Court sorcery is not as draining as hedgewitchery, but it still takes a toll on the body—a toll I was ill prepared to pay.
* * *
“—light—”
“—truly chills the blood.”
“—Tristan—”
Confused motion. A group of men all speaking at once, yet seeking to keep the noise down. For all that, they would be lucky to escape notice.
Why must we escape notice? What is happening?
“No.” Tristan d’Arcenne sounded ragged, and furious, as if he had been weeping. His voice broke. “No. Vianne—Vianne.”
“I will kill you—I will kill you!” A man, Court-accented, but not one of the Guard.
What are they doing in my room? For a mad moment, I once again thought I was safe at Court. Had I swooned? I was not given to fainting fits, that was Lady di Wintrefelle’s trick—
“Keep him quiet. Gag him, if you must,” Jierre di Yspres hissed. “For the love of the gods, Tristan, calm yourself!”
“I am still alive?” I asked wonderingly, high and breathless. Nobody could be more surprised than I at the thought.
Breathless silence. Someone smoothed my forehead, picked up my hands. I found myself reclining, the sheets still smelled of lavender. Warm, callused fingers traced the back of my hand, touched my cheek. “Vianne.” Tristan d’Arcenne, husky and ragged. “You saved my life yet again, d’mselle.”
Hazy shapes played as my eyelids fluttered. “Twas a killspell, I knew you would be returning.” I blinked, finding my gaze could focus now.
“You blinded him with a witchlight, m’chri.” D’Arcenne’s blue eyes blazed, and he had pushed his dark hair from his forehead. There was a fresh cut on his cheek, and a trickle of blood had found its way down to his chin. “And a fair one, too. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”
“I never was,” I protested weakly, and he stroked my cheek again. It was a strangely intimate, highly improper touch, and I would have blushed had I had not been looking wildly about for the source of the killspell. Sense was flooding me, and uneasy was too pale a word for the terror returning as I gathered myself. “Where—what did you—”
“Safely bound and awaiting questioning.” D’Arcenne’s gaze turned dark, and he ceased touching my face. “I think I will take particular pleasure in interrogating him. How do you feel, Vianne?”
“Tired,” I breathed. “Dear gods. I thought he would kill you. Who is he?”
“I believe he is Yveris di Palanton. Do you remember him?” D’Arcenne recommenced touching my cheek. Oddly, the touch made me feel better. Comforted.
The name meant nothing. “Do not hurt him,” I whispered. He seemed fearfully angry, for all his tenderness. Why does he touch me so? It is improper. “Please.”
“When death comes for him, it will be merciful.” Low and conversational again, and I knew enough of him now to guess at the danger such softness held. I shivered to hear it, and he touched my eyebrow, ran his fingers over my cheek, touched my lips.
Comtesse Rochburre would have been scandalized. “Why was he trying to kill you? None of this makes sense.”
“I shall solve the mystery, Vianne. Rest.” He held a small cupful of the tisane to my lips, and I took it gratefully. It tasted foul and medicinal against the copper fear coating my tongue. I almost gagged, but I knew it would help me. “What were you seeking to do?”
“I wished to be dressed.” My eyelids were so heavy. A great lassitude stole over me. The Aryx pulsed against my chest. Now was not the time to admit I had wanted to leave him the Aryx and flee. Or that I had been planning to intrigue among the Guard to do so. “And the watercloset.”
“Rest, m’chri,” he urged quietly, and I wondered if I had misheard him. Why did he name me thus? It was such an intimate term I would have flushed if I had not been so sick and weak. “We shall speak of this when you wake.”
“Be…careful.” I sighed. My eyes closed, and I sank into the bed. The tisane formed a hard lump in my stomach, spread out in waves of warmth.
When next the Captain spoke, it was that soft considering tone of leashed violence far more frightening than screams or shouts. “Adersahl. Stay here, stand guard. If even a mouse moves in this room, kill it.”
“Aye, Captain.” I had never heard the elder man sound so grave.
