habit of its use. If I had proven myself unfit to be called noble or honest, at least I had also proven a protection against Graecan fire. How many times would I shield her with my own body, or my own lies?

And yet, I had failed to shield her where it mattered. And now, here was my father’s friend, and my father… dead.

I still could not fathom it. “Conte,” I greeted him. “Pray forgive me that I do not rise. Your arrival is most welcome.”