The Hedgewitch Queen (26 page)

T
hey thought me slow and stupid until they found I was simply unused to the work of going from place to place in their wagons. I did all they asked of me with good grace, whether it was scrubbing dishes and pots with soapsand or learning to wash clothes in streams. I was grateful for the chance to sleep among people, and further grateful that they asked no questions once Tozmil accepted me as a traveling member.

Very soon they found I was a hedgewitch, so I was set to helping Tozmil’s wife, Jaryana, the physicker of the troupe. The R’mini have their own form of hedgewitchery, and set I myself to learning as we traveled through the Shirlstrienne and the Alpeis, following a path I doubt I would ever be able to find again. The R’mini have their own secret highways and signs, even in the dark tangle of the haunted Alpeis, and the
g’ji
—as they call us—are hard-pressed to travel them without R’mini guides.

I have studied hedgewitchery most of my life, but I daresay I learned more in two months of travel with Jaryana than I had from all my books and even Drumiera’s careful tutelage. Jaryana was a fierce teacher, given to sting-slapping my hand if I looked about to add the wrong herb to a tisane or paste, but she was kind in her own way. It had been her voice tipping the balance toward allowing to me travel with them, and her eagle eye was the reason I did not fall prey to a forced wedding with one of the R’mini men. They have a custom among them—does an unmarried man want a girl past menarche, if he can force or persuade her to stay a night in his wagon he can claim her as a bride. I slept in Tozmil’s wagon or by his fire, and more than once Jaryana’s sharp tongue drove a R’mini man away from where I worked.

I did my best not to notice.

Avier was often away with his goats, but he seemed fascinated by my strangeness and would follow me about after he brought the herd back from their grazing. More than once someone mocked him for it, but he made proud answer, as if he had found an exotic pet in the forest and could not stay away.

They did not ask me about the Aryx, though they all must have caught glimpses of it. Indeed, I wondered what I could have said. The longer we traveled, the closer to towns we drew, and the more nervous I became. They guessed, in their quick way, that I was likely hunted, and a danger to them.

The R’mini wandered through the Alpeis for the last of the spring and the beginning of summer, the men hunting, the women gathering herbs, spring roots, and other things. I had no say in our route, and they saw no reason to hurry me to Arcenne. Many herbs and other valuable things are found by the R’mini in the forests and wild places, and their wandering is often along a route that would fair drive anyone direct-minded to distraction. I do not know if they sought to shake pursuit, or if they simply disdained to hurry, since anyone looking for one lone woman could certainly not be bothered to spend so long on our twisting trail. More than once I tried to tell Jaryana there might be some danger in harboring me, but she gave the notion short shrift.

The guest is sacred,
she sniffed, each time.
We hold to the Law.

Their Law is strict in some ways, lax in others. A woman’s virtue is guarded with a vengeance, since their inheritance passes through the male line instead of through the mother as Arquitaine deems right and proper. For all that, R’mini women have sharp tongues and a fierce spirit. No few of them carry short curving daggers, and hedgewitchery runs deep in them. Their Law does not give a woman lee to speak to strangers, but if she kills during a bloodfeud or to avenge her honor she is not seen as criminal. She may divorce a man by locking a wagon’s doors, but then she will have to bargain for horses or oxen to pull said wagon—for the man is entitled to take those. Unless other women judge her sloughing of a Consort as warranted, and grant the use of other beasts, she may be abandoned, or forced to make her way with another
jan
, as their traveling family-groups are called.

They exercise their peculiar sorcery constantly, even the youngest of them, and it shows. They are skilled with horses and metal, and they carry news and goods from town to town. They are dour with strangers, though they chatter constantly among themselves and have a song for every event, it seems. Some travel into Damar, past Polia and Pruzia, as far as Rus, even. I have heard tell some tread roads that lead them to Torkai or Tifrimat, past the dragons that guard the edge of the world. Some even take ship and brave the Girdle off Arquitaine’s north coast, seeking a way past the howling storms and into the fabled Westron Isles.

But that I have not seen for myself, yet.

We finally slipped free of the Alpeis and emerged on the south-and-eastron edge of the Shirlstrienne, looking down at the Siguerre Road from a high bluff. It was strange to feel the wagon wheels rolling on paving stones, and even stranger to be perched in the back of a R’mini wagon drawing step by slow step closer to Arcenne through civilized country.