“Jierre, Luc, bring our guest. I have a few questions I would ask of him.” He sounded so calm, so reassuringly ordinary, that I sighed again. All was well. D’Arcenne would make it well.
“And if he tries…?” A di Yspres I had never heard before as well—a crisp, almost peremptory lieutenant. No, he would not intrigue against his Captain, even for his Captain’s own good.
“Stick him in the kidneys. It will not matter much later.”
I curled on my side among the pillows. Something pressed against my forehead. It was a kiss, a gentle one, and the smell of Tristan d’Arcenne, leather and steel and male musk, enfolded me for a brief moment.
It was the second kiss he had given me. “My thanks, m’chri.” His breath warmed my ear, as if we were a-horseback and fleeing again.
They dragged the man out, and I wondered even in my daze that they were all alive. The man had a Court accent. How had he found us?
And could di Narborre be far behind?
Chapter Eleven
The angle of sunlight falling into the room said twas morning. I was also hungry—famished, in fact. I was about to reach for the bell on my night table to summon a servant when I remembered, yet again, that I was no longer at Court.
I pushed myself upright and saw the room lying quiet under its gilding of gray, muffled sunglow, and I blinked. I felt lucid, clear-headed, and very weak.
D’Arcenne was at the table, his head on his arms, asleep. His face turned toward me, his eyes closed, and the deep regularity of his breathing was…comforting. He looked as if he had been studying, and merely put his head down for a moment to rest.
The marks of the beating they had gifted him with were only shadows now. His eyelashes lay against his cheeks in two perfect arcs, charcoal-black, and his mouth was slightly open, relaxed. His cheeks were faintly brushed with stubble.
Jierre di Yspres slept on a bedroll by the door. I swallowed hard, and returned to myself in a rush. What had happened to the man last night?
Had he survived until morning? Somehow I doubted it.
Yveris di Palanton. I did not know the name. I thought I knew everyone at Court, at least by sight. I slid my feet out of the bed, inch by inch. The floor was cold, especially after the warm nest of blankets. I felt as one does after prolonged bedrest—weak, itching to move, but not quite sure how far one’s strength will hold.
I tried to stand, my knees shaking, and a floorboard squeaked.
D’Arcenne bolted upright, his sword leaving the scabbard with a whisper. I let out a gasp and sat down so hard my teeth clicked together.
D’Arcenne blinked, examined every corner of the room with a swift glance. The sword vanished. His blue eyes met mine. “Good morn, d’mselle.”
“Captain.” My throat dried like a drought-parched field. It seemed a bloodless way to greet him. So did d’Arcenne. Perhaps I had earned the right to address him otherwise. “Tristan.”
“Vianne.” A slight bow. “You saved my life again.” His gazed locked itself to mine, and his shoulders were stiff. He stood straight as his own rapier, as if he were at drill in a courtyard. “I am beginning to think you a demiange sent from the gods to watch over me, m’chri.”
There it was again. Tristan d’Arcenne was calling me beloved.
A slip of the tongue, nothing more. He was close to death yesterday, that may make a man charitable. “Captain…” I chewed at my bottom lip, searching for something light and diplomatic to say. Nothing arose.
Jierre di Yspres yawned from his bedroll. “And a bright good morn to everyone,” he grumbled, sleep’s gravel evident in his tone. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Time for yo
u to get our fair d’mselle some breakfast.” Tristan’s gaze had not moved from my face. I felt rumpled—I had slept in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and trousers. Someone had taken the leather vest—perhaps d’Arcenne. That thought sent a hot flare of not-entirely-unpleasant embarrassment through me.
Jierre grumbled a bit more, but he hauled himself upright and made a very pretty Court bow to me, sweeping a nonexistent hat. “Good morn, d’mselle Your Majesty, and lovely to see your fair face.”
I gathered myself. “And better to see your smiling face, sieur chivalier.” I found my accustomed tone, light and accented sharply, as all the Princesse’s women spoke. “What happened?” Is there yet another death lingering in this room?
