The Hedgewitch Queen (35 page)

I wondered where his bitterness came from. There was still so much I did not know of him. “Oh, cease. I have a very high opinion of my Consort, I shall have you know.”
High enough that I do not ask you what lies between you and Adrien di Cinfiliet. High enough that I have given myself to you.

He still stroked my hair, gently, lifting a few strands, playing with them. I shut my eyes.

“You still surprise me,
m’chri
. Every time I think I have your mind mapped, it takes another turn.”

“Di Yspres said you have had a hard life,” I found myself saying. Sleep threatened, now that I was abed and motionless, and I could not ask him of Adrien. “Is that true?”

“Jierre said that? No, I am fortunate. Twas hard to leave home and go to Court, but I had reached my Coming-of-Age and it was my duty to do what I could. Father needed someone to make certain the border provinces were heard at Court, and the Guard is a good way for a young man to make himself. And then…”

“Then what?” The sound of him telling a tale soothed me.

“Then I caught the King’s eye and became the Captain, and four years later the Left Hand. It seemed there was nothing I could not do. Except court a King’s half-niece. I tried, but you did not see me, and I doubted Henri would let…then the conspiracy was afoot. I suddenly had no time to worry, being very busy indeed with death in every corner of Arquitaine.” He took a deep sharp breath. No doubt twas unpleasant to think on.

“When did you try to catch my notice?” I was suddenly very curious about this, even more curious than I was about Navarrin and Damarsene and the thousand worries outside our chamber door.

He laughed again. This time it was not so bitter, and I was glad of it. “I haunted your steps like a
demieri di sorce
, Vianne. I finally acquired a habit of leaving you books instead of nosegays.”

Oh? My sixteenth birthday, just before you became Captain. I remember this; it went on for months.
“That was you? I thought someone had lost them, and I tried to return them to the Palais library.”

“There was no end to the merriment among the Guard when you did so.” Now he sounded wry. “I finally admitted defeat. It was not safe for either of us. My Guard was loyal, but a man in his cups can speak ill-advised words. I had to pretend not to care.”

“When did you…” Again, not something a lady could ask.

He answered anyway. “I was seventeen, it was my first night at Court as a Guard. You and Lisele played riddlesharp, and after a few games you let her win. Then she wished to dance, so you did with good grace. It was the first time I ever saw you dance, I think I was lost that very moment. You wore green silk, and you looked one of Alisaar’s maidens come to earth. I fell, and have never been free since.”

I barely remembered that dress; I had only been thirteen. “I did let her win at riddlesharp, but I had to be careful not to let her think so.”
She was prickly with her pride, my Princesse. She could not know I let her win, but if I looked amiss while doing so she would guess, and then it would be unpleasant.

“Hm. That sharp mind of yours.” His touch was soothing. My head was so heavy, and it ached. “Rest, Vianne.”

Now I could ask; the idea was lain gently in my brain as if the gods themselves had whispered in my ear. “Tristan?”

“What,
m’chri
?” He stroked my cheek, touched my lips tenderly.

“Why do you dislike Adrien di Cinfiliet?” I sounded half asleep even to myself.

His hand tensed. “It does not matter.”

I fell silent as he stroked my hair, but I did not sleep for a long while. He would not speak of it, and I could not ask. I lay thinking as his breathing deepened, and wondered why I felt so suddenly bereft.

Chaos. Crashing. Tristan’s oath, deadly quiet, as steel chimed.

I sat up, clutching the covers to my chest. Ducked as something came flying, sensing more than seeing it in the blackness; I was lucky whatever it was did not strike me. My skirt slid against the sheets—I had fallen asleep in my clothes.

“Get
down
, Vianne!” Tristan yelled. The cry propelled me out of bed on the opposite side, almost hitting my head on the night table. Clashing chime of steel, a horrifying, bubbling gasp.

What is that? An injury; a lung-cut. Oh, dear Blessed, let it not be him—

Silence. The room was dark, the fire banked and a moonless night outside, not a candle lit. I wondered if I should use a witchlight.

“Come forth,” Tristan said, softly. I flinched to hear that tone. “Come forth and face your death.”

I stayed where I was, shivering, my skirt tangled around my knees.

