The Hedgewitch Queen

Chapter Twenty-One

When dawn broke I wandered from house to house, wondering how I would bury them all. The ground was full of tree roots, and I searched, and I searched, but I could not find aught even resembling a shovel. By midmorn I was hungry, and far more terrified than I thought possible. I had not realized how much I depended on Tristan to tell me go here, or do thus. Even at Court, I was at the mercy of Lisele’s schedule and the stifling etiquette, the propriety, the iron strictures of what could and could not be done.

Think, I scolded myself. Think, you brainless ninny! Think!

I stood at Risaine’s shattered house — I always seemed to return to her door — and hugged myself, cupping my elbows in my hands. There was not a single thing living in the bandit village. Deep hoofprints scored the earth, but I had no skill at reading or tracking such things.

Where is Adersahl? I had not seen him among the dead.

I shivered. Di Narborre’s orders were to capture, not kill me — or were they? What could have spurred him to level this hidden village? Or was it someone else, some other enemy?

Faint hope of that, Vianne. This is your doing, as surely as if you had ridden and slain with your own hands. The blood is on you, it will not wash away.

It will never wash away.

I took the dagger Adersahl had left me, and a square of smoke-darkened cloth pulled from a drying line and trampled into the ground. I wrapped the dagger in the cloth and tied it to my belt, then paused, staring at the wreck of the village.

“Forgive me,” I pleaded, my voice thin in the morning birdsong and the soughing of wind brushing treetops with a velvet glove. “I would bury you decently, as you deserve, but I can find no shovel, and I must reach Arcenne. I cannot brave the path to Navarrin, and must take my chances.”

I waited, but of course no answer came. I judged which way south stood by the moss on the trees and the slant of sunlight — being a hedgewitch was good for something; my heart twisted to think of Risaine — and struck out for the southron edge of the village. This took me through a haze of smoke, and before I realized it I was running, tripping over scattered, broken things and dodging through arrows stuck in the earth. I did not stop my flight until I plunged into the trees, hot salt water streaking my face again, though I had thought I had no more tears left.

I walked steadily through the day, aiming south as best I could, occasionally coming across a berry bush not yet in season. There were wild herbs one could eat, and I had a handful of cressten from a stream and two pom d’tirre I ate raw after washing them. I wished for a fire, or a cup of chai, or a bath. I had no skin to carry water — nothing but the knife, and the Aryx.

There was some small hedgewitchery I could use for survival. Court sorcery would make me the quarry in a hunt I did not have the skill to escape, and I shuddered to think of the doors of the Aryx opening inside my head, swallowing me whole.

And no Tristan to call me back from that golden flood.

I did not have a horse — nor would I have known what to do with one. My horses had always been saddled for me at Court, and riding with Tristan had not taught me to do such things. Yet one more thing I should have learned and had not.

My list of such regrets grew long by the time afternoon sent golden spears through the treetops.

I found another small brook and drank, washed some of the soot from my stinging face and blackened hands. I scrubbed with a handful of soapweed plucked from the bank, and felt much better even if my clothes still stank of fire and carnage. Still, I spent a long time laving my hands, seeking to wash the feel of slippery hot crimson from my fingers.

It did not leave me, but my hands grew too raw to continue.

As night fell I was well and truly lost, simply striking south for as long as the light lasted and stopping by the shelter of a tam tree. I built a small circle of stones and gathered what deadfall I could, deciding it was better to have a fire than to risk freezing to death — or being struck with fever in the middle of the Shirlstrienne.

The hedgewitch charm to light a fire produced a small flame I coaxed into life with handfuls of pinon needles. I soon had a small but respectable blaze crackling merrily away, and the smell of it — clean, without the reek of burning human flesh — was enough to bring fresh tears to my eyes.

I could not find a comfortable space to lie on, and it was cold and damp, yet I did manage to catch broken snatches of sleep, waking to put more of my small supply of wood on the fire.

I have spent many sleepless nights since, but that was one of the worst. I started nervously, bolt-upright, when an owl’s soft cry echoed in the darkness. Every slight sound I heard made me think of stalking men with bright swords, coming to make certain.

After the owl, I huddled with my knees drawn up, staring into the fire and thinking on Tristan. I would have given the Aryx to d’Orlaans without demur and wished him joy of it, if he could have produced my Captain from the darkness.

When false dawn began to paint the trees with cold gray, I doused the fire and was on my way, nerve-racked, stiff, and chilled clear through. The chill faded slightly as I walked south, again judging by the moss on the trees. There were hedgewitch charms for marking a path in the forest, but I could recall little of them.

And I did not wish my trail marked.

About midmorning, I began to see how silence and solitude could be, as Diodiorin of Scythandra stated, a balm for a troubled soul — or, as Euphorin of Thebim argued, could drive a person mad. I did not have to worry about assuming a pleasing expression or keeping my thoughts from showing, or about the length of my dress and the cut of my bodice, as I would have at Court. I did not have to worry for the Aryx or the safety of a few men mad enough to swear service to me. I had nothing to worry for but my bare survival, which was chancy enough.

Yet solitude also means nothing to distract the mind from chewing at problems as a dog will at a bone.

Where was Tristan? Who had razed the village? How did I think I could reach Arcenne without a horse or even a waterskin? Had the Guard been slain in a pitched battle and di Narborre’s troops come to level the place daring to shelter them? That seemed most likely. But then, where was Risaine — and Adersahl? I had not seen either of them among the…

Say it, Vianne. The dead. You did not see them among the dead.

I was bone-weary and stumbling by afternoon, impelled forward more by will than by any real desire to continue. I stopped under a pinon tree and slid down to sit between two great roots, leaning against the rough trunk. I closed my eyes for what felt a mere moment, and when I opened them again the purple of dusk filtered through the trees, and I was thirsty.

There was no water nearby, but — thank the gods — there was a hollisa bush. A handful of the tart, not-quite-ripe berries cut the edge of my thirsty hunger, and I cast about for deadwood to use as fuel.

I found very little, but I dragged what I could to the pinon tree and spent a few moments making a fire. Thanks to Risiane’s tender care I did not feel fevered, though my eyes watered fiercely and my strength ran away like water.

The Aryx pulsed against my chest, and of a sudden, as I was feeding fallen wood to the small hedge-charmed blaze, I was startled into thin, unhealthy laughter.

The Great Seal of Arquitaine, awake and active, the source of all Court sorcery by the grace of the Blessed — and I dared not use it. Oh yes, a fine Queen, standing idly by while a whole village of children, women, and old men were assassinated. I was even powerless to give them a decent burial.

All the royalty in the world is worth naught in the face of catastrophe.

My merriment sounded strange as it rose sharp and mocking, echoing through the trees. I laughed until I feared the sound of it, clutching the trunk of the pinon tree, my eyes streaming, my braid torn free and mussed, covered in soot.

You are mad, Vianne. Mad.

Mad I might be, alive I was still. But for how long?

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next day I found such luck I could hardly credit it. Just past the brightest part of afternoon, I found a meadow and six goats.

It may not seem much of an event, but it froze me in place, stock-still and blinking, wary of leaving the shelter of the trees. The meadow lay dappled with sunshine, spring flowers carpeting its knee-high grass, and I heard the tinkle of a bell before the flock came into sight, driven by a dark-eyed boy in rough homespun with a long hazel switch he used to prod the wiry-haired creatures into motion.

I stared as if seeing a Court spectacular, then hastily made certain the Aryx was pushed below Tinan di Rocham’s shirt. He would not like the condition tis in now.

I stared at the small peasant boy with his mop of gingery-dark hair and coppery skin.

Where there was a young boy and a flock of goats, there had to be a steading nearby — or another bandit village? Perhaps. I had little choice.

I waited for the boy to notice me, but he did not. He merely prodded the goats about and then, satisfied, flung himself down on a small rise in the high grass. One of the goats wore a collar with a tiny bell, the source of a merry tinkling.

I had just relieved myself behind a tam tree, so I was relatively comfortable, if still hungry. I watched as the boy appeared to fall into a deep slumber in the sunlight. I stayed in the shade, watching as the flock browsed its well-mannered way through the meadow. The boy seemed supremely unconcerned.

Now I was to solve the problem of how to approach him.

I cleared my throat with a small mannerly noise, moving out from the shelter of the darker trees. The boy did not stir. I forged ahead, fighting the urge to plunge back into the forest. Who would have thought the Shirlstrienne so full of people? Or am I in the Alpeis now?

I reached what I judged was a safe distance from the boy and cleared my throat again.

Nothing. He appeared asleep.

I tried it again, and then managed to speak. “Sieur?”

The boy’s dark eyes drifted open.

For a moment we remained so, one battered noblewoman in men’s clothing and one small dark-skinned goatherd boy.

“Cor,” the boy said finally, “you doan look li’ no demieri di sorce.”

A wild braying laugh nearly choked me. If he thought me mad he might hesitate to render aid. “That is because I am not one. Please, can you tell me, is there a steading or a town nearby?”

I do not know whether to call it chance or luck that I met Avier in that meadow. I do know he took a great risk in bringing me to his family’s wagons.

Avier’s people were R’mini, traveling tinkers and hedgewitches famed for their red-brown hair and their skill in mending, be it pots and pans or wheels and cogs. The R’mini have traveled through Etharial, from Far Rus to Arquitaine to Tiberia, and mayhap even as far as Tifrimat, since anyone can remember. With their bright-painted wagons and large, patient horses or sleek oxen, they were a welcome sight in the depth of winter when amusement was hard to come by — though there are those who accuse them of bringing disease and ill-luck in their train wherever they roam.

I do not know why d’Arquitaines fear a wandering people so much. Mayhap because the Angoulême and his Companions had wandered before finding a home, and we fear to travel again. Who can guess?

I was brought to their headman, Avier’s uncle, after the women had finished poking and prodding at me. Adersahl’s dagger I surrendered to them with no demur. After all, I thought it unlikely they were loyal to d’Orlaans. And I could hardly blame them — I would have taken away my dagger, too.

Avier’s uncle Tozmil sat on a small, decorated wooden stool by the fire. His wife, a lean dark woman dressed in the bright reds and golds R’mini women favoured, gilt coins dripping from her cap of bright meshwork, leaned against him. His daughters whispered and pointed from behind their mother, and the rest of the R’mini pressed close.

“Who are you?” Tozmil asked, after making a number of odd gestures. I did not know whether to laugh or weep. I found later his armwaving and finger-jabbing was meant to make me vanish in a puff of smoke if I was demieri di sorce.

The R’mini are cautious of such things.

“My name is Vianne.” I had decided prudence was best. “I have become separated from my traveling companions. I must reach Arcenne, in the mountains, good sieur, and I—”

“You stink of smoke,” he interrupted briskly. “Are you banditti?”

I did not have to feign the start that gave me. “No, of course not.” I sounded indignant. I wished suddenly for Tristan, or Risaine, or anyone. At least with my Captain I had some chance at guessing what he would do with me. “If you cannot help me, I will go on my way. I will not be the cause of trouble to you or your wagons, sieur Tozmil.”

Tozmil’s dark eyes sparkled. I did not know it then, but twas exactly the right thing to say. R’mini are often shunned and driven out of towns, and they sometimes feel a kinship with others similarly hounded. Yet for all that, they have a fierce pride, and those who come to them humbly are not oft well-received. “And how will you reach Arzjhen alone, V’na?” His accent mangled both my name and the name of the town. “You have no water, no wagon, no horse. Bad luck.”

If you only knew how much luck I have had, both good and ill. I dug in my pocket while his eyes narrowed, and fished out my emerald ear-drops. “I have means to pay for passage.” I opened my hand to show the glitter of gems. “These are all I have left of my life, sieur Tozmil. If you will help me reach Arcenne I will gift you these, and there may well be other reward as well.”

He examined my face, and his wife leaned down to whisper in his ear. He nodded, slowly. Then his gaze left me and traveled in a slow arc over the rest of his troupe — perhaps thirty people, young and old. There were several children.

I tried not to think on it.

The silence stretched. I sought to keep my hand from trembling.

“Very well,” Tozmil said. “Keep your gauds, we don’ steal from th’ poor. But you travel with us, you travel as R’mini, and you wear a woman’s skirts. We’ll have no g’ji g’jai in our wagons.”

I nodded wearily, feeling filthy and very, very tired. “I could not agree more, sieur. If I could have been wearing skirts this past month, I would have much preferred it.”

He stared at me for another long moment, then his wife laughed, tossing her head back. It was the high-pitched giggle that R’mini women use among themselves, a sign of cameraderie, though I did not yet know it.

At the sound of the women’s laughter, it was as if I had passed some manner of test, for Tozmil clapped his hands and his daughters came forward, laughing and tossing liquid streams of their strange language back and forth, drawing me away. I tried to press my ear-drops on them, but they refused, shaking their heads. They exclaimed over my hair and my strange skin, so different from theirs, and I was at that moment made a lowly member of R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They thought me slow and stupid until they found I was simply unused to the work of going from place to place in their wagons. I did all they asked of me with good grace, whether it was scrubbing dishes and pots with soapsand or learning to wash clothes in streams. I was grateful for the chance to sleep among people, and further grateful that they asked no questions once Tozmil accepted me as a traveling member.

Very soon they found I was a hedgewitch, so I was set to helping Tozmil’s wife, Jaryana, the physicker of the troupe. The R’mini have their own form of hedgewitchery, and set I myself to learning as we traveled through the Shirlstrienne and the Alpeis, following a path I doubt I would ever be able to find again. The R’mini have their own secret highways and signs, even in the dark tangle of the haunted Alpeis, and the g’ji—as they call us — are hard-pressed to travel them without R’mini guides.

