The Hedgewitch Queen (6 page)

“Tis no matter.” My voice sounded choked and thin, small in the gloom.
There must be other royal bastards, plenty of them female and more suited than I. Why would the Duc want
me
?

We passed out of the reach of the torches, the ground sloping down and becoming rocky. I wondered if there were other prisoners locked down here and shuddered. Perhaps a moldering body or two—I did not think the King had ever ordered anyone held in the Palais donjon.

No, he had them sent to the Bastillion before execution. The Duc, perhaps, wanted Tristan kept close at hand. But why? Something to do with the conspiracy, no doubt.

“What do you have in your bag, Duchesse?” Tristan asked in the darkness. I stumbled but he righted me, and we continued to descend. I was now wholly at his mercy, in the dark and confused.

“F-fruit. I took it from Lady Arioste’s rooms. And a d-d-ress, the one I wear now. I brought a comb, and a sewing kit, and some stockings…I could not bring anything useful, it seems. I wish I had
thought
.”

“You did well.” He slowed even further. I sensed him feeling along the wall with his other hand, but his fingers were warm in mine. I realized his hand was bruised, and he held mine so tightly it must have hurt, but he made no mention of it. “I would not have thought to bring a bag of apples. It was probably the only food you could find. No water, though—you must be thirsty.”

His words reminded me, and of a sudden I was parched. “A little.”

“Tis been rather a trying day for you.” It struck me that he spoke not out of need, but because he sensed my panic and sought to soothe me. Ridiculous. I was worse than useless to him now, and well I knew it.

Go to Arcenne. Loyal
…Lisele’s tortured voice echoed in my ears. “Lisele told me to go to Arcenne. She said you were loyal; she said to go to the mountains.”

“Eventually we shall.” He sounded grimly pleased. “First we must escape the Palais, and then the Citté, and learn if any of my Guard have survived. Then we traverse league upon league of hostile territory until we reach Arcenne. There the mountains will protect us. The difficult part is reaching safety and surviving the winter. Then we can set our thoughts to war in the spring.”

“War?” I let out an undignified, thready squeak of alarm. He paused, made a quick movement, and there was a rusty screeching sound. I jumped nervously, though we were far out of the gate-guard’s hearing, had he even been still alive.

“Do not think on it. Right now, follow me, and go carefully. The door will close of its own weight. The passage is close, so hold my hand.”

I squeezed his fingers, and he inhaled sharply. “I beg your pardon,” I said immediately. “Captain—”

“Tis Tristan, and you are Vianne. Surely we have passed the point of formality.” He drew me through the door—at least, I thought it was a door. I could only see very faintly, and of course neither of us would risk a witchlight to alert any trackers. “Hold my hand as tightly as is needful. I do not mind.”

I remember very little of the nightmarish sqeeze through the narrow rock passage out of the donjons. The air was still and foul, and sometimes the Captain had to turn sideways to fit through the gaps, the hard length of his sword once sharply striking my knees. The passage twisted until I was lost, and I could see nothing. It was blacker than any night I have experienced before or since, and my breath came short. I could imagine all too well Mont di Cienne bearing down on us, squeezing the life out of our fragile human bodies. Even though the Mont, set in the middle of the rolling fertile land of Arquitaine, was little more than a hill compared to other mountains, it seemed still large enough to crush us.

I repeated to myself the first cadre of Tiberian verbs, starting with the irregular
esse
, but that did not help. I fell back on a teaching-rhyme about the Twelve Blessed.

I suppose anyone would have thought of the gods and prayed for help, down there in the dark.

These are the gods of our land, listen well. These are the Blessed of Arquitaine, six Old and six New, married by the Angoulême. Gentle Jiserah, hearth, hopeless, and home; Danshar her consort, warrior unknown. Kimyan the Huntress, maiden and bow; her twin is Torvar, of Sun, rain, and snow—

“Breathe, Vianne,” the Captain said, kindly enough. It interrupted my inward recitation. “If you swoon I shall have to carry you.”

How undignified that would be. Still…
“Will the mountain crush us?” Childishly, the hot flush of embarassment rose to my cheeks again.

“Of course not.” He paused. “Look, tis not so dark. Courage, we are almost through.”

He was right—I could see the faint outline of my free hand as I lifted it before my face, and I further saw the Captain as a shadow cast by a pale glow. Starlight, or moonlight.