If I had not had so much work to do, I might have fretted myself into impatient exhaustion. As it was, I was kept busy from morn to nightfall, and oft ate my supper silently among the laughing, catcalling R’mini. After eating, they would often sing and drink their fiery rhuma liquor, and sometimes the unmarried girls would dance. There were courtship dances too, and dances that told stories. It reminded me of Court—there were rules of behavior, and one had to keep one’s eyes and ears open. I merely watched from the shadows, wrapped in one of Jaryana’s old black shawls, my hair braided in two loops over my ears and a third braid down my back as the R’mini women do. I wore none of their thin, fluted gold jewelry, and felt like a gosling among the swanlike grace of the R’mini girls. Their skirts reached only their ankles, but since they are generally taller than I, mine draggled. I wore my garden-boots instead of supple R’mini sandals, a loose much-embroidered blouse, and a tight red sash wound several times around my waist.

It was obvious I was none of theirs, but I took pains not to remind them.

Jaryana often sat close as I watched the women dance, and asked me a question or two. I found myself telling her more than I intended, sometimes by my silences and sometimes by the way I chose to answer a seemingly-innocent query. She knew I was a
g’ji
noblewoman, and she knew as well that I thought often of a man.

She also knew of my nightmares.

The R’mini never remarked on the fact that I often woke sweating and terrified, shaking and unsure if I had cried out. I dreamed of Lisele, and of Tristan lying broken and bloody on the Shirlstrienne floor. I dreamed of the bandit village, of wandering from burning house to burning house, the bodies crumpled on the ground. I dreamed of blood on my hands, of sickish, rotting stench, of the clash of metal and the armored slippery backs of eels. Jaryana oft mixed me a sleeping-draught, but even the strongest potions of R’mini hedgewitchery were no match for my dreams.

The first night on the Siguerre Road, the R’mini camped in a sloping meadow on the other side of the wall of the Shirlstrienne, and I was eating my supper quietly and alone. I usually sat on the tail-step of Tozmil’s wagon, watching the rest as they gathered about their communal fire.

Jaryana stood. At first I thought she was merely fetching herself a dipperful of water, but I soon realized she approached me.

She came to a stop before me and held out her hand. I set my bowl down beside me and stood, brushing off my skirts, waiting for her to tell me what was required.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly. “You eat with us, V’na.”

I obeyed without demur, wondering at this. Nobody spoke as I settled down between Jaryana and her oldest daughter, Mauryana. Vrejmil, Tozmil’s brother, handed me a piece of bread. “Aye,” he said. “Na’ mun bad for a
g’ji
, V’na.”

Faint praise.
Yet it warmed me. “My thanks,” I answered, with good grace and no little relief. It does hearten one, to be counted worthy of one’s fellows.

That eased them, and they went back to chattering among themselves. I listened, having spent enough time to pick up most of their conversation, though I could only speak R’mini in a broken, halting child’s way.

Sometimes tis the Palais that seems a dream, and this my real life. Would that it were.

Here I was useful, if strange. I was accustomed to being taunted and teased, though the R’mini taunted merely for amusement and not for cruelty. There was a peacefulness to the moving wagons and the communal dinners, a sense of something I had never known but sorely missed.

I finished my stew and my bread, and took a long draught of water, letting the sound of their voices wash over me. A manner of peace held here, and I welcomed it.

Jaryana touched my elbow. “A few days to Arzjhen. And towns, past here. You hide in wagon until we pass the city gate. Where in Arzjhen do you go?”

I had not even considered the question. The Aryx was quiescent and warm under my R’mini garb. I cast back through memory, found Tristan’s voice in my ear during my fever. That gave me the clue I needed.

“I suppose simply to the Citadel. I think Tri—” I stopped myself just in time. “My…ah, a father of a friend,” I continued lamely, “he lives there, and will give me shelter. I hope.”

Her face did not change. “To the
g’ji
lord’s house, then.” She took a bite of their sour, dense flatbread and chewed with an air of deep reflection. “If he doesna take you in, you’re a fair hand with
dromonde
. I would have y’travel with us, ah?”

My jaw threatened to drop.
I could not place you in more danger.
“Oh.” My gaze darted away across the fire and found Avier between his uncle and his mother, chattering brightly in R’mini and petted like the cherished child he was. “My thanks,
m’dama
. My thanks. I…if he does not take me in, I would be honored.”
It would be a poor way to repay you for your kindness, to bring you such trouble as hunts me.

An entirely new thought struck me. If I managed to somehow give up the Aryx to Tristan’s father, would I possibly, perhaps…be free?

Indeed it was a harsh life, traveling in wagons, backsore and moving from town to town. I was certain the R’mini were not welcome everywhere. Yet they had taken in a starving stranger, sheltered me, and now were offering me a place among them. Kindness once again extended to me, and I hoped I would not repay them with the vileness that dogged my steps.

If I could somehow loose myself of the Aryx, twould be a fine place for a noblewoman to hide. Who would believe a Court lady scrubbing pots in the wilds?

