The Bandit King

Finally, she dropped her hand. Her sandals dropped as well. Her hair, braided in loops over her ears as the R’mini women do, had pulled free and framed her face with curling tendrils. She had gained some little weight, and there were no shadows under her eyes.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Captain,” she whispered.

“Vianne.” I could not speak any louder.

She visibly gathered herself. I waited. “Is it… is it time?”

I realized what she was asking, and cursed myself for being lackwitted clear through. “Tis time, Vianne, but not for what you think. I would not harm you.”

She shook her head. “I…”

“How can you even think I would harm you?” Quietly, but with great force.

Her chin lifted a fraction. “I had… I must be sure. How did you…”

“I am a fool for you, m’chri. Not an idiot.” I spread my hands slowly, so she could see what I held.

The ear-drop glowed in my palm. She inhaled sharply, and her gaze fluttered to my face, seeking to read whatever it could.

I wished her luck. I wished to be an open book to her. But would she ever know what language to read upon my features? “He is well, Vianne. You would have heard by now, were he not. We have come to an agreement, your bandit cousin and I.”

“And I am unnecessary, now?” Her chin tilted up slightly, brave to the last.

“Not to me.” I searched for the right thing to say. “I am not his Left Hand.”

The breath left her in a rush. She had paled alarmingly. “Tristan…” A mere ghost of a word.

Finally. Not “Captain” or “ sieur.” I throttled the hope rising in me. “Do your R’mini pass near Arcenne, Vianne?”

“What?” She struggled to understand. Or perhaps to throttle the hope plainly visible on her features.

Finer than I deserved, as always. She hoped for my redemption, my Vianne. She had played her hand well, and freed us both. Except she could not unlock the chains of what I had been, and what I had done.

Not even the Blessed held that key. But if I could, if she let me, I would do my best to be the man I should have.

Unless it was too late. I cast my dice. “I would see my mother again. She would no doubt be glad to see your face as well. We may not stay in Arcenne. It could be… misconstrued. But over the mountains, to Navarrin… or, Tiberia. There is a house in Citte Immortale, ready to be filled with books.”

“And if I do not wish to?” A swift, abortive movement, as if she wished to flee.

I pointed to her left hand. The copper marriage-band glittered as the music throbbed outside, yells rising as the pair dancing performed some sorcery that earned the approval of their audience.

“It seems I cannot rid myself of…” She lifted her hand slightly, gazed ruefully at the band. “Tris.”

“You do not have to forgive me.” The consciousness of lying struck me, quick and hard as a mailed fist. My pulse pounded in my ears. “I will not ask it of you.” That was the truth. “If you tell me to go, I will. I will pass the remainder of the life the Blessed see fit to grant me in Arcenne, waiting for your call. I will even, do you require it of me, return to your cousin and safeguard his life with my own. I will trouble you no more. I am… sorry. It does not erase the ill, Vianne. I am worse than you can imagine. But I would be… better, if I could.”

She hesitated. Did she wish to, she could scream. They would come running, her traveling-companions.

Her shoulders lifted. She stepped back, her hand searching for the door. I forced myself to stand mute, frozen, every scar I had gained in my life a map of fire and failure, the blackness in me rising as my hope drew back from me. I closed my eyes. Why were my cheeks wet? The scar on my face gathered a tear, hot salt water tracing a runnel down its seam.

There was a click. Slight creaking as her weight shifted.

Her fingertips touched my damp face. Slid down the scar she had gifted me, and twas a balm. Mercy for the desperate, hope for the hopeless.

She had locked the wagon’s door.

“Tristan.”

“Vianne.” A whisper. I could not speak louder.

“If I am to trust you, there are things you must do.”

“Anything.” The word was merely a croaking prayer. Please. If there is any mercy, let it be spent here.

“No politics.” Her voice caught. Was there summat caught in her throat, as there was a rock in mine? “No Queen, no Left Hand. No Court. No power, or position, or games of loyalty. No betrayal, no assassination, none of it. I will not have it. I cannot bear it. I have given up everything.” She touched my lips. “Are you willing to be simply Tristan, as I am simply Vianne?”

I nodded, helpless. “That was all I ever wanted,” I admitted. D’Orlaans may show himself again, though. If he does, he will strike at you. “Vianne—”

She covered my mouth, standing on tiptoe, her slender weight pressed against me and her soft palm a brand against my skin. “Hush.”

I did. I found the courage to look at her again. No more burning in her gaze. Nothing but sadness and terrible knowledge. A burden I would ease, would share—if she would let me.

If she would allow it.

She bit her lower lip, and I longed to erase her uncertainty.

Finally, she reached yet another decision, and her face eased. She nodded, once, as if I had spoken. Perhaps she thought I had; perhaps my longing was a cry she could hear.

“Douse the candle,” my hedgewitch said. “I will think of something to tell them in the morning.”

A small golden flame winked out as the music crashed to its finish outside, and the cheers and laughter of the R’mini echoed, rising to the cold stars. She took me in her arms once more. And here I will cease, for what else that night held is not to be told to strangers, and the Left Hand is dead.

For now.

Finis

Glossary

Ansinthe:  A venomous green liquor distilled from wyrmrithe

Aufsbar:  (Prz.) Client

Blessed, the:  (Arq.) The Twelve Gods of Arquitaine, six Old (indigenous) and six New (brought by the conqueror Angouleme)

Demiange:  (Arq.) Sorcerous or half-divine spirit; many of them wait upon the gods in the Westron Halls

Demieri di sorce:  (Arq.) Sorcerous spirits of night and mischief

D’mselle:  (Arq.) Honorific, for a young woman

Festival of Sunreturn:  One of the great cross-quarter festivals

G’ji g’jai:  (R’m.) Foreign (lit. Other) whore

Hedgewitch:  (Arq.) One who practices peasant sorcery

M’chri, m’cher:  (Arq.) Beloved, dear one

M’dama:  (Arq.) Honorific, for an older woman

Rhuma:  A fiery clear liquor distilled from sucre

Sieur:  (Arq.) Honorific, for a man

Valadka:  A clear, very potent liquor