The Hedgewitch Queen

  I dug in the pile of clothing, finding my pocket and pulling out Jaryana’s gift.

  Twas a small, flat medallion, gilt paint scored with a few peculiar angular signs. I examined it and the threadbare velvet ribbon it was tied to, and then felt at the pocket again.

  Two hard lumps. My emerald ear-drops. Jaryana’s quick fingers must have slipped them back into my pocket. “Oh.” My eyes filled with tears.

  “Vianne?” Tristan approached, cautiously. How he could move so quietly in such heavy boots was a mystery.

  I wiped at my eyes with the flat of one hand, but tears still wet my cheeks. “Oh.” It seemed all I could say. If I had kept my vow to Lisele, I had broken one to myself—the vow never to weep again. It seemed I was made of water.

  “Vianne?” he repeated. It was almost a shock, to hear him so uncertain.

  I turned, held them up. Emeralds glittered in the fresh mountain-bright sunlight. “I offered these in payment for passage and they…they would not take them.” We do not steal from the poor, Tozmil had said, and I was poor indeed. I had nothing in the world to call my own anymore. Nothing except these baubles.

  And your wits, Vianne. Though those are threadbare enough you may still consider yourself a peasant.

  Tristan touched my shoulder. “Was it very bad?” And there was an awkwardness, new indeed in the Captain of the Guard. “I would not have had this happen, not to you. Not for anything.”

  “Oh, I know. Yet if we were still at Court, Tristan, what then?”

  He shrugged. “I supose I would still be gathering the courage to ask you to wed me,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “I shall order breakfast for you, m’chri. I suppose you cannot wait for a bath.”

  “No.” I curled the medallion and my ear-drops in my fist. “No, I cannot.”

  He smoothed the shirt over my shoulder, gently. Silence stretched between us, thin and glittering in the golden air.

  His face was far less drawn than it had been last night, and I wondered still at the brief patch of gray at his temple. But the lines on his face had eased. His mouth now relaxed, a brief smile all the more precious because twas fleeting.

  “I have never known you to lack courage,” I offered, tentatively.

  “I find myself a coward when it comes to you, d’mselle.”

  Oddly enough, a smile broke through my tears. I sobered almost instantly as well. “I thought you dead. I wondered what direness had befallen you.”

  His arms slid around me and I leaned in to him, grateful for his solidity. For the first time, I embraced him as hard as I could. He kissed the top of my head, stroked my back, and rocked me slightly, as a nurse will soothe a child. I wept into his shirt, a dam broken and a storm unleashed, as if Lisele had just died. The numbing tension I had been wandering in snapped, leaving me breathless.

  He held me until I quieted and produced a kerchief I used mercilessly, sopping at my streaming cheeks and blowing my nose. “L-l-look at this,” I stammered. “What a m-m-mess. I b-beg your p-par—”

  “Oh, hush.” Gently, taking my chin and tilting it up. He looked relieved, the lines easing on his now-familiar face. “Tis no sin to weep, Vianne, when you’ve managed to survive conspiracy, armed attack, and the Shirlstrienne. I would be rather surprised if you did not shed a tear. Or many. That soft heart of yours.”

  It eased me, as no doubt he meant to, but shame still curdled in my throat. I searched for anything respectable to say. “I suppose I should take a bath.”

  “I suppose you should.”

  “I smell of the R’mini.” Woodsmoke, the spices in their food, horse and oxen and the comforting breath of Jaryana and Tozmil’s wagon. When I washed it from my skin, I would be adrift again.

  Yet there was Tristan.

  “Did they harm you?” A mere whisper, his blue eyes intent and focused. “Tell me.”

  “Of course not.” I sounded horrified at the very thought. “They are not so bad, Tristan. Fair enough, if a bit harsh. They asked that I work, and Jaryana taught me of their hedgewitchery. Tis passing interesting—”

  “Trust you to find something to learn from even the R’mini.” He was definitely smiling now.

  “Learn what you can, where you can.” I felt better, now that I had eased him. “Tis a Tiberian proverb; Catorus the Elder mentions it often. I survived at Court because I learned how to make myself agreeable. Even, it seems, to hedgewitch tinkers.”

