The Bandit King

  And also, twas her. I would be dead not to feel that pull. It is the Moon’s longing for the Sun, chased across the sky night and day. Or the aching of a lock for a key, a gittern for the hand that makes it sing.

  How could she think I meant her harm?

  Smoke threaded up. The folds of hanging fabric before my Queen suddenly crawled with silvery witchflame, lapping tongues of it devouring the entrance-flaps. They ate the material in a spreading pattern, and by the time she reached the hole in the tent wall it was large enough for her to simply pass through, her head down and her hood pulled so close none of the falling ash would foul her.

  As entrances go, twas a dramatic one.

  Adersahl was slightly behind her, and I was at her heels. The Court-sorcery flames died, smelling of cinna and clovis. She pushed her hood back, and the men at the map-table all leapt to their feet.

  I knew the d’Arquitaine among them, noblemen and d’Orlaans’s creatures all. Simeon di Noreu, di Narborre’s foppish little puppy, with his blond curls and his curled lip; portly dark Firin di Vantcris with his hand at his swordhilt, a duelist fond of cheating. Tathis d’Anselmethe, the pointed beard he affected dyed coal-black, a nobleman who stooped to collecting his own taxes. A few others who did not merit mention. The Damarsene commanders were unknown to me, but I stored their insignia in memory with a swift glance and began calculating how best to rid one of them of his weaponry.

  Vianne stood, straight and slim on the costly carpets over hard-packed earth, her simply-braided hair a glory in the haziness, before Garonne di Narborre, d’Orlaans’s Black Captain.

  He was a gaunt man; food held little interest for him. Di Narborre glutted himself instead on violence, on misery, on the sheer joy of causing pain. It was the hands that gave him away—spidery, fingertips twitching as if they longed to roll slippery blood between them, the calluses blackened no matter how much he oiled and perfumed them.

  His flat dark gaze dropped to Vianne’s chest, where the Aryx hung. The avidity of his expression brought a rush of boiling to my head.

  No man should look at her so.

  “Garonne di Narborre.” Clear and crisp, a carrying tone she must have learned at Court.

  “As you see.” He swept her a bow, but his gaze did not stray from her chest. I took a single step forward, but Adersahl’s hand appeared around my elbow like a conjure-trick, and he squeezed.

  Hard.

  “D’mselle di Rocancheil—” di Narborre began, and the oily self-satisfaction in his tone alarmed me. The offal-eating pet of d’Orlaans never sounded so happy—unless the prey was fair caught, with no chance of escape.

  “Silence.” She made a slight movement, and the incredible happened.

  Garonne di Narborre choked. The charm was a simple one—Court sorcery, to steal the breath from a man. Twas meant to be transient; it required far too much force and concentration to maintain for longer than a few moments.

  Yet maintain it she did, the Aryx ringing and the rest of them curiously motionless, perhaps shocked. This was, no doubt, not the way they expected this interview to pass.

  Di Narborre’s knees folded. He clawed at his throat, and the Damarsene tensed to a man, sensing something amiss. The one closest to me—a stocky man with the red-raven hair common among them, his mustache waxed and his hand at his rapier’s hilt—had far more presence of mind than most, and I lunged forward a split moment before he had committed himself. The knifehilt at his belt smacked into my palm, the blade serving me far better than him at this moment, and I had his belt slashed with a twist of my wrist. Shoved him, hard, and the rapier rang free—but in my hand, not his. Adersahl had drawn as well, and I was briefly both thankful and disappointed that Jierre was not at my side.

  He would have enjoyed the challenge.

  “Ah, no, sieurs.” I showed my teeth as Vianne made another slight movement, di Narborre’s knees hitting the carpeting as he began taking in great heaving gasps. “My Queen did not give you leave to move.”

  The substance of a threat must be such that the first among equals does not dare to test it. With di Narborre neatly immobilized, the rest were unsure. I marked di Vantcris as the one most likely to give us some trouble, and the Damarsene I had so neatly disarmed as the likeliest among his fellows as well. So I moved to the side, a light swordsman’s shuffle, and Adersahl moved forward as if directed to do so.

  It was gratifying to see he still followed my lead.

