The Hedgewitch Queen (40 page)

Oddly enough, my reassurance seemed to wound him. His mouth pulled down sourly. “Very well, Vianne. Gods grant me strength to be worthy of you.”

There seemed nothing I could say. Instead, I leaned forward, his hands slid down and pulled me in. I rested against him in the torchlit dimness of the donjons, breathing him in, and for a moment felt the heavy weight of what I had promised when I took the Aryx from Lisele’s fingers slip from me for a moment. “I do not care what you did,” I whispered into his shoulder.

Did I imagine his flinch? In any case, Jespre di Vidancourt soon arrived, and it was time to move to the next task. But that conversation made me uneasy, though I did not know quite why.

F
our weeks later, the storm broke.

I was uneasy that morning; there were dispatches to be sorted through. Perseval d’Arcenne had observed a frosty courtesy toward me since the affair of the Pruzians that might have managed to hurt my feelings had I not been occupied with a greater mystery: that of missing dispatches. Normally I would have simply waited for the vagaries of man and horse to bring them to me a day or two late, but they were all from the road to Ivrielle, and that meant the road out of the province and to the Citté.

Adrien di Cinfiliet was late as well. I could not help imagining the worst, until something even worse than the worst occurred to me—whenever I had time to think. Hard on its heels would come another terrible thought, and I sometimes laughed at my own imaginings.

Then I would sober, as the cycle of imagining began afresh.

Mornlight came warm and clear; wind snapping the pennants from the towers that day. I had breakfast in the library while I dictated diplomatic responses to Navarrin and messages to Arquitaine cities and provinces. It seemed no few had declared for me, a fact heartening and terrifying at the same time. More lives to depend on my wit, and me frantically trying to think of a way to reach a resolution with d’Orlaans that did not require bloodshed.

None seemed possible, especially in light of two assassination attempts.

Something else bothered me, too. I understood d’Orlaans wished me alive if he was to legitimize his reign and get heirs upon a noblewoman whose House would not rise against him in revolt. My House was all but extinct unless I produced an Heir, for my mother was dead and there were no other branches of Rocancheil
or
the ruling of Vintmorecy.

If I met with some misfortune, the Aryx would be forced to choose another holder, and mayhap the Duc thought he had extinguished all but him and me? It was an indication that he did not know of Adrien’s existence, which was heartening.

Still, the fact that assassins were sent to fetch me was not guaranteed to ease my heart. True, I was only to be
brought
, not dispatched immediately. But that could only mean the Duc wished the pleasure of strangling me himself. He had to suspect by now that I was not amenable to his plans.

Tristan’s behavior made me uneasy, too. He seemed on edge, waiting for a fresh disaster, though he was unfailingly gentle with me; especially at night as we lay together in his bed. He held me as if he expected me to vanish did he not keep a tight enough grasp; and if he was desperate in his use of me I was just as desperate in my use of him. What I learned of love in those days has remained with me ever after as a lesson in anguish, how two people can sense an approaching disaster and use each other’s bodies as a shield against questions growing more and more pointed.

The half-head visited me once that month; I lost half a day lying abed and weeping with agony as my skull sought to rive itself to pieces. Tristan did not leave my side, holding my hand so tightly both our fingers were bruised. He whispered a Court sorcery that plunged the room into blackness, for any stray gleam of light during the half-head is more agonizing than the worst battle-wound.
Gods,
he whispered after the pain had left and I lay limp and too exhausted to do aught but breathe.
If I could take the pain from you, Vianne, I would. I would suffer it twice for your sake.

Thank you for the darkness,
I had replied, before losing consciousness.

It was not until later that I wondered why he knew such a charm. At the time, I was simply grateful. And there were other more pressing concerns. For Navarrin was hanging back, waiting to see whether the Duc or I would finish the course. Haviroen and Badeau were pleasant but noncommittal; Tiberia was more than willing to open diplomatic relations
if
I agreed to trade concessions once I was firmly in power—the same concessions they were perhaps pressuring d’Orlaans for, banking their coin securely on either horse. Sirisse, girdled in their mountains, cared little, for their god sleeps but holds their tall sharp borders inviolate. Scythandra would be no help, and the Principalities of Damar-Hesse and Sea-Countries besides, both nervous of Damar on their borders, played for time.