I have studied hedgewitchery most of my life, but I daresay I learned more in two months of travel with Jaryana than I had from all my books and even Drumiera’s careful tutelage. Jaryana was a fierce teacher, given to sting-slapping my hand if I looked about to add the wrong herb to a tisane or paste, but she was kind in her own way. It had been her voice tipping the balance toward allowing to me travel with them, and her eagle eye was the reason I did not fall prey to a forced wedding with one of the R’mini men. They have a custom among them — does an unmarried man want a girl past menarche, if he can force or persuade her to stay a night in his wagon he can claim her as a bride. I slept in Tozmil’s wagon or by his fire, and more than once Jaryana’s sharp tongue drove a R’mini man away from where I worked.

I did my best not to notice.

Avier was often away with his goats, but he seemed fascinated by my strangeness and would follow me about after he brought the herd back from their grazing. More than once someone mocked him for it, but he made proud answer, as if he had found an exotic pet in the forest and could not stay away.

They did not ask me about the Aryx, though they all must have caught glimpses of it. Indeed, I wondered what I could have said. The longer we traveled, the closer to towns we drew, and the more nervous I became. They guessed, in their quick way, that I was likely hunted, and a danger to them.

The R’mini wandered through the Alpeis for the last of the spring and the beginning of summer, the men hunting, the women gathering herbs, spring roots, and other things. I had no say in our route, and they saw no reason to hurry me to Arcenne. Many herbs and other valuable things are found by the R’mini in the forests and wild places, and their wandering is often along a route that would fair drive anyone direct-minded to distraction. I do not know if they sought to shake pursuit, or if they simply disdained to hurry, since anyone looking for one lone woman could certainly not be bothered to spend so long on our twisting trail. More than once I tried to tell Jaryana there might be some danger in harboring me, but she gave the notion short shrift.

The guest is sacred, she sniffed, each time. We hold to the Law.

Their Law is strict in some ways, lax in others. A woman’s virtue is guarded with a vengeance, since their inheritance passes through the male line instead of through the mother as Arquitaine deems right and proper. For all that, R’mini women have sharp tongues and a fierce spirit. No few of them carry short curving daggers, and hedgewitchery runs deep in them. Their Law does not give a woman lee to speak to strangers, but if she kills during a bloodfeud or to avenge her honor she is not seen as criminal. She may divorce a man by locking a wagon’s doors, but then she will have to bargain for horses or oxen to pull said wagon — for the man is entitled to take those. Unless other women judge her sloughing of a Consort as warranted, and grant the use of other beasts, she may be abandoned, or forced to make her way with another jan, as their traveling family-groups are called.

They exercise their peculiar sorcery constantly, even the youngest of them, and it shows. They are skilled with horses and metal, and they carry news and goods from town to town. They are dour with strangers, though they chatter constantly among themselves and have a song for every event, it seems. Some travel into Damar, past Polia and Pruzia, as far as Rus, even. I have heard tell some tread roads that lead them to Torkai or Tifrimat, past the dragons that guard the edge of the world. Some even take ship and brave the Girdle off Arquitaine’s north coast, seeking a way past the howling storms and into the fabled Westron Isles.

But that I have not seen for myself, yet.

We finally slipped free of the Alpeis and emerged on the south-and-eastron edge of the Shirlstrienne, looking down at the Siguerre Road from a high bluff. It was strange to feel the wagon wheels rolling on paving stones, and even stranger to be perched in the back of a R’mini wagon drawing step by slow step closer to Arcenne through civilized country.

If I had not had so much work to do, I might have fretted myself into impatient exhaustion. As it was, I was kept busy from morn to nightfall, and oft ate my supper silently among the laughing, catcalling R’mini. After eating, they would often sing and drink their fiery rhuma liquor, and sometimes the unmarried girls would dance. There were courtship dances too, and dances that told stories. It reminded me of Court — there were rules of behavior, and one had to keep one’s eyes and ears open. I merely watched from the shadows, wrapped in one of Jaryana’s old black shawls, my hair braided in two loops over my ears and a third braid down my back as the R’mini women do. I wore none of their thin, fluted gold jewelry, and felt like a gosling among the swanlike grace of the R’mini girls. Their skirts reached only their ankles, but since they are generally taller than I, mine draggled. I wore my garden-boots instead of supple R’mini sandals, a loose much-embroidered blouse, and a tight red sash wound several times around my waist.

It was obvious I was none of theirs, but I took pains not to remind them.

Jaryana often sat close as I watched the women dance, and asked me a question or two. I found myself telling her more than I intended, sometimes by my silences and sometimes by the way I chose to answer a seemingly-innocent query. She knew I was a g’ji noblewoman, and she knew as well that I thought often of a man.

She also knew of my nightmares.

The R’mini never remarked on the fact that I often woke sweating and terrified, shaking and unsure if I had cried out. I dreamed of Lisele, and of Tristan lying broken and bloody on the Shirlstrienne floor. I dreamed of the bandit village, of wandering from burning house to burning house, the bodies crumpled on the ground. I dreamed of blood on my hands, of sickish, rotting stench, of the clash of metal and the armored slippery backs of eels. Jaryana oft mixed me a sleeping-draught, but even the strongest potions of R’mini hedgewitchery were no match for my dreams.

The first night on the Siguerre Road, the R’mini camped in a sloping meadow on the other side of the wall of the Shirlstrienne, and I was eating my supper quietly and alone. I usually sat on the tail-step of Tozmil’s wagon, watching the rest as they gathered about their communal fire.

Jaryana stood. At first I thought she was merely fetching herself a dipperful of water, but I soon realized she approached me.

She came to a stop before me and held out her hand. I set my bowl down beside me and stood, brushing off my skirts, waiting for her to tell me what was required.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly. “You eat with us, V’na.”

I obeyed without demur, wondering at this. Nobody spoke as I settled down between Jaryana and her oldest daughter, Mauryana. Vrejmil, Tozmil’s brother, handed me a piece of bread. “Aye,” he said. “Na’ mun bad for a g’ji, V’na.”

Faint praise. Yet it warmed me. “My thanks,” I answered, with good grace and no little relief. It does hearten one, to be counted worthy of one’s fellows.

That eased them, and they went back to chattering among themselves. I listened, having spent enough time to pick up most of their conversation, though I could only speak R’mini in a broken, halting child’s way.

Sometimes tis the Palais that seems a dream, and this my real life. Would that it were.

Here I was useful, if strange. I was accustomed to being taunted and teased, though the R’mini taunted merely for amusement and not for cruelty. There was a peacefulness to the moving wagons and the communal dinners, a sense of something I had never known but sorely missed.

I finished my stew and my bread, and took a long draught of water, letting the sound of their voices wash over me. A manner of peace held here, and I welcomed it.

Jaryana touched my elbow. “A few days to Arzjhen. And towns, past here. You hide in wagon until we pass the city gate. Where in Arzjhen do you go?”

I had not even considered the question. The Aryx was quiescent and warm under my R’mini garb. I cast back through memory, found Tristan’s voice in my ear during my fever. That gave me the clue I needed.

“I suppose simply to the Citadel. I think Tri—” I stopped myself just in time. “My…ah, a father of a friend,” I continued lamely, “he lives there, and will give me shelter. I hope.”

Her face did not change. “To the g’ji lord’s house, then.” She took a bite of their sour, dense flatbread and chewed with an air of deep reflection. “If he doesna take you in, you’re a fair hand with dromonde. I would have y’travel with us, ah?”

My jaw threatened to drop. I could not place you in more danger. “Oh.” My gaze darted away across the fire and found Avier between his uncle and his mother, chattering brightly in R’mini and petted like the cherished child he was. “My thanks, m’dama. My thanks. I…if he does not take me in, I would be honored.” It would be a poor way to repay you for your kindness, to bring you such trouble as hunts me.

An entirely new thought struck me. If I managed to somehow give up the Aryx to Tristan’s father, would I possibly, perhaps…be free?

Indeed it was a harsh life, traveling in wagons, backsore and moving from town to town. I was certain the R’mini were not welcome everywhere. Yet they had taken in a starving stranger, sheltered me, and now were offering me a place among them. Kindness once again extended to me, and I hoped I would not repay them with the vileness that dogged my steps.

If I could somehow loose myself of the Aryx, twould be a fine place for a noblewoman to hide. Who would believe a Court lady scrubbing pots in the wilds?

My heart fell inside my chest as Avier ducked his tousled head away from his mother’s petting fingers. Tozmil laughed heartily, and one of the women crooned to the baby at her breast. There was more talk, more laughter, and I could not stay with them any longer than I absolutely had to.

Even though I would have wished it, with all that remained of me now.

“Think on it,” Jaryana said. “Y’ be a fair student.”

It was worth more than all the Aryxs in the world, that one grudging admission. For though Jaryana was a harsh teacher, she would not give her approval unless twere true.

“My thanks,” I repeated, and no more was said of the matter. My heart had turned to lead.

That night, after helping to scrub the dishes, I sat for a long while watching the unmarried women dance. One of them, Azyara, tossed her braid back and pulled her sweetheart from the watching men to the accompaniment of many loud calls and clicking tongues. They danced to the music — Zisiyara singing, Tozmil and Vrajmil playing viols, Cesarmil drumming, Aliyara playing a gittern, and Mauryana shaking a tambour. The music was far from the well-mannered waltzing of the Court, even the fast-paced maying dances. I liked its melodies, its quickness, and its bright, supple shiftings. I smiled, watching Azyara dance with the R’mini boy. It was lively tune, played with a happiness Court musicians often lack.

“Thinking on your man?” Jaryana asked from my side.

I gave a guilty start, because Tristan’s face rarely left my mind. I had no time to miss him, yet it seemed missing him was all I did. “How did you know?”

“You have th’ look. Sadness, and listening.”

I found myself smiling, through the bitterness. “He would enjoy this, I think.” I could perhaps even persuade him to dance. That would be a sight.

She nodded. Her braids swung forward. “Lucky man. For a g’ji.”

The weight inside me lightened. When I made my bed that night inside Tozmil and Jaryana’s wagon, I thought of Tristan before I settled, pillowing my head on my arm.

For once, I had no nightmares.

Chapter Twenty-Four

They never asked me why I had been wandering the Shirlstrienne, and they never asked what I was hiding. Yet for the five days it took us to reach Arcenne on the Siguerre Road, I found myself in the wagon instead of walking outside, given bits of make-work to do when we stopped for the night, and kept in the camp. Normally R’mini settle on the outskirts of towns, but the R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan stopped their wagons a fair distance away. I noticed also they did not welcome strangers or the curious to their fires, but closed around me, keeping me from unfriendly eyes.

Golden late-afternoon glow spilled through slim, carved wagon windows as we approached the walls of Arcenne, and the troupe ground to a halt at the city’s Gate. I heard the sound of a deep male voice, questioning in Arquitaine. I had been among the R’mini long enough that the sound of my native tongue was strange.

Tozmil answered, a high, jolly tone. He would speak for all of us, and among the jan his decisions were final. He was, however, elected every three years. If the jan did not like his methods, another would take his place at the next Gathering.

That was something to think of seeing — the jans coming together, the young courting and the great dances where every R’mini from every corner of Etharial who could make it to their secret fastness participated…yes, I would give much to see that.

But I was g’ji.

I heard something about plague. My heart flipped inside my chest. I was alone in the wagon — the rest of the women walked outside.

A long, nerve-racking pause made my heart thunder. I wrapped Jaryana’s old shawl about my head, hoping it would hide my paleness, and the fact that I was not R’mini.

One of the women — I thought it was Mauryana — sang quietly, a R’mini ballad of the open road. There was a breath of magic to the song, the R’mini’s particular hedgewitchery. Twas dangerous, for if they were caught magicking the guards there would be dire consequence.

I closed my eyes. The Seal pulsed quietly against my breastbone. Please, I prayed. Let me in. This is where Lisele wished me to go.

Is Tristan here? I cannot hope. A hot flush scalded me. I found myself unbreathing, frozen, trembling in the wagon like a small animal in its burrow.

The Arquitaine man said something that must have been an affirmative, for the wagon jerked forward. I did not breathe until I was sure we were inside Arcenne’s high girdling walls. The sounds of a city pressed around me. Horses, bellowing oxen, wheels grinding, people singing, laughing, speaking. The Aryx turned to muted song against my chest.

Tis awake and stronger. What does that mean?

So I entered Arcenne in the back of a R’mini wagon like a thief, with the Aryx singing no less loudly than my heart.

Close to nightfall I found myself in the walled portion of the city housing the Citadel of Arcenne, at a fire with the R’mini. They were allowed to camp in an abandoned district, their wagons between a few boarded-up houses, the ground littered with refuse. For all that, they were cheerful as they went about setting their wagons in a circle and kindling their fires, just as if we were still in the Alpeis’s green cavernous depths. It was a comforting sameness.

My throat closed as I contemplated the stew in my bowl, staring as if I could see the future there.

Jaryana patted my arm and told me to eat. “Take you to the g’ji lord’s house. After.”

I nodded, my heart knocking anew at my ribs. What I would do when I reached the Citadel, I had no idea. I knew little of Tristan’s father, only that Lisele had judged Arcenne loyal. “Jaryana?” I held my bowl in both hands.

She raised her eyebrows slightly, her coppery face splitting into a very white smile.

