The Hedgewitch Queen (31 page)

But my attention was called in a different direction. I rallied. “I suppose so. Though I might faint, if tis anything like the first.”
Might? No. If that happens again, if the Aryx seeks to take charge of me again…but Tristan is here. Nothing can harm me if he is here.

Such faith I had in him.

“Twice-vowed, bound all the more surely.” Very quietly. “To be certain, Vianne.”

I eyed the priestess of Jiserah, who was still chalk-pale. “
You
do not intend to disappear as soon as the ceremony is over, do you?” I sought for levity. After the fantastical, laughter serves to smooth the fabric of life.

She shook her head, gravely. Her hood fell back, her gray-threaded hair lying sleek-braided. “No, Your Majesty. I am merely a priestess, and an uncertain one at that. The gods have pronounced their will; I can only follow.”

“Wise of you.” Tristan mercifully did not sound as sarcastic as I suspected he wished to. “Let us continue, then, before I lose my courage.”

The second ceremony was a little easier than the first. The priestess stumbled over some of the words, her eyes round as she watched the Aryx’s slow shifting. When she tossed the silk cord onto the brazier, the same puff of perfumed smoke burst free. I waited, nervous, but the priestess came down the steps, turning back to the statue of Jiserah to genuflect quietly, murmuring an old prayer and pulling her hood up to cover her hair.

It was a relief when it was finally over. We thanked her, and Tristan let out a long, jagged breath. “Shall we leave,
m’chri
?”

“Before aught else happens? Absolutely.” My voice was high and nervous now. I could not seem to take my accustomed tone. “There is a reason why I never went to Temple. Gods have a way of disarranging one.” It was something Comtesse Rochburre might have said. “I have no desire to tarry.”

I half-expected one of the statues to take me to task, but we escaped the Temple without mishap. Standing on the white stone steps, night gathering close, yet another shock awaited me. For when I raised my hand to greet the assembled people, I heard a cheer that fair threatened to shake the Temple off the mountainside.

The townspeople of Arcenne had gathered, drawn perhaps by the procession of armed nobles. Torches flared. The Aryx responded, shaking the air with a welter of melody. I waved, thinking of Lisele’s Coming-of-Age and the crowds in the Citté d’Arquitaine, and the way their cries had blown the snapping silken banners away from the wind.

I had never thought to hear such a baying for me.

I have tied myself to this course even more securely.
I glanced up at Tristan. He nodded, his blue eyes dark and thoughtful, spared me a smile that warmed me all the way down to my chilled bones. But he looked strained, and worried.
Nothing will ever be right again. Lisele is truly dead, and I am Queen of Arquitaine. Queen without a throne, with a murderous half-uncle nipping at my heels.

I smiled, waving, and arranged my face so the sudden fear would not show. I had practice, after all—I merely wore my accustomed Court mask, and even though I had not had cause to do so for months, it still felt familiar. Not natural, but not strange either.

Tristan helped me to mount the white palfrey, who stood obediently flicking her tail. I lifted a hand as I had often seen the King do. The cheering was immense, I was newly wed, the Aryx was singing—but the weight of responsibility settled on me, grinding into my shoulders more heavily than duty had ever weighed. I did not have time to stop to wonder if the light from a god’s statue was a blessing, a warning, or merely a symptom of the Aryx’s wakefulness.

If I had wondered, I might have felt even more afraid.

I
was glad to escape the usual wedding festivities; the ribald jests during supper, the escorting of the Consort to the lady’s chamber, the shouting of highly improper jokes, the showing of the linens. Instead, there was a small, quiet sup with Tristan’s parents in the Baron’s study, papers to be looked over—dispatches from several provinces, information and declarations, my head hurt to think of it all. The Baron and Baroness drafting a proclamation—
whereas the Duc d’Orlaans in violation of all holy and common law murdered his brother,
etc.,
the Aryx has chosen a new bearer,
etc.,
Queen Vianne di Tirician-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, formerly Duchesse Vianne di Rochacheil et Vintmorecy, escaped the Duc by the grace of the gods,
so on, so forth, dear gods,
has taken Tristan d’Arcenne as legal Consort, loyalty, all subjects loyal to the Crown freed from the burden of taxes to d’Orlaans’s administration,
so on, so forth,
all aid and succor denied to d’Orlaans or his lieutenant, Garonne di Narborre.

