The Hedgewitch Queen (11 page)

He started to turn, to lead me away, but I found my voice again. “No!” I slipped from under his hand. “No,” I repeated firmly. “I will have no more death on my account.” The brook chuckled merrily, laughing at me.
Vianne, you idiot. Idiot Vianne.

His shrug was a marvel of disdain. “Tis not on your account,
d’mselle
. It is on mine. Now come.”

“Do not presume to order me about,
chivalier
.” I drew myself up, though my height was no match for his. “You were quick enough to promise me obedience when it served you. Now you must abide by it. I will have
no more death on my account
.” The words rang against fog and a rising chorus of birdsong. There was no more silence. The wood was alive once more.

He folded his arms, cocking his head and staring through me. “They are beyond your mercy,
d’mselle
. Poaching in the King’s woods is a treasonable offense. Even had they not threatened you, their lives would be forfeit.”

“If I am what you say, even that point becomes academic. Release them.”

He gave in suspiciously easily. “Very well; they will be released. Now, if you please,
d’mselle
, come with me.” His hand closed around my elbow, and I let him pull me away. He cast one look over his shoulder, but I was too busy, my feet slipping on moss and rocks, to wonder at it.

We plunged into the trees, moving so quickly I had difficulty keeping up. I set my jaw and did my best. When he rounded on me, blue eyes flashing, I almost lost my footing. But he had my shoulders instead of my elbow, and he shook me, once, as he had in the passageway two days—or a lifetime—ago.

“You noble little
fool
. You will cost us all our lives. Do you think this is a game? It would take only one peasant in his cups to tell the Duc’s spies we have gone this way, and the entire countryside will be roused against us. My men are few enough. I have no wish to lose more of them.”

I merely let my gaze accuse him. His fingers bit into my shoulders and I winced—I was already bruised there, and would be again. He did not notice, or care. And why should he?

I was only a
thing
to him. A means to an end.

D’Arcenne shook me once again, so sharply I flinched. “Gods above and below, Blessed witness me, why is it
nothing
I do pleases you?”

“I could ask you the same question.” I seemed to have been possessed by a completely different person—a Vianne with no discretion and none of my usual quiet. A strand of my hair fell in my face, the mixture of being disheveled, aching all over, clammy-cold, terrified, and heart-wrung as volatile as the sylph-aether used to fuel burners for distilling hearth-binding charms.

He stared at me for a few moments, his jaw working. I had never seen him angered thus. He looked on the verge of murder.

I remembered Baron Simieri’s plum-colored face with an internal shiver. But that had been a poison killspell. D’Arcenne would have used his dagger, or his sword.

But he has murdered, Vianne. The Guard in the donjon, do you think Tristan merely gave him a rose and a courtsong? And he is right, twould take only one peasant in his cups to rouse an entire province against us, if the Duc has laid his plans aright. Years this conspiracy was in the making; of course the Duc would plan for this. He has foresight enough.

Yet I could not brook it. Something in me rose up in rebellion, hot and brittle. The fog had begun to thin as birdsong exploded, every winged thing greeting the Sun’s fiery chariot wheels. I heard—but no. I could not hear that, not with the bird noise.

It sounded like a choked cry.

As the Captain of the Guard needed nothing but a single glance from his King to understand an order, so those of d’Arcenne’s Guard would need only a single glance—a nod over the shoulder, perhaps—to comprehend him.

And obey.

My body drew up against itself, every muscle tightening, yet my knees felt queerly loose. “Oh, no,” I whispered, my lips numb. A thin trickle of sweat touched my back. “You did not. You
did not
.”

His face darkened with something I did not want to name, so I took a step back. He let me, his hands dropping.

He did not even have the grace to look shamed. “Tis not on your conscience; it is on mine. I cannot risk the lives of my men for the sake of your
gentle
feelings.” His dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and the dew had been at him, too—either that, or there was a sheen of sweat on his sharp mountain face.