From the Damarsene, only a chill silence. Truth be told, I did not send them a missive. If they demanded tribute from d’Orlaans and I as both styled rulers of Arquitaine, I was ill-prepared to pay, promise, or insult them in such a way that they would not hold me to account for it later.

Yet it was the missing dispatches that worried me most. So when I heard the faroff shouts and clatter in the bailey, I thought little of it except to frown and go back to the paperwork awaiting me, thinking it only a rider come with late news, who would be ushered into my presence soon enough. Tristan had gone to confer with his father about guard rosters and some points of trade with Navarrin that I wished counsel on.

So I was alone in the study—except for two of the Citadel Guard at the door—when Adersahl burst in, flushed and breathless.

I leapt to my feet, paper falling in a drift to the floor. Adersahl skidded to a stop. His bootheels all but struck sparks. “Tis di Cinfiliet,” he gasped. “Bloody and missing half his men. Come quickly!”

I wasted no time with silly questions but bolted for the door; he whirled on his heel and ran before me, trusting me to follow.

Through the corridors of Arcenne we ran, and a stitch clawed at my side under pale-blue silk. I had to pick up my skirts, cursing them for once. We took a staircase headlong, I almost tripped and had to clutch at Adersahl’s shoulder when we reached the gallery. So it was I arrived in the bailey amid a confusion of horses and shouts, me clasping Adersahl’s arm and ducking under stray hooves as a bay reared. Adersahl cursed, I swallowed a burst of language most unfit for a lady, and the stocky Guard pushed me back.

“Vianne!” A familiar voice, throat-cut hoarse with shouting. “Vianne!”

Twas di Cinfiliet, and right glad was I to see him. I shook free of Adersahl, ducked past another lathered horse, and caught the reins of Adrien’s exhausted gray-dappled gelding. Foam flung, spattered my dress. “Adrien!”
Safe and here, thank the gods. What new disaster is this?

He was bloody, sweating, his shirt was in rags and his eyes burning with the kind of rage I had grown uncomfortably familiar with seeing on men’s faces lately. “Milady Riddlesharp,” he greeted me, with Risaine’s sharp accent. “You look a sight better.”

“And you a sight worse.” Sick dread thudded under my heartbeat, the Aryx rilling uncertainly. “I worried for you. Why did you not come when I sent for you?”
Though it looks as if you had good reason.

“I have been busy playing hide-in-the-bushes,
d’mselle
. And worse games.” He swung down as I dragged on the reins; the horse pranced. Then the gray gave up, his head hanging; I stroked him soothingly.

After the war-trained behemoths the Guard rode, this gelding was far less daunting. And after coaxing and feeding and harnessing the horses the R’mini used sometimes to draw their wagons in place of oxen, I had learned at least not to fear a horse, even if it was more sprightly than a placid saddle-trained mare. “Easy there,
k’vrim
,” I crooned to the gray in R’mini. “Ah, big fellow, be easy in your skin and hooves, be easy in your mane, eh?” I could almost hear Jaryana as she soothed a nervous beast, clicking her tongue and half-singing.

The gray shuddered, hung his head. He had been ridden almost to death.

Adrien reeked of sweat and horse and blood. “Vianne.” Hoarse and urgent, my name pronounced as a talisman. “Tis good to see your face.”

“Likewise.” Arquitaine was strange in my mouth now after murmuring in R’mini. “Adrien, I—”

He shook his ragged dark head. “Later. Listen to me. There is news, grim news, and right glad I am to see you first and alone.” He sought to calm his breathing and slumped, running his hand along the horse’s trembling, lathered neck. “An army approaches, milady. Arcenne will soon be besieged.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
You predicted this, did you not? And I did not listen.
“Siege? By whom?”

He spoke the words I dreaded hearing.

“Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors, though.” My cousin coughed rackingly. Blood coated his sharp, tanned face like paint. Iron-shod hooves rang against stone. The bailey ran with sound, echoed with it, spilled over with the shouts and shrills of horses.

“How many?” My knees threatened to buckle. Damarsene.
They do not leave once they have marched past a border, not without much bloodshed. Is d’Orlaans mad, or does he think them easily fobbed off once he has what he wishes?
The horse’s heaving sides eased. He had run his course, and mine was just beginning.