I would much rather have been composing Tiberian quatrains until a half-head struck me. And given the agony of the half-head, that rather says something.

I ate slowly, without much appetite, and drank enough straw-yellow wine to make the world spin slightly when Tristan finally rose to his feet and offered me his hand. “Vianne?”

I nodded; he steadied me as I gained my feet. I wore the slippers he had brought me, and Tristan himself had taken off his boots before supper. His own slippers were leather-soled, impervious to the stone.

“Do not worry,” the Baroness said, patting my other hand. “Tomorrow will be easier, dear. I promise.”

“I certainly pray so,” I answered, my tongue strangely dull in my mouth. “I doubt I could stand another day like today.”

“Wedded life is a trial, child.” The Baroness’s eyes all but sparkled. “Gods know how I have survived it.”

The Baron made a slight sound, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Do not frighten her, Sílvie. Tomorrow is soon enough for everything else. And may I say, Your Majesty, that I feared the worst before meeting you. I am far more sanguine about the future of Arquitaine than I have been since news of King Henri’s untimely passing reached me.”

I felt only weary surprise, and a great longing to settle my face against a pillow. “My thanks for the compliment,
sieur
.” I was too weary to even think of making a courtesy, though I was sore tempted to give him a subtly cut-rate one. “If I manage to live up to your standards, I shall be none the worse for it.”

That earned me a very startled, very blue glance from the Baron, who set his pen back in his inkwell. The Baroness laid her hand on his shoulder. She wore dark green velvet, her fair skin contrasting with the rich material in the mellow lamplight. Together, they were a beautiful painting—and the way her lips pursed told me she could barely contain merriment at my ill-tempered sally.

Tristan drew me out into the hall. “Well.” He nodded to the guards, who both saluted him. “Tis the first time I have ever seen my father struck speechless.”

“I do not wi—,” I began, but he waved it away.

“No need,
m’chri
. He has ever been hard to please. When not well-nigh impossible.” Tristan walked slowly enough that I was not breathlessly trotting beside him, and we threaded through corridors that did not feel familiar.

I shrugged, searching for something to say. My heart had taken to pounding again. I found a subject not likely to lead us into war or treachery, with a sigh of relief. “Among the R’mini, there would be music, and dancing, and drinking rhuma—but none for the Consort, he stays sober. Sometime during the dancing, the wedded pair would slip away, and pass their honey-night in a wagon, or under the stars.”

Oh, dear. Perhaps this is not such a safe subject after all.
My nerves were most definitely not steady enough for this.

Tristan’s smile took me unawares. “You sound different when you speak of them, Vianne.” He glanced down at my hand caught in his. I could not remember how we came to be walking, our fingers linked as if we courted. “Almost, dare I say it, happy.”

An unfamiliar smile teased at my own mouth. “They were kind enough, and brave to a fault. If the Aryx were to go elsewhere, I think I might travel with them, would they have me.”

“Why?” We reached the door of his chamber while I was still mulling the question. I halted, seeing no guards, and Tristan stopped too.

Could I explain? I thought on the question. “Because they did not want me to be other than I was. To them, I was V’na di R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan. That was enough. A poor R’mini hedgewitch…and yet twas better than Court, where every smile was a lie and every glance a danger.”
Intrigue under every skirt, every glance a potential trap, and my Princesse to keep safe at all costs. Poor Lisele, she did try…but she could not see the venom under a honeyed word. The sweetness would blind her.