Another clash of steel, and a solid sound of flesh being carved. I shut my eyes, my heart in my throat.
Tristan?

Light bloomed, ruddy through my eyelids. I peeked over the bed.

Tristan stood, his shirt bloody and his sword in hand, surveying the room. His blue eyes were cold as death. The lamp’s wick, guttering into life, burned with the peculiar blue flame of a Court-sorcery lighting. “Tristan?” I could not speak louder than a whisper.

Three black-clad shapes lay twisted on the floor. Tristan crossed the room, checked the watercloset, came out and paced toward the window. “Stay down, Vianne.”

“What is
happening
?” Although I could guess—murder, in the dark. But aimed at whom? And so soon after the killspell-laden Messenger, too.

If there were assassins here, twas more far more dangerous than I had ever imagined. It would mean d’Orlaans had begun a different game, and I would need to find the rules and the disposition of the board quickly, in order to outwit him.

“As you love life, Vianne, stay there.” He checked the window from the side, to rob a projectile of its target, nodded to himself. Paced to the chair near the bed and was in his boots in a trice. I stared, almost-witless with surprise. “Whatever you see or hear,
stay there
until I come for you.”

I cannot, do not ask me to wait, this might as well be a tree in the Shirlstrienne, with di Narborre coming to kill us all.
“But—”

“Trust me, Vianne.” He gained his feet in a rush, wrenched the door open, and was gone.

I do not like this.
I hunched beside the bed, let out a shaky sigh. My hands would not cease moving, plucking at the coverlet’s edge. Had they come for me? And now, long as I lived, I would have to worry. Knife in the dark, poison in a cup, treachery and deceit. I wanted no part of it; I had seen enough of treachery to fill me to the back teeth. Enough of blood, of death, of pain to fill the Maelstrom’s sea itself.

I pushed myself up to stand, mindful of the danger even in silence. Three bodies. Each in a pool of blood, each masked with black. The stink of death rose. I gagged.
He told me to stay here.

Gods, no,
the rest of me wailed.
I cannot. Oh, please, gods, no.

My hands fisted in my skirt. Pale green silk rustled. I heard the wet crunching sounds again—
Make certain. Make certain none still live.

A small, helpless sound died at the back of my throat. I eased away from the bed, stole toward the door on bare feet against cold stone.

The hall outside was deserted. Where had Tristan gone? I heard raised voices and the clatter of booted feet.

Instinct took over. I darted across the hall, to a window-
couvre
wrapped in red velvet. A few moments’ worth of work hid me between the wooden
couvre
and the floor-length drapes; I made certain my feet were hidden as I peered out through a tiny gap in the drapes. My heart pounded in my throat.

A shadow drifted along the other side of the wall, slipped into the bedroom. A man dressed in black, his face masked, a clubbed tail of dark hair along the back of his neck. A wicked curved dagger showed in his right hand, gleaming as he slid with oiled grace through the door.

The drumming of booted feet drew closer. Shouts. I closed my eyes, forced them open. I had to look.
Had
to see.

A deathly silence from our chamber. Who was the man in black? An assassin, definitely—but for whom? It did not seem likely that a d’Arquitaine would do such a thing—but then, a man had tried to kill Tristan by stealth in Tierrce d’Estrienne.

“Vianne!” Tristan’s. The corridor echoed with the din of alarm and suddenly-awakened men.

I bolted from the
couvre
and ran down the hall toward the noise, my bare feet soundless. Snapped a glance over my shoulder just as I rounded the corner and ran headlong into the Guard, their unsheathed swords reflecting glowglobe and torchlight. Jierre caught at my shoulder, pushed me toward Tristan, and hurled himself past, vanishing around the corner.

“
Assassin!
” I gasped. “He has a knife
Jierre take care!
”

Tristan’s fingers closed, ruthless-hard, around my upper arm. “I told you to stay!”

A howl of pain from down the corridor made the color drain from his face as the rest of the Guard surged past; I caught a glance of Luc di Chatillon with his rapier out and his young blond face suffused with anger, Jespre di Vidancourt with his hair wildly mussed and his lean face ashen.

