Lilith Saintcrow: The Bandit King

Perhaps, just perhaps, Adrien di Cinfiliet was a better choice. If I were to be honest—and aye, starting now was too late, as always—I could admit as much.

And yet.

She reached the Three Stairs, and she halted. She glanced up at di Cinfiliet, and they shared a moment of silent accord. My heart writhed inside my chest. My place was next to di Markui, hands loose though they longed to clutch a rapier-hilt, my face set and composed.

The years of not even daring to glance at her at Court were nothing compared to this.

She stepped forward. So did di Markui. A long pause. She took the next step. Di Markui approached the bottom of the Stairs. Di Cinfiliet glanced at di Markui, whose craggy face was unreadable. Do your part , that glance seemed to say, and my pulse raced. Treachery? Here?

No. I was merely too practiced in the art to credit truth when I saw it.

She took the last step, and turned. The Aryx glowed. She beckoned, and a gasp went through the assembled.

Di Cinfiliet took the first Stair. A pause, and the second. Would she declare him Heir? What was this?

He took the third, and Vianne’s hand came up to her chest. She cupped the Aryx in her fingers, lovingly, and her lips moved. None could hear, but with the ease of training and habit I deciphered the words she spoke.

I have done what you asked. Let me free. Let me go.

And the Great Seal… sang .

The Ladytemple shook, the Rosaille echoing and blazing, and a fierce silver light burst free. Twas not witchlight or any other earthly radiance. The only time I had witnessed its like was in Arcenne’s Temple, on my wedding day, when the statue of Jiserah kindled and my Queen had stared unblinking into that light.

The blaze did not dim, but it became easier to pierce. Blinking furiously, tears rising to every eye, Arquitaine witnessed the Aryx pass from the Hedgewitch Queen’s hands. She folded Adrien di Cinfiliet’s fingers about the Seal’s glow, and the picture they made…

I cannot describe it. The courtsongs will tell you. They will not be able to express a quarter of its fineness.

The cry that rose was Vianne’s, and it carried a deep authority. Had I not known every shade and tone of her, I might have mistaken it, as every other present did, for the voice of Jiserah herself.

“Arquitaine!” she cried. “Behold your King!”

And the Hedgewitch Queen, before the Great Altar, knelt to Adrien di Cinfiliet. A rippling wind went through the Ladytemple, its walls groaning, and the assembled nobility fell to their knees. Heralds posted on the steps cried out the news.

The silvery radiance intensified, flushed with gold as if the Sun and Moon had come together atop the Great Altar. A roaring cheer rose, every bell the Ladytemple owned tolling at once, and wild jubilation roared over the Citté.

When the light faded, Adrien di Cinfiliet was crowned. The Hedgewitch Queen had brought the Bandit King to power. She had never wished the burden of rule; she had only appeared, twas said, to turn back the tide of invasion and civil war. She was blessed of Jiserah, or Jiserah’s hand on earth, but the important thing, the critical thing, was this:

Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy had vanished.

I took advantage of the ensuing confusion to vanish of my own account. For one who had been Left Hand, twas child’s play. The Citté enfolded me as Arcenne’s Keep would; I took further advantage of confusion and celebration outside to steal a cloak and shed my fine hat. I stole a not-so-fine drover’s headgear, and made my way to the Palais’s shimmer.

My apartments in the Guard barracks had been ransacked and sealed. Dust lay thick over every surface, and the brazier I had burned the incriminating papers in still had ash in its depths. My clothing had been shredded, my narrow bed torn apart, my cabinets hacked open. For all that, they had not found everything, and only a fool has merely one hiding place.

Life returned to the Palais that evening. Twas midnight before a certain quiet descended. An hour passed, and another.

I waited.

The traditional resting place of a new monarch after crowning is the Angoulême’s Cell in the west wing of the Palais. Tis a narrow room, with a narrow bed and only one tapestry—a fleurs-di-lisse , white thread upon deep blue. The narrow window casement looks only upon bricks, for the Cell has been enclosed by other parts of the Palais, accreting around the most ancient bits in layers, as a pearl. Or a gallstone.

The blank window is shrouded with deep blue velvet curtains, stiff with age and dust even when hastily beaten clean. Twas there I waited, and I knew my prey was close when a servant bustled in to light the fire in the tiny fireplace with a coal from a Ladytemple brazier and the flick of a hedgewitch charm. The servant—no doubt he had performed the same office for d’Orlaans—shuffled away. I relaxed into dimness, breathing softly.

They approached. Several, the tramp of booted feet. I rested a hand on my rapier, my boots glove-supple from hard use and not creaking as I shifted my weight to keep muscles ready for action. Did he suspect? If he did, he might well order the Cell searched, though I had waited until they had already performed such a search before secreting myself here.

Some low conversation. But only two men entered the Cell, and I closed my eyes. Reopened them in the stiff, dusty darkness behind the curtain.

“At the end of the hall,” Adrien di Cinfiliet said. “Tis enough.”

Jierre di Yspres sighed. “A foolish risk. You know he will at least wish to pass words with you.”

“He is more likely to seek your company, Captain. What am I, to him? Nothing.”

“I hope he will pause to hear your argument before seeking to run you through.” Jierre, ever pessimistic, heaved another sigh. “Should I search the room, Your Majesty?”

“For the love of the Blessed, address me as Adrien. If he is here… then perhaps he will listen to my argument. Perhaps he will listen when I say I do not know where she has vanished to, and that I wish I could have gainsaid her. And that, does he wish any aid at all, he has merely to ask it of me.”

I blinked, but not in surprise. No, it was merely to keep myself in readiness. Or so I told myself.

Jierre’s sardonic tone, well-known to me. “I hope you are correct. Arquitaine cannot stand to lose more royalty.”

“And there is this .” A touch of loathing in the bandit’s tone, now. “Cursed thing. What would you say to him, were he here?”

Jierre was silent for a long moment. I shut my eyes.

Yes, what would you say, Lieutenant? You played your part to perfection, and I can credit it was at her bidding. Would to the gods I had seen enough to know.

But a guilty conscience makes a man blinder than a clear one ever shall.

When Jierre spoke, it was softly, and for my ears alone, for all that the new King was the only man he could see. “I would tell him,” he said softly, “that I regret playing my part so well. And, should he ever wish to have a blade at his bidding, that we are too marvelous to die.”

My jaw set, hard enough to crack my teeth. Loyal to the end, Jierre. In his own fashion.

Adrien di Cinfiliet’s laugh was a bitter bark. “You are passing strange, sieur . Off with you. I am certain that Pruzian will be about as well; he is a tick upon a deer’s leg. Why she left him to nursemaid me, I have no—”

“She is thorough, our d’mselle . Safe dreaming, Adrien.”

A low bitter laugh. “Gods be praised, you have finally unbent. Safe dreaming yourself, Jierre. Tomorrow we begin our thankless task.”