  “Not just agreeable, m’chri. But truly, did they hurt you? Were you offered any insult, any at all?”

  Why? Would you seek to avenge it? I do not cherish that thought, d’Arcenne, much as I… “No. I am merely fatigued, and very happy to see you again. I missed you terribly.”

  Between one moment and the next, the smile drained away. He looked down at me, his blue eyes shadowed, his mouth a thin line, as a hungry man contemplating a feast. That shadow was strange, and a thread of uneasiness worked its way through me.

  “You missed me?” His seriousness might have frightened me, did I not know him.

  Do I? I nodded, biting my lower lip.

  “Missed me terribly?” he persisted, examining my face.

  I nodded again, breathless, my heart racing. “I had awful nightmares.”

  He brushed my cheekbone with callused fingertips. Why did he not look happier at the thought of my longing for him? He seemed pained.

  How on earth did I come to be standing here in Arcenne, with Tristan d’Arcenne’s arms about me? “You look grim, chivalier.” Why did I always say the stupidest things to him?

  “Not grim. Thoughtful.” He was bending down, slowly, his hand cupping my chin.

  “Thoughtful—” I was about to say something silly once more, but his mouth met mine, and I forgot the very idea of speaking.

  My hands crept up about his neck, one still clutching his sodden kerchief. I forgot the taste of morning in my mouth and the fact that I wore only a sleeping shirt. He flattened both hands against my back and pulled me against him, the Aryx giving forth a rippling thunderous melody. I had never kissed thus before, but it seemed I knew how, the knowledge springing full-born into my body, perhaps from his.

  I had heard enough courtsongs to know what he wanted, and to know I wanted the same. I did not care if it was proper, or if manners were served, or if twas my duty to do summat or aught, as Drumiera would have said.

  I knew only the man in my arms and the Sun through the window, and the blessed relief of a moment in which I did not need to plan, or think, or do. I merely existed, melting into him, with no barrier of duty to remind me of what I should instead of what I wanted.

  Tristan broke away, kissed my cheek, my forehead, my other cheek. His lips traced my jawline and I tipped my head back, allowing all.

  “Vianne,” he whispered against my skin. I could find no breath to answer him. “Gods above, you’re enough to make me forget my duty again, m’chri.”

  “Duty?” I managed, blankly. To the seven hells with duty. What now?

  “Breakfast for my lady Queen.” He smoothed my hair with one hand, pressing another kiss on my forehead. “Then to bring you to your Guard, so they can see for themselves you are well. And my father, and my mother. We must plan.”

  “Plan?” I finally found my normal voice. “Oh, yes. That. We do need a plan.”

  And suddenly there was business at hand. “Do you still require a Consort, Vianne? There is a Temple here. I do not ask for—”

  A sharp pang lanced the region of my heart. “There is no one in the world I would rather have for my Consort. And my Left Hand.”

  He nodded. But his expression was still serious, too serious. “You do not mistrust me?”

  How could I? I touched the lock of gray at his temple. “And where did this come from, chivalier?”

  He grimaced, an expression so unguarded it warmed me. He would not twist his face so where others could see.

  “You noticed? I am not a gentle man.”

  Do you think I do not know? There is
a brace of peasants in the Shirlstrienne who know, as well. I shook my head, dismissing the objection. “These are not days for gentleness, Captain. I need you, as long as the Aryx persists in…this. If the Seal chooses someone else, I shall free you.” Though I do not like the idea. At all.

  “If you contract me as your Consort, Vianne, it will be permanent. Even if the Aryx chooses another, I’ve sworn my oath to you, d’mselle. Do you think me faithless?”

  “Very well.” I was helpless to stop a foolish smile from rising. “You really do wish to?”

  “Vianne, you idiot, I want nothing else.”

  I laid my head on his shoulder and sighed. He held me, stroking my tangled hair. At that moment, there was nowhere else in Arquitaine I would rather have been.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The dress was dark blue silk, simply but exquisitely sewn, the neckline modest and the sleeves falling away from undersleeves of white silk. Twas fashionable, too, or at least, what had been fashionable at Court three months ago. It was too close in the chest and too long at the sleeves, and a trifle too long otherwise, but all in all it felt familiar. I had no desire to ever wear breeches again. The relief of being dressed decently was well-nigh overpowering.