My throat was dry as the Days of Forgiveness. “They meant no harm.”
They
did
mean harm, Vianne. You are lying even to yourself.
The voice of good sense was faint and lost. My entire body quivered with a feeling too unsteady to be anger and too hot to be sorrow.

“Of course they did. Had you been alone…” He did not complete the sentence. We both knew what could have happened. There were stories and songs of young noblewomen caught in the woods without the protection of chaperone or male relative, left for dead or dishonored and committing suicide afterward.
The mother’s blood is all that counts
, the proverb ran—but dishonor tainted even that.

Tristan d’Arcenne and I stared at each other. What difference was there, between the peasants and the man who stood before me now? Either would seek to use me for their own ends; and what protection did I have? My wits, and the fact of the Aryx at my throat. Both such fragile protections.

“Blame me, Vianne,” he said finally. “You did seek to save their lives; let that be enough.”

I willed my hands to stop shaking, made myself as tall as possible.
I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I must act like it.
“You swore me your obedience.”

“I did not order their deaths on your account,
d’mselle
.” His voice turned taut and low. “I might have spared them for your asking it of me, had the lives of my men—
your Guard
—not been at risk.”

“They are not
my
Guard.” My throat ached with an unutterable scream. “They are
yours
—and the King’s.”

“The King is dead.” His hands had curled to fists, and I wondered if he would be so base as to strike me. “You hold the Aryx, and have the last drop of royal blood in Arquitaine not tainted by regicide.”

“I only hold the Aryx in trust.” My hand slipped up, touched the warm curve of the Aryx under my shirt. The peasants had not seen it, thank the gods—but that did not matter now. “I shall return it to a true Heir when it is time.”
Gods willing. Please.

He tipped his head back, his jaw working again, and I took two nervous steps backward. My ankle turned on a rock, and I almost fell. By the time I had regained my balance, he had somewhat mastered himself. His blue eyes were incandescent, and a muscle ticked steadily in his cheek. “Under Arquitaine law, until the time the Aryx chooses another holder, you are the Queen, and you should act like it. You should not risk our lives,
d’mselle
. Tis not noble of you at all.”

I could have screamed, yet again. But it was useless. I possessed enough knowledge of the Law of Succession to know he was right. I was the Queen while I held the Aryx. It mattered little why Lisele had it, or how she came to entrust it to me. Entrusted it was, and I was trapped. Lisele had made me promise to keep the Seal safe, and traveling with Tristan d’Arcenne and the Guard was the safest place for the Aryx—and for me.

But I had cost Lisele her life, perhaps. If I had been with her, mayhap I could have distracted the men long enough to buy her an escape. And the King—if Tristan had not been with me, perhaps he could have saved the King.

Now I was responsible for two more deaths. Peasants, to be sure—but still, two more awful murders.

So much death. We were wading in it, and it rose like the Airenne’s infrequent floods.

A great chill settled over me, far deeper than my skin. It pushed all the way down to my bones. I cupped my elbows in my hands and hugged myself, shivering. I could find nothing more to say.

D’Arcenne said nothing, either, and we heard the footsteps of the Guards returning. Who had killed them? Perhaps di Garfour? No—he was too kind. Luc di Chatillon? No, his eyes were so merry, and he had offered his oath in a voice that shook just a little. Robierre d’Atyaint-Sierre? No, I could not imagine it.

You do not need to imagine, Vianne. It is done.

They filed into the tiny clearing. “Is the Queen harmed?” Pillipe di Garfour asked shyly, faith shining in his gaze.

He believed. The Captain had made them
all
believe they were the Queen’s Guard, and the Queen’s Guard they would be, to the last man. There would be no better defense for the Aryx.

I set my chin and raised my eyes. “Unharmed.” My voice that sounded strange even to myself. “My thanks,
sieurs
. The Captain has informed me we are departing this place.”