“Thank you.” I smiled back. Twas impossible not to.

“Is he tha? Your man?”

I shrugged. “I do not know. He might be dead.” I was surprised I could speak the words so steadily.

“I think not.” She handed me another piece of the flat, sour bread the R’mini favour. “Here. Hav’more.”

There was but one gate into the Citadel, and it was closed and barred with iron. However, there was a smaller postern around the corner, with a man standing guard. He wore the uniform of Arcenne, a crimson doublet over white shirt and black trousers, the doublet blazoned with the black Arcenne mountain-pard clawing at the left shoulder over two broken arrows. The guard paced in front of the postern and retreated to an alcove, melting into shadow. He had repeated this operation twice so far.

The R’mini women gathered about me, whispering. There was some argument over who would accompany me.

I pressed the emerald ear-drops into Jaryana’s palm. “I shall proceed alone. Do not be caught here; go back to the camp.”

She gave me an arch look. “Your dress R’mini. Na’ worry. We can vanish. Here.” She pressed something cool into my hand as well. “Take this. Show to R’mini, we help you.” She leaned forward, her hand brushing my hip, kissed my cheek, then pushed me gently by my shoulders. “Go find him, V’na.”

I do not wish to find anyone. I merely wish to loose myself of the weight of duty. Oh, how I wish I could. “Thank you,” I said in my halting R’mini. “Gods smile upon you.” For their gods are not ours, and they do not speak of them to g’ji. “Thank you so much.” I could not stop repeating my gratitude.

They whispered together — someone protesting I should not be left to go to the g’ji alone, another hissing to keep their voices “down, idiots!” I drew in a deep breath and stepped out into the street. They went quiet and still, sinking back into shadow.

Good. Gods grant they do not suffer for helping me.

I was praying more and more, despite my Court upbringing. I hoped the Blessed were listening and well disposed. Though I could not make up my mind which was worse — that the Blessed might be taking an active interest in events, so to speak, or that they were ignoring all of us, including the King and his brother who had brought us to this pass.

My worn bootheels clicked across the paving. I slipped whatever Jaryana had given me into my skirt-pocket, a chill touching my spine as I thought of Lisele gifting me as she died. The guard at the postern had surely noticed me, a lone woman out past dark. I forded the street, deserted except for shadows. A few torches burned on the walls, their flames hissing with blue-sparking Court sorcery against the wind.

The Citadel was a massive chunk of rock, five castellated towers with arrow-slits, an outer wall with the buildings of the city squeezing up to it. Here in Arcenne there were none of the Citté’s graceful fictions — no, here the Citadel was a fortress, the lord’s castle, meant to withstand attack if the other walls were breached.

The Baron d’Arcenne’s seat of power, too, the ancestral hold of Arcenne. Had Tristan grown up in this stone block? Had he looked up at these towers before he left for Court?

I did not know, and the lack of knowledge obliquely pained me.

I was across the street before I knew it, Jaryana’s old shawl slipping down my shoulders, my run-down boots clicking on the white stone Arcenne was famous for.

“Halt!” The guard sounded very young. I caught a glint — perhaps an arrowhead throwing back a stray gleam of torchlight, or a sword’s point, aching to cleave unprotected flesh.

I stopped, my head held high. The Aryx sang below my heartbeat, power sparkling in my blood. “Sieur,” I said, calmly enough. “Is this Arcenne?” I meant to inquire if Arcenne was still loyal, stopped myself just in time.

“Well…yes.” He sounded far too young, and far too nervous. I prayed he would not grow so nervous he arrowed me on the step.

“I must see the Baron d’Arcenne. Tis passing urgent.”

There was a hurried whisper. I could not see with whom he conversed, the shadows were too deep and the torches too few. Was there more than one guard? “The Baron has retired for the evening,” the young voice said.

“Wake him. Tis dire, and I am passing desperate.”

“Give me a name to take to the Lieutenant of the Guard, and he shall judge,” another voice came, older and steely. “Who are you, to disturb the Baron thus?”

Well, what do I have to lose? I had to swallow a laugh. “I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I bear a message from the murdered Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimesten to your lord, the Baron d’Arcenne.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

It took nearly an hour before I was brought to the Baron, and my nerves were worn past fraying. I had been up since before dawn and ridden in the wagon all day — and been fretting myself dry to boot. They searched me for weaponry and found nothing, since Adersahl’s dagger was still with the R’mini. Yet the men were kind, even if silent, and I could understand. If Arcenne was loyal, they had to be cautious — and if they were not, they would want to find if I truly was who I claimed, and could not have me bolting at a chance word.

The book-lined study was quite warm because of a roaring fire newly kindled. Leather ease-chairs crouched before the fireplace, a massive desk under a drift of paper and parchment, a tasseled Eastron sling hung on the end of one bookcase, red velvet drapes and a threadbare but priceless crimson Torkaic rug. Glowrock lamps in metal cages shed their soft silvery light, warring with the ruddy fire.

I chose to stand near the open window. Below, the lights of Arcenne glittered; torch, candle, and lamp. I wondered if the R’mini would suffer for helping me. Was Arcenne still loyal? And would the Baron listen to my tale? I could be judged as something other than I was, mayhap, even despite the Aryx—

The door opened, and I whirled, my skirt belling.

It could not possibly be anyone other than Tristan’s father. He had Tristan’s build, his faint sardonic smile, and the likeness was fair to take my breath away. My heart squeezed inside my chest. I swept a Court courtesy, momentarily forgetting that I was dressed as a R’mini.

He was tall and had blue d’Arcenne eyes, his face sharply handsome even if graven. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and his thick dark hair was salted liberally with gray. He carried himself straight, albeit a bit stiffly, and he wore boots and breeches and a white shirt that had been left untucked.

He also carried an unsheathed sword, its bright metal glittering. I tasted bright copper fear, took care to keep my face a mask.

“Who are you?” he demanded, with no preamble or courtesy.

“Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” I thought grimly that I could have introduced myself as V’na di R’mini Tosh Tozmil’hai Jan and perhaps gained a warmer reception. “I bring a message from Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin, lately slain by treachery. I have traveled far to escape the treacherous regicide Duc d’Orlaans, and if you are loyal to him than I am in dire straits indeed, Baron.” I paused, more to breathe than for effect. “I come also to ask for news of your son, for I sorely miss his face.”

The Baron stared, as if I had just announced I was going to turn myself into a fish.

I reached up slowly, keeping my gaze locked with his, and drew the Aryx out from my R’mini blouse. “Princesse Lisele pressed this into my hand as she lay dying from a traitor’s sword. She told me with her last breath to come to Arcenne. They are loyal in the mountains, she said. Sieur, I await your answer.”

With that, I stoppered my mouth, holding the Aryx up. The serpents stirred uneasily against my fingers, their scales rasping.

The Baron sheathed his sword. His expression did not change.

“Gods above and below. You are a fool.” He stalked across the room, and it took a great deal of my waning courage to stay still, my chin lifted, holding the Aryx as a shield.

He could push me out the window. I shivered. Or I could fling myself hence and dash out my brains, did he seek to imprison me for d’Orlaans.

Whether or not the Seal would seek to dissuade me, or even if it would fuse itself to my flesh again did I try to remove it from my neck, were two more hideous possibilities I did not like to contemplate.

He skirted the rug and reached me, and I noticed his hair was mussed and his belt-buckle askew. He must have been hastily wakened.

The Baron examined my face for a long while, and I suffered it. Then he dropped his gaze to the Aryx. He reached up, cautiously, and extended a finger, as if he would touch it.

I wished him much luck of the attempt.

A spark snapped. His hand flung back, and he nodded, shaking his fingers out. “Well,” he said finally. Nothing more.

I could never remember the Aryx responding in such a manner before, but none had sought to touch it before, either. I gathered my courage with both hands. “Sieur, is there any news you can give me of your son Tristan?”

He returned to a thorough examination of my face. I heard boots in the passage outside, low voices. Is Arcenne disloyal? If he is the Duc’s man I shall throw myself from this window-couvre rather than be taken captive, Seal or no.

The old Vianne would hardly have thought such a thing — and would not have been determined to do it, either.

His face changed. I could not call the transformation an easing, but neither could I call it cruelty. “How did you come to be here, child, dressed as tinkerfolk? Sit down, have a glass of wine, and tell me. Are you hungry? Perhaps you are.” He stalked for the door, opened it, and exchanged a few words with whoever stood outside. I sagged in relief. Possibly premature — who knew where his loyalties lay? — but I could do nothing more. I was in the hands of the Blessed, just as much as I had been among the R’mini.

In short order I was esconced in one of the leather ease-chairs by the fireplace, sinking into warmth and softness. Wine was brought, and flatbread, cheese, and fruit. The Baron settled himself in the other chair, his blue eyes steady. “Now tell me your tale. Leave nothing aside.”

I began with the passage, Tristan and the Minister Primus, the King asking my silence, then the conspiracy’s frantic unleashing. I told of Lisele’s death, and my hiding in the North Tower. I told of finding Tristan in the donjons and setting him free, and of our flight to the Shirlstrienne, the assassin in the inn, and finally Adrien di Cinfiliet’s bandits. I told of the attack on the village, how I found myself alone among the corpses, and of striking out into the woods and the great luck of finding a R’mini goatherd boy. More boots echoed in the hall outside, and I glanced toward the door, nervous, and continued my tale, with a brief account of traveling among the R’mini.

I spared myself nothing. I freely admitted how stupid I had been at all stages, how useless I had been to the Guard, how dangerous to the bandit village, and how weak I had been not to bury the dead bodies.

It bothered me, to have left them for carrion.

“And so, the R’mini brought me here,” I finished lamely. “As you see.”

He nodded, his fingers steepled in front of his face. I was hungry — the smell of the bread taunted me — yet I made no move to take any crumb. I sat bolt upright in the chair as if at a Court lévee, forgetting my clothes and how I must have reeked of horse, woodsmoke, and tinker.

The Baron opened his mouth to reply, but there was a thundering at the door. I started, my eyes round. The Baron gained his feet with more speed than I would have thought possible for an old, stiff man. He looked so like Tristan, his sword drawn and his eyes full of fire.

My heart gave a shattering leap.

The door flung itself open. I stayed frozen to the chair, craning my neck to see what new shock lay in wait. The Baron let out a curse I had heard the Guards use, one unfit for a lady’s ears, and my entire body was ice.

Tristan d’Arcenne shoved a Citadel Guard aside and stalked into the room, in breeches, bare feet, and an untucked shirt. He spared not a glance for his father’s drawn sword, but strode squarely across the Torkaic rug, skirted the table of untouched food, and descended upon me. He grabbed my shoulders, hauled me out of the chair, shook me twice, then crushed me to his chest, his swordhilt digging into my side. “Gods damn me for a fool,” he said. And, “Vianne, Vianne…gods…” Interspersed with this were most improper oaths in a ragged voice that did not sound like Tristan at all.

Tristan’s father sheathed his sword, watching this with no discernable expression. “I see you’ve forgotten your manners, m’fils.”

Tristan glanced at his father. “When did she arrive? How did she arrive?”

“Ask her. She has a very pretty tale, Tristan, and seems truthful enough. Even if she is a fool to come here and tell me half of it.” The Baron folded his arms and examined his son. “She could not have known if I was still loyal.”

I would have given a guilty start if Tristan had not been holding me too tightly to permit any movement. I breathed him in, staring witlessly.

I was beginning to believe he was alive.

“T-t-t—” My teeth chattered over his name.

Tristan let loose of me for only long enough to shake me again, print a bruising kiss on my forehead, and hug me even more fiercely. “I thought you dead and the Aryx lost. I thought you dead, Vianne, curse me for a fool—”

“Well,” the Baron said. “I shall leave you two to greet each other. Your Majesty, we shall speak at greater length tomorrow, an it please you. Arcenne is yours to do with as you will.” He bowed stiffly, and I thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his sharp blue eyes.

I managed to stammer out something courteous, difficult to do with Tristan still crushing me. The Baron quit the room, shutting the door quietly, and his son held me at arm’s length, examining every inch of my dishevelment. He looked haggard, unshaven, and I saw the beginnings of lines around his eyes. I saw a streak of gray over his right temple that had not been there before.

“You look awful.” Twas hardly the thing to say, but it escaped me before I could measure the words for their fitness.

He grinned, his eyes lighting, and there was the Tristan I knew. “And you are lovely, Vianne. Even in this costume. How did this come to be? How did you survive? Tell me all, tell me everything.”

I swayed on my feet, his grasp the only thing keeping me standing. Something occurred to me. “Adersahl!” I cursed myself for not asking sooner. “Where is he? Tell me he is hale.”

Tristan nodded. “Hale enough. Sunk in his cups most nights, cursing himself for losing you. Twill be a relief to have him cease.”

I nodded. Good. If he was alive, some part of this tangle could be mended. “And di Cinfiliet? Is he well?”

“He is well enough.” Tristan’s expression changed, harshness settling into his features. Twas not sadness, but I was so relieved to have him before me I did not care to examine precisely what it was. “We found no survivors.”

“I did not see Risaine’s…” I could not stop watching his face, touching it with my eyes. I freed one hand and tested his cheek with my fingertips, to prove to myself he was in front of me and real. “Gods.” I shuddered. “I did not see her, among the…” I could not bring myself to say it again.

“Some of the women were taken, killed as soon as di Narborre found they were not you.” He pressed his cheek into my touch. “Not now, tomorrow’s soon enough. Tell me, where were you, what did you do?”