My chest unloosed. My arms and legs were made of lead, the relief was so intense.

We ducked out of a low cave scarcely big enough for a goat to pass through, and found ourselves on a long, rocky slope. Faint light struck my hot, aching eyes, sweeter than any candle or glowglobe lit in a nursery to comfort a dark-fearing child.

The Palais reclined, a white-glimmering bulk, in the distance. Below, the torches and lamps of Citté D’Arquitaine sprawled in glimmering patchwork; the river was a mellifluous gleam at its heart, a bright thread bridged with thin stonce arcs. I gasped, startled, and a flare of brilliance surprised me. It was a beam from a covered lanthorn, shone directly into my face. I heard steel drawn from the sheath before the Captain spoke.

“In the King’s name,” he said, calmly enough, and clearly, too.

I held my breath.

“For the King’s honor,” replied a tenor male voice. “Tristan? Gods above, is that you?”

“Tis. I am even relatively hale. How many with you, Jierre?”

Jierre? Jierre di Yspres. Lieutenant.
I placed the voice just as the lantern was hurriedly recovered and someone pushed roughly past me to catch Tristan in a bear hug.

My eyes recovered slowly. I saw a little over a dozen men. Horses, too, all standing quietly, a tail occasionally flicking. The men moved forward, some of them whispering, and surrounded us. Jierre di Yspres held the Captain at arm’s length and hugged him again. “I saw you clapped in chains, my friend, and Adersahl had to hold me back. You are the
luckiest
bastard—”

“Not quite.” Some of the tension had left the Captain. “I was rescued by a
d’mselle
with far more presence of mind than any of us. Jierre, you know Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy?”

“Aye, Tristan. Who does not, who knows you?” Now the lieutenant sounded suspicious. “How did she—”

“She witnessed me catching the Primus at a deadly game. Events moved rather quickly afterward. She stole down to the donjons to free me after hiding in the North Tower.”

A collective indrawn breath. The North Tower was reputed to be cursed, and none of them believed it, of course…but still. Rumor said no statue of the Blessed, including Jiserah, would enter its walls since the Dowager had been carried out. Any who sought to bring one into the Tower’s environs would be unable to enter, held back by an invisible hand.

Though nobody had tried such a feat since Archimvault’s time. It was, like anything concerning the Aryx, a question better left unasked.

“As the only remaining scion of the King’s blood she is the rightful heir to Arquitaine, now that the Duc d’Orlaans has committed regicide and fratricide in one fell swoop,” Tristan continued implacably. “Mount up, Guard. We have leagues to travel before daylight.”

Only remaining scion? There are bastards sown the length of Arquitaine, Captain. Even I know that.
Weariness swamped me. I held my peace, uncaring.

Jierre started to protest, interrupting my gasp. “A woman? A Court woman? Who knows where her loyalties lie? She may be
part
of the plot! And she will slow us. Speed is essential—”

“If she was part of the plot, would she have freed me? Come now, Jierre. You waited for me; you must have trusted I would not lead you astray. We have little time. Let us be gone.”

“We have no spare mount.” Jierre’s tone bordered on anger, rough and dismissive.

I swayed on my feet, too exhausted to care. If they left me there on the mountainside, my only feeling would have been weary relief that I could finally sink down to rest. I cared little what the morn would bring. “Take the Aryx.” I pitched my voice low enough none of others would hear, as the Captain leaned down to listen. “Leave me. You will go faster without.”

“If the Duc seizes her, all hopes for holding him accountable for his crimes are gone,” Tristan said sharply. “Do you challenge me, Jierre?”

“Of course not.” Now di Yspres seemed shocked. “I simply…tis been a long day of unpleasant surprises,
sieur
. I spoke unthinking; pardon me.” He did not sound repentant in the least. I shut my eyes and swayed again, Tristan’s hand closed around my arm. “Bring the Captain’s horse! Come,
chivalieri
, we ride!”

They moved. There was the creak of leather, and a huge horselike shape loomed out of the night.

“One more task,” the Captain said in my ear. “Just one more, Vianne. The saddle has a low back; we shall do well enough. I will help you mount, then do you kick the stirrup free for me. Can you do as much?”

