The Hedgewitch Queen

  I broke the seal, cracking the red wax.

  “Vianne?” Tristan’s hand rested on his swordhilt. “It may hold some unpleasantness.”

  I would smell a killspell strong enough to anchor itself to parchment, my darling. I did not say it, contenting myself with misunderstanding him. “Tis said to be for me. I might as well read it.” I unrolled it, the crackle of parchment oddly loud in the hush.

  It was written in a fair, clear script, in archaic High Arquitaine.

  To Our Best-Beloved Niece and Best-Beloved lady of the Realm of Arquitaine, Duchesse-Royale Vianne di Tirecian-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, Our greetings and most perfect love.

  We have received an ill-considered proclamation, in which the lies of rebels have been spread, purporting to come from your mouth. We say unto you that We do not believe you would in truth flee the justice of the King of Arquitaine. The murderous regicide Tristan d’Arcenne hath kidnapped you and forced you to his will in an alliance most unwise. Therefore We say unto you, We demand your release from the treachery of Arcenne and your safe transport to Our Capital, where We shall welcome you as Best-Beloved Consort. The fury of Our anger will be unleashed upon the traitors of Arcenne unless your merciful intercession spares their lives. Your release is demanded immediately and your presence in the Citté d’Arquitaine is requested no later than the third day of the fourth month of the Year of the Stag.

  By Our hand, bearing great love for you, signed and sealed, His Majesty Timrothe Alonsin di Tirecian-Trimestin, Duc d’Orlaans, Comte di Tavrothe, Marquis di—

  I did not go through the list of pointless titles. “Well. He must think I am very stupid.”

  I handed the parchment to Tristan, whose eyes had not moved from my face the entire time. He scanned it, twice, then flung it down on the table with far more violence than necessary.

  I did not flinch. I had thought perhaps this would displease him.

  “He addresses you thus, knowing you have a Consort,” he said through rage-gritted teeth. He was pale, and his eyes blazed.

  I smoothed my skirts—pale green watered silk, cut to my measure by the Baroness’s eagle-eyed dressmaker; it was a never-ending relief to be clothed properly—and took measure of my Consort.

  I had never seen him this livid. His eyes flamed blue, his jaw seemed made of steel, and the air around him swirled with tension.

  “He cannot afford to acknowledge that I took you as a Consort of my own free will,” I pointed out. “And now he knows where the Aryx is, and how it came to me. I wonder if he truly thinks you hold me against my will.”

  Tristan paled. Two fever spots of color burned high on his whitened cheeks. “He has dared insult me for the last time, Vianne. I swear by the gods I will—”

  “Tristan!” I am not ashamed to report that I yelled. He stopped short, staring at me, his eyes infernos of chill blue. “Tristan, m’cher, my darling, please. Halt your tongue before you utter an ill-considered oath.”

  I think it was the first time I dared to say anything of the sort to him.

  Amazingly, he shut his mouth with a snap. Nodded, once. His fingers wrapped so tightly around his swordhilt I could almost feel the bloodless aching in my own hand.

  I heard a slight cough outside the door—one of the Guard. From the open window came a breath of sound—shouting from the practice-ground, the clash and clatter of an afternoon weapons-drill. An idea struck me. “Does it occur to you, m’cher, that this missive is not necessarily sent to entice me back to the Citté, but to drive you into a rage? He must know that I saw the carnage in Lisele’s rooms, though he may not know you were with me when the trap sprang, and therefore I have proof of your innocence.”

  Tristan started, almost as if struck, but I looked down at the table, lost in thought. “I think tis likely he considers me a pawn and you his real opponent.” I studied the scroll, lying innocently on the table over a pile of dispatches from the Baron di Timchaine, Arcenne’s neighbor shared with Siguerre. “If he ever guessed at Court you had any regard for me—”

  Tristan drew in a deep breath. “It seems your open secret was royal blood, and mine was my regard for you. I thought I kept it well hidden, Vianne. I sought not to let it be used against either of us.”

  “Very well indeed, since I had no idea.” I still contemplated the scroll. Calm him, Vianne. “Why on earth did you dance with me, Tristan? I have often wondered.”

