Lilith Saintcrow: The Hedgewitch Queen

I lowered myself from my tiptoes and faced him. The torches hissed.

His hand fell away from the hilt. “Your eyes are dark again, m’chri .”

I shrugged, my shoulders moving under silk. Oh, Tristan. I do not know what to do.

He peeled himself away from the wall, approached me slowly. Cupped my face in his hands, his gaze moving slowly over my cheeks, my mouth, resting on my eyes. “I have done many things for the throne of Arquitaine,” he murmured. “I have acted as Henri’s Left Hand; I have done things you cannot imagine. For all your sharp mind and political acumen, you are still the same very sweet young girl who let a Princesse win at riddlesharp and could not believe a man would court her by leaving books. I have betrayed and lied where I had to, and done things no honorable man would stoop to.”

You are still my only defense, m’cher. “I care little what you did for the King, Tristan. I care what you do now .”

Oddly enough, my reassurance seemed to wound him. His mouth pulled down sourly. “Very well, Vianne. Gods grant me strength to be worthy of you.”

There seemed nothing I could say. Instead, I leaned forward, his hands slid down and pulled me in. I rested against him in the torchlit dimness of the donjons, breathing him in, and for a moment felt the heavy weight of what I had promised when I took the Aryx from Lisele’s fingers slip from me for a moment. “I do not care what you did,” I whispered into his shoulder.

Did I imagine his flinch? In any case, Jespre di Vidancourt soon arrived, and it was time to move to the next task. But that conversation made me uneasy, though I did not know quite why.

Four weeks later, the storm broke.

I was uneasy that morning; there were dispatches to be sorted through. Perseval d’Arcenne had observed a frosty courtesy toward me since the affair of the Pruzians that might have managed to hurt my feelings had I not been occupied with a greater mystery: that of missing dispatches. Normally I would have simply waited for the vagaries of man and horse to bring them to me a day or two late, but they were all from the road to Ivrielle, and that meant the road out of the province and to the Citté.

Adrien di Cinfiliet was late as well. I could not help imagining the worst, until something even worse than the worst occurred to me — whenever I had time to think. Hard on its heels would come another terrible thought, and I sometimes laughed at my own imaginings.

Then I would sober, as the cycle of imagining began afresh.

Mornlight came warm and clear; wind snapping the pennants from the towers that day. I had breakfast in the library while I dictated diplomatic responses to Navarrin and messages to Arquitaine cities and provinces. It seemed no few had declared for me, a fact heartening and terrifying at the same time. More lives to depend on my wit, and me frantically trying to think of a way to reach a resolution with d’Orlaans that did not require bloodshed.

None seemed possible, especially in light of two assassination attempts.

Something else bothered me, too. I understood d’Orlaans wished me alive if he was to legitimize his reign and get heirs upon a noblewoman whose House would not rise against him in revolt. My House was all but extinct unless I produced an Heir, for my mother was dead and there were no other branches of Rocancheil or the ruling of Vintmorecy.

If I met with some misfortune, the Aryx would be forced to choose another holder, and mayhap the Duc thought he had extinguished all but him and me? It was an indication that he did not know of Adrien’s existence, which was heartening.

Still, the fact that assassins were sent to fetch me was not guaranteed to ease my heart. True, I was only to be brought , not dispatched immediately. But that could only mean the Duc wished the pleasure of strangling me himself. He had to suspect by now that I was not amenable to his plans.

Tristan’s behavior made me uneasy, too. He seemed on edge, waiting for a fresh disaster, though he was unfailingly gentle with me; especially at night as we lay together in his bed. He held me as if he expected me to vanish did he not keep a tight enough grasp; and if he was desperate in his use of me I was just as desperate in my use of him. What I learned of love in those days has remained with me ever after as a lesson in anguish, how two people can sense an approaching disaster and use each other’s bodies as a shield against questions growing more and more pointed.

The half-head visited me once that month; I lost half a day lying abed and weeping with agony as my skull sought to rive itself to pieces. Tristan did not leave my side, holding my hand so tightly both our fingers were bruised. He whispered a Court sorcery that plunged the room into blackness, for any stray gleam of light during the half-head is more agonizing than the worst battle-wound. Gods, he whispered after the pain had left and I lay limp and too exhausted to do aught but breathe. If I could take the pain from you, Vianne, I would. I would suffer it twice for your sake.

Thank you for the darkness, I had replied, before losing consciousness.

It was not until later that I wondered why he knew such a charm. At the time, I was simply grateful. And there were other more pressing concerns. For Navarrin was hanging back, waiting to see whether the Duc or I would finish the course. Haviroen and Badeau were pleasant but noncommittal; Tiberia was more than willing to open diplomatic relations if I agreed to trade concessions once I was firmly in power — the same concessions they were perhaps pressuring d’Orlaans for, banking their coin securely on either horse. Sirisse, girdled in their mountains, cared little, for their god sleeps but holds their tall sharp borders inviolate. Scythandra would be no help, and the Principalities of Damar-Hesse and Sea-Countries besides, both nervous of Damar on their borders, played for time.

From the Damarsene, only a chill silence. Truth be told, I did not send them a missive. If they demanded tribute from d’Orlaans and I as both styled rulers of Arquitaine, I was ill-prepared to pay, promise, or insult them in such a way that they would not hold me to account for it later.

Yet it was the missing dispatches that worried me most. So when I heard the faroff shouts and clatter in the bailey, I thought little of it except to frown and go back to the paperwork awaiting me, thinking it only a rider come with late news, who would be ushered into my presence soon enough. Tristan had gone to confer with his father about guard rosters and some points of trade with Navarrin that I wished counsel on.

So I was alone in the study — except for two of the Citadel Guard at the door — when Adersahl burst in, flushed and breathless.

I leapt to my feet, paper falling in a drift to the floor. Adersahl skidded to a stop. His bootheels all but struck sparks. “Tis di Cinfiliet,” he gasped. “Bloody and missing half his men. Come quickly!”

I wasted no time with silly questions but bolted for the door; he whirled on his heel and ran before me, trusting me to follow.

Through the corridors of Arcenne we ran, and a stitch clawed at my side under pale-blue silk. I had to pick up my skirts, cursing them for once. We took a staircase headlong, I almost tripped and had to clutch at Adersahl’s shoulder when we reached the gallery. So it was I arrived in the bailey amid a confusion of horses and shouts, me clasping Adersahl’s arm and ducking under stray hooves as a bay reared. Adersahl cursed, I swallowed a burst of language most unfit for a lady, and the stocky Guard pushed me back.

“Vianne!” A familiar voice, throat-cut hoarse with shouting. “Vianne!”