“Breakfast, Jierre.” D’Arcenne’s tone brooked no discussion.
The lieutenant rolled up his bedroll and stumped cheerfully out the door, scratching at his face and yawning. But he wore two daggers at his belt that he had not before, and I caught a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. I have not seen that look often, except before a duel at Court—a duel I would not witness, being weak of stomach.
It was the look of a man prepared for violence.
I was left with Tristan d’Arcenne and pearly, rainy light filling a room that did not seem to have enough air for me. I sought to breathe deeply, and had little luck. He stood rapier-straight, as if he had not been sleeping in a chair all night.
There, Vianne. Speak of that. It is a safer subject than most. “You slept in a chair, sieur?”
He shrugged. “Jierre and I took turns at the door.”
So little was he disposed to keep to safe subjects. I supposed there was small use for such grace between us, then. “Who was he?” All my attempt at humor dropped away.
He shrugged. Even unshaven and after a night that could not have been comfortable, he was still sharp as a fresh-honed blade. “A nasty little boy who played assassin for the Duc d’Orlaans. I think he is probably the one who killed Simeon di Rothespelle. Cut and spelled his saddlegirth, at least.”
What little breath I had left escaped me. “To kill me?” I had difficulty making myself heard, though the room was quiet and I heard faint marketsong from the other side of the window—chanted songs of wares for sale, cart wheels, horse hooves, murmurs of conversation.
“I doubt he even knew you were here, and I doubt it was more than chance. He often visits his aunt at the manse less than two leagues from here, and he may have recognized me. I was his target, m’chri, and you stopped him.” The Captain took one step, two, away from the table. He did not look at me, now, but at some fixed point above my head. “I owe you my life yet again. And more.”
My hands trembled, so I clasped them firmly together. “I could smell the killspell. I—”
“I know.” He took another two steps. Then another.
He stopped next to the bed, a bare step and a half away. He looked down at me with his blue d’Arcenne eyes, and I had to remind myself to breathe. The fever returned, beating in my wrists and throat and chest.
No—perhaps twas only my heart.
“Would you have killed him, Vianne?” Then he dropped to one knee, a quick, graceful movement, and took my hands in his, almost roughly. “Would you?”
Either the shock of his tone, or the question itself, or the feel of his skin on mine robbed me of sense. “K-k-killed him?” I stammered, and my fingers closed in a convulsive movement, remembering the witchlight pooled in my palm, the glow against my fingers.
I had been so afraid the attacker would harm someone.
Do not be ridiculous, the calm, rational voice of my conscience told me. You do not have a killspell when you intend merely to frighten. A killspell is to kill. Tis why they call it what they do. It is not a peck on the cheek spell, or a goosefeather tickle spell.
I looked down at d’Arcenne, whose face turned up to mine. His dark hair fell away from his forehead, and I freed one hand. The back of my fingers brushed his forehead, his cheek. My fingers moved of their own accord, without any direction from propriety or even good sense.
His face changed between one moment and the next. Wondering, as if seeing me for the first time, his eyes wide and guileless as a child’s. “No,” he breathed. “I do not think you would have, had you thought of it. You did not think, did you.”
Had I done wrong? Stray strands of my hair fell free, touched his face. The ribbon must have come free during the night. I leaned forward, again without any volition of my own, as if drawn to him by sorcery, or as the needle is drawn to north’s invisible realm. “I…no, I did not think. There was not time—”
“I see.” He reached up with one hand, his fingers twining in a strand of my hair. “You were…” The hesitation pained me. He was not meant to sound so…unsure.
“I was afraid he might hurt you,” I whispered, as if someone else might hear.
“So you blinded him with a witchlight that could have torn the roof from this inn. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”
He is touching me. Had the fever come back? Or was it him? “I am not.” My voice refused to work properly. “The Aryx.”
His face hardened, and he nodded. My hair was tangled between his fingers, but he did not pull. Merely held it loosely, as he might a docile horse’s reins. “The Aryx.” He whispered as well, or something was caught in his throat. “Vianne.”