  “I could not stay away.” His hand eased from his swordhilt. “At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age—you wore the red velvet. You looked…” Now he dropped his gaze to the floor as I glanced at him. “And the Festival, I tried to summon the courage to ask you for a favour. I failed miserably.”

  I smiled, unable to stop myself. The smile faded as I continued to gaze at the scroll.

  “What are you thinking?” He sounded worried. “Vianne? You have that look again.”

  What look? But I suddenly glimpsed another turn to this labyrinth. I leapt to my feet. “Where would the Guard hold him, this Messenger?”

  “Probably in the barracks under the West Tower.” He fell into step beside me. “Vianne, what—”

  Do you not see? “I have the Aryx,” I said. “If I free the Messenger to return to d’Orlaans, he runs the risk of one more person who has seen the truth of the Aryx with his own eyes. He will kill the man, or has—”

  “—already laid a killspell on him,” Tristan finished, and swore. I ran for the door.

  I am certain the Guards did not expect to see me bolt past them and down the hall, Tristan close behind me. He snapped an order over his shoulder and such was the accord between us that by the end of the hall he said, “To your left, up the stairs,” and continued to guide me through the maze of Arcenne. I had explored no few of its corridors, but not yet all, and was glad of his guidance.

  I was breathless and aching from a stitch in my side as we arrived at the barracks under the West Tower, and Tristan flung the door open. I skidded in, for once cursing my skirts, and several Arcenne guards rose hastily. Some were at table, others at a card game—and there, by the fire, sat a man in the blue surcoat of a King’s Messenger, gold braid on his sleeves, a tall Arquitaine with thick dark curls long as a chivalier’s.

  I barely paused. Flung out my hand, tasting the beginnings of the peculiar sour flavor of Court sorcery meant to kill, triggered by the presence of its intended victim. I recognized it, as well—wet fur and sour apples, a poison killspell to match the one laid on the Minister Primus.

  The Messenger straightened, his face blanching as he saw Tristan behind me, my Consort’s eyes blazing, hand on his swordhilt.

  The Aryx let loose a welter of sound, and a wall of hedgewitchery and Court sorcery smashed outward, catching the killspell as it struck, a flare of silver light jetting from my outstretched palm.

  The noise was incredible, and a table between me and the Messenger exploded into matchsticks, smoke and wood whickering away to strike the walls and pepper the onlookers.

  The killspell snapped, recoiling on itself like a gittern string stretched too far, splitting and shredding. Another door inside my head, flung open, showing me a far country of magic lying thrumming and obedient to my will.

  The drowning sense of being swallowed alive was slightly less this time. I held fast to the only thought that could survive the riptide overpowering my senses.

  Tristan. The killspell is meant for him. Protect him, just as he would protect you.

  Screams, shouts, the thick reek of poison and fear, Tristan’s voice raised to a battlefield shout. I came back to myself slowly, standing, holding the glowing ball of sorcery that was the killspell in my palm, draining the power from it. The Aryx sang a slow, sleepy, sated song. Tristan touched my shoulder. “Vianne?”

  “Not merely a poison killspell,” I said dreamily, “but a spell designed to kill someone with him when triggered.” I blinked, returning to myself. “Twas set as a snare, Tristan. You were its target.”

  There was a murmur
of sound. I looked, and found one of the Arcenne Guard had the Messenger at swordpoint. The others stared at me, men I recognized, now kneeling on the stone floor.

  “Put that away, Stefan,” Tristan barked, and the guard, slightly shamefaced, sheathed his sword.

  The Messenger, fever-pale, stared at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. I leaned into Tristan, grateful for his strength.

  Grateful, too, that the thought of him stayed with me even in the devouring maelstrom of the Aryx. “One crisis averted,” I managed, through numb lips and a sand-dry throat. “Tristan.”

  “Your Majesty.” Was that awe I heard in his voice as well?

  Please, no. I cannot bear it. I pitched my voice loud enough to carry through the room. “Stand, chivalieri, an it please you. Sieur Messenger, would you be so kind as to accompany us? I think it best to speak to you sooner rather than later.”

