The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Chapter Eight

  I did not break my fast, and d’Arcenne did not notice. He was too busy giving orders and planning. I simply sought to stay out of the way.

  I alternated between silently reciting Tiberian verbs and hedgewitch charms. It was the only thing I could think to do. I leaned against a firgan tree and went through the first twenty Tiberian verbs, each declension a rough martial song, then recited a charm to salve a bruise. Now I could remember a dozen more—a charm to take infection from a wound, a charm to still bleeding, a charm to make a wounded person sleep and so, conserve their strength.

  When it mattered most, I had been able to remember only a charm to mend a scullery maid’s hand. A miserable hedgewitch, in truth. I was determined that should I witness another death, I would do all in my limited power to prevent it.

  All, Vianne? That was another question, one which occupied me greatly.

  We set out through the fog’s eerie muffling, and I again kept myself leaning away from Tristan as long as I possibly could. The motion of the horse and my own numb hunger conspired to put me in a half-slumbrous state.

  Moisture dropped from the slender trees, underbrush gemmed with crystal drops, the birds finishing their dawn chorus and settling into the day’s gossip. Yet they were hushed, whispering—perhaps they, too, knew that the King was dead, and conspiracy stalked Arquitaine.

  I thought on all the hedgewitch charms I knew, seeking to fix each of them more firmly into memory. At the Palais I would have my books—I wondered what had happened to my books, whether they were still in my bedchamber or if they had been taken. Surely the Duc must have known by now that I had escaped with Tristan. Or did he? Did he think I had left the Palais alone? Who else could have freed the Captain? Anyone loyal to him, certainly. Had there been anyone loyal to Tristan left in the Palais by the time the Duc was finished with his well-laid plans?

  I missed odd things. My mother-of-salt comb, a keepsake from my mother. A bite of Cook Amys’s honeycake. The scent of my pillows, the blue silk ribbon I had left carelessly draped across my mirror. The small silver gryphon statue Lisele had gifted me with on my naming-day last year, its eyes glowing rubies.

  We rode all day, the copses blurring together and the clearings becoming more infrequent. I must have slept, barely waking when we stopped for luncheon and to rest the horses. Someone pushed a sweetroll and a thick slice of cheese into my hands, and a cup of chai, but my stomach turned to a roiling mass of snakes when I raised the sweetroll to my lips. I held the bread and cheese until I ascertained which way I should go to relieve myself, leaving the cup on the leaf-scattered ground.

  I threw the sweetroll into the bushes, and followed it with the cheese, sore tempted to send a muttered curse after both. A small charm to preserve my modesty, and another small charm to clean oneself afterward—at least I was hedgewitch enough for that. Here in the wilderness, it was easy. The charm took its power from the trees and earth, not from me. Thank the Blessed, for I was numb, and light. My forehead felt cold and wet to my hot, dry fingers when I pushed stray strands of hair back, seeking to repair my braid.

  I did not go very far from the Guard, and when I reappeared, Tinan di Rocham handed me my cup again. “Drink it, and it please you, d’mselle. You are pale.”

  I raised the cup to my lips, but did not drink. The smell of chai made my stomach cramp, and I feared I would retch most unbecomingly. I lowered it gingerly, and he seemed satisfied.

  “That will help you. Do you need aught?” His fair young face was concerned. I wondered what he would have made of d’Arcenne’s commands to kill two helpless peasants.

  What I need, young chivalier, you cannot give. Leave me be. I shook my head, and as soon as he was gone I tipped the chai unobtrusively into a thornbush. My stomach eased a little, but did not cease its boiling. My arms and legs ached, and my head split with pain. I longed for my bed, or for a certain window seat in the White Gallery. From that casement one could watch the gardens below, and bask in the Sun at any season. Lisele and I had often hidden there as children, pulling the pale draperies closed to hide from prying eyes, whispering and giggling as our dolls had adventures on the broad gold-figured satin of the seat.

  We did not stop for long, and soon I was back atop the horse with Tristan d’Arcenne behind me. I tried again to avoid touching him—an impossible feat on horseback—and was again defeated by my third recitation of the second class of verbs. I fell into a dreamy haze, and was glad of it as the day wore on.

  Nightfall came, and still we continued, skirting the fields of Vanstrienne to the east. The country grew thick with hills and stands of broader oak and vastvain trees; we passed many a country lane and small brook. I heard someone remark this was Adersahl’s home province, and he knew it well. There was a manse, and some discussion of whether we could afford to rest there, sleep in real beds. But it was too dangerous—to Adersahl’s family and to us. It was decided to simply push on through the night. In three days’ time we should reach the place where a dark finger-dagger of the Shirlstrienne pointed into the heart of Arquitaine, and would be safe enough in that belt of forest—especially as it widened and became an ocean of trees, the Shirlstrienne proper.