With that, I brushed past d’Arcenne. He gave a subtle push to my shoulder, telling me which way the camp lay. I was grateful for that, at least. I tried my best not to stumble, though my eyes were dry and felt full of sand. His fingers slipped, as if he had sought to catch me as I passed, but I did not let him.

At least I was not weeping. The tears had turned to stones, and settled behind my beating heart.

I
did not break my fast, and d’Arcenne did not notice. He was too busy giving orders and planning. I simply sought to stay out of the way.

I alternated between silently reciting Tiberian verbs and hedgewitch charms. It was the only thing I could think to do. I leaned against a firgan tree and went through the first twenty Tiberian verbs, each declension a rough martial song, then recited a charm to salve a bruise. Now I could remember a dozen more—a charm to take infection from a wound, a charm to still bleeding, a charm to make a wounded person sleep and so, conserve their strength.

When it mattered most, I had been able to remember only a charm to mend a scullery maid’s hand. A miserable hedgewitch, in truth. I was determined that should I witness another death, I would do all in my limited power to prevent it.

All, Vianne?
That was another question, one which occupied me greatly.

We set out through the fog’s eerie muffling, and I again kept myself leaning away from Tristan as long as I possibly could. The motion of the horse and my own numb hunger conspired to put me in a half-slumbrous state.

Moisture dropped from the slender trees, underbrush gemmed with crystal drops, the birds finishing their dawn chorus and settling into the day’s gossip. Yet they were hushed, whispering—perhaps they, too, knew that the King was dead, and conspiracy stalked Arquitaine.

I thought on all the hedgewitch charms I knew, seeking to fix each of them more firmly into memory. At the Palais I would have my books—I wondered what had happened to my books, whether they were still in my bedchamber or if they had been taken. Surely the Duc must have known by now that I had escaped with Tristan. Or did he? Did he think I had left the Palais alone? Who else could have freed the Captain? Anyone loyal to him, certainly. Had there been anyone loyal to Tristan left in the Palais by the time the Duc was finished with his well-laid plans?

I missed odd things. My mother-of-salt comb, a keepsake from my mother. A bite of Cook Amys’s honeycake. The scent of my pillows, the blue silk ribbon I had left carelessly draped across my mirror. The small silver gryphon statue Lisele had gifted me with on my naming-day last year, its eyes glowing rubies.

We rode all day, the copses blurring together and the clearings becoming more infrequent. I must have slept, barely waking when we stopped for luncheon and to rest the horses. Someone pushed a sweetroll and a thick slice of cheese into my hands, and a cup of chai, but my stomach turned to a roiling mass of snakes when I raised the sweetroll to my lips. I held the bread and cheese until I ascertained which way I should go to relieve myself, leaving the cup on the leaf-scattered ground.

I threw the sweetroll into the bushes, and followed it with the cheese, sore tempted to send a muttered curse after both. A small charm to preserve my modesty, and another small charm to clean oneself afterward—at least I was hedgewitch enough for
that
. Here in the wilderness, it was easy. The charm took its power from the trees and earth, not from me. Thank the Blessed, for I was numb, and light. My forehead felt cold and wet to my hot, dry fingers when I pushed stray strands of hair back, seeking to repair my braid.

I did not go very far from the Guard, and when I reappeared, Tinan di Rocham handed me my cup again. “Drink it, and it please you,
d’mselle
. You are pale.”

I raised the cup to my lips, but did not drink. The smell of chai made my stomach cramp, and I feared I would retch most unbecomingly. I lowered it gingerly, and he seemed satisfied.

“That will help you. Do you need aught?” His fair young face was concerned. I wondered what he would have made of d’Arcenne’s commands to kill two helpless peasants.