I nodded, though I sorely doubted I could. But Tristan helped lift me up, and my foot found the stirrup. I had only ever ridden sidesaddle before, and my skirts caught awfully, but I was finally on the broad back of a Guard warhorse, who stood blessedly still as Tristan shoved velvet out of his way and settled himself behind me. His arms came around me, and I held myself stiffly forward, afraid to relax.

There were orders, given softly, and the remainder of the King’s Guard—little more than a dozen men out of more than four hundred—started down the slope of Mont di Cienne. Afterward it became a courtsong—the Dawning Ride, the minstrel called it, and had more than half of it wrong.

I would like to say I remember enough of it to correct the matter, but I do not. I fell asleep less than a dozen steps down the Mont.

I
t took a moment to remember where I was, for I lay on a rough, dark wooden bed covered with homespun linen. There was a window, firmly shut, and no fire in the grate. There was a pitcher of water and a cup, which I seized with a will. Someone—probably the Captain—had taken off my garden-boots, put me in bed, and pulled the covers up over me. The large ease-chair by the fireplace had a blanket tossed over it, and a familiar torn red sash lay on the floor.

Had he slept there?

I finished a cup of water and poured another, looked for a watercloset door. I shuffled like an old woman. My knees hurt, and my shoulders—my entire body, for that matter. I had never been a-horseback for more than two hours at a time, for picknicking and easy riding when Lisele went hawking.

At the thought of Lisele a fresh pain arrowed my heart. I sank back down—was it a peasant’s bed? Had I been left behind? I heard voices, but could not tell of what they spoke. I had a confused memory of riding, the Captain’s voice in my ear, very soft but extremely important, and a hurried whispered conference while I leaned against something warm and hard, trying very hard to stay upright.

I finally went to the door that did not open to the watercloset and found it unlocked. I found myself in a low, pleasant hall that said “small house” instead of “inn,” and followed the voices until I came to a flight of exceedingly rustic stairs.

“—cannot take the risk.” Jierre di Yspres, I recognized his accent.

“I am with the Captain.” This sounded like a young man—perhaps Pillipe di Garfour? I could not tell. “We cannot leave a
d’mselle
here. Tis not safe. The Duc will find her.”

“Not if we leave her in the right place.” Di Yspres, grimly determined to win the argument.

“I understand your concern.” The Captain, now. “However, we will not leave her behind. If you cannot accept that, Jierre, you may strike out for whither you will. I will
not
leave her to be married to the Duc and deprive us of the chance to make him pay for his crimes.”

“They slaughtered the rest of the Guard.” An older male, one I did not know. I knew few of the King’s Guard, except for those often set at Lisele’s door and some of the officers. “Our fate’s likely to be the same, rebellion or not. D’Arcenne’s right. And what ails you, Jierre? What
chivalier
would leave a
d’mselle
here?”

“Tis trouble,” di Yspres pointed out. “The Duc will pursue us if we have her—but if we simply flee we may escape with our lives.”

“True,” someone else said. “But again, what kind of a Guard would we be if we left the King’s only remaining flesh and blood to a usurper?”

Only remaining?
My heart beat dry and thick in my throat.
That cannot be true. If it is, how did it happen—and why did I never hear of it?

“We cannot afford to be blinded by sentiment, Tristan. What says she was not part of the plot?” Di Yspres, even more resolute. “And merely waiting for a chance to betray us to the Duc’s henchmen? His spies are everywhere.”

There was a hot, prickling silence, then the sound of a chair scraping back and metal leaving a sheath. “She came down into the donjon and risked her own life to set me free.” The Captain, very softly. “She accepted my oath of service. Speak against her honor again, di Yspres, and I will have no choice but to hold you accountable.”

A long pause, my nerves winding tighter and tighter. Nobody in their right mind would wish to duel Tristan d’Arcenne, even beaten and bruised as he was. I had not ever witnessed him duel, but I had heard.

There was a reason he was Captain of the Guard, and had held the position from such a young age.

“I go south,” the Captain finally continued, “to Arcenne, to shelter in the mountains until we can gather an army and take the usurper from the throne. If the need grows dire, I will cross the border into Navarrin and petition their King for aid. And I am taking the Queen with me. You may accompany me if you like or go to the nine hells of Far Rus if you please, but if you come with me you travel as the Queen’s Guard. With an oath of loyalty taken to Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil, the true Heir to the throne of Arquitaine.”