  “Murderer.” Vianne’s right hand was half-lifted. Slender fingers held just so, threads of Court sorcery woven among them, ribbons sparking silvery as the Aryx flamed with light.

  “No… more… than him,” di Narborre choked, and he was staring at me instead of at my Queen. I did not seek to hold his gaze. “Orders. Given.”

  “Oh, I know your orders.” Bitter as kupri-weed, she laughed. “Make certain none still live. Those were your orders for Arcenne too, I wager. And for Risaine. Is it so easy to kill, then, sieur?”

  Risaine? Then I knew—the hedgewitch noblewoman in the Shirlstrienne, slain once di Narborre realized she was not Vianne. My Queen had taken her death hard, as hard as the Princesse’s, though I wondered at why.

  Di Narborre sucked in a whooping breath. The plummy shade of suffocation faded; more was the pity. “Ask d’Arcenne. Do you know what he did, d’mselle? He—”

  I could have stood to see him choke for the rest of his life.

  A single peremptory gesture, Vianne’s fingers fluttering. “I know what you would have me think he did.”

  Di Narborre almost cowered. I will not lie—it gave me a great deal of pleasure to witness.

  A very great deal indeed.

  “Whatever he did, whatever you would have me think, matters little.” The Aryx rang under her words, and that thrill along my nerves returned, stronger than wine or acquavit. “Return to your master. Inform him you have seen me, and that a few Damarsene and some Graecan witchery will not save him from my wrath. I am the holder of the Aryx, I am the Queen, and you are forbidden my presence again, on pain of death.” She tilted her head. A pause stretched every nerve to breaking. “I will give you a gift to take back to Timrothe d’Orlaans, as well.”

  The noise was massive, a welter of melody from the Aryx, screams and shouts and the coughing roar of flame from outside. The tent’s walls flapped, lines straining against a sudden wind. Heat roared through the hole behind us, and the rest of the tent burst into flame. The Damarsene shouted, wisely dropping to the ground; every d’Arquitaine, however, stayed bolt-upright, their knees locked.

  Every one but Garonne di Narborre, who stared up at Vianne. The mocking smile was gone from his sharp hungry face, and he gaped as if he had never seen her before.

  Like a man witnessing a miracle.

  Flags of charred fabric flapped, lifting away, the heavily resined tent-lines sparking and fizzing as they burned. Vianne stood, straight as a sword in the midst of the chaos, and my heart lodged itself in my throat. It forgot to beat, that senseless organ; it forgot everything but her name.

  A final lick of silvery witchflame, and the map-table went up in a burst of orange and yellow. Smoke lifted, a cleaner reek than the Graecan fire. A hush descended outside, and I did not dare to glance away from my Queen, who gazed down on the cringing di Narborre. Her curls lifted, stirred by the hot, playful breeze.

  The flagrant power was almost as terrifying as the precision of her control. The sensation of her using the Aryx was a velvet rasp against every inch of me, reaching down to bone and spilling out through my fingertips. How could the rest of them seem so unaffected? Perhaps terror robbed them of the ability to react.

  “This is the gift,” she said clearly. “I allow you to live, Garonne di Narborre. Run back to your murdering master. Tell him I am coming.”

  Her pale hands lifted; she settled the velvet hood over her hair and turned. Rich material fell forward, hiding her face, and her thin shoulders trembled.

  Help her.

  I drop
ped the sword, spun the knife to reverse it along my forearm, and reached her just as she swayed. The movement tipped her into my arms. I did my best to make it appear as if it were intentional, as if she had sought my presence, without making her appear weak. Still, di Narborre’s close-set, red-tinted eyes lit, hungry as ever, as I took her under my wing.

  So to speak.

  He came up in a stumbling rush, but Adersahl di Parmecy was there before I could even cry warning. His rapier point dipped, resting at the hollow of di Narborre’s throat.

  “Do not,” the Queen’s Guard said, coolly. “Or another shall carry your message, and you shall dine with Death tonight.”

  Vianne almost staggered. I held her upright, glanced through the ruins of the tent.