My knees very nearly gave out on me, and my hand fell back to my side. “I long to tell you. I also wish most heartily for a bath and a real bed. I’ve been traveling a-wagon for two months.”

“We can find you a chamber,” he started, but I shook my head. Took my courage in both hands, so to speak, and tossed my dice.

“No. I want…I wish to stay with you.”

My courage abruptly failed, and I dropped my gaze. It was not what a lady should say. One could hint, certainly, or delicately insinuate, but not baldly state. Still, I had asked him to be my Consort, and he had accepted, nevermind there were no proper proclamations published or copper marriage rings exchanged. I found I cared less for propriety than for the knowledge that he was safe and breathing.

Silence. Tristan let loose of my shoulders. I swayed again. His hand cupped my chin, forced my gaze to meet his.

He looked thoughful, a slight smile tilting the corners of his mouth. The fire popped and crackled, shadows easing the worst of the ravages of care marking him.

“Of course,” he said softly. “I…yes. Come with me, m’chri.”

He half-turned, holding my elbow, meaning to lead me to the door, but I stopped him by catching at his shirt with my free hand. “Tristan?”

I did not even know what I wished to say, but he looked down at me with a mixture of amusement and concentration I had not seen in him before. “If you ask me news of any other man, Vianne, I might take it ill.” Yet his tone was light enough.

I shook my head, biting my lip. The world seemed very dim, and very far away. “No. I simply wished to…” What? What do I wish? I want you to speak to me, to take away this fear, and prove to me that you are real and I am not dreaming.

Though I was fairly certain I was not sleeping. There was no blood on my hands, and I did not feel a nightmare stalking me. I feared to close my eyes lest he vanish, and all thought of intrigue had fled me. Even the thought of saving him from himself had disappeared in the great sharp swell of relief.

He shook his head, as if shaking away an unpleasant thought. “Time enough later. Come with me.”

Once again I was towed in his wake, letting him do as he wished. No more decision was required of me, and for that I was secretly, shamefully, completely grateful.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tristan led me through the stone halls of the Citadel, sometimes passing guards who saluted him and eyed me curiously. The corridors were narrow: glowstone lamps hung from iron holders at even intervals, tapestries of past battles and the Arcenne family crest hung neatly to make the stone a little less harsh. I stumbled with fatigue by the time he pushed open a door and led me into a suite of dark blue and green: a sitting room with ancient weapons hung on the walls, a tapestry of yet another battle hung behind a long low padded bench. Elsewhere a rack of practice weapons, a stand holding a suit of armor, and two bookcases filled the room. He did not pause to let me look at this, and truth be told, I did not care. A great swimming relief had come over me, so deep I could barely put one foot in front of the other. This was a pleasant dream I would wake from to find myself still in the burning village — or in the wagons of the R’mini. I only wished for it to last as long as possible before I was forced to endure more unpleasantness.

He led me into the bedroom off the sitting room, also done in blue and green, a banked fire warming the air deliciously. “The bed is in a sorry state, I am afraid. I have not slept well these past weeks.” He paused, looking down at me.

Nor have I. “Do you have…” I blushed, my cheeks hot as the fire. “Do you have a shirt, perhaps, or a shift I may sleep in?”

He left me standing on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was a large clothespress on one wall; he opened it and extracted a neatly folded sleeping shirt. “Here.” He pressed it into my hands and pushed me gently toward the watercloset. “Go. I will wait.”

I found myself in the watercloset, the door locked, a real privy and — oh, luxury of luxuries — a sunken bathtub. The tiles were clean, fresh drycloths sat folded on a rack. A glowing mirror showed me a dark-haired Arquitaine woman, utterly ridiculous in her R’mini braids. But my cheeks were flushed and my eyes glowed despite the circles under them. Tomorrow I shall take a bath. Relief burst hot and sharp inside my chest. Tristan’s alive, and tomorrow I shall take a bath.

There seemed nothing more to want in the world.

When I finally emerged, in a sleeping shirt that reached below my knees, my hair free of its braids, I made it only halfway to the bed, carrying a neat stack of my R’mini clothes. Tristan appeared from the sitting room and took the pile of cloth from me. “I suppose even the hedgewitch tinkers were charmed by you, Vianne.” He set the clothes aside on a chair, and it hurt me to see their threadbare state.

I looked longingly at the bed. Then I set myself to reassure him, if I could. “They were kind enough. They did not have to take me through the Shirlstrienne. They could have left me to starve.”

“Then I owe them a great favour.” He took my elbow and led me to the bed. A real bed, with crisp white linens and actual pillows, though twas thrashed a bit. I sank down gratefully. He pulled the covers over me and drew another chair I had not noticed to the bedside. “I shall keep watch. Sleep.”

“I did not mean to push you out of your own bed.” Or was I thinking I should sleep on a stone floor? Though I am tired enough not to mind. Too tired to care about gossip. He is alive, and here with me.

He shook his head, stripping his dark hair back. My eyes snagged on the patch of paleness at his temple. Had he worried himself into gray hair?

“Go to sleep, m’chri. I wish to watch over your dreaming.”

“Did I wake you?” My eyes drifted closed. He is alive. I am not imagining him. “Where were you? Where did you go?”

“Tomorrow, m’chri.” He said it gently, then leaned forward, took my hand in both of his. He touched my palm, held my wrist gently as a spun-glass figurine. My hand was lost in his. “I thought you dead, Vianne. Every day that passed killed me afresh.” His voice broke.

Where was the stern Captain, the one I feared? Somewhere in the Alpeis, perhaps, I had lost him. And gained instead this man, who called me “beloved” and worried for me. “Tis all well,” I said dreamily. “You are alive. Everything is better now.”

He kissed my knuckles, stubble rasping against my skin. “I feared you dead or taken. Everything, all for naught. I thought…”

“I feared for you as well,” I whispered in return. “I did not know if you still lived. It frightened me.”

“I will not leave you again.” His lips moved against my knuckles. Instead of heat, the touch filled me with quiet comfort. “I swear it, Vianne.”

For that moment, it was enough. He said no more, and nor did I. And again, there were no nightmares.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I woke slowly, in unaccustomed comfort. Curled on my side, hugging a pillow, I blinked at the fall of afternoon sunlight. Had I slept through the morn’s work? The wagons were not moving, and the world eerily hushed. Was there something amiss? Had an axle broken, or someone fallen so ill we could not travel?

I sat, of a sudden, clutching the blankets to my chest, and let out pent breath as I realized where I was. My heart, spurred into terrified pounding, eased slightly. I pushed my hair back from my face and sighed.

I was in Arcenne. I had done what I had set myself to do.

The Seal rumbled uneasily against my chest. I saw with no real surprise the serpents twisting against each other, straining, the copper serpent on top, now the silver. “Quiet.” I reached up with a trembling hand to stroke the medallion. It stilled, though still thrumming nervously, soothed like a restive horse.

Tristan was not in the bedroom. The chair was still by the bed, but pushed back, as if he had leapt to his feet.

I stretched, felt the sharp familiar bite of hunger under my ribs. Braced myself on my hands, luxuriating in the clean warmth of the bed, and tasted morning in my mouth, grimacing. My heart fair threatened to burst with joy.

I had reached Arcenne. I had accomplished what Lisele had asked of me. And Tristan was alive.

I slid free of the bed and padded barefoot to the window, stretching afresh with rare contentment. For at least this moment, I could rest.

From the casement I could look down into the middle of the Citadel: a white stone practice-ground to one side, a garden unrolling its lovely green to the other. I tugged on the lock and finally managed to open the window, breathing in mountain air still crisp with morning coolness — summer never truly overwhelmed Arcenne, I later learned. The heat and dust and close stifling air of the Palais and Citté did not reach here to the mountains.

“By the Blessed,” I said wonderingly. “I survived.”

I spent some time at the window, enjoying the view and free of any pressing need to set my hands to work, before I felt the temperature of the room change slightly. I half-turned to see Tristan, fully dressed and armed but hatless, in the door. He wore a plain dark doublet instead of the uniform of a Citadel Guard, but the tilt of his chin and the signet ring glittering on his left hand made it plain he was a nobleman, accustomed to command. His hair was still shorter than was fashionable for a chivalier’s. He had a fall of some dark mellifluous material over one arm, and he stared at me, his mouth a thin line and his eyes burning.

Have I done something wrong? I stepped hurriedly from the window. “Tris — ah, Captain. Good morn. I beg your pardon — I slept so late.”

He shook his head, abruptly, as if shaking away unpleasantness. I was suddenly acutely aware I wore only a sleeping shirt, and nothing else. I blushed from my toes to the crown of my scalp, a wave of heat rising through me.

“You were exhausted, Vianne. I expected you to sleep later, in fact.” He still stared outright, in a most improper way.

I shifted from foot to foot. “I suppose I should bathe.” Then I realized I had no clothes, save for the ones the R’mini had gifted me.

Idiot, Vianne. Have the shocks robbed you of all sense?

However, that seemed to bring him back to earth. “Oh.” He held up his arms. “We…ah, well. This is for you. Pére remarked you seem much my mother’s size, and she sent this dress and has called for her dressmaker to appear tomorrow. She’s looking forward to meeting you, especially since you’re a scholar of Tiberia.”

“Oh, gods,” I groaned. “Tristan, no. Not Tiberian verbs.” I doubt I could remember any past the first declension by now.

“Ease yourself, m’chri.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “A few moments, nothing more, since you’re weary from your journey and no doubt a bit stunned. Mére is very easy, you shall see. And my father would speak to you at length. We have plans to make.”

My shoulders slumped. I glanced back at the window, wondering if the R’mini had escaped the town and were already on the open road. I devoutly hoped so. I approached the pile of threadbare, brightly colored cloth he’d left on a chair. “Did the R’mini leave this morning?” They will not suffer, will they?

“Not a single one to be found in the city. Tis passing odd.”

Not so odd. Merely another thing to be grateful for. Perhaps they would escape the ill luck that dogged me.

I dug in the pile of clothing, finding my pocket and pulling out Jaryana’s gift.

Twas a small, flat medallion, gilt paint scored with a few peculiar angular signs. I examined it and the threadbare velvet ribbon it was tied to, and then felt at the pocket again.

Two hard lumps. My emerald ear-drops. Jaryana’s quick fingers must have slipped them back into my pocket. “Oh.” My eyes filled with tears.

“Vianne?” Tristan approached, cautiously. How he could move so quietly in such heavy boots was a mystery.

I wiped at my eyes with the flat of one hand, but tears still wet my cheeks. “Oh.” It seemed all I could say. If I had kept my vow to Lisele, I had broken one to myself — the vow never to weep again. It seemed I was made of water.

“Vianne?” he repeated. It was almost a shock, to hear him so uncertain.

I turned, held them up. Emeralds glittered in the fresh mountain-bright sunlight. “I offered these in payment for passage and they…they would not take them.” We do not steal from the poor, Tozmil had said, and I was poor indeed. I had nothing in the world to call my own anymore. Nothing except these baubles.

And your wits, Vianne. Though those are threadbare enough you may still consider yourself a peasant.

Tristan touched my shoulder. “Was it very bad?” And there was an awkwardness, new indeed in the Captain of the Guard. “I would not have had this happen, not to you. Not for anything.”

“Oh, I know. Yet if we were still at Court, Tristan, what then?”

He shrugged. “I supose I would still be gathering the courage to ask you to wed me,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “I shall order breakfast for you, m’chri. I suppose you cannot wait for a bath.”

“No.” I curled the medallion and my ear-drops in my fist. “No, I cannot.”

He smoothed the shirt over my shoulder, gently. Silence stretched between us, thin and glittering in the golden air.

His face was far less drawn than it had been last night, and I wondered still at the brief patch of gray at his temple. But the lines on his face had eased. His mouth now relaxed, a brief smile all the more precious because twas fleeting.

“I have never known you to lack courage,” I offered, tentatively.

“I find myself a coward when it comes to you, d’mselle.”

Oddly enough, a smile broke through my tears. I sobered almost instantly as well. “I thought you dead. I wondered what direness had befallen you.”

His arms slid around me and I leaned in to him, grateful for his solidity. For the first time, I embraced him as hard as I could. He kissed the top of my head, stroked my back, and rocked me slightly, as a nurse will soothe a child. I wept into his shirt, a dam broken and a storm unleashed, as if Lisele had just died. The numbing tension I had been wandering in snapped, leaving me breathless.

He held me until I quieted and produced a kerchief I used mercilessly, sopping at my streaming cheeks and blowing my nose. “L-l-look at this,” I stammered. “What a m-m-mess. I b-beg your p-par—”

“Oh, hush.” Gently, taking my chin and tilting it up. He looked relieved, the lines easing on his now-familiar face. “Tis no sin to weep, Vianne, when you’ve managed to survive conspiracy, armed attack, and the Shirlstrienne. I would be rather surprised if you did not shed a tear. Or many. That soft heart of yours.”

It eased me, as no doubt he meant to, but shame still curdled in my throat. I searched for anything respectable to say. “I suppose I should take a bath.”

“I suppose you should.”

“I smell of the R’mini.” Woodsmoke, the spices in their food, horse and oxen and the comforting breath of Jaryana and Tozmil’s wagon. When I washed it from my skin, I would be adrift again.

Yet there was Tristan.

“Did they harm you?” A mere whisper, his blue eyes intent and focused. “Tell me.”

