Lilith Saintcrow - The Hedgewitch Queen

He paused, his hand on the latch. “Duchesse?”

I glanced over my shoulder. His back was rigid, as if he was at parade-ground drill.

“Captain?” I answered cautiously.

“Why did you free me from the donjon? May I ask?”

Because I am a stupid, silly, thoughtless girl. Because I thought you would make this nightmare fade, as the nurse’s voice makes a child’s night-fears leave. “I could not bear the thought of your beheading, Captain. I am known to have a weak stomach.”

He nodded, and the set of his shoulders eased. “I danced with you at the Fête of Flowers, did I not?”

My temper almost snapped. Why on earth did he ask me ? He had never danced with anyone else; surely he should have remembered the occasions! “No. At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age, and at the Festival of Skyreturn. Both times you caused quite a bit of comment. Though I wondered why, since neither were memorable occasions.” The last was an unjustified cut, and I was briefly ashamed to hear myself utter an insult so far beneath me.

“You remembered.” He swept the door open.

I wish I did not. “I hold grudges,” I shot after him.

“Tis not what gossip says of you.” With that parting sally, he closed himself out of the room.

I strangled the desire to run to the door, wrench it open, and scream something nasty after him. I looked about for something to throw, but there was nothing, and neither action was fit for a Duchesse. So I settled for hissing at the door in exasperation and carried the clothes into the watercloset.

Yet I must admit the annoyance was a tonic, and the anger made my fingers cease their trembling.

I had a momentary difficulty with the doublet’s laces. The doublet was of leather and far too large, but it hid the curve of breasts and hips. I plaited my hair and found a ribbon in the bag I had filched.

I wondered if I should cut my hair to pass for a boy. One of the men could lend me a kerchief or hat to hide it, perhaps.

I struggled back into my garden-boots and dropped the Aryx down my shirt, cursing to myself as my hand brushed my emerald ear-drops. I had forgotten them completely, and now I looked at them with fresh eyes, as the survivor of a shipwreck might gaze on something that had once been a ship’s pride.

Scallops of silver, delicately whorled, filigreed around large emeralds burning dark green like hedgewitchery itself, smaller chiming bits of silver and similarly caged, tiny uncut emeralds depending from the larger gems. They were a prize, the finest work Amercio Tavanche of the royal jewelers did four years ago, and dedicated to me by the artiste . I usually preferred to patronize bookbinders and scholars, but Tavanche hailed from my home province and had presented himself — and been laughed almost into tears by no few of the ladies, since he’d tripped and landed face-first during his presentation.

Fortunately, I had some little weight with the royal jewelers, and had introduced Tavanche to the head artisan of their workshop. The ear-drops had excited no little marvel at their presentation at Court during the annual Salonne, and their gifting to me handled far more adroitly by Tavanche than his presentation had been. I wore them habitually — Arioste would say I had no other jewels, but this was not true. I merely liked these overmuch.

I weighed them in my palm for a moment, and slipped them into my pocket.

The dress I bundled up and decided to carry downstairs with my servant-girl’s bag. I hoped Arioste’s maid had survived the carnage in Lisele’s rooms. I could not remember her body, and did not want to think too deeply lest I do so. My own maid, the shy but occasionally tart-tongued Meridia, had been granted a week’s leave to visit her ailing mother, and right glad of it I was. At least away from the Palais she was safe enough, though at the time it had annoyed me to put up with the clumsy fingers of other ladyservants.

This time, I had to take a deep breath before leaving the safety of the room. I heard the murmur of voices again, and set off down the hall. Each step was more difficult than the last.

Panic beat under my ribs as I reached the stairs, and I stood irresolute atop the flight. Men’s voices resounded below. Without the protection of a woman’s skirts, what could I expect from them?

The problem was larger than that, though. Without Lisele’s protection, how could I manage in the world? I had never been on my own, safely trammeled by childhood and later by the rules of Court protocol and etiquette. I knew what was expected each day of Court, when to sit and when to stand, who was of the sword and who was of the robe, who was of the lower order; and I knew each arcane bit of manners for the festivals, feasts, and fêtes.

I was not such a fool to think this was knowledge prized outside the Palais.

I could not depend on Tristan d’Arcenne, that much was certain. He wanted his revenge and a biddable Queen Pretender; I was only a hedgewitch with an accident of royal blood.

The Aryx warmed, hard metal against my skin. I lifted my chin. Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Walk so, and speak thusly, and never forget you are of noble birth. I heard again Comtesse Rochburre’s voice as she taught a gaggle of noble girls how to behave at Court, and imagined I was sweeping in procession down the stairs into the Great Ballroom at Lisele’s side, the train of ladies behind us in their silk and velvet and jewels. After a moment’s thought, I pulled the Aryx from its hiding and settled it against my chest. Let Jierre di Yspres feast his eyes on that , and we would have no more talk of leaving me to the Duc’s mercy.

For by now, you see, I had decided I had little wish to be left so.

I came down the stairs slowly, one at a time, pausing between each as if waiting for the train of a dress to catch pace with me. By the time I was halfway, they noticed me; three steps after they were rising; when I reached the bottom of the stairs they had all removed their feathered hats. I stood on the last step and surveyed the room with the cool haughtiness of a Court lady. My gaze moved unhurried from one man to the next, and most dropped their eyes immediately. The ones that did not looked down after only a few moments.

My looks are nothing special, as the ladies of the Court reminded me so very often. But a good posture and the right expression can make any woman regal.

Of course, my Lisele had called me beautiful, but I always laughed. I knew my place. Had not I been taught it often enough?

“Good morn to you, sieurs .” I addressed them clearly, as if I were administering the beginning of a dance. Tristan d’Arcenne stood by the fireplace, blue eyes bright with something I could not decipher. Relief that I was playing the rôle for his troupe? Perhaps. “I have you to thank for my escape from the Palais, and I hear I have you to thank for the relief of traveling to safety.”

A few of them colored, and Jierre di Yspres, in his place next to Tristan, stiffened — a movement I caught easily at the corner of my gaze.

Good.

There was a slight cough, and one of them — a slight young lad barely past his first shave — stepped forward. He had dark hair and the angular features of a mountain noble. “Tinan di Rocham, Your Majesty.” He clutched his red-feathered hat in both hands. He looked absolutely mortified, but proud at the same time. We were of a size — I am not too tall for a woman, and he was slight and young — and it was his clothes I wore.

“My thanks for the camouflage, chivalier .” Now let us see what comes of it.

His cheeks turned crimson, his hand darted down. His sword whispered from its sheath.