  The vats of Graecan fire had exploded. The siege engines lay twisted and useless, moans and shrieks rising in a chorus of the mad, horses screaming with fear. The half-fan siege-shields before Arcenne’s Gate burned merrily, sending up plumes of black oily smoke.

  Blessed save us. She did this?

  “Tristan,” she whispered, and leaned in to me. For a few moments I almost thought she had forgotten.

  But no. She stiffened, the Aryx’s melody receding, velvet turning to a scraping along my nerves. “Vianne,” I answered, stupidly, pointlessly.

  The Pruzian Knife appeared, wreathed in smoke, his gloved fists holding the reins. His eyes were round, and he was ashen.

  I did not blame him.

  Whatever she thought, whatever she suspected, for that moment Vianne clung to me. And it was enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Decamped. In an unseemly haste, as well.” My father sounded far more amused than the situation warranted. The decanter gurgled as he poured a measure of heavy red unwatered wine. He looked fair to bursting with satisfaction, and of a sudden, I longed to smash something.

  Freshly bathed, freshly clothed as well, my sword returned by a blushing Tinan di Rocham, I stood at the casement, the window before me begging to have my fist put through it.

  Vianne had retreated to the chambers we had shared—my own rooms, now hers. I did not grudge her the use of them, but I most certainly did grudge the way she freed herself of my hands with a decided moue of distaste once we had dismounted in the safety of the Keep, her eyes almost-closed and her mouth tight, as if one of the half-heads she was prone to had struck.

  I had held her during one of the half-heads not so long ago, a bit of Court sorcery plunging the room into utter darkness while she wept with pain. I knew of the severe headaches, of course—twas gossip at Court that di Rocancheil suffered them and sometimes retreated to her bed for a day or so, blind with riven-skull agony.

  Was she enduring one now? After single-handedly destroying every siege engine in di Narborre’s invading force, and causing the vats of Graecan fire to explode straight up in pillars of flame? Or was it brought on by the battle at the Gate, or by any of a hundred things that could trigger such a condition? A bright light, tension, exhaustion—the list was long.

  “The Council will meet as soon as the work of reordering the city is well enough underway.” My father swept up the two goblets. “The signs are… well, they are not bad. Siguerre thinks it Timrothe d’Orlaans’s clumsy attempt to drive a wedge between you and her. Di Falterne and d’Anton reserve their judgment—it is they you will have to sway. Di Dienjuste is rattling his rapier, ready to sally forth and slay them all. Di Rivieri and di Markui think this all a load of nonsense, and the Queen’s attention better turned to other matters.” He glided across the room, offered me wine.

  Crusty ancient di Siguerre was my father’s friend of old, and behind his craggy face lay a mind much sharper than a liege would find comfortable in a provincial lord. Di Falterne and d’Anton were normal enough noblemen except for their probity—always a quality in short supply among men. They were younger than di Siguerre by a good deal, though, and gave the Council forward momentum. Di Dienjuste was a young blood, and his attentions to Vianne approached the edge of the permissible. The remaining old men, di Rivieri and di Markui, were stolid weights to balance the young ones, and their provinces were necessary if we were to fight a war for Arquitaine’s heart. I passed their faces through my memory, arriving at the same answer I usually did when weighing a group of men: Some were more likely to be troublesome, some were less, but on the whole they would be easy enough to manage.

  At least, with my position as Vianne’s Consort secure, they would have been. As matters now stood, one or two of them, di Dienjuste in particular, might be disposed to be… difficult.

  A fire snapped in the grate; though the afternoon was warm, the evening would turn chill. The wind always rose to welcome evening here in Arcenne.

  Like a woman rising to meet her lover.

  She will not see me alone, and the damnable Pruzian is at her door. “The Pruzian. How did she come to trust him?” I sounded harsher than I liked. The goblet’s metal was cool against my fingers, charmed to the proper temperature for a red.

  “She may or may not trust him.” My father gave me a sharp, very blue glance. “She relies on you, m’fils. The Pruzian is a useful tool, no doubt. She has as good as forgiven our family—”

  I turned back to the window. The urge to strike my own father had never been so marked. “He is dangerous. And he is at her very door, while I am sent away to cool my heels and be examined by a clutch of old men.”