  Safe enough. Except for the bandits.

  I found I did not care.

  D’Arcenne occasionally made a remark into my captive ear, but I told myself I did not hear him and soon enough he did not speak to me. I occupied myself with reciting charms, and when I could no longer think of such things, simply staring at the horse’s mane.

  We stopped just before moonrise at a small brook, and I was led to a pad of two blankets that someone—perhaps Tinan—had put between the roots of a tall spreading chestnut tree in full leaf. I dropped down and pulled my knees up, resting my forehead atop them, stray strands of my hair falling forward to screen me. I had neither time nor energy to comb or braid; even the thought filled me with unutterable weariness. I shut my eyes and wished for sleep, but I seemed to have found an exhaustion too deep for slumber.

  The men spoke in low voices and I ignored them, shutting the sound out as much as I could, simply enduring. They offered me chai, again, and cold mince pie, but I did not answer, pulling more tightly into myself. There was some argument, then. Jierre di Yspres asking me to eat, Tinan di Rocham saying I looked fevered, Luc di Chatillon remarking we had no time for women’s vapors, and Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche telling him sharply to hold his tongue. I found if I concentrated on the blood soughing in my ears I could ignore them much more effectively.

  Finally, the food was taken away, there was more low but heated discussion, and d’Arcenne came and touched my shoulder. “Tis time to leave, d’mselle.”

  I rose to my feet slowly but obediently enough, my eyes fixed on the ground, and was placed atop d’Arcenne’s horse. But he did not ride behind me—instead, he walked the horse, and I had to keep my balance. My entire body became a song of agony, and I noticed the other Guards walking their mounts, too.

  I slumped in the saddle, struggling now to stay conscious as deeper darkness fell over the world.

  At some point, in the middle of the night, the Guard remounted. I leaned into d’Arcenne’s warmth with a traitorous feeling of relief. Now, instead of fighting to stay awake I tried to relax enough to slumber, yet I could not.

  D’Arcenne began to speak. Quietly, his breath touching my ear or my cheek. I did not listen to his tale—something about Arcenne, or a castle in some high mountains, perhaps the impregnable Spire di Chivalier. Something about the trees in bloom, and the light on the white shoulders of snowy rock. It changed to something that vaguely alarmed me, a muttering as if Court sorcery were being cast—but I could not hear it through the sough of blood in my ears.

  I cannot quite remember when I slipped into a twilight unsleep. Eventually there was a cessation of motion, and someone’s cold fingers on my forehead. The coolness felt wonderful, and I made a shapeless sound. “Feverish,” someone said from very far away. “
…did not eat.”

  “Shock.” D’Arcenne, right next to my ear, though I could not tell if I was still a-horseback or on solid ground. “Give me your flask.”

  “Tis ansinthe,” di Yspres said. “Bad for a hedgewitch. Only a little, now.”

  The flask was forced between my lips, and I took two swallows of something gag-sweet that burned all the way down. I coughed, and heard my own voice, slow and dreamy. “He told them to make certain none lived. To go among the women, and make certain.”

  “Who?” D’Arcenne asked, in the hush that followed.

  The warmth from the ansinthe began to spread through my entire body. With the warmth came a little more strength. Why were they giving me green venom? It was a dangerous cordial; too much of it and a hedgewitch would hallucinate before her internal organs failed one by one. Court sorcery, on the other hand, protected one from its burning. “Di Narborre. You told me to attend Lisele…I was too late. She was bleeding, she died. But they came back, and I hid. He said to make certain.”

  Someone cursed. Someone else drew in a sharp breath. “The Princesse.” Luc di Chatillon sounded shocked. “She saw?”

  “I tried.” I heard myself, slow and slurred as if I had drank too much unwatered wine at a fête. “I used a charm. The bleeding…I was so weak. I tried, Lisele. I tried.”

  “She is fevered.” Jierre di Yspres, heavily. I heard wind in the treetops, or something else. The roaring was my blood pulsing in my ears, and a faint high whine. “Captain?”

  “We ride on.” D’Arcenne’s tone held terrible fury. “We have no choice. We must halt in Tierrce d’Estrienne, and we will find supplies and a hedgewitch physicker there. Once we reach the forest we may tarry longer.”

  “We should halt overnight, mayhap,” di Yspres offered. “She needs care, and rest. I did not know she was so ill.”

  “Tis dangerous to tarry so long,” Adersahl murmured.

  “Do not worry for me,” I heard myself say, in a queer, light, breathless rush. I sounded very young. My knees refused to work properly, I could not feel my hands. “Take the Aryx and leave me. I shall draw them away to the port. I can do that much.”