My heart fell inside my chest as Avier ducked his tousled head away from his mother’s petting fingers. Tozmil laughed heartily, and one of the women crooned to the baby at her breast. There was more talk, more laughter, and I could not stay with them any longer than I absolutely had to.

Even though I would have wished it, with all that remained of me now.

“Think on it,” Jaryana said. “Y’ be a fair student.”

It was worth more than all the Aryxs in the world, that one grudging admission. For though Jaryana was a harsh teacher, she would not give her approval unless twere true.

“My thanks,” I repeated, and no more was said of the matter. My heart had turned to lead.

That night, after helping to scrub the dishes, I sat for a long while watching the unmarried women dance. One of them, Azyara, tossed her braid back and pulled her sweetheart from the watching men to the accompaniment of many loud calls and clicking tongues. They danced to the music—Zisiyara singing, Tozmil and Vrajmil playing viols, Cesarmil drumming, Aliyara playing a gittern, and Mauryana shaking a tambour. The music was far from the well-mannered waltzing of the Court, even the fast-paced maying dances. I liked its melodies, its quickness, and its bright, supple shiftings. I smiled, watching Azyara dance with the R’mini boy. It was lively tune, played with a happiness Court musicians often lack.

“Thinking on your man?” Jaryana asked from my side.

I gave a guilty start, because Tristan’s face rarely left my mind. I had no time to miss him, yet it seemed missing him was all I did. “How did you know?”

“You have th’ look. Sadness, and listening.”

I found myself smiling, through the bitterness. “He would enjoy this, I think.”
I could perhaps even persuade him to dance. That would be a sight.

She nodded. Her braids swung forward. “Lucky man. For a
g’ji
.”

The weight inside me lightened. When I made my bed that night inside Tozmil and Jaryana’s wagon, I thought of Tristan before I settled, pillowing my head on my arm.

For once, I had no nightmares.

T
hey never asked me why I had been wandering the Shirlstrienne, and they never asked what I was hiding. Yet for the five days it took us to reach Arcenne on the Siguerre Road, I found myself in the wagon instead of walking outside, given bits of make-work to do when we stopped for the night, and kept in the camp. Normally R’mini settle on the outskirts of towns, but the R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan stopped their wagons a fair distance away. I noticed also they did not welcome strangers or the curious to their fires, but closed around me, keeping me from unfriendly eyes.

Golden late-afternoon glow spilled through slim, carved wagon windows as we approached the walls of Arcenne, and the troupe ground to a halt at the city’s Gate. I heard the sound of a deep male voice, questioning in Arquitaine. I had been among the R’mini long enough that the sound of my native tongue was strange.

Tozmil answered, a high, jolly tone. He would speak for all of us, and among the
jan
his decisions were final. He was, however, elected every three years. If the
jan
did not like his methods, another would take his place at the next Gathering.

That was something to think of seeing—the
jans
coming together, the young courting and the great dances where every R’mini from every corner of Etharial who could make it to their secret fastness participated…yes, I would give much to see that.

But I was
g’ji
.

I heard something about plague. My heart flipped inside my chest. I was alone in the wagon—the rest of the women walked outside.

A long, nerve-racking pause made my heart thunder. I wrapped Jaryana’s old shawl about my head, hoping it would hide my paleness, and the fact that I was not R’mini.

One of the women—I thought it was Mauryana—sang quietly, a R’mini ballad of the open road. There was a breath of magic to the song, the R’mini’s particular hedgewitchery. Twas dangerous, for if they were caught magicking the guards there would be dire consequence.

I closed my eyes. The Seal pulsed quietly against my breastbone.
Please,
I prayed.
Let me in. This is where Lisele wished me to go.

Is Tristan here? I cannot hope.
A hot flush scalded me. I found myself unbreathing, frozen, trembling in the wagon like a small animal in its burrow.

The Arquitaine man said something that must have been an affirmative, for the wagon jerked forward. I did not breathe until I was sure we were inside Arcenne’s high girdling walls. The sounds of a city pressed around me. Horses, bellowing oxen, wheels grinding, people singing, laughing, speaking. The Aryx turned to muted song against my chest.

Tis awake
and
stronger. What does that mean?

So I entered Arcenne in the back of a R’mini wagon like a thief, with the Aryx singing no less loudly than my heart.

Close to nightfall I found myself in the walled portion of the city housing the Citadel of Arcenne, at a fire with the R’mini. They were allowed to camp in an abandoned district, their wagons between a few boarded-up houses, the ground littered with refuse. For all that, they were cheerful as they went about setting their wagons in a circle and kindling their fires, just as if we were still in the Alpeis’s green cavernous depths. It was a comforting sameness.

