Lilith Saintcrow - The Hedgewitch Queen

The noble bandit was my newfound kin, and he had little reason to lie so grievously to me, unless he hated Tristan d’Arcenne beyond reason.

Or unless there was truth to this tale, of a man who killed a King.

There were too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries conspiring to cloud my Consort, dogging his heels. If Tristan had lied about poison in pettite-cakes, why?

And what other words of his should I mistrust?

“Inside. Come, di Cinfiliet, there’s wine for you. And bandages. The physicker’s been called.” Tristan sounded just the same. Just as he always had.

My heart turned to ice. I could not doubt him, my Consort, my love.

And yet.

I had only his word for what had happened to the King. Divris di Tatancourt could not tell me anything but rumor, which painted Tristan as the blackest of murderers. At least, the official tale spread by the Duc was that Tristan was the King’s killer. Now I wondered just who Tristan truly was a traitor to.

Or was I the traitor for even entertaining the thought?

Proof captured from di Narborre. A poison well to draw from, to be sure. Or proof so damning it could not be denied.

Everything hinged on the remainder of Adrien di Cinfiliet’s tale. I could only wait, and see.

He refused all help from the hedgewitch, took only unwatered wine, and told my Council of the approaching army as he was: bloody, battered, and swaying with exhaustion. I caught a glint in his steely eyes as he did so, which led me to think there were other reasons behind his choosing to appear weakened. Risaine should be proud of him; he was playing his part to perfection.

What other part is he playing, Vianne? Wait, watch. Practice your patience.

Twas agony to keep still and to watch. I sat in the chair at the head of the table, listening through the roaring in my ears, barely aware of what he repeated: an army, some thousands, with a siege train, answering other questions about horse and man, dispositions and colors. The Council took the news well, Perseval d’Arcenne questioning him closely as to exactly where, the manner of their siege engines, how many Adrien and his riders had killed, the speed of the interlopers. How many cavalry, how many infantry, if he had taken any prisoners.

Which, of course, Adrien had not. His hatred would not allow it, for the one who led the army was the Duc’s dog, Garonne di Narborre. A murmur ran through the Council at that tidbit.

I closed my eyes, sank back into the chair. The Aryx shifted, carved scales rasping against silk fouled with horse-lather. I let out a soft sigh. Breath and my usual wit threatened to desert me.

So close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes.

Adrien had little reason to lie so flagrantly, for my protection gave him and his men shelter against di Narborre, as well as a chance to avenge the wrongs done them.

Perhaps he had even suspected, before this. But how? Did any among the Guard know aught, or suspect? How many of the men I had trusted my life to had darker secrets?

He said he possessed proof. If he had killed one of di Narborre’s men, would he have proof of a conspiracy even deeper than I had dreamed?

The argument roiled around me. Voices raised, Lord Siguerre’s cranky whistle, Perseval d’Arcenne’s baritone, Tristan speaking harshly for once. I rubbed at my temples. Marquis di Falterne making a few acerbic remarks, Chivalier d’Anton seeking as usual to smooth the ruffled feathers. He and the Conte di Rivieri I had chosen because they were naturally calm and unruffled, balanced with Conte di Dienjuste’s fiery excitability and Irion di Markui’s rumbling disapproval of everything. On such short notice, and from the border provinces, I seemed to have found a great deal of talent the Court and King Henri’s Council had overlooked.

My skull twinged with pain. Twas not the half-head; yet bad enough. Each time I think this cannot possibly become worse, it becomes so.

From the beginning, Vianne. Adrien di Cinfiliet had little reason to lie to me.

That does not mean something has not been concocted to use his honesty against me. But then again, what proof could he have from di Narborre that he would trust? As much as he may dislike Tristan, he is certain to hate di Narborre more, for di Narborre killed his mother.

My heart was a chunk of lead, senselessly pulsing, though I perhaps would rather have stopped it outright, to save myself the tearing that would result if my Consort had—

“—Your Majesty?” D’Anton, appealing to me.

Brought rudely back to the present moment, I did not answer, massaging my temples. I stank of horsefoam, and a vision of the charred bandit village rose in front of me. The stinksweet of roasted flesh, the charred homes, the small, helpless bodies of children. If I did not find some solution, would the same happen in the clean white stone halls of Arcenne, in the streets below where the people went about their lives, going to market, going to the Temple? And the R’mini, scattered throughout Arquitaine, would suffer as well once the Damarsene were finished with our rebellion and turned to bring the country under their heel once and for all, whither the Duc d’Orlaans willed it or no.

Each of those lives hung on me, both the lost and those needing to be preserved.

I pushed myself to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor. Silence fell.

I opened my eyes, paced to the window. Below, Arcenne lay packed behind its wall, the Keep lifting like a stone ship’s prow. A haze of smoke drifted up from the town and the outlying settlements. Trees clothed in summer leaf swayed gently in the sunshine, mountain wind mouthing the wavery glass. “Dear gods,” I whispered.

On the mountainside, the white blocks of the Temple glistened. I remembered the statue of Jiserah, glowing with a radiance far beyond starlight or moonlight. The mysterious priestess of Kimyan, with her piercing gray eyes; and the Aryx ringing as if it would burst, power running through its straining serpents.

The gods were watching, perhaps. But theirs was not help I could do aught but beg, and I was a beggar in so much else. I had nothing to trade save the Aryx, and it belonged to them in any event. No, there was no help from that quarter.

And Tristan…

I was alone, as surely as I had ever been at Court, even among the whirl and glitter. Loneliness in disaster is the fate of every man or woman, though, and it does little good to bemoan it.

“Your Highness?” Perseval d’Arcenne. “We await you.”

And you will have to await me a few moments longer, Minister Primus. I touched the glass. Ran my fingertips over its rippling surface. I cannot do this. I cannot . I do not know why the Aryx has chosen me, but tis wrong. I cannot order more death, I cannot be responsible for this. A war on the other side of winter I thought I could avert, or at least it would give me enough time to find a solution. But a war here and now, and the Damarsene on Arquitaine soil?

Blessed preserve us all. How much more prayer would I indulge in before I ceased to think of myself as irreligious?

“ D’mselle ?” Baron d’Arcenne’s voice held irritation, and the snap of command. “If you would be so good as to—”

“Enough, Perseval.” My tone could have shattered the window. “When I wish for you to speak to me as if I am your lackey, I will inform you of the event. Until that time, be more careful of your manner. Tristan?”