This must be a nightmare.
I eased back along the hall. All the doors were locked except the one I had come through. That room had a window—but twas painted shut, for it did not budge when I tugged at it.

I turned back to the room, searching for anything that would help. I could not break the window, and I was on the second floor. And where exactly would I go?

Dear gods, anywhere but here. This is madness. There must be somewhere—

I heard footsteps and dropped down to sit on the bed, my hands clasped together, my braid disheveled and pushed forward over my shoulder, my skirts spread prettily as if I was on a divan at Court. The last bit was habitual, my busy fingers accomplishing it without any direction from the rest of me.

A courteous knock at the door. I had to try twice before I could say “Enter, an it please you” in anything resembling a normal voice.

The door opened and revealed Tristan d’Arcenne.

He had bathed, and his face looked both better—because he was relieved—and worse, because it was now apparent he had been very badly beaten. His hair was combed back damp, and he had no red sash. He wore a white linen shirt, a black leather doublet, and a pair of breeches. The
siang
-stone signet glinted on his left ring finger. He had not worn it yesterday—someone must have brought it to him. His sword was in its accustomed place, his boots freshly brushed, and his gloves thrust through his belt.

I felt even more rumpled. “Captain.” I tilted my head just as I had seen Lisele often do.

Oh, but the thought of Lisele sent another arrow through my already-torn heart. My eyes prickled hotly.

“Duchesse.” Equally formal. “You heard.”

I shrugged. “I thought to come find you. Or to see if I had been left.” I sounded wistful insted of polished, so I pulled my shoulders back, giving myself a sharp mental slap.

I was Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I had to act so.

“You did not leave me to the donjon, I would not repay your kindness by leaving you here.” He examined me, and I saw he had a fall of cloth over one arm. I glanced at it, then up at him. He shrugged, blue eyes darkening. The swelling around his one eye had gone down quite a bit. “Well. One of the Guard—Tinan di Rocham. He is a slight boy, and we may belt in a pair of his breeches for you. You cannot ride in that dress. This will be more comfortable. And a group of men traveling will raise little suspicion, while a group of men traveling with a young noblewoman may cause comment.” A high flag of color stood out along his cheekbones, a novel occurrence.

I glanced again at the clothes he carried. “Tis true. I shall only be trouble to you.”

He dismissed the notion with a single gesture, his signet glinting. “Your father and mother both have bloodlines tangling with the royal tree. Did you not ever wonder why you were brought to Court?”

“My father told me twas my mother’s dying wish. I am a noblewoman of Arquitaine, and tis good enough for me. Lisele…” Grief rose again, and my eyes began to fill. I gazed at the floor, seeking to swallow the rock lodged in my throat.

The Captain swept the door shut behind him. “Gods,” he said quietly, but with great force. He strode across the room, tossed the clothes on the bed beside me, and went to his knees, taking my cold hands in his. It was highly improper, but I could not move, I seemed nailed in place. “Vianne, you
must
listen. Whether you will or no, you have the last drop of untainted royal blood in Arquitaine. Lisele and Henri are both dead—
you are what is left.
It is your duty to free us from the Duc d’Orlaans.” His eyes were burning now, and I found it increasingly difficult to breathe. “He killed your Princesse,” the Captain continued, pitilessly. “Would you leave her death unavenged?”

It was a sharp pinch in a sensitive place. I started, and stared down at him.
What does this matter to you? I have nothing you want, Captain.
And I realized twas not true just as he spoke again. I did have something he wanted, and it rested on a chain around my throat.

“The Aryx has accepted you as its holder. And furthermore, I
need
you.” A pause, while he struggled with the words. “An army will need a rallying point. If I am to somehow enlist the help of the King of Navarrin, he is a distant cousin of yours and your pretty face will put a debt on him. I ask you for duty, and for honor, Vianne. Please.”

A horrible realization dawned. Tristan d’Arcenne, Captain of the King’s Guard, had danced with me and followed me at Court to keep watch—to see if I was any danger to Lisele. If I had shown any sign that could be interpreted as ambition, I might have been spied upon more assiduously. He had been relieved to see me as he lay trapped in the donjon—not for myself, but because I was
useful
.