“Of course not.” I sounded horrified at the very thought. “They are not so bad, Tristan. Fair enough, if a bit harsh. They asked that I work, and Jaryana taught me of their hedgewitchery. Tis passing interesting—”

“Trust you to find something to learn from even the R’mini.” He was definitely smiling now.

“Learn what you can, where you can.” I felt better, now that I had eased him. “Tis a Tiberian proverb; Catorus the Elder mentions it often. I survived at Court because I learned how to make myself agreeable. Even, it seems, to hedgewitch tinkers.”

“Not just agreeable, m’chri. But truly, did they hurt you? Were you offered any insult, any at all?”

Why? Would you seek to avenge it? I do not cherish that thought, d’Arcenne, much as I… “No. I am merely fatigued, and very happy to see you again. I missed you terribly.”

Between one moment and the next, the smile drained away. He looked down at me, his blue eyes shadowed, his mouth a thin line, as a hungry man contemplating a feast. That shadow was strange, and a thread of uneasiness worked its way through me.

“You missed me?” His seriousness might have frightened me, did I not know him.

Do I? I nodded, biting my lower lip.

“Missed me terribly?” he persisted, examining my face.

I nodded again, breathless, my heart racing. “I had awful nightmares.”

He brushed my cheekbone with callused fingertips. Why did he not look happier at the thought of my longing for him? He seemed pained.

How on earth did I come to be standing here in Arcenne, with Tristan d’Arcenne’s arms about me? “You look grim, chivalier.” Why did I always say the stupidest things to him?

“Not grim. Thoughtful.” He was bending down, slowly, his hand cupping my chin.

“Thoughtful—” I was about to say something silly once more, but his mouth met mine, and I forgot the very idea of speaking.

My hands crept up about his neck, one still clutching his sodden kerchief. I forgot the taste of morning in my mouth and the fact that I wore only a sleeping shirt. He flattened both hands against my back and pulled me against him, the Aryx giving forth a rippling thunderous melody. I had never kissed thus before, but it seemed I knew how, the knowledge springing full-born into my body, perhaps from his.

I had heard enough courtsongs to know what he wanted, and to know I wanted the same. I did not care if it was proper, or if manners were served, or if twas my duty to do summat or aught, as Drumiera would have said.

I knew only the man in my arms and the Sun through the window, and the blessed relief of a moment in which I did not need to plan, or think, or do. I merely existed, melting into him, with no barrier of duty to remind me of what I should instead of what I wanted.

Tristan broke away, kissed my cheek, my forehead, my other cheek. His lips traced my jawline and I tipped my head back, allowing all.

“Vianne,” he whispered against my skin. I could find no breath to answer him. “Gods above, you’re enough to make me forget my duty again, m’chri.”

“Duty?” I managed, blankly. To the seven hells with duty. What now?

“Breakfast for my lady Queen.” He smoothed my hair with one hand, pressing another kiss on my forehead. “Then to bring you to your Guard, so they can see for themselves you are well. And my father, and my mother. We must plan.”

“Plan?” I finally found my normal voice. “Oh, yes. That. We do need a plan.”

And suddenly there was business at hand. “Do you still require a Consort, Vianne? There is a Temple here. I do not ask for—”

A sharp pang lanced the region of my heart. “There is no one in the world I would rather have for my Consort. And my Left Hand.”

He nodded. But his expression was still serious, too serious. “You do not mistrust me?”

How could I? I touched the lock of gray at his temple. “And where did this come from, chivalier?”

He grimaced, an expression so unguarded it warmed me. He would not twist his face so where others could see.

“You noticed? I am not a gentle man.”

Do you think I do not know? There is a brace of peasants in the Shirlstrienne who know, as well. I shook my head, dismissing the objection. “These are not days for gentleness, Captain. I need you, as long as the Aryx persists in…this. If the Seal chooses someone else, I shall free you.” Though I do not like the idea. At all.

“If you contract me as your Consort, Vianne, it will be permanent. Even if the Aryx chooses another, I’ve sworn my oath to you, d’mselle. Do you think me faithless?”

“Very well.” I was helpless to stop a foolish smile from rising. “You really do wish to?”

“Vianne, you idiot, I want nothing else.”

I laid my head on his shoulder and sighed. He held me, stroking my tangled hair. At that moment, there was nowhere else in Arquitaine I would rather have been.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The dress was dark blue silk, simply but exquisitely sewn, the neckline modest and the sleeves falling away from undersleeves of white silk. Twas fashionable, too, or at least, what had been fashionable at Court three months ago. It was too close in the chest and too long at the sleeves, and a trifle too long otherwise, but all in all it felt familiar. I had no desire to ever wear breeches again. The relief of being dressed decently was well-nigh overpowering.

Of such small things is happiness made, I suppose.

I had lost flesh; my hipbones and ribs stood out starkly, my cheekbones stretching from under the skin. The mirror was unkind — it showed me how gaunt I had become. I looked ill-used, all things considered, and far too pale. It was a wonder I had escaped more fever, despite all Risaine’s and Jaryana’s tisanes.

I had considered wearing my garden-boots, or battering my bare feet on the stone floors of Arcenne, but Tristan brought me a pair of soft slippers to wear inside the Citadel.

Twas odd to feel so much softness again.

After a short, luxuriously hot bath and lacing the overdress with Tristan’s help — I had to laugh at how serious he was, and how his fingers fumbled with the laces — I combed my hair out and chose a simple braid, tying it off with a piece of ribbon. Tristan watched, and shook his head when I pushed the Aryx under my neckline.

“Leave it out, Vianne, an it please you,” he said quietly. “Tis better for us to see it.”

I nodded. “Did you speak of breakfast?” Now that I was clean, my teeth charmed, and my head a little less cluttered with fear, I found myself relieved and hungry in equal measure.

He nodded, and led me into the sitting room. There was hot chocolat, and chai, delicate pastries, fruit, cheese — the kind of provender I had not seen in ages. I set to with a will, my manners thankfully not rusty from so long without. Tristan joined me, pouring a cup of chocolat. I thought of Lisele while I drank, surprised tears did not rise to the surface. Instead, a hot dry-eyed grief rose, threatening to choke me.

It was tinted with anger, and the depth of my own calculating fury frightened me.

“Eat, Vianne.” Tristan’s tone brooked no disobedience.

After I could swallow no more, he gave me a few moments to gather myself, and led me out into the hall. A pair of Citadel Guard by the door eyed me cautiously. “Chivalieri,” Tristan said, my hand firmly tucked in his elbow, “this is Her Majesty Vianne di Tirecian-Trimestin di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, Queen of Arquitaine.”

I was hard-pressed not to blush.

They both bowed, a stocky older man and a slender youth I recognized from last night. The black mountain-pards on their doublets eyed me no less dubiously. I would have swept them a courtesy, but Tristan had my arm, so I merely nodded. Their gazes snagged on the Aryx, and remained there.

“A pleasure to meet you, sieurs.” I used the same tone I had been wont to address solicitors in, hoping it was not overly cool.

The older one gave me a glance I could only classify as astonished. “Likewise, d’mselle. Tis a pleasure to be in your service.”

My service? I glanced up at Tristan, whose blue eyes were level and intent.

I see. There have been events at work while I slept. I sought a grave, though welcoming, tone. “I thank you for your pains, chivalier.”

Tristan drew me away. I waited until we reached the end of the hall and turned into another corridor. “My service?” My eyebrows lifted. He had shortened his stride, since I was now gratefully encumbered by skirts — and a full stomach.

“Arcenne is yours, Vianne. My father swore so last night, and he is not one to make a promise lightly. You must have impressed him.” Tristan’s mouth curled, a trifle. This morning, freshly shaven and dressed plainly, he looked more the Captain I remembered from Court.

“I do not think so. I’ve been a silly goose ever since I s-saw you in the p-passage—” Words deserted me. Just a moment. Just give me a short while to catch my breath.

I did not, you see, quite believe I had reached Arcenne. The spring inside me had wound itself so tightly, and its release left me shaking with conflict.

Tristan stopped short and enclosed me in his arms, rested his chin atop my head. This hall was thankfully deserted, stands of armor and marble busts on pedestals tucked in small alcoves, a tapestry of yet another battle to my right. “Tis behind you now, Vianne.” A warm spot in my hair, his breath as familiar to me as my own. “I swear, I will not leave your side again. Ever.”

I nodded against his chest, my pulse thundering in my ears. Sinking into his strength was a novel sensation, and a welcome one. “Tis hard to believe,” I said into his doublet. He smelled familiar — leather, and steel, and the smell of him, male and clean. “I lived to reach Arcenne, and now that I am here I cannot tell what to do. What next?”

“Next?” He laughed, kissing my hair. Though he was gentle, the laugh was not. “Now that you have gifted us with hope again? We knew not if you were dead, or alive and in di Narborre’s hands. Every day we have waited for news. D’Orlaans struggles to consolidate his power — several of the border provinces are jostling for position, nobody quite sure whether to revolt or not. Rumor racks Arquitaine no less than the plague — though Arcenne has escaped the plague; we are not certain how, but grateful nonetheless. Since d’Orlaans has not found you he is frantic, and since we had not found you we doubted our very lives. For two months, night and day, everything has hung in the balance, and we have been laying in provisions and preparing for war. Now we know you are safe, we may stop fretting and begin doing.” He sighed.

I found I had little desire to ask after his plans just yet, and cast about for a safer subject. “What befell you? I had neither the time nor the strength to ask last night. How did you come to be here?”

He stiffened slightly. “We were hunting di Narborre. I cursed myself for that, for listening to di Cinfiliet when I should have stayed with you. Yet we had to track d’Orlaans’s dog; we had to know. We found his trail an hour before nightfall, I wished to return to the village, but…there was no time. We tracked him until dark fell, then made camp. I thought of you, before I went to sleep.” Now his tone dropped, became fierce, as his embrace tightened considerably. “The next morn we found his tracks, and they led directly for the village. We found Adersahl wounded, following our trail, hoping to bring us as reinforcements. I sent di Chatillon and Jierre to collect you, Adersahl swore you were hidden near the village, and the rest of us set to following di Narborre again. For Adersahl told us he had taken some of the women, no doubt thinking you might be among them. When I found how narrowly you had escaped…

“Luc and Jierre returned, saying they could not find you. But by that time, we had discovered the women. It seems di Narborre had found none of them were you. Their end was not kind, Vianne. I…I thanked the Blessed you were not among them, and cursed the idiocy that had led me from your side. We returned to the village and searched, but the rain had started, and we could not find you. Adersahl cursed himself; he had thought you safer hidden than traversing the forest with only one Guard for protection. We buried the bodies we could find and searched the Shirlstrienne — as much as we dared. It took three weeks for Jierre to convince me to flee to Arcenne. He threatened to tie me to the saddle, and di Cinfiliet had some fool’s fancy of broaching the thinnest pass to Navarrin. We could not believe you could survive in the Shirlstrienne without even a waterskin.”

I am glad to see you, Tristan, but I wished you had listened to di Cinfiliet. It would do my heart good to know you safe in Navarrin, where the Duc could not touch you. “I do not know what might have befallen me, if not for the R’mini.”

His arms tightened. “I owe the tinkers my life, then.”

I leaned against him. “I did not know if you were alive or if di Narborre had fought a pitched battle with you, then razed the village. When I could not find Adersahl, it seemed I had to reach Arcenne myself, or die trying. For my Lisele.”

He paused, as if searching for words. “I would have had you wait for me, but you could not have known. I am simply glad the gods have seen fit to give me another chance at honor.” He had turned steel-hard, and I wondered at it. It seemed impossible he could be so worried; I could not imagine a dishonorable Tristan.

I did not wish to move, and there seemed no answer I could make. So I simply rested against him, content, breathing him in.

A few moments later, he reluctantly loosened his arms. “Come. We are late.”

“Late?”

“They are eager to see you again, m’chri, no less than I was.”

“They?”

“Your Guard, Your Majesty. Your Guard.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Guard was housed in a long barracks hall, and when we stepped inside Jierre let out a whoop and leapt from his chair. Cots ranged along either side of the hall for a distance. There was a space of long tables and benches, a fireplace with chairs and benches set before it, a large cauldron of something familiar-smelling bubbling over the fire.

I had missed the smell of their stew, without knowing it.

I found myself surrounded. Luc di Chatillon embraced me, Jierre kissed me on both cheeks, Tinan di Rocham, blushing fiercely, clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. The hall became a hubbub of shouted questions, congratulations, and oaths cheerfully yelled.

Though I have been greeted in many ways, I believe this is the welcome I cherish the memory of most.

I was hugged, kissed, buffeted from one place to another before Tristan gave a sharp bark of an order and the fuss died. I looked around the wall of leather doublets and swordhilts. I did not see Adersahl. Tristan offered me his arm, but I peered around Jierre, whose lean dark face held two tear tracks none commented on.

Adersahl sprawled in a low chair tucked almost behind the chimney, a deeply shadowed corner.

I looked up at Tristan. “A moment, please?” I had fallen into sharply accented Court Arquitaine again. The R’mini drawl so quickly fled my tongue, for all I still carried Jaryana’s medallion in my skirt-pocket.

An expectant hush fell over the Guard, broken only when Luc di Chatillon let out a sharp breath. “He is drinking himself to death, d’mselle.”

Jierre’s hand closed over di Chatillon’s shoulder. “Let her.” He nodded to me. Jespre di Vidancourt folded his arms over his lean chest, his blond eyebrows arched.

I approached Adersahl quietly, my skirts brushing the clean wooden floor. A scabbarded rapier lay across his knees. You could scarce see Adersahl’s face, but his shoulders slumped and he seemed frailer now.

