Lilith Saintcrow: The Bandit King

“Consort,” she greeted me, and a roaring filled my head.

She had not renounced me yet.

I went to one knee, slowly, and rose. “Your Majesty.” At least I sounded steady. The noise inside my skull receded as I concentrated, fiercely, on not toppling and making a fool of myself. “I am gladdened to be in your presence again.”

She did not smile. Instead, she watched me gravely, and did not invite me to approach. “I am gladdened that you are recovered. I… feared for you.”

What use could there be in sweetening me so? Or had she truly feared for me? “I am sorry to have caused you grief.” In any way. Will you believe that?

The weight of gazes upon us was familiar. At Court, I would never have spoken to her even this much. An uneasiness touched the space between my shoulder blades.

“I was also grieved to learn of your father’s passing.” Had she paled?

“I thank you for your pains.” Meaningless words. Why here, Vianne? Why before everyone? Is it because you do not trust me, were we to speak privately? Is it that you think I will force my way into your chambers again?

Would I blame her for such a fear? No. I had richly proven myself a vilhain many times over. I had little idea of how to even begin to be a man she might not fear.

Adrien di Cinfiliet was watching, his pale eyes narrowed. He was still weathered, and the arrogance of a nobleman was still evident even as he merely stood there. It grated on me, and I sought not to look upon him.

Vianne shifted slightly, her hands resting prettily-clasped upon her knee. Her spine was absolutely straight. “I am to enter the Citté soon.” Clear and low, and a hush had fallen over the hall. “There will be a coronation in the Ladytemple. It would please me, were you to attend.”

A Temple. Did she think to renounce me before she was crowned? Publicly, and in no uncertain terms?

“If it would please you, I will attend.” Here is my throat, Vianne. Drive the knife in, should you wish it. “Command me, my Queen, and it will be done.”

A flush rose in her cheeks, died away. Left her even paler, and the shape of her lashes against her cheekbones as she blinked sent a thin Sievillein rapier through me, as if one of the Navarrin had plunged his blade through my freshly healed scar.

“We go forth at tomorrow’s nooning, then.” A small, private smile, and she glanced up and to her left.

Adrien di Cinfiliet’s gaze met hers. His expression did not change, but he did straighten slightly. Vianne quickly looked away, and the smile vanished as if it had never been born.

“Rest well, chivalier ,” she told me, and I was dismissed. I did not even beg leave to go. Nor did I bow. I turned on my heel and Tieris di Siguerre followed in my wake until I gained the wretched, ruined rose garden I remembered from my second night in this accursed heap of stone. And when I snarled at him to leave me be, for the sake of the Blessed , he did.

That night I was to pass in quarters more befitting the Consort—dusty and ancient, to be sure, but at least there was a sitting room. And a high narrow window. It looked down upon a disused bailey, weeds forcing their way up between cracking paving-stones. Tieris led me to it after a dinner I observed a stony silence through, taken in a dining-hall full of draughts and faint sour smells. He stiffly bade me a restful sleep.

I considered running him through.

I had no more than glanced out the window and thought of the drop to the stones below when a knock sounded at the sitting-room door. I thought it Tieris come back and said not a word, for the curses that rose to my lips were fit to scorch the air itself.

The knob turned, and I strode for the door, ready to flay the intruder with a cutting remark or two.

Vianne closed the door and sighed, rubbing delicately at the bridge of her nose. She turned to face me; I had halted near an ancient, tumbledown, brocaded sopha that had perhaps last seen use before the turn of the centuriad.

“I crave your pardon, sieur ,” she said softly. As if she needed to, from me. “I—”

“Are you well?” My hands knotted themselves into fists. “Are you safe? Who guards your door? Your food, is it tested for poison? What of d’Orlaans?”

She winced, clasped her hands before her. It had taken on the quality of a habitual movement, and I do not know if anyone else would have remarked how tightly her fingers clenched one another. The Aryx, glowing, gave a softer light to her face. The rest of us seemed to have aged, lines graving themselves through our faces—but she did not. Or perhaps I did not see any brushing of Time’s feathers upon her, because I looked so closely.

“I am well enough. Relieved, in more ways than one. There is summat I would speak on, Captain, and I—”

“ Captain . For how much longer? By the Blessed, Vianne. Call me Tristan or nothing at all. I will not have this distance.”

“Oh, you will not have it?” Her chin lifted slightly. “And what Tristan d’Arcenne will not have should be my northneedle, aye? I shall address you as I see fit, sieur . You will grant me that, at least, for the remainder of the time we must endure each other.”

“Endure?” So she did mean to cast me off. I did not blame her, and yet…

No. Please. Vianne, no.

“You are the Baron d’Arcenne now.” Her fingers tensed, tighter and tighter. She seemed fair to bruise herself. “And… sieur , I crave your pardon. I came to tell you Timrothe d’Orlaans has disappeared.”

I froze. My wits raced.

Di Dienjuste, half-drawing his rapier as I burst in the door. Overplaying his sympathy for me, and paying her every attention. Of course. Of course.

What had d’Orlaans promised him? Perhaps Vianne herself, though I could not see d’Orlaans dangling the prize he had reserved for himself before a mere chivalier . Most likely the reward was some tidbit or two to repair the family Dienjuste’s noble poverty. How had we not seen?

How had I not sensed the danger?

The urge to swear vilely passed through me in a scorching tide. “Di Dienjuste.” My rapier-hilt was cold as ice under my fingertips. “He was too nervous. I would lay odds he sought to kidnap you. And likely twas he who found di Tatancourt and—”

“Di Tatancourt?” One eyebrow raised. The look she wore would make a man spill every secret he owned, merely for the joy of feeling her undivided attention for a few moments longer. “I see.”

“The Messenger was alive when I left him, Vianne.” The words were ash in my mouth. “I do not expect you to believe me.”

“I find I may believe much of what you tell me, at least now.” Was it resignation in her tone? “And it would not have served your purposes to kill him, Captain.” Yet her slim shoulders came up, the familiar movement of a burden laid upon them. The velvet and silk rustled. Bergaime and spice and green hedgewitchery, a breath of her scent reaching me over the dust and sharpish rot of the Keep. “I do not lay Divris di Tatancourt at your door.”

“What do you lay at my door, m’chri ?” Tell me. I must know. If it is to be the worst, at least let it be from your hand. Please.

“You won the trial of combat. In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of Arquitaine and the Blessed, you are innocent of the King’s murder.”

I do not care. “What of your eyes? They are all that concern me, Vianne. What you would have of me is all that concerns me.”

She unclasped her hands, finger by finger. Shook them out delicately, a pretty Court-trained mannerism. “It matters little what I think, Captain. Soon we will be free of each other, and no doubt you will be relieved at the event.”