“Tristan.” My heart beat thinly in my wrists, in my throat. “What happened to him?”
“Di Palanton? He will never trouble another soul. Still, tis unsafe. He recognized me enough to attempt to kill me, and who knows what message he may have sent to his lord and master beforehand?” Tristan’s accustomed tone came back, sharp and logical, and his fingers slid free. “We must leave this place. The forest is our only friend now, and a false friend at best. Can you ride?”
He spoke as if I was one of the Guard. My chin lifted, automatically. I could see why they followed him. It was impossible not to, when he was so quiet, with such steely purpose.
A man who spoke thus could make other men do wondrous things.
“I can ride.” I sought to sound strong. “I am much better than I was. Have you a horse for me?” It would mean I would no longer ride with him. My good sense was returning, and it whispered that such an event might be safer. At least, to my weak, traitor-throbbing heart.
“I could not find a horse that can keep up with the Guard, nor even one that can stand hard riding. Do you mind?”
I could not decipher his expression. Was he pleased by this? Uncaring? Did he mind at all? “I shall manage,” I said around the obstruction in my throat.The furious heat in my cheeks would not abate. It was akin to being embarrassed at a fête, only at Court there are ways to hide such embarrassment. Here there was no embrasure to hide behind, and no powder to dull my cheeks, no richly hung ladies’ room to retreat to.
He stood, gracefully, his fingers tangled in mine. “Jierre should return soon. Do you require aid to stand, m’chri?” Why did he not free his hand from my grasp? I did not seek to keep him.
Or did I?
He said it again. “No, I am steady enough.” I forced my legs to straighten and carry the burden of the rest of me. D’Arcenne steadied me as I almost overbalanced. The floorboard squeaked again, and I found myself right next to Tristan, holding his hand, near enough for a dance.
Closer, actually. So near I could feel the heat of his body. “I think I had best visit the watercloset.” Why was I still breathless?
“I think you’d best.” He made no move. I did not try to take my hand back, either.
Tristan turned my palm up, lifted it. My knees threatened to fail and he caught me, sliding his arm around my waist.
Dear gods.
I almost laughed. The long series of impossible events seemed to find its madly logical culmination in Tristan d’Arcenne holding me close enough to pavane in an inn room close to the Shirlstrienne, and then—impossible of impossibles—lifting my palm to his mouth. He pressed a kiss into the soft
part of my hand, and my heart gave a leap so hard it was as if the drums of the maying festival beat in my chest. “There. For safekeeping. My thanks, Vianne.”
I nodded, unable to find anything even remotely sensible to think or do. I said the first thing that leapt into my silly head. “I can ride.”
I winced at my own stupidity.
“Good.” He folded my fingers over the still-burning kiss. Warm skin, callused from daily practice with sword and knife. “Do you require any aid? Any at all?”
“I think I am well enough.” I fought for air, tried not to gasp. The sudden need to explain something, anything, rose. “He would have killed you. I could not—”
“You still did not wish him dead.” He shook his head, gravely. “I understand. Truly. For now, an it please you, we shall break our fast and leave this place.”
I nodded. Tristan’s hand still enclosed mine, and the kiss scorched against my palm. How long would it take for the burning to fade? “Very well.”
He stepped back, reluctant, still holding my hand. I swayed, but stayed upright. New strength stole through his flesh into mine.
This man is dangerous, Vianne. What would you not do, for his asking? Especially if he turned this face to you more frequently.
“I watched over you at Court. Not because I feared your ambition, but because I feared for your very life. Once I began, I could not stop.” His fingers slid free of mine, and if he was not reluctant to let go he was certainly feigning it well enough to earn a prize.
Why does he say this now? I stood, my fist clenched around the feel of his mouth, in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and breeches, barefoot and rumpled. The Aryx pulsed in time to my heartbeat. “I thought you watched me to make sure I did not—”
Boots in the hallway, thundering in the quiet though whoever owned them was simpy striding normally.