What I need, young
chivalier
, you cannot give. Leave me be.
I shook my head, and as soon as he was gone I tipped the chai unobtrusively into a thornbush. My stomach eased a little, but did not cease its boiling. My arms and legs ached, and my head split with pain. I longed for my bed, or for a certain window seat in the White Gallery. From that casement one could watch the gardens below, and bask in the Sun at any season. Lisele and I had often hidden there as children, pulling the pale draperies closed to hide from prying eyes, whispering and giggling as our dolls had adventures on the broad gold-figured satin of the seat.

We did not stop for long, and soon I was back atop the horse with Tristan d’Arcenne behind me. I tried again to avoid touching him—an impossible feat on horseback—and was again defeated by my third recitation of the second class of verbs. I fell into a dreamy haze, and was glad of it as the day wore on.

Nightfall came, and still we continued, skirting the fields of Vanstrienne to the east. The country grew thick with hills and stands of broader oak and vastvain trees; we passed many a country lane and small brook. I heard someone remark this was Adersahl’s home province, and he knew it well. There was a manse, and some discussion of whether we could afford to rest there, sleep in real beds. But it was too dangerous—to Adersahl’s family and to us. It was decided to simply push on through the night. In three days’ time we should reach the place where a dark finger-dagger of the Shirlstrienne pointed into the heart of Arquitaine, and would be safe enough in that belt of forest—especially as it widened and became an ocean of trees, the Shirlstrienne proper.

Safe enough. Except for the bandits.

I found I did not care.

D’Arcenne occasionally made a remark into my captive ear, but I told myself I did not hear him and soon enough he did not speak to me. I occupied myself with reciting charms, and when I could no longer think of such things, simply staring at the horse’s mane.

We stopped just before moonrise at a small brook, and I was led to a pad of two blankets that someone—perhaps Tinan—had put between the roots of a tall spreading chestnut tree in full leaf. I dropped down and pulled my knees up, resting my forehead atop them, stray strands of my hair falling forward to screen me. I had neither time nor energy to comb or braid; even the thought filled me with unutterable weariness. I shut my eyes and wished for sleep, but I seemed to have found an exhaustion too deep for slumber.

The men spoke in low voices and I ignored them, shutting the sound out as much as I could, simply enduring. They offered me chai, again, and cold mince pie, but I did not answer, pulling more tightly into myself. There was some argument, then. Jierre di Yspres asking me to eat, Tinan di Rocham saying I looked fevered, Luc di Chatillon remarking we had no time for women’s vapors, and Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche telling him sharply to hold his tongue. I found if I concentrated on the blood soughing in my ears I could ignore them much more effectively.

Finally, the food was taken away, there was more low but heated discussion, and d’Arcenne came and touched my shoulder. “Tis time to leave,
d’mselle
.”

I rose to my feet slowly but obediently enough, my eyes fixed on the ground, and was placed atop d’Arcenne’s horse. But he did not ride behind me—instead, he walked the horse, and I had to keep my balance. My entire body became a song of agony, and I noticed the other Guards walking their mounts, too.

I slumped in the saddle, struggling now to stay conscious as deeper darkness fell over the world.

At some point, in the middle of the night, the Guard remounted. I leaned into d’Arcenne’s warmth with a traitorous feeling of relief. Now, instead of fighting to stay awake I tried to relax enough to slumber, yet I could not.

D’Arcenne began to speak. Quietly, his breath touching my ear or my cheek. I did not listen to his tale—something about Arcenne, or a castle in some high mountains, perhaps the impregnable Spire di Chivalier. Something about the trees in bloom, and the light on the white shoulders of snowy rock. It changed to something that vaguely alarmed me, a muttering as if Court sorcery were being cast—but I could not hear it through the sough of blood in my ears.

I cannot quite remember when I slipped into a twilight unsleep. Eventually there was a cessation of motion, and someone’s cold fingers on my forehead. The coolness felt wonderful, and I made a shapeless sound. “Feverish,” someone said from very far away. “…did not eat.”

“Shock.” D’Arcenne, right next to my ear, though I could not tell if I was still a-horseback or on solid ground. “Give me your flask.”