He cupped my face in his callused hands. He seemed to be…trembling? Tristan d’Arcenne, the Captain of the Guard, shaking?

Twas a day for miracles at every turn.

He gazed down at me for a long moment, his jaw tight and his expression odd. “I would free you, Vianne. Or follow, wherever you led.”

I bit my lip.
Would you? Or is this merely another way to serve the King, and a softer service than others you have been called upon for?
“Why?”

The question took him aback. He examined my face, his fingers warm against my cheeks. The trembling would not cease, it seemed. He stroked my jawline with his thumb. “Do you not know, even now? I am an utter fool for you, Your Majesty. I would give up my honor for you, and count the cost small.”

I must tell him.
My breath would not come smoothly. It seemed I could not fill my lungs. “I have never done this before, Tristan.” I tried to speak firmly, but what came out was a frightened whisper.

Did that ease him? Or had his shaking infected me, so I could not feel his? “I know,” he answered softly. “Or at least, I guessed. Else I might have had to fight a duel or two more, at Court. You noticed none of your admirers,
m’chri
, saving them from untimely doom. Wise of you, no?” He spoke lightly, but with a serious face. It won a shaky laugh from me. If he had taken any other tone, it might have made me weep. But instead, he kissed my forehead gently. “Come. A few more steps, tis all.”

It was kind of him, to speak of other admirers. Still, there had been none—or none I could risk granting a glance to, since the danger of them seeking to compromise me for some dark reason involving Lisele’s position had been too great for me to indulge myself.

I have a duty too, Tristan. Perhaps we are locked into a pair of duties, like two cart wheels, and we shall never truly touch.
I let him lead me into his chambers. He locked the door behind us. I stood just inside the door, my arms crossed, cupping my elbows in my palms. My nervousness demanded I speak further. “Truly. I have never done this before. I never found a man I would share myself with before, or a man who would not seek to use me.”

He flinched, and I wondered at that. But his voice was steady and calm. “I would not hurt you, Vianne. Or frighten you.”

The only light was from the fire and two candles, a low glow that was kind to his sharp face. “I am not frightened.”
I merely do not wish to fail at this. I can turn aside a man’s interest with a pretty word and play the game of courtsongs, but this is something different.

This is something more, for all I suspect you of serving a dead King with it.

He approached me cautiously, folded me in his arms, rested his chin atop my head. “Shhh,
m’chri
,” he whispered, soothing. “I would not touch you until you are ready. I do not wish your fear of me.”

“Fear you?” Sudden laughter seized me. I swallowed it. “No, of course not. I am simply new to this. Be gentle.”

“As gentle as I can, as always, for you.”

I stepped away, freeing myself from his embrace. He stood, hands fallen to his sides, watching me intently.

This may be battlechess, and you are required to sacrifice. Think of it that way.

Yet I did not wish to.

I took his hand and led him to the bed. I stood for a long moment, undecided, before I turned and looked down at his swordbelt.

It took a little tugging, but my clumsy fingers finally undid the belt. He took his sword, leaned it against the night table, and I started to unlace the throat of his shirt, my fingers gradually stopping their shaking. As long as I focused on the problem of laces, I could ignore what loomed afterward.

He, in his turn, simply stood still, frozen. I glanced up at him. “Are you…?” I could not ask if he were
well
. Was this disagreeable to him?

He was pale. His forehead was damp. “If you knew,” he said softly, “how many times I…wished for this, you would laugh at me.”

The knot inside my chest eased all at once. “Hm.” I concentrated on the unlacing, slowly. “I do not think I would laugh,
m’cher
.” The endearment felt natural. “This might go a trifle easier if you kissed me, Tristan.”

The moment I said it, I could not believe something so forward had left my mouth.

“It might.” His blue gaze fixed on my face, as if I were the north star and him a traveler setting his course. “But then you would close your eyes, Vianne, and I might miss seeing them.”