  Of such small things is happiness made, I suppose.

  I had lost flesh; my hipbones and ribs stood out starkly, my cheekbones stretching from under the skin. The mirror was unkind—it showed me how gaunt I had become. I looked ill-used, all things considered, and far too pale. It was a wonder I had escaped more fever, despite all Risaine’s and Jaryana’s tisanes.

  I had considered wearing my garden-boots, or battering my bare feet on the stone floors of Arcenne, but Tristan brought me a pair of soft slippers to wear inside the Citadel.

  Twas odd to feel so much softness again.

  After a short, luxuriously hot bath and lacing the overdress with Tristan’s help—I had to laugh at how serious he was, and how his fingers fumbled with the laces—I combed my hair out and chose a simple braid, tying it off with a piece of ribbon. Tristan watched , and shook his head when I pushed the Aryx under my neckline.

  “Leave it out, Vianne, an it please you,” he said quietly. “Tis better for us to see it.”

  I nodded. “Did you speak of breakfast?” Now that I was clean, my teeth charmed, and my head a little less cluttered with fear, I found myself relieved and hungry in equal measure.

  He nodded, and led me into the sitting room. There was hot chocolat, and chai, delicate pastries, fruit, cheese—the kind of provender I had not seen in ages. I set to with a will, my manners thankfully not rusty from so long without. Tristan joined me, pouring a cup of chocolat. I thought of Lisele while I drank, surprised tears did not rise to the surface. Instead, a hot dry-eyed grief rose, threatening to choke me.

  It was tinted with anger, and the depth of my own calculating fury frightened me.

  “Eat, Vianne.” Tristan’s tone brooked no disobedience.

  After I could swallow no more, he gave me a few moments to gather myself, and led me out into the hall. A pair of Citadel Guard by the door eyed me cautiously. “Chivalieri,” Tristan said, my hand firmly tucked in his elbow, “this is Her Majesty Vianne di Tirecian-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, Queen of Arquitaine.”

  I was hard-pressed not to blush.

  They both bowed, a stocky older man and a slender youth I recognized from last night. The black mountain-pards on their doublets eyed me no less dubiously. I would have swept them a courtesy, but Tristan had my arm, so I merely nodded. Their gazes snagged on the Aryx, and remained there.

  “A pleasure to meet you, sieurs.” I used the same tone I had been wont to address solicitors in, hoping it was not overly cool.

  The older one gave me a glance I could only classify as astonished. “Likewise, d’mselle. Tis a pleasure to be in your service.”

  My service? I glanced up at Tristan, whose blue eyes were level and intent.

  I see. There have been events at work while I slept. I sought a grave, though welcoming, tone. “I thank you for your pains, chivalier.”

  Tristan drew me away. I waited until we reached the end of the hall and turned into another corridor. “My service?” My eyebrows lifted. He had shortened his stride, since I was now gratefully encumbered by skirts—and a full stomach.

  “Arcenne is yours, Vianne. My father swore so last night, and he is not one to make a promise lightly. You must have impressed him.” Tristan’s mouth curled, a trifle. This morning, freshly shaven and dressed plainly, he looked more the Captain I remembered from Court.

  “I do not think so. I’ve been a silly goose ever since I s-saw you in the p-passage—” Words deserted me. Just a moment. Just give me a short while to catch my breath.

  I did not, you see, quite believe I had reached Arcenne. The spring inside me had wound itself so tightly, and its release left me shaking with conflict.

  Tristan stopped short and enclosed me in his arms, rested his chin atop my head. This hall was thankfully deserted, stands of armor and marble busts on pedestals tucked in small alcoves, a tapestry of yet another battle to my right. “Tis behind you now, Vianne.” A warm spot in my hair, his breath as familiar to me as my own. “I swear, I will not leave your side again. Ever.”

  I nodded against his chest, my pulse thundering in my ears. Sinking into his strength was a novel sensation, and a welcome one. “Tis hard to believe,” I said into his doublet. He smelled familiar—leather, and steel, and the smell of him, male and clean. “I lived to reach Arcenne, and now that I am here I cannot tell what to do. What next?”