  “You are lucky. The papers could be your death, no matter that Henri sent you into the lion’s jaws. Not only that, but this clutch of old men is the power of—”

  I surfaced from my thoughts with an unpleasant jolt. “Take care what you say next, Père.”

  The words vibrated in the still air of my father’s study, leather-bound books frowning from their shelves, the tasseled sling over the fireplace with its crust of ancient Torkaic blood still sharp and restless.

  Silence enfolded us.

  I decided to break it first, for once. “You were quick to cast me aside when Vianne doubted me. Now you are quick to have the Council do… what? While she lies abed, possibly in agony, after sending an army away with its tail between its legs?” I stared down at the stones of the bailey, my back tightening with instinctive gooseflesh. He was behind me, and armed.

  He is my father.

  And yet. “Let me be absolutely clear. Since we are men, and may speak freely.” I set the goblet on the windowsill. “You are my father; I am your son. But I belong to the Queen of Arquitaine, and even if I am sentenced to the unthinkable at her pleasure, I am loyal.” The words burned my tongue. Never too late, is that it? Or am I lying, as I lied to Henri? “The Council may examine me, because she wishes it. Well and good. But no collection of old men will work against her will. She is the Queen, and as long as there is life granted me I will not hesitate to… remind… those who mistake her soft heart for weakness of the fact.”

  More silence. The shaking in me was Vianne’s—the shudders as she stumbled for her horse, whispering my name as if twas a charm or a prayer, and my own soft replies. She had mounted with that same pretty, useless Court grace, and her horse had followed the lead of the Pruzian’s. The silent ride back to Arcenne’s Gate through the seething mass of confused, frightened, and wounded Damarsene had borne a distinct resemblance to a nightmare.

  Adersahl had vanished to the barracks, and a great weariness swamped me. What would he tell the rest of the Guard? And how would they react? They were a fine defense for my darling, but I had not intended to be on the outside of that palisade.

  “So,” the Baron di Arcenne said quietly. “At last we find your measure, m’fils.”

  Oh, you have not seen the half of my steel yet. “Do you remember when I was nine, sieur, and whipped for apples I did not steal?”

  He was silent again, but I knew enough to abandon hope that it was from shame.

  “I did not cry for mercy.” And I dare you to reply to this sally with any honesty, though I know you will not.

&nbs
p; A long pause. “So you did not.”

  “Did you ever wonder why?”

  “Perhaps because you knew there was none to be had. You are d’Arcenne. There must not even be the appearance of—”

  “Be silent!” I rounded on him. Sick fury struggled for an outlet. “The appearance. You provincial old fool. Appearance is nothing! Truth lies below it, behind it, above it—had you even a month at Court you would be taught as much!”

  “Oh, Court. That nest of vipers. You rose high in Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin’s service, my son, and what fueled that rise?”

  I do not think even he quite believed he had said it. The old rumor, that I had been catamite for a King who preferred boyflesh—and who was I to dispel such a slur when it had proven so initially useful?

  “That nest of vipers was where you sent me, father mine.” Each word a knife-cut, shallow but telling. “And I rose in Henri’s service by being willing to kill at his word. You wish the truth? There it is. I killed for the King. I whored for him. I poisoned and stole for him, I bore false witness for him, I did things no honorable man would stoop to. That is what you fathered. And I will do more, and worse; I will be as black as I must, for Vianne.” It was for her all along. But I do not expect you to understand.

  He was silent, examining me afresh. Now I felt the fool, showing my weakness so openly. That is the price of being an instrument of royalty; it means even your own flesh becomes suspect. There is no rest to be found, no safety, and even less softness.

  And by the time you realize what you have cast aside, it is too late to seek a remedy. Had I not been such a sharpened instrument, my d’mselle, unshielded, might be dead.

  Or worse.

  Why am I even here? Weariness threatened to swallow me whole. Because Vianne wishes it. I strode for the door. Did I stay longer, there was no telling what idiocy I would give voice to next. Or what weapon I would give him to strike me later with.

  “Tristan.” For the first time, my father sounded old. “Tristan, m’fils, wait—”