“You have developed a courtsinging tongue.” I freed the laces of his shirt, finally, and he stripped it off over his head. Muscle moved under his skin, and scars striped along his ribs—battle scars, dueling scars. There were two fresh-reddened ones, and I flattened my hand along them, carefully, marveling at the feel of his skin, so different from mine. He leaned in to my touch. I bit my lip, thinking of the wounds. “Where did you gain these,
chivalier
?”

“I cannot remember,” he said hoarsely. “Vianne.”

“Well.” I looked up at him, my fingers still on his skin. He seemed vulnerable without his sword and his shirt, and of a sudden I was no longer so uncertain. “Help me unlace my dress, then.”

He did, and when the dress was half unlaced, falling from my shoulders, he slid the ribbon from my braid and ran his fingers through my hair until it fell over my shoulders. “Gods—,” he said, and I let the dress fall.

I am a coward. Please, gods, please. Do not let me fail at this.

His mouth met mine, his hands working to free himself from his breeches, and I laughed. I could not help myself, we were both shaking, and he kissed me blindly, desperately. The sound I made, laughing while he kissed me, made it even more nervously amusing, until his hands closed around my bare shoulders. I gasped, taking a mouthful of air flavored with his breath. Then, just as with the kiss, it seemed the knowledge of what would happen sprang into my body. I had heard ribald songs and seen lovers before, but it seemed so different—perhaps because I was now one-half of a whole, perhaps because Tristan kept breathlessly repeating my name, perhaps because I cried out when I lost the title of maid. Or perhaps it only seemed different because I finally understood why lovers chose dark corners, and why they were blind to all else during their love.

He was not as gentle as he could have been, but I did not complain, for he shook with need. Little broken phrases came out of him, endearments, while I simply closed my eyes and gave myself up to him. When he finally shuddered to a stop in my arms, I held him and whispered soothing nonsense in his ear until he slid away to the side and took me in his arms, printing kisses over my face.

Well, so that is what they mean.
A great weariness settled on me.

“Vianne,” he whispered against my cheeks, my throat, my breasts. The Aryx pulsed under his touch, its silent song taking on a new depth.

I let out a long breath. Twas irrevocable. Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort.
Gods grant it does not kill him.

He finally lay still, my leg over his, my head on his shoulder, his arm under my head, his other hand stroking my shoulder, my hair tangled over the pillow. I sighed, and his fingers paused, continued.

“Are you well?” he finally asked, and I wondered if he was as uncertain now as I had been before.

“I am well,” I assured him, tracing my finger up his ribs. He took in a sharp breath, tensing. “My thanks,
chivalier
.”

“Surely we are past formality.” He caught my wrist, bringing my palm to his mouth, pressing a kiss against my skin. I would be sore tomorrow, and my thighs were sticky. I wanted a bath—but not just yet. Not while he held me so closely. “I am sorry, Vianne. I was not gentle enough.”

I shrugged, moving my cheek against his shoulder. “I expected little else.” I wondered why Alisaar was so worshipped, if this was all love was.

“The second time is better, I’ve heard,” he said against my palm, causing a shiver through my entire body.

“Is it?” I asked curiously, and he laughed.

“Much. Speak to me, Vianne. Tell me what is in that marvelously sharp brain of yours.”

I sighed again. “I am thinking that I am lucky, and this is a dream. And any moment I will wake at Court, in my own bed—or in a R’mini wagon, bumping through the wilderness.”

“No dream.” He kissed my palm yet again.

“Tis merely a feeling.” I touched his lips with my fingertips, marveling afresh at the feel of his skin. In the dark, it was easier to speak to him. “I was lost without you, Tristan.”

“I will never leave your side again.” His voice shook.

Were his cheeks damp? I brushed them, wondering if this was part of the event. “Tis well. For I must confess I had not an idea of what to do once I lost your guidance. I wish I could give you the Aryx.” My eyes closed, heavy as lead.

He shuddered as if stung. “I would make a terrible King, Vianne. I know this.”