  “Next?” He laughed, kissing my hair. Though he was gentle, the laugh was not. “Now that you have gifted us with hope again? We knew not if you were dead, or alive and in di Narborre’s hands. Every day we have waited for news. D’Orlaans struggles to consolidate his power—several of the border provinces are jostling for position, nobody quite sure whether to revolt or not. Rumor racks Arquitaine no less than the plague—though Arcenne has escaped the plague; we are not certain how, but grateful nonetheless. Since d’Orlaans has not found you he is frantic, and since we had not found you we doubted our very lives. For two months, night and day, everything has hung in the balance, and we have been laying in provisions and preparing for war. Now we know you are safe, we may stop fretting and begin doing.” He sighed.

  I found I had little desire to ask after his plans just yet, and cast about for a safer subject. “What befell you? I had neither the time nor the strength to ask last night. How did you come to be here?”

  He stiffened slightly. “We were hunting di Narborre. I cursed myself for that, for listening to di Cinfiliet when I should have stayed with you. Yet we had to track d’Orlaans’s dog; we had to know. We found his trail an hour before nightfall, I wished to return to the village, but…there was no time. We tracked him until dark fell, then made camp. I thought of you, before I went to sleep.” Now his tone dropped, became fierce, as his embrace tightened considerably. “The next morn we found his tracks, and they led directly for the village. We found Adersahl wounded, following our trail, hoping to bring us as reinforcements. I sent di Chatillon and Jierre to collect you, Adersahl swore you were hidden near the village, and the rest of us set to following di Narborre again. For Adersahl told us he had taken some of the women, no doubt thinking you might be among them. When I found how narrowly you had escaped…

  “Luc and Jierre returned, saying they could not find you. But by that time, we had discovered the women. It seems di Narborre had found none of them were you. Their end was not kind, Vianne. I…I thanked the Blessed you were not among them, and cursed the idiocy that had led me from your side. We returned to the village and searched, but the rain had started, and we could not find you. Adersahl cursed himself; he had thought you safer hidden than traversing the forest with only one Guard for protection. We buried the bodies we could find and searched the Shirlstrienne—as much as we dared. It took three weeks for Jierre to convince me to fl
ee to Arcenne. He threatened to tie me to the saddle, and di Cinfiliet had some fool’s fancy of broaching the thinnest pass to Navarrin. We could not believe you could survive in the Shirlstrienne without even a waterskin.”

  I am glad to see you, Tristan, but I wished you had listened to di Cinfiliet. It would do my heart good to know you safe in Navarrin, where the Duc could not touch you. “I do not know what might have befallen me, if not for the R’mini.”

  His arms tightened. “I owe the tinkers my life, then.”

  I leaned against him. “I did not know if you were alive or if di Narborre had fought a pitched battle with you, then razed the village. When I could not find Adersahl, it seemed I had to reach Arcenne myself, or die trying. For my Lisele.”

  He paused, as if searching for words. “I would have had you wait for me, but you could not have known. I am simply glad the gods have seen fit to give me another chance at honor.” He had turned steel-hard, and I wondered at it. It seemed impossible he could be so worried; I could not imagine a dishonorable Tristan.

  I did not wish to move, and there seemed no answer I could make. So I simply rested against him, content, breathing him in.

  A few moments later, he reluctantly loosened his arms. “Come. We are late.”

  “Late?”

  “They are eager to see you again, m’chri, no less than I was.”

  “They?”

  “Your Guard, Your Majesty. Your Guard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Guard was housed in a long barracks hall, and when we stepped inside Jierre let out a whoop and leapt from his chair. Cots ranged along either side of the hall for a distance. There was a space of long tables and benches, a fireplace with chairs and benches set before it, a large cauldron of something familiar-smelling bubbling over the fire.

  I had missed the smell of their stew, without knowing it.

  I found myself surrounded. Luc di Chatillon embraced me, Jierre kissed me on both cheeks, Tinan di Rocham, blushing fiercely, clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. The hall became a hubbub of shouted questions, congratulations, and oaths cheerfully yelled.