Tristan kissed my forehead, bruisingly hard. Embraced me so hard the breath left my lungs in a rush. He was bloody and sweating, his shirt dappled with crimson and flapping as his ribs heaved. “Vianne,” he said into my hair. I shook, a small cry of distress wrung out of me. Cursed myself for being so weak. “Vianne.” He held me at arm’s length, looked me over for damage.

I was very glad I had fallen asleep in my clothes. The idea of facing this chain of events in a shift—or, Blessed forbid, without a stitch to cover me—was, for a moment, more daunting than what had actually just occurred.

“I am unharmed. There is someone in the room, Tristan.” My voice trembled to match the rest of me. “He had a curved dagger. And his hair was in a tail bound with black ribbon—”

“A Pruzian Knife.” He still examined me, from my soles to my crown and back again, his gaze roving over my dress, my face, my shoulders. “Three to attack me, three to attack my father. If you saw another one, there are two left in the Citadel. We shall find them. Come, let us bring you to safety.”

“A P-P-Pruzian Knife?” I actually stammered. He drew me away, his boots clicking and my bare feet soundless. “But they’re
myths
!”

“No, they are very real. And very deadly, not to mention very expensive.”

Expensive? How does he know?
I did not care at the moment. I had a more pressing concern. “How b-badly are you h-hurt?”
He has blood on his shirt, he’s bleeding. Dear Blessed, he is wounded.

“I am well enough,” he said grimly. “Come quickly, Vianne.”

Shouts, more clattering feet. Tristan pulled me aside into a shadowed hall, pressed me back against the wall. Several more of the Citadel Guard passed at a run, Tristan shook his head. Pressed another kiss onto my temple, through the fraying mat of my hair. He swore, in a low shaking voice. “Nine knives,” he whispered. “
Nine.
This rather changes things.”

I was about to ask again how badly he was hurt when he clapped his hand over my mouth. I looked past him, out into the running torchlight of the hall, and saw the two remaining assassins, each masked and dressed in black, their hair in tails clubbed and bound with ribbon. They drifted in the wake of the clattering Citadel Guards, deadly shadows. The Guard was making enough noise to warn even a deaf man of their passage.

Tristan moved away from me. His gaze met mine, a silent warning; words and breath died in my throat.
No. No, stay here with me, where it is safe.

Yet I could not tell
what
was safe. If there were assassins boldly trailing after a pack of Guards, could more not be hiding in this passage?

Oh, gods…

His sword whispered free of its sheath, and the two Pruzians froze.

Tristan attacked.

If I live a centuriad I will never forget that sight, Tristan d’Arcenne dueling two Pruzian Knives in the hall of the Citadel. I understood then why he was Captain of the Guard.

He fought as if the blade was a part of his hand, forgotten until the hilt met his palm, the steel weaving in a complicated pattern that kept the Pruzians at bay. He backed them away from the mouth of the darkened hall, their longknives sorely unprepared for the reach his rapier gave.

One of them actually flung a knife, and I gasped. But Tristan ducked and lunged, his boot sliding along stone and his knee grating against the floor, and in the same movement had run one Pruzian through. Blood whipped free of his blade as he flung himself backward, somehow on his feet in one sharp movement, the rapier describing a complex movement I do not have the knowledge to name even now. The black-clad man dropped without a sound, and Tristan faced the last Pruzian as the sounds of the Guard returning grew louder.

I bit down on the soft fleshy part of my hand under my right thumb, unaware that I had covered my mouth.
Tristan, oh be careful, gods, please
—I could barely even pray. The fear threatened to smash me as the Aryx did, robbing me of myself.

The Pruzian’s gaze, dark and narrow above his mask, flickered toward me, but Tristan lunged at him, both men moving back toward Tristan’s room, out of my field of vision.

Thus it was I did not see the end of the duel: the Guard coming from Tristan’s chambers with a bloody but unbowed Jierre at their head, the last flicker of the knife, Tristan moving in on the assassin and smashing the knife away with a contemptuous movement, his hilt-armored fist blurring in to crunch at the man’s masked face. The Pruzian dropped, and Jierre told me later Tristan looked sorely tempted to run him through, but halted himself. “Strip him, bind him, and chain him. Then put him in an
oublietta
and wait further orders.” His voice was quiet but harsh. “But before you place him in the pit, Jierre, teach him a lesson.”