“Enough to take this city, fair lady Riddlesharp. Some few thousands, with a siege train and engines.” He caught my arm, fingers sinking in carelessly hard. “I have other tidings, cousin mine. Later, if I may speak to you? Alone?”

Had I realized how he would soon rob me of all peace, I might have refused. No, that is not correct. I could not refuse, even if I looked back on this moment as the last before my world crumbled yet again.

The Aryx rasped uneasily against my dress. “Of course. Adrien—”

His fingers dug in, merciless. “Listen to me. Trust no one. I have a tale for you, my fair one.” His lips skinned back from his teeth, a wolf’s grimace. In the distance, a battlefield yell cut through the noise.

“
Vianne!
” Tristan, searching for me.

Court instinct rose. I did not struggle and cause a scene. Adrien’s fingers prisoned my flesh, a bruise already rising on my arm. I did not flinch, simply gazed into his bloody face. “Tell me a tale, cousin.”
What could be worse than Damarsene approaching, and the Duc—

“Vianne! Vianne!” Tristan’s voice, ringing through the bailey.

“I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.” Di Cinfiliet’s whisper dripped venom in my ear. “He was a part of a conspiracy, and was so close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a
chivalier
on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a
chivalier
does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes. I have proof to give you,
m’cousine
, captured from di Narborre himself. Your Captain,
m’cousine
—” Adrien’s fingers fell away, but his gaze held mine. I saw again how much he resembled Risaine, both in the shape of his face and the set of his mouth. There was another resemblance, under the dust and weather and blood.

The King surfaced from Adrien di Cinfiliet’s features, as if rising from his tomb.

My heart pounded thinly. I tasted metal.

“Vianne!” Tristan arrived, and spun me to face him. “Are you well?”

It took every scrap of Court training I possessed to face him. “There is an army approaching, Captain. Your father—I must speak to your father. These men have ridden to warn us. We must stable the h-horses…How many? How many of yours have arrived, Adrien?” I was well to witless, but it could be supposed that the news of an approaching army would maze my humble brains.

I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.

Bile scorched my throat.

No
. Tristan was the King’s Left Hand. Proof? What proof could Adrien have? It was the Duc’s lie, that Tristan had killed the King.

And yet.

Whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you…tis more important than you think.

Or had she only mistrusted any man who could be the Left Hand to the King who had discarded her so ruthlessly?

He was my Consort, and had led me through the tunnel under Mont di Cienne.

Yet the Duc had ordered Tristan’s tongue be taken so he could not speak. Tristan had been waiting in the passage for me, with Simieri—or had Simieri come along to take Tristan unawares?

Or had Tristan been the one to catch the Minister Primus at a different game?

I had not seen my Captain the
entire
time of the conspiracy’s unwinding. He had left me in the passage when the alarums began. And something had bothered me for a long, long while, never quite articulated.

It simply did not make sense that the King had been poisoned, for I was not so untalented a hedgewitch as to miss poison in pettite-cakes no matter how exotic the toxin…and why, oh why, had Tristan been waiting for me in that passageway?

No.
I could not mistrust him, could I?

“Fifteen.” Adrien’s voice cracked harshly. “Fifteen of my riders left, tis all. We slowed them, killed some sentries. Much as we could do. They fear the countryside now. And the night.” He patted the horse’s wet neck. His grimace was fey, an animal’s bared teeth. “We caused some damage.”

“Good. How many? And who?” Tristan’s tone was needlessly harsh, but this was dire news for both of us. It was slim comfort that he thought to ask the same questions I did.

“Some thousands,” I said. “Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors. And with a siege train.” This time my knees did buckle. Tristan caught me, swore, and pushed a strand of my hair back. His fingers were tender, but the thought would not leave me.

Were you part of the conspiracy, Tristan? What proof could this bandit have? “When all is revealed,” Adrien taunted him once before. So, did he suspect, or…

The noble bandit was my newfound kin, and he had little reason to lie so grievously to me, unless he hated Tristan d’Arcenne beyond reason.

Or unless there was truth to this tale, of a man who killed a King.

There were too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries conspiring to cloud my Consort, dogging his heels. If Tristan had lied about poison in pettite-cakes, why?