Older.

I was less than six feet from him when Adersahl lifted his head. He’d lost his fine mustache. His chin and cheeks were marred with stubble, hollows lay under his eyes, and his gray-salted hair stuck up in wild tufts.

“Oh.” I could not help myself; I sighed. “Adersahl.”

He had a crock of something that smelled stronger than rhuma tucked into the crook of his elbow. “As you see,” he croaked, lifting the large jar slightly. I did not allow my nose to wrinkle, though the smell of unwashed man soaked in alcohol and stale sweat was enough to make even a seasoned courtier sniff. “Come to mock me?”

This may not end well. I searched for something useful to say. “I must beg your pardon. For I lost your dagger, chivalier, and you entrusted it to my care.”

He snorted rudely. I had seen no few men in their cups, at feasts or fêtes, but this was some other type of drunkenness, bleak instead of gluttonous. “Lost’er. Slip of a girl. Too brave by half. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

His slurred speech was no surprise; he smelled as if he had drank a sea’s worth. It must have been valadka, that clear liquor that can make a man blind if overindulged. I strove for a gentle tone, no laughter or pity. “I should thank you. If I had not the dagger, I would not have survived.”

There was a fierce whisper behind me. I paid no attention, kneeling down, my hands taking care of arranging my skirts as they had not for months. The silk pooled about me, and I touched his knee with two fingers.

Adersahl’s weary, baleful glare sharpened. He was bleary enough to serve as a caution to younglings. “D’mselle? Duchesse?”

“As you see.” I found myself smiling. “You did well, chivalier. If not for your advice, di Narborre would have caught me. I barely escaped him, and would I have stayed where you set me, I would not have been lost.” The Aryx tilled against my skin, as a softly stroked bell. “Next time, I swear I will listen to you more closely.”

He blinked at me. “D’mselle?” As if he could not quite credit it. “Lost. You were lost.”

“Lost no more.” I peered up into his face. Give him a task, he requires summat to focus on. “I require your assistance, chivalier.”

He grunted, unimpressed, settling further into the chair with a creak. I could not judge his expression with any surety; the firelight was simply not enough to penetrate this corner.

I tried again. “I shall need every member of my Guard.” I leaned earnestly forward. “For the border provinces are preparing for war, and d’Orlaans will learn soon enough that I live.” I sighed, as if saddened. “And if my Guard is less than it was, I am sorely afraid I shall be in peril.”

Twas not very elegant, but Adersahl mulled over my words, some life stealing back into his shadowed face. He burped, and I was hard-put to stifle a gasp. Valadka slopped against the side of the crock as he leaned forward.

I took the earthenware jar from him. He made a grab for it, but I was quicker, having spent two months working among the R’mini, who prize dexterity. They had not taught me the secrets of R’mini thievery — I was, after all, still g’ji—but I had learned enough to keep liquor away from a drunken man.

Adersahl’s hand curled around his swordhilt. Tristan said something I did not hear, but his tone was fierce and cold.

“Not fit!” Adersahl half-shouted, harshly. “Slip of a girl! Dead in the woods.”

A chill spread through me. Very nearly, my friend. If not for a goatherd, you would be right.

“Chivalier di Parmecy et Villeroche,” I said crisply, “your Queen requires your service. Are you, or are you not, a member of my Guard? You swore your oath to me, and I call upon you now.”

Silence crackled in the barracks. Then Adersahl slid forward off his chair, going to his knees. He was near as thin as I was, a far cry from the solid, stocky man I had known. He still wore the crimson sash of the Guard, but twas soiled and dull. His cloth was sorely the worse for wear.

He presented his swordhilt to me. “Not fit t’be a Guard.”

“Nonsense. No more valadka, Adersahl. Are you a member of my Guard, or not?”

He stared blearily, blinking, and burped again. “‘F y’want me. Pretty Vianne, pretty pretty Vianne. Slip of a girl.”

That, at least, is a hopeful sign. I shall overlook the flattery this once. I nodded. “Very well, then. No more drinking.”

“No more drinkin’.” He blinked and then made a quick motion. I felt the tensing of the Guard behind me to a man, but Adersahl merely presented me with his swordhilt again. “Owe you m’service, d’mselle. Accept m’oath.”

I touched his swordhilt with two fingers, keeping the crock well away from him. For I have learned well that a drunken man may be cunning when it comes to soaking himself afresh. “Accepted, Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche. Now, on your feet. Take my hand.”

He grabbed at my fingers, clutching his sword loosely in his other sotted fist. I found myself struggling to my feet, praying I would not take yet another blow to any grace I might have. If I fell to the floor now I would look very silly indeed.

We hauled each other up, absurdly, like overtired Harvest Festival celebrants. Adersahl steadied me and nearly fell over, so I steadied him in turn. “There.” I brushed his shoulders. It did little good, but he seemed to have a fresh lease on life. At least, he was upright now. “You look a trifle more proper. Perhaps Tinan and Jierre can help clean you up and put you to bed, and when you recover we shall have a long talk. Well enough?”

He would have bowed to me, but I kept his hand, so he could not finish and topple himself. “Well ’nough,” he mumbled, and twas a good thing Tristan was at my shoulder now, for Adersahl promptly lost consciousness and would have tumbled us both to the floor if Tristan had not caught him. Tinan and Jierre were next, taking Adersahl’s weight.

“Well.” I shook at my skirts with one hand, seeking to adjust their hanging. “I made a right proper mess of that. Will he be well, do you think?”

It fell to Jierre di Yspres to answer me. “At least he’ll not be drinking tomorrow. Tis a wonder to have you back, d’mselle, for he would not listen to any of us.”

“I am not sure I have not made it worse.” I looked down at the crock. It smelled awful — I have never been one for drink. Tristan deftly removed it from my hand. “Tis awful stuff, that.” I hope he did not swallow enough to damage his eyesight.

“Very.” Tristan touched my arm. “I must take you to my father now. We are late as it is.”

“Well enough,” I said. Jierre and Tinan carried Adersahl between them. The rest of the Guard stood, hats in hand, some of them grinning like fools. “Tis good to see you. All of you.”

“Good to see you too, d’mselle,” Luc di Chatillon said in the silence that followed. “We were fair worried.”

So was I, chivalier. But I may not admit to it as you can. The Aryx cooled to the temperature of my skin, no longer singing its muted melody. Yet I could still hear the music below the surface of my mind, like the song of earth and wind that made up hedgewitchery’s background. I was still thinking on this when Tristan led me out of the barracks.

“Well.” He closed the door, offering his arm again. “Miracles, again. You are more a demiange than ever. I cannot wait to see what sorcery you work on my father.”

I rather think him unimpressed with me. But we shall see. “Will Adersahl be well? He’s so…thin.”

Tristan’s face paled slightly, his jaw set. “He took it hard when we found the bodies.”

“The bodies.” My stomach flipped. Tristan guided me up a flight of stairs, going slowly. He kept his hand over mine, tucked in the crook of his elbow, and I found myself worrying whether someone would see.

As if we were still at Court, and I had to be careful of propriety.

“The women, of a certain age, from the village. When it was clear none of them were you, di Narborre ordered them killed.” Flat and cool, the same tone he had used when speaking of the dead peasants. “Twas not a gentle end. But it was none your fault,” he added hastily. “I would not have you thinking it was.”

“Gods.” My breath left me in a great swoop. I hurried to keep pace with him, and the sound of my skirts was a balm. I felt myself again with heavy material swaying, the brushing of fabric against my legs a familiar reassurance. “And…Adrien?” I meant to ask if Risaine had been found, but my mouth shaped di Cinfiliet’s name instead.

He shortened his strides, granting me a single indecipherable glance. “He and his bandits are on patrol, riding the borders of Arcenne. Vianne, Risaine sought to fight di Narborre and his men.” Tristan steered me down another long hall. “She killed two of them.”

Blood drained from my face. “Gods,” I said again. Blessed, grant her peace.

“Twas not your doing, Vianne.” Tristan did not slow further, but his tone gentled. “The fault lies with di Narborre and his master.”

“You are certain twas not another who—”

“There was no doubt it was the Marquisse.” Tristan stopped short, surprising me, and righted me as I swayed. This hall was bare and plain, racks of weapons along either wall, lit by glowrocks and pierced with shafts of Sun-arrows from high, narrow windows. “Look at me, m’chri.”

Tristan’s face was grimly serious, his blue gaze winter-chill and sharp. The streak of gray at his temple glowed in the directionless light, and it was obvious how the stone of this place was in his very bones. “There was nothing you could have done. If you had been taken, their deaths would be for nothing. D’Orlaans would be King in truth as well as in name, and I would most probably have killed myself seeking to free you from him.” He clasped my shoulders, not hard enough to bruise but firmly enough to hold me upright. “I would not lie to you. There was nothing you could have done.”

I nodded. But something deep-buried in me did not believe him. “Tristan—”

“Strength, Vianne. If you have none left, use mine.” He kissed my forehead, stroking my shoulders with his thumbs. Silk crushed under his touch. “Do you understand? Use mine.”

I nodded. I have been using your strength as my northneedle since this ordeal began. “I do not feel very well.” Twas laughable understatement, to say the least.

He paused, and I knew he was on the verge of suggesting I go back to bed. My chin lifted, my shoulders coming up under the familiar weight of duty. Twas a heavier duty than the one weighting me at Court, but I was robbed of choice. I could not swoon like an empty-headed Court dame now, taking refuge in weakness. After what I had endured, I wondered how much more I could bear.

If I am wearing the Aryx, I must be as strong as I can.

“Yet I am to meet your father.” I made the words as decisive as possible. “I owe your mother a polite greeting as well. Lead the way.”

Chapter Thirty

The sitting room was a surprise, dressed in light colors and decorated with silk pillows and pretty floral hangings. A needlework frame stood in one corner, a large harp in the other. The windows were wide and airy, since this room faced the gardens inside the walls.

Tristan closed the door and I found myself enveloped, two soft arms around me and a woman’s greeting-kiss on my cheeks in turn. “Oh, you poor child.” Soft and clear, a cultured voice. She had me whisked away from the door and into a seat by the fireplace, tucking a blanket around me. “Tris has dragged you all through the Citadel, has he not? Of course. Regrettable, that boy, just like his father. Not a thought for us lesser mortals. Oh, child, you’re pale.”

Tristan’s mother, her long black hair piled atop her head and threaded with pearls, twitched her pale green skirts back and sank onto a footstool. Her wide hazel eyes were full of merriment.

Her perfume was apple blossom and silk, a scent that reminded me of Lisele just as the harp did. “Baroness—,” I began, a pretty speech summoned from the recesses of my brain, but she held up one pale, elegant hand.

“Hellsfire,” she swore cheerfully, hazel eyes sparkling. I could see Tristan in the softness around her mouth — his infrequent look of happiness seemed to have come direct from her. “Call me Sílvie. Well, let us have a look at you.” Her gaze moved over my face. “Hmmm. Tristan told me you were lovely, but he never mentioned how beautiful you truly are.”

My cheeks grew hot, savage embarrassment rising. Did I seem to need the flattery? “Oh, I am sure he…he…”

“Stuff and nonsense. You’re exquisite. My dressmaker will be pleased — she is an artist, and loves to have a canvas. Now, Tris, fetch her a cup of chai, very sweet. And Talya will be along with a very light lunch soon — I thought sweetrolls and soup, and some of the apples from the orchard. I love the apples here, they remind me of Vintmorecy. You did not know I was of Vintmorecy, did you? Though your father’s family is liege, and mine merely a chivalier’s holding.”

Slightly stunned, I stammered out something polite.

“Mére, do not fuss at her.” Tristan crossed to the window, glancing out. “There should be a guard here.”

“I sent them to sup,” she said. “Poor men. You’re too hard on them. Just like your father. And you are looking finer than I’ve seen in months, Tris. Did you know, young d’mselle, that our son—”

“Mére,” Tristan said firmly. “She is weary, and she has just endured a—”

“A series of nasty shocks.” The Baroness fixed her son with a mother’s level, serious gaze. “The best thing for her is a bit of normalcy. Let me fuss over the ill, Tris, tis my duty. You’ve probably frightened the poor girl half to death with your serious face and your always this and never that and danger the other.” She tossed her black curls and laughed, and I saw another echo of Tristan in her face. I found myself smiling.

“Pére will wish to speak with her soon.” Tristan laughed, spreading his hands to indicate defeat. “Do not give me the sharp edge of your tongue, Mére. I cannot stand it. Vianne, tell her not to scold me.”

I was so enchanted by the spectacle of him truly laughing, I barely comprehended what he said.

The Baroness patted my arm comfortingly. “I was not certain the dress would fit well, but Perseval said we are of a size, you and I. Though I am a trifle taller, I think. And my long arms fill me with dismay. So tell me, child, what do you think of my Tristan? He quite fancies you — do not give me that look, Tris, I am your mother, I can say so — and he wrote about you in his letters. Said he danced with you.”

I stole a glance at Tristan. He leaned at ease next to one of the windows, out of the sunshine, and there was a definite crimson stain in his cheeks.

Tristan d’Arcenne was blushing. In front of his mother. He wished to be my Consort, and he was blushing.

The Baroness watched me with a faint line between her charcoal eyebrows. She is not as carefree as she seems. She is seeking to set me at my ease.

I rallied, and took a deep breath. “He danced with me twice. He forgot it quickly, too, for he asked me if it was at the Fête of Flowers, when it was the Festival of Skyreturn.”