My throat closed as I contemplated the stew in my bowl, staring as if I could see the future there.

Jaryana patted my arm and told me to eat. “Take you to the
g’ji
lord’s house. After.”

I nodded, my heart knocking anew at my ribs. What I would do when I reached the Citadel, I had no idea. I knew little of Tristan’s father, only that Lisele had judged Arcenne loyal. “Jaryana?” I held my bowl in both hands.

She raised her eyebrows slightly, her coppery face splitting into a very white smile.

“Thank you.” I smiled back. Twas impossible not to.

“Is he tha? Your man?”

I shrugged. “I do not know. He might be dead.” I was surprised I could speak the words so steadily.

“I think not.” She handed me another piece of the flat, sour bread the R’mini favour. “Here. Hav’more.”

There was but one gate into the Citadel, and it was closed and barred with iron. However, there was a smaller postern around the corner, with a man standing guard. He wore the uniform of Arcenne, a crimson doublet over white shirt and black trousers, the doublet blazoned with the black Arcenne mountain-pard clawing at the left shoulder over two broken arrows. The guard paced in front of the postern and retreated to an alcove, melting into shadow. He had repeated this operation twice so far.

The R’mini women gathered about me, whispering. There was some argument over who would accompany me.

I pressed the emerald ear-drops into Jaryana’s palm. “I shall proceed alone. Do not be caught here; go back to the camp.”

She gave me an arch look. “Your
dress
R’mini. Na’ worry. We can vanish. Here.” She pressed something cool into my hand as well. “Take this. Show to R’mini, we help you.” She leaned forward, her hand brushing my hip, kissed my cheek, then pushed me gently by my shoulders. “Go find him, V’na.”

I do not wish to find anyone. I merely wish to loose myself of the weight of duty. Oh, how I wish I could.
“Thank you,” I said in my halting R’mini. “Gods smile upon you.” For their gods are not ours, and they do not speak of them to
g’ji
. “Thank you so much.” I could not stop repeating my gratitude.

They whispered together—someone protesting I should not be left to go to the
g’ji
alone, another hissing to keep their voices
“down, idiots!”
I drew in a deep breath and stepped out into the street. They went quiet and still, sinking back into shadow.

Good.
Gods grant they do not suffer for helping me.

I was praying more and more, despite my Court upbringing. I hoped the Blessed were listening and well disposed. Though I could not make up my mind which was worse—that the Blessed might be taking an active interest in events, so to speak, or that they were ignoring all of us, including the King and his brother who had brought us to this pass.

My worn bootheels clicked across the paving. I slipped whatever Jaryana had given me into my skirt-pocket, a chill touching my spine as I thought of Lisele gifting me as she died. The guard at the postern had surely noticed me, a lone woman out past dark. I forded the street, deserted except for shadows. A few torches burned on the walls, their flames hissing with blue-sparking Court sorcery against the wind.

The Citadel was a massive chunk of rock, five castellated towers with arrow-slits, an outer wall with the buildings of the city squeezing up to it. Here in Arcenne there were none of the Citté’s graceful fictions—no, here the Citadel was a fortress, the lord’s castle, meant to withstand attack if the other walls were breached.

The Baron d’Arcenne’s seat of power, too, the ancestral hold of Arcenne. Had Tristan grown up in this stone block? Had he looked up at these towers before he left for Court?

I did not know, and the lack of knowledge obliquely pained me.

I was across the street before I knew it, Jaryana’s old shawl slipping down my shoulders, my run-down boots clicking on the white stone Arcenne was famous for.

“Halt!” The guard sounded very young. I caught a glint—perhaps an arrowhead throwing back a stray gleam of torchlight, or a sword’s point, aching to cleave unprotected flesh.

I stopped, my head held high. The Aryx sang below my heartbeat, power sparkling in my blood. “
Sieur
,” I said, calmly enough. “Is this Arcenne?” I meant to inquire if Arcenne was still loyal, stopped myself just in time.

“Well…yes.” He sounded far too young, and far too nervous. I prayed he would not grow so nervous he arrowed me on the step.

“I must see the Baron d’Arcenne. Tis passing urgent.”

There was a hurried whisper. I could not see with whom he conversed, the shadows were too deep and the torches too few. Was there more than one guard? “The Baron has retired for the evening,” the young voice said.

“Wake him. Tis dire, and I am passing desperate.”

“Give me a name to take to the Lieutenant of the Guard, and he shall judge,” another voice came, older and steely. “Who are you, to disturb the Baron thus?”

Well, what do I have to lose?
I had to swallow a laugh. “I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I bear a message from the murdered Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimesten to your lord, the Baron d’Arcenne.”