“Tis ansinthe,” di Yspres said. “Bad for a hedgewitch. Only a little, now.”

The flask was forced between my lips, and I took two swallows of something gag-sweet that burned all the way down. I coughed, and heard my own voice, slow and dreamy. “He told them to make certain none lived. To go among the women, and make
certain
.”

“Who?” D’Arcenne asked, in the hush that followed.

The warmth from the ansinthe began to spread through my entire body. With the warmth came a little more strength. Why were they giving me green venom? It was a dangerous cordial; too much of it and a hedgewitch would hallucinate before her internal organs failed one by one. Court sorcery, on the other hand, protected one from its burning. “Di Narborre. You told me to attend Lisele…I was too late. She was bleeding, she died. But they came back, and I hid. He said to make certain.”

Someone cursed. Someone else drew in a sharp breath. “The Princesse.” Luc di Chatillon sounded shocked. “She saw?”

“I tried.” I heard myself, slow and slurred as if I had drank too much unwatered wine at a fête. “I used a charm. The bleeding…I was so weak. I tried, Lisele. I tried.”

“She is fevered.” Jierre di Yspres, heavily. I heard wind in the treetops, or something else. The roaring was my blood pulsing in my ears, and a faint high whine. “Captain?”

“We ride on.” D’Arcenne’s tone held terrible fury. “We have no choice. We must halt in Tierrce d’Estrienne, and we will find supplies and a hedgewitch physicker there. Once we reach the forest we may tarry longer.”

“We should halt overnight, mayhap,” di Yspres offered. “She needs care, and rest. I did not know she was so ill.”

“Tis dangerous to tarry so long,” Adersahl murmured.

“Do not worry for me,” I heard myself say, in a queer, light, breathless rush. I sounded very young. My knees refused to work properly, I could not feel my hands. “Take the Aryx and leave me. I shall draw them away to the port. I can do that much.”

“Tristan?” Jierre said. Someone felt at my forehead with chilly fingers.

There was a long pause. The touch on my forehead gentled, stroked my cheek, slid away. “We ride for Tierrce d’Estrienne,” d’Arcenne said finally. “Keep the ansinthe handy, Jierre.”

Movement again, but I could not tell if I was standing or lying down. I had only a hazy sense of movement, light and dark spinning around me. Every once in a while the motion would stop, and someone would feel at my damp forehead. I was given more ansinthe, and some hot chai. I felt the brush of Court sorcery and understood someone had boiled water with it, a prosaic and dangerous thing, for Court sorcery could be tracked if strong enough, as hedgewitchery could not. I was apologizing for the trouble, and asking to be left behind.

Strangeness enfolded me, full of the sound of beating wings. I carried a very large tray of fried eels in butter, as if I were a servant, except I wore the uniform of a Guard and had slippery leather gloves. I carried the tray into a hall, where strange masked faces gathered around.
Oh, good!
they cried.
The eels, the eels!

I heard Lisele’s laughter, bright and merry. I looked up to the dais, where my Princesse stood with the King, both of them in golden
cloth d’or
, glittering in red torchlight.
The eels,
Lisele said, tilting her pretty head.
Make certain the eels are dead.

The bits of fried eels had begun to bleed, crimson overflowing the edges of the massive tray. The masked people grabbed at them with clawed hands, and I realized with a fainting horror they were not masks, they were monsters, the
demieri di sorce
old stories warned of. I had wandered into their halls and now had to serve them for a thousand years.

“Hush, Vianne,” someone said. “I am here. Nothing can harm you.”

The dream vanished. Something against my cheek—fingers? No. What was it? A raindrop?

The darkness deepened, a quality of starry sleep, deeper than the first. Tristan d’Arcenne’s voice, from very far away, and only a whisper from myself in reply. What was he asking?

Then I heard, and saw, and felt nothing at all.