The Baroness’s mouth twitched, then she chuckled. It was a happy, musical sound. “Just like a man!” She rested her hands on my knees, just as I would sometimes do with Lisele. It sent a pang through me. “Forgetting a dance. I thought I raised him better, my dear. My apologies.” That startled me into a laugh, and we were on familiar territory. “Tris m’fils, why are you in that dark corner? You see, dear, he and his father are of a pair, nothing in their heads but Guard rosters and politics. Boring, dry, dreadful stuff. If not for me, everyone in the castle would be eating hardtack and sausage, doing endless weapon-drill.” She smiled at me, her ear-drops glittering. They held pale peridot stones, and a matching necklace clasped her slender throat.

“You might someday thank me for being dreadful and boring, Sílvie,” Tristan’s father said from the door.

I sank back down in the chair. The Baroness did not seem to notice that I had jolted upright upon hearing a new voice. Tristan’s gaze rested on me from the shadow near the window, and I knew he had noticed.

It was absurdly comforting.

Baron Perseval d’Arcenne moved precisely two steps into the room and closed the door. He wore the uniform of an Arcenne guard, though his doublet was finer than a plain chivalier’s and his sword probably an heirloom, with a ruby in the hilt. His dark hair was thickly peppered with gray but less mussed than last night, and in the unforgiving daylight I could see the lines on his face more clearly. Time had visited the elder Baron, whispered her secret in his ear, and he looked as if he had only nodded and pressed on.

I was about to rise, wishing to be on my feet to meet this new challenge, but the Baroness caught my hand. “Do not, child,” she said quietly. “It is not meet.”

She was correct — a lady does not rise; tis a nobleman’s duty to gain his feet when she enters. And there was the Aryx, as well.

“There you are, bossing everyone about,” Tristan’s father said drily. “I trust you have rested, Your Majesty.”

I suppressed a guilty start at hearing the title applied to me. “Well enough, sieur. Rest has been hard to gather of late, and I suspect that state of affairs shall continue.”

The Baron examined me for a long moment. “Well.”

“That’s Pére’s way of saying you look weak and pale, Vianne,” Tristan said from his shadowed place. Why on earth did he stand there? “Pére, m’Mére sent the guards away again.”

“So I see.” When the Baron gazed at his wife, his face changed. The austere lines relaxed into an infinitely tender expression, his blue eyes softening. “Sílvie, you must think of your safety.”

“I am in the middle of Arcenne, Perseval, what could possibly happen? Especially with the city closed, the Citadel closed too, and your son stalking the corridors daring anyone to step out of line.”

“Well, if you will not think of your safety, think of hers.” The Baron lowered himself into a chair opposite me. “Your pardon, d’mselle, but my bones ache. It has been a busy day.”

“Please. Do not trouble yourself for me.” I found my gaze could not stay away from Tristan, still watching out the window. His shoulders were stiff. “I have been traveling with the R’mini for months. Tis a treat to sit on a chair not in a moving wagon.”

“I can imagine.” The Baron settled, steepling his fingers before his long nose. “I must know, d’mselle, what your intentions are.”

That must be a habitual pose with him, he thinks and hides his mouth at the same moment. “My intentions?” Is he asking if I mean to wed his son? Blessed, they are direct in the mountains.

“Hellsfire,” the Baroness broke in, “give the lady some time to rest, at least, before you start questioning her!” She tapped my knee, a sharp deft gesture. “Do not answer him. Let us speak of something easy first. Look at how pale she is, Perseval!”

“I am well enough,” I said, as gently as I could. “Truly, Baroness. I simply wish to finish whatever duty I have now so I may go back to sleep. I must confess I am extremely weary.” I brought myself up to sit straight, instead of sinking into the chair. “Now, sieur Baron, what do you mean when you speak of my intentions?”

“I must know if you intend to field an army before or after the winter.” His eyes half-lidded, an inward-turning expression. “We must also turn our attention to a provisional Council for you, and the best way to publicize your survival — and your possession of the Aryx.”

My fingers leapt to touch the medallion. It thrummed under my fingers. The serpents shifted slightly, and the Baroness gasped, her curls shaking. Soft and wondering, her hazel gaze was a burden. “The Seal. Blessed, I never thought to see it.” Her hand lifted, as if she would seek to touch it.

Oh, how I wished her luck.

“Careful, Sílvie.” The Baron’s sudden tension did not go unremarked, for Tristan stepped forward, just to the edge of the bar of sunshine. “It sparked last night.”

She stopped. There was a sapphire-and-silver signet on her left hand, and a copper marriage band too. “Oh.”

Tristan’s gaze met mine. As if he had thrown me a rope that stretched taut between us, a wave of strength came down that rope and cleared my head. I had made my way through the Shirlstrienne and to Arcenne with my own wits as a guide; surely my wits would not fail me now. And with my Captain with me, what could I not do?

“I know little of Councils, sieur, so you will have to guide me.” I thought for a moment, decided to ask the most pressing question first. “Is there no way to avoid war?”

A slight smile touched the Baron’s lined face. “Wiser than I credited.”

A well-mannered knock at the door jolted me again. Tristan crossed the room, opened it, exchanged some words in a low tone.

“Always thinking of food, Mére,” he said, as three serving maids bustled in, their starched white caps glimmering in the sunshine and their gray skirts brushing. “I think we can eat and strategize at the same time, can we not?”

The Baron did not move. “Well enough. At least this child-Queen has the sense to ask for help when she is out of her depth.”

“If your tongue were any sharper, you would cut your own teeth out,” the Baroness replied. “No more, Perseval. We have waited long enough to have these questions answered. An hour or so over a small meal will do no harm.”

I sank back into the chair as the Baroness rose, and Perseval d’Arcenne hurriedly rose with her. He took her arm and said something in a low tone.

She laughed, tossing her raven hair, and the light was kind to her. Another thing Tristan had inherited; hers was a face that would not collapse with age, the bones a fine structure that would hold to loveliness as long as she breathed. “You are too serious by half. No wonder the poor child is frightened out of her wits!”

“She is the Queen of Arquitaine, and a bloody usurper squats upon the throne, murdering all in his way. We should bend our minds toward keeping our country from full-scale civil war.” He brushed a loose curl from her face. “We have no time for the gentler things, Sílvie, sorely as I miss them.”

Tristan touched my shoulder. I had not even noticed him beside me. “They shall bicker through the soup and finally settle to business after chai,” he said softly. “My father is harsh, but he has a fine mind, and he’s loyal to the Aryx.”

I nodded. “I can tell as much. All is well, Captain. Though I would dearly love more sleep, for all that I had a surfeit this morning.” I sought to ease him — after all, I had traveled with the R’mini and simply endured, and before that I had dealt with stronger shocks than a sitting-room conversation over soup.

“After an engagement, some soldiers love to sleep. I think you are no less battle-weary, Vianne.” His hand did not move from my shoulder, and something in the pressure of it was very improper, though his fingers did not move. “My father has made arrangements for us to visit the Temple this evening. If you have not changed your mind.”

I took his hand, our fingers lacing together. “I would think you would be wary of how much trouble I seem to attract.”

His mouth quirked. “You seem to be constantly escaping trouble, tis certain.”

“How dire is it?” For I needed to know.

He shrugged. Now that he had moved into the light, blue highlights in his dark hair showed, and the lines of worry about his mouth and eyes were clearly visible. “Dire enough that my father would press you to act quickly. Di Narborre is making himself troublesome, and there has been little news other than d’Orlaans seeking to keep control of the nobles. The plague is ravaging, and—” He saw my expression and ceased, closing his mouth firmly.

Plague and restive nobles. “I am well enough. I must hear it all.”

“You’ve gone pale. And you’re swaying, Vianne.”

“I think tis relief.” It was a lie, but merely one to ease him. “I am heartened, Tristan. As long as you are alive, all will be well.”

Why did he look so troubled at that? The Blessed knew the news was terrible enough. But was this sadness for something I had done, something I had said? I had certainly caused him enough worry.

His face did ease, so perhaps I had not been entirely useless in that regard. “Thank you, m’chri. I will strive to be worthy of your faith.”

“You could strive to bring her some soup and a sweetroll,” his mother said laughingly. She was supervising the laying of the table. The Baron inspected both of us, his arms folded as the servants set out the china. I suffered a brief flash of unreality — less than two days ago I had been scrubbing pots in a R’mini camp. Now I watched the serving maids, one middle-aged matron and two fresh-faced girls, and I wondered who they were. Did they possess Consorts, sweethearts, fathers, brothers — men who could die if I made the wrong decisions? And what of the suffering that attended war? I had read more than enough Tiberian histories to know what misfortunes followed in an army’s wake.

Tis not merely Tristan and the Guard, or a few lone peasants. Every person I see could come to harm because I have the Aryx, and d’Orlaans will kill to keep Arquitaine. He must be mad, to murder his brother and niece. Mad. And di Narborre — how did he find us in the Shirlstrienne? Was he the author of that terrible spell, or was it the Duc? What hope have I of fighting a Court sorcerer that powerful without losing myself to the Aryx? “Captain?”

“What thought has struck you now, m’chri?” Lightly, but with an edge.

“How did di Narborre track us?”

He seemed almost relieved by the question. “Di Palanton, almost certainly. It gave him enough for the tracking spell. The Duc is a fair Court sorcerer, Vianne, perhaps the strongest in Arquitaine. Yet you have the Aryx.” His voice dropped to a murmur.

I nodded, resting my head against the back of the chair. If it came to fighting d’Orlaans as a sorcerer, would I be able to endure the Aryx’s swallowing of my soul?

If I must, I must. And Tristan will bring me back to myself, will he not? “Tell me what I must do, Left Hand.”

“I would suggest partaking of luncheon, as you certainly need it. Tonight we shall visit the Temple. Tomorrow there will be dispatches, and plenty of work. For today, my father will ask questions, and we shall answer as best we can.”

“You eat, and answer. I might merely sit and think.” Since I can see very few avenues that do not end with death and blood.

Very few? No. I cannot see a single one.

“You worry me.” His mouth curled into a smile. “We shall have to stuff you like a partridge, to regain your lost health.”

That won a weary laugh from me. “What can I say? This would tax any constitution, even a di Rocancheil’s. I am glad you are here.”

“Tris, m’fils, as you love the lady, bring her to the table,” the Baroness interrupted. “She is so thin it makes me hungry to look at her. Come, child, have a cup of chai and some sweetrolls. Cook is a genius, and she is quite pleased to have a royal to cosset.”

A stray memory of Head Cook Amys pierced me. I wondered how she fared — and if she was preparing eels for d’Orlaans.

If she is, may he choke on them.

I let the Baroness bully me into eating, though I barely tasted Cook’s cosseting. I was too busy pondering what Baron d’Arcenne would ask of me.

Now I must plan for Arquitaine. I have come this far, but there is more yet to do. Much, much more. My eyes strayed to Tristan, who had folded his snowy napkin into a flower and presented it to his mother with a mischievous smile. She laughed, and I could see how her husband and son prized her.

I wish my mother… What could I wish for, that would not be ungrateful? I looked down into my chai-cup, the specks of leaf in the swirling liquid making a pattern for a bare moment before twas whisked away.

I have no time for regret. I must think of Arquitaine. Everything is different now, and I must be different, too.

Chapter Thirty-One

The Temple of Arcenne stood above the town, blocks of white stone on the mountainside. Inside, incense-scented quiet enfolded me. I had rarely been in a temple since my Coming-of-Age, and Lisele’s Coming-of-Age ceremony a year after.

I breathed in, looking about. Thirty-six provinces, three each for the Blessed both old and new. The six that were, and the six who came, all watch over our land.

It was a teaching-rhyme, and an old one. The Angoulême and his armies had brought their gods, and the arms of Arquitaine had opened to both. The Old Blessed — the old gods of hedgewitchery and harvest — had greeted the New Blessed, of war and conquest, hearth and hunt, trade and sorcery. The Aryx was a relic of that time, granted by the gods themselves at the Field d’Or, when the invading army and the defending had gone to their knees on the battlefield, a great light breaking over both.

Or so twas said, and I had never disbelieved it. Or truly believed it, for that matter. Teaching-rhymes were all very well, but I preferred Tiberian histories, dry tomes of hedgewitch charms and plant lore, and the comfort of dusty pages, where scratches of ink did not require such decisions of me.

The rest of the Guard gathered outside in the falling dusk. Jierre and di Chatillon stayed behind with Adersahl, but a contingent of Citadel Guard accompanied us up the hill, Tristan on his horse and I on a docile white palfrey from the Arcenne stables. It was strange to ride sidesaddle again, let alone in the midst of a procession.

A round, smiling priest of Danshar, Jiserah’s husband, took our names, not remarking on the Aryx against my dress. He wrote out the contract, we signed three copies, and he sealed two to be kept — one in the Temple, one sent to the Great Archive in Avignienne by carrier pigeon. Though d’Orlaans might well be watching the Archive, yet it did not matter.

Even the Duc could not gainsay me in this matter.

The third copy he gave to Tristan’s parents, to be archived in the Citadel library. With that done, the Baron and Baroness took their leave to wait outside — and Tristan accompanied me into the empty main hall of the Temple.