  One by one, the Citadel Guard rose. I saw the open adoration on several faces, and wished it had not been necessary to use the Aryx. The Messenger stammered something, and two of the Guard stepped forth to accompany him.

  Tristan gave a few quiet orders to bring lunch to the library, then ushered me out into the hall. He said nothing else as we retraced our steps, the Guards behind us with the Messenger. I would have dearly loved to speak to my Consort, but it was impossible with the others watching. “Are you hale?” he asked me, quietly, as we rounded a corner.

  I had to use the Seal again. My head ached, and I hoped I would not fall prey to the half-head. “Hale enough. Tristan, that spell could have killed you, had you decided to question him alone.”

  “True. And you, m’chri?”

  “If you were questioning the Messenger, it might have looked as if he had murdered you, with steel and magic. I would be unlikely to view such an event, being an empty-headed Court frippet.” My tone was less calm than I would have liked. “What does he hope to gain? He must know the Aryx—”

  “The Aryx was sleeping from the time of Queen Toriane’s death. He has no way of knowing it has awakened. Despite the sudden strength of Court sorcery returning…” He sounded thoughtful, and I looked up at him, my hands moving automatically to gather my skirts.

  I kept my tone low, conscious of the footsteps behind us. “But how can he not feel the Aryx is awake? He uses Court sorcery!”

  “I do not know, and it will take some time to find out.” Tristan now sounded calm, the furious killing calm of revenge.

  I halted, and he stopped short as well. “I need your wit, not your anger, Tris.” The footsteps behind us drew nearer, we had outpaced the Guards.

  “Aye.” His eyes were near incandescent, and if his jaw clenched any harder he might well injure his own teeth. “Give me a few moments to compose myself, m’chri.”

  “I need your wit now,” I said, inflexible. For I was badly shaken, and I steered myself by his northneedle. I understood that if I let him go much further into rage he might well swear an oath he would regret. And something about his fury perplexed me, obliquely frightened me.

  Something was not right.

  He slanted me one flaming-blue glance. “You sound like Henri,” he murmured, and was the Tristan I knew again, his fury reined, his face smooth and interested.

  I shall choose to view that as a compliment. I blew out between pursed lips. “Good.” You almost frighten me, beloved.

  The Guards and the Messenger rounded the bend in the corridor, and we had to hurry to stay a stride ahead. But Tristan walked more slowly, and by the time we reached the library he had regained control of his temper. Barely, but enough.

  I pointed the Messenger to a chair. “Sit, an it please you.” I motioned the Guards away. “You may leave him with us. I will be safe enough.”

  The Guards for once did not glance at Tristan, simply obeyed me. I picked up the parchment from d’Orlaans and smoothed it on the table. “Your name, sieur?”

  “Divris.” The Messenger’s throat worked. “Divris di Tatancourt.” His cheeks were pale, and from the way he sweated and glanced at Tristan, I guessed he was uncertain of his survival.

  Still, he is alive. The killspell was meant for him, too. “Get him some wine, Tris, to bolster him.”

  “As you like.” Tristan crossed the room to the sideboard, but kept the man in sight. His hand strayed near his rapier’s hilt more than I liked, but he seemed in control of his temper, at least.

  “Di Tatancourt.” I mused over his name, threading it through my memory. “Your younger brother was in the King’s Guard, on duty the day Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin was murdered.”

  Di Tatancourt’s gaze flicked toward Tristan, flinched away. “The tale is that the Captain of the King’s Guard caused the Princesse and her ladies to be slaughtered in a rebellion against the King. After he slew the King himself.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Tristan was with me that day, chivalier. I myself witnessed Garonne di Narborre and his men moving from body to body in the Princesse’s quarters, making certain Lisele and her ladies were slain.” The memory rose, taunting me. I closed it away with an effort. “You have seen me use the Great Seal of Arquitaine. Do you doubt me?”

  He shook his head, running his fingers back through his thick dark hair. “No, Your Majesty.” Quietly, but with great force. “I do not doubt you. I know a plot when I see one. And I have been asking inconvenient questions of the manner of my brother’s death.”