I was a way to serve the King, though the King was dead. As usual, I
myself
had very little value.

All my value lay in how I was to be used.

“Oh.” Fresh tears filled my eyes. I had been a fool. Thank the gods I had never said, or done, anything
more
foolish.

He waited, examining my face. Anger washed through my whole body, a great hot spate of it. I had been shipped off to Court at nine years of age, needled and buffeted because I was not content to simply be an empty-headed featherbrain, watched constantly because I was Lisele’s friend, and taunted because I chose to work with herbs and practical spells instead of gaudy, violent Court sorcery. Now, even a rash of death and conspiracy did not free me. I would be forced to marry a man who had murdered the King—the King my half-uncle, who had only addressed me directly twice in my life—or compelled to become a figurehead for a rebellion and a civil war that could devastate Arquitaine.

Yet in the midst of that anger was the vision of my Lisele, lying on her back on blue silk, her hair tangled and her chest full of blood.
Make certain.
I heard the terrible voice again. And the horrible crunching sounds as the Duc’s Guard obeyed, making certain the witnesses to murder would forever hold their peace.

I licked my dry lips. “As you like, Captain d’Arcenne.”
But do not think I will always be this easily manipulated.
I watched relief and fresh worry cross his face. He really was very handsome, though it would do me little good to mark it.
Fair face may hide a foul heart,
I heard the Comtesse Rochburre’s voice intone piously from the mists of my childhood.

She had often glanced at Arioste di Wintrefelle while she did so; the Comtesse worried for Arioste.

I could have told her not to bother. Those with di Wintrefelle’s wits and charm seldom fail to land afoot. It is the rest of us who should worry, for they tend to trample wherever they
do
land.

And now the vision of Arioste’s crumpled body rose up in vivid, horrifying detail. Dear gods. Had the Blessed received her? They must—Jiserah welcomed all, she was the Merciful.

But still, I wondered, and the thought of her slumped, lifeless form—

“What’s this?” His tone had taken an abrupt turn into something like concern. “Vianne?”

Do not use my name so freely,
sieur
.
“I must dress myself.” I sought to pull my hands from his. Much to my surprise, he allowed me. “There is little time. We may be tracked; the sooner we depart, the better.”

“I cannot argue, but why are you suddenly so pliable? I distrust your meekness.”

And well you should.
He had sworn me service in the donjon of Palais D’Arquitaine, but I did not doubt he would just as easily kill me if it suited him—if I showed any sign of disloyalty. “I hate to be used, Captain. By Duc d’Orlaans or by Captain of the Guard, I hate to be
used
. I will accompany you and aid you however I may, because I owe it to Lisele.” I felt my throat closing with tears and denied them, feeling my eyes burn. “But do not think for a
moment
you can force me into anything…dishonorable. I will act as the holder of the Aryx, but I am not a Queen. Surely someone else can be found. There are royal bastards everywhere.”

He shrugged. His cheeks were pale and the bruises stood out in livid relief. “I do not seek to use you,
d’mselle
. I would never stoop so low.”

“You have need of me to avenge the King’s death, Captain.” I scraped together every ounce of haughtiness I could muster.
And I half-believed the King when he said you favoured me. Silly me.
“For your duty. I have been doing
my
wretched duty all my life. I intend to continue in like manner. Now, I really must dress myself. I shall thank you to let me do so.”

For some reason, his face suffused with anger and just as quickly smoothed. He made it to his feet and stalked away, his step almost soundless despite his boots. “There is hot water,” he said over his shoulder. “Bathe quickly, tis no telling when we’ll have another chance.”

I stood shakily and gathered the garments. I have never been a clothier, but I thought they might fit me. Sometimes I had envied the freedom of breeches and men’s clothing, and now I would take no joy in it.

He paused, his hand on the latch. “Duchesse?”

I glanced over my shoulder. His back was rigid, as if he was at parade-ground drill.

“Captain?” I answered cautiously.

“Why did you free me from the donjon? May I ask?”

Because I am a stupid, silly, thoughtless girl. Because I thought you would make this nightmare fade, as the nurse’s voice makes a child’s night-fears leave.
“I could not bear the thought of your beheading, Captain. I am known to have a weak stomach.”

He nodded, and the set of his shoulders eased. “I danced with you at the Fête of Flowers, did I not?”