Tristan’s arm settled over my shoulders. Candles burned before the statues of the gods, the New Blessed and those brought out of the fabled Old Country by Edouard Angoulême and our ancestors — Danshar the Warrior-King, patron of Arquitaine; Jiserah the Gentle, his Consort; Kimyan the Huntress; Alisaar the goddess of love; Cayrian the god of thieves and trade. There were foreign gods too: Taidee the Eastron Mother-Goddess; the round-bellied Hoteei, god of luck from those parts beyond Torkai.

I considered making an offering to him, I was luckier than any woman had a right to be. My fingers touched the Aryx. “Or unluckier,” I murmured.

“Vianne?” Tristan was suddenly attentive.

“Merely a thought spoken aloud.” I straightened my shoulders, gathered my skirts. There was no time for a betrothal dress, not that I minded the lack. The more quickly we could accomplish this, the better. “Where is our priestess?”

“Here,” a clear female voice drifted between the clouds of incense and the slender fleurs-di-lisse pillars. “One moment.”

We waited at the end of the hall, my eyes drawn up to the benevolent faces of the stone statues. Hoteei was to our left, squatting over an altar heaped with food offerings — it seemed Arcenne had been lucky lately.

Or the peasantry were seeking to avert the plague. Gentle Jiserah and Havarik the Physicker, Alisaar’s Consort, also had many offerings before them. Danshar glowered, since his altar was bare. None wished the Warrior King to come a-riding.

Why has the plague not struck Arcenne? I had asked aloud, earlier.

The Baron’s grim reply made my stomach turn on itself, knotting terribly. The sickness has not struck a province that has refused d’Orlaans.

The priestess came down the central walk, between the statues and the columns. She wore a dark robe, belted with silver, and her shaven head told me she was of Kimyan’s elect. My heart leapt, hammering in wrists and ears and throat like a bird struggling in a trap.

She stopped before us, a woman with the sharp face of Arcenne, her eyes a clear, light gray, disturbing in her hawklike face. I could see why this woman was one of the Huntress’s — she certainly looked like Kimyan’s statues. The Huntress took maids, or those sworn to celibacy, and with her twin-Consort Torvar they ruled the harvest and the hunt. Yet many women cried to Kimyan in childbirth, and she and her adoptive brother were said to watch over fools and drunkards as well.

“Greetings.” The priestess placed her hands together, bowing. Her gaze moved over me with no surprise at all, and if the Aryx gave her a start she concealed it well. “You are here to contract a Consort before the gaze of the gods.”

Tristan’s arm tightened on my shoulders.

Courage, Vianne. This is not so difficult as slipping unremarked through the Palais or scrubbing pots, now, is it? The answer was mine to give, so I gathered myself and gave it. “I — yes.” My voice fell flat in the fragrant smoke of incense.

The priestess nodded. “Follow me to Jiserah’s altar, then, and may the gods smile upon you.”

“My thanks,” I managed around the lump in my throat.

“So there is something that frightens you,” Tristan leaned down to whisper in my ear. A mad snicker rose up inside me, was choked by propriety, and died away. Yet it left relief in its wake. As long as he was with me, this would be easy.

Or if not easy, then at least conquerable.

We walked, Tristan’s arm over my shoulders, and childhood training rose inside me. My mother had been religious, or so I had been told, a devotee of Jiserah. Her tiny, gem-encrusted statuette of the Gentle One remained at Court, in my rooms — or perhaps it had been taken for some reason. The thought of my mother’s statue in d’Orlaans’s limp white hands hurt me somehow, though I had seldom looked at its calm face since my arrival at Court lo those many years ago.

As things stood, I could perhaps see becoming slightly less irreligious.

Kimyan’s priestess halted before Jiserah’s altar. The Gentle’s statue was white marble, polished to a creamy shine, threads of gold inlaid in her robes. Her eyes were closed, her face unlined and serene; yet the jewel set in her forehead sparked with its own light, peering into the hearts of men and women alike.

The priestess turned to face us, producing a long cord of white silk. I glanced up at Tristan, who studied the other woman intently. “Left hands,” she said, kindly enough. “Your names, an it please you.”

Tristan did not let loose of my shoulders. I lifted my left hand. “Vianne Athenaisse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, in the sight of the gods.”

The Aryx spoke, a rill of muted melody. The priestess smiled. “Peace be with you, Vianne.”

“And also with you.” My throat was dry and my heart knocked afresh against my ribs.

Tristan’s right arm was over my shoulder, but he reached across his body to take my left hand in his. “Tristan Dijian d’Arcenne, in the sight of the gods.”

“Peace be with you, Tristan.”

“And also with you.” He sounded so calm, while my knees shook. What if he changes his mind? Oh, gods, I am not brave enough for this.

I remember little of the actual vows, except that they were — it gave me a shock to hear — the old pledges, longer and more archaic in their phrasing, as well as more violent in their content. No yearlong liaison, but a permanent Consort contract.

This meant I could divorce myself of him with traditional ease simply by returning the marriage band, but he was not free to do the same unless I repudiated him in a Temple and he took a year-vow of seclusion.

Such things are not done nowadays. At least, not often.

Tristan had produced the copper marriage bands while we signed the papers. They glittered in the temple’s smoky light. He spoke his “So I will” in a clear firm voice, and I as well, though my hand shook and my heart did its best to free itself of my chest and go merrily running toward the woods.

The priestess, her fingers quick and deft, wrapped the cord around my wrist, around his, tied the complex knot. “Bound in the sight of the gods, let nothing separate your hearts now. One in thought, one in word, one in deed; be honorable, honor each other and the gods will smile upon you.” Her clear gray gaze searched first my face, then Tristan’s. The Aryx glittered, power sparking from the serpent curves, its gemmed eyes winking as the metal writhed, tiny scales rasping cat-tongue at my dress. “By my hand and my vows, I pronounce you wed from this moment. Go forth happily, and may peace be with you.”

“And also with you,” I answered, Tristan’s voice matching mine. It was strange to hear us speak in unison.

The priestess’s fingers flicked again, freeing us. She took the cord to Jiserah’s altar, up three steps. A copper brazier fumed there; she tossed the cord onto the coals. There was a brief burst of perfumed smoke, and Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort, in the eyes of the gods and the law.

My knees threatened to give. Tristan steadied me. “There,” he said quietly. “Was that so horrible?”

I bit back another shaky, relieved laugh. “I seem to be a coward.” My fingers tightened in his. “Tristan, she spoke the old vows. I—”

“I wished it so. There are those who would say that I forced you into a contract to secure a hold on power. There are those who would—”

“I would not believe them,” I interrupted.

He seemed almost to wince. “Then I am content. Gods grant me the strength to honor your trust from this moment.” He glanced up, his forehead furrowed. “Where did she go?”

“I should beg your pardon,” a woman’s voice came from behind us, echoing down the columned hall. “I am late, I know, but there was a fevered sister, and I had to wait until someone could relieve me.”

We turned to find a priestess of Jiserah hurrying down the central aisle, her green and white robes glimmering in the dim light. “I am Danae,” she said, her round cheeks scarlet as she puffed. “D’mselle, chivalier, pardon me, and if you will just give me a moment, we shall have the ceremony.”

“We already did. The priestess of Kimyan—” Then I realized the priestess had not given us her name. “The gray-eyed one. She was at the altar but a moment ago.”

Danae stopped short, her robes shushing. She had a round, pleasant face, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. “Your pardon, d’mselle. But we have no priestesses of Kimyan here. We have not for two years. There are two priests for the Huntress — Shoyo and Dijirich — but they do not perform weddings. We have none of Torvar’s Elect either.”

“Then who—” I turned to gaze at the statue of Jiserah.

As I did, the Aryx sparked again, the serpents moving. The priestess gasped and fell to her knees, her face open and transported. Blazing, shocking in the dark torchlit gloom, the statue of Jiserah pulsed with light.

I did not kneel — my knees were now locked. The Aryx filled me, a rushing tide of melody prickling at my skin, as if I were a fruit bursting at the point of ripeness, light and song and power straining at the borders of my consciousness. The doors inside my head trembled on the verge of opening, I sought to look away, to deny the power rising in me.

No. Not now. Leave me in peace.

Tristan’s arm fell from my shoulders. He sank to one knee, his face upturned. I knew this even though I dared not look, the light filling my vision. The statue glowed, scorched, sizzled, white marble running with life. Iron bands seized my skill, the brightness threatening me with the half-head — strong light is dangerous, it can trigger the pain swiftly.

As quickly as it had happened, though, it was gone. Welcome dimness returned to my dazzled vision, and the Aryx’s melody quickly faded, draining away. I sighed and sagged, reached blindly for my Captain’s shoulder. What was that?

“Tristan?” My voice was a pale shadow.

He rose slowly, his face tilted up to the statue of Jiserah, now mute and dark, only torchglow running over the marble. “Vianne.” Hoarse and pale, drawn and sweating, he seemed awakened from a dream. Or a nightmare. “Do you doubt yourself, even now?”

I found I did not know how to answer.

“I…I am sorry. Your Majesty.” The priestess rose behind us, I could hear her robes moving, cloth against cloth. “I think…” But she did not say what she thought, and I did not care to guess. “I did not know. Forgive me. I did not know you were—”

Oh, gods. This is the last straw the cart-horse can bear. “Not a word of this. I shall have your silence, m’dama priestess.” I forced myself to turn away from the statue, chills roughening my skin into gooseflesh. “An it please you.”

She was pale, her apple-cheeks now flour-white. And the way she gazed upon me was uncomfortable, for it was the same face I suspected she turned on the statue of her goddess during prayers. “But — but the goddess — that is a blessing, and you are the holder of—”

“No. Not a word. Your oath, m’dama.” My tone took on an unwontedly hard edge. “Swear by your goddess, not a word of this.”

She swore, finally, in a trembling voice, her gaze fixed on the Aryx, still shifting lazily against my chest. Tristan said nothing until she was finished.

“Do we ask for another wedding, then?” He took my hand. But his own fingers shook. However irreligious one may be in the whirl and glitter of Court, when the Blessed speak, tis wise to listen.

I did not know what this sudden light and strangeness meant. Later I would speak privately with this priestess, and discover what I could. For now, I simply wished to escape, backing away from the sense that a stricture had been laid on me, or that the gods had bent their gaze to earth and suddenly noticed the Seal they had gifted to Arquitaine was alive and in new hands.

Which brought me to the question of whether the gods had been paying attention to the King, his brother, and the tax farmers. And the bandit villages in the Shirlstrienne. And—

But my attention was called in a different direction. I rallied. “I suppose so. Though I might faint, if tis anything like the first.” Might? No. If that happens again, if the Aryx seeks to take charge of me again…but Tristan is here. Nothing can harm me if he is here.

Such faith I had in him.

“Twice-vowed, bound all the more surely.” Very quietly. “To be certain, Vianne.”

I eyed the priestess of Jiserah, who was still chalk-pale. “You do not intend to disappear as soon as the ceremony is over, do you?” I sought for levity. After the fantastical, laughter serves to smooth the fabric of life.

She shook her head, gravely. Her hood fell back, her gray-threaded hair lying sleek-braided. “No, Your Majesty. I am merely a priestess, and an uncertain one at that. The gods have pronounced their will; I can only follow.”

“Wise of you.” Tristan mercifully did not sound as sarcastic as I suspected he wished to. “Let us continue, then, before I lose my courage.”

The second ceremony was a little easier than the first. The priestess stumbled over some of the words, her eyes round as she watched the Aryx’s slow shifting. When she tossed the silk cord onto the brazier, the same puff of perfumed smoke burst free. I waited, nervous, but the priestess came down the steps, turning back to the statue of Jiserah to genuflect quietly, murmuring an old prayer and pulling her hood up to cover her hair.

It was a relief when it was finally over. We thanked her, and Tristan let out a long, jagged breath. “Shall we leave, m’chri?”

“Before aught else happens? Absolutely.” My voice was high and nervous now. I could not seem to take my accustomed tone. “There is a reason why I never went to Temple. Gods have a way of disarranging one.” It was something Comtesse Rochburre might have said. “I have no desire to tarry.”

I half-expected one of the statues to take me to task, but we escaped the Temple without mishap. Standing on the white stone steps, night gathering close, yet another shock awaited me. For when I raised my hand to greet the assembled people, I heard a cheer that fair threatened to shake the Temple off the mountainside.

The townspeople of Arcenne had gathered, drawn perhaps by the procession of armed nobles. Torches flared. The Aryx responded, shaking the air with a welter of melody. I waved, thinking of Lisele’s Coming-of-Age and the crowds in the Citté d’Arquitaine, and the way their cries had blown the snapping silken banners away from the wind.

I had never thought to hear such a baying for me.

I have tied myself to this course even more securely. I glanced up at Tristan. He nodded, his blue eyes dark and thoughtful, spared me a smile that warmed me all the way down to my chilled bones. But he looked strained, and worried. Nothing will ever be right again. Lisele is truly dead, and I am Queen of Arquitaine. Queen without a throne, with a murderous half-uncle nipping at my heels.

I smiled, waving, and arranged my face so the sudden fear would not show. I had practice, after all — I merely wore my accustomed Court mask, and even though I had not had cause to do so for months, it still felt familiar. Not natural, but not strange either.

Tristan helped me to mount the white palfrey, who stood obediently flicking her tail. I lifted a hand as I had often seen the King do. The cheering was immense, I was newly wed, the Aryx was singing — but the weight of responsibility settled on me, grinding into my shoulders more heavily than duty had ever weighed. I did not have time to stop to wonder if the light from a god’s statue was a blessing, a warning, or merely a symptom of the Aryx’s wakefulness.

If I had wondered, I might have felt even more afraid.