  Hence, the killspell. Two birds netted in one snare. I swallowed bile. “I wish I could have saved him, sieur. I truly do. He was courting Lady Arioste.” And not having any luck with it, I might add, for she was after bigger prey. Or at least, prey with deeper pockets, for she had expensive tastes.

  Di Tatancourt’s mouth twitched, amusement and bitter memory combining. “Aye. That he was.”

  Tristan handed him a cup of wine, his other hand resting a-swordhilt. “Here, chivalier. Drink, and be welcome.”

  The door banged open, and I whirled, my hip striking the table. Baron Perseval d’Arcenne strode into the room, and I found where my Consort had gained his cold fury from.

  “A killspell!” the Baron raged. “Does Timrothe d’Orlaans never tire of seeking to murder my son?” His blue eyes flamed, and my mouth was dry.

  Well, d’Orlaans killed the King, blamed Tristan for it, is still seeking to kill him and turn me against my Consort. It is enough to unsettle even Jiserah.

  “Baron,” I said, calmly enough, “I present to you to Messenger Divris di Tatancourt, sent to die because he was asking inconvenient questions about his brother’s death. His brother was assigned to guard Princesse Lisele’s door the day I left Court. Would you be so kind as to draft a reply to Timrothe d’Orlaan’s recent missive?” My fingers found the parchment, held it up. “I wish to inform the Duc d’Orlaans that he is stripped of his titles and styles forthwith, and that he shall remand himself to my justice immediately. I wish a proclamation drafted, and diplomatic letters sent to Navarrin.” It seemed someone else was speaking through me, someone with a voice as crisp and clean as new steel. “And I wish to know exactly where Garonne di Narborre is, or as near as we may,” I added, as an afterthought.

  The Baron’s jaw set. “As you wish, my liege.” He took the parchment from me. “I will have a proclamation and the letters drafted in a matter of hours.”

  “Good.” I looked at Tristan. “Fetch me a scribe, as well. There are other letters to write.”

  “D’Orlaans will know his killspell failed.” Tristan folded his arms, but his tone was not combative.

  He will. “He will only know it did not kill anyone, not a whit else. It is the more imperative we move quickly. I will hold a Session this afternoon, Baron, of all members of my Council that are here. We may fill the vacancies later.”

  The Baron nodded. The crackling anger in his tone had smoothed. “I will send a scribe and gather the Council. Is there aught else, my liege?”

  “Not at this moment. My thanks.”

  He turned on h
is heel, nodding to his son, and was gone just as swiftly as he’d entered.

  Tristan took a long gulp of wine, perhaps to bolster himself.

  I settled myself down in my chair, forcing calm. “Now, Chivalier di Tatancourt. Tell me of Court, and of d’Orlaans. You are a Messenger, so you will know what is of import.”

  He nodded, and took a swallow of wine. His cheeks were still flour-pale, and he trembled just the slightest bit. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”

  “No thanks necessary,” my new, brittle voice told him. Who am I? Who have I become? I no longer knew. “Now, we shall start with the Court. Tell me, what is the latest gossip?”

  * * *

  Tristan opened the door, and I leaned on his arm, stepping inside his sitting room. “Gods above. Another day like that, and I may save everyone the trouble by retiring to a convent.”

  He laughed, then kicked the door shut and took me in his arms, resting his chin atop my head. I fell into the safety of his body, sliding my arms around him. He moved slightly, restless, and I felt his readiness, a hardness against my lower belly. He looked almost giddy with relief. “I seem to always be thanking you for saving my life, demiange.”

  That made me shiver. “Do not name me so—it might attract the attention of one.”

  “Which would not be a bad thing—you seem to need more protection than I can provide.” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. “My darling Vianne. Do you have any idea how utterly magnificent you are?”

  “I thought Lord Siguerre was going to pop when I told him to hold his tongue, and that I shall have no war before spring. He is a disagreeable old stoneshell turtle.” I could have picked many another term for the man, but none were fit for a noblewoman’s mouth.

  “He is tactics-wise, and organized. And he holds the adjoining province. Enough of business.” He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, then crushed me to him again. “I wish to hold you.”