  “Tristan?” Jierre said. Someone felt at my forehead with chilly fingers.

  There was a long pause. The touch on my forehead gentled, stroked my cheek, slid away. “We ride for Tierrce d’Estrienne,” d’Arcenne said finally. “Keep the ansinthe handy, Jierre.”

  Movement again, but I could not tell if I was standing or lying down. I had only a hazy sense of movement, light and dark spinning around me. Every once in a while the motion would stop, and someone would feel at my damp forehead. I was given more ansinthe, and some hot chai. I felt the brush of Court sorcery and understood someone had boiled water with it, a prosaic and dangerous thing, for Court sorcery could be tracked if strong enough, as hedgewitchery could not. I was apologizing for the trouble, and asking to be left behind.

  Strangeness enfolded me, full of the sound of beating wings. I carried a very large tray of fried eels in butter, as if I were a servant, except I wore the uniform of a Guard and had slippery leather gloves. I carried the tray into a hall, where strange masked faces gathered around. Oh, good! they cried. The eels, the eels!

  I heard Lisele’s laughter, bright and merry. I looked up to the dais, where my Princesse stood with the King, both of them in golden cloth d’or, glittering in red torchlight. The eels, Lisele said, tilting her pretty head. Make certain the eels are dead.

  The bits of fried eels had begun to bleed, crimson overflowing the edges of the massive tray. The masked people grabbed at them with clawed hands, and I realized with a fainting horror they were not masks, they were monsters, the demieri di sorce old stories warned of. I had wandered into their halls and now had to serve them for a thousand years.

  “Hush, Vianne,” someone said. “I am here. Nothing can harm you.”

  The dream vanished. Something against my cheek—fingers? No. What was it? A raindrop?

  The darkness deepened, a quality of starry sleep, deeper than the first. Tristan d’Arcenne’s voice, from very far away, and only a whisper from myself in reply. What was he asking?

  Then I heard, and saw, and felt nothing at all.

  Chapter Nine

  I do not remember reaching Tierrce d’Estrienne under cover of night. I do not remember the Guard entering the town, or the negotiation with the innkeeper. I do not remember being lifted down from the horse and carried, although I must have been, for I was awakened by morning sunlight falling across the foot of a bed.

  I blinked in the flood of light, and the world spun. I smelled clean linen and lavender. Somewhere a fire crackled. Light-headed, I stared for quite some time at the ceiling, heavy beams and plaster, before darkness came. The darkness was my eyelids falling down.

  I am home. It was all a dream. Yet the roof was not the frescoed arch of my own room, and the bed was not mine, for all it was comfortable. I was too exhausted to care. Perhaps I was in the Palais infirmary, there having been some mischance—a hallucination, a fever from the damp in the garden? Lisele would be along shortly to bring me confits and order me to become well soon, for nobody braided her hair as well as I. And no lady or ladymaid laced her as well or as quickly as I did, either.

  There was a short time of darkness. Finally, I heard voices, hushed as if they spoke in an invalid’s room. A woman, and a man.

  “Poor child. She is still very ill, sieur.” Carefully accented, a merchant’s wife, heavily lisping, or drawing out the vowels in imitation of noble speech. For all that, she sounded kind, and I wondered who she was. A nurse? A physicker brought into the Palais?

  “Our other sister died recently, of a similar fever. Twas a great shock to her, and traveling perhaps overmatched her strength.” Jierre di Yspres.

  What is he doing here? I lay very still. Tried to open my eyes, could not, felt work-roughened fingers on my wrist, feeling for the pulse.

  The covers were pulled up almost to my chin. The reason occurred to me slowly, as dripping water soaking through doubled flannel. Of course—the Aryx. Nobody could see the Aryx, because then…what?

  It was not a dream. Lisele will not be along to bring you confits. I struggled to think through the haze.

  “Broth and bread, and milk,” the woman said. “And this tisane, a small cupful thrice daily. Her pulse is weak and thready. I’ll charm her now, sieur, and return tomorrow.” The woman’s hand moved to my forehead, stroked my damp skin, and I smelled the peculiar heavy green of hedgewitchery.

  Something very much like strength flooded me, a quiet warmth starting at my toes and rising through my body, warm and wonderfully cooling at the same time. I sighed.

  A terrible thought struck me. “Tristan? Where are you?” Why does it matter? But I wanted to see d’Arcenne. I wanted to know he was alive. If this was no dream, was he still in the donjon?

  “Seeing to the supplies, Vianne.” Jierre, unwontedly gentle. He addressed me almost tenderly, and that was another mystery. “Rest easy, he’s here.”

  “Her betrothed?” The hedgewitch. They had found a hedgewitch skilled in healing for me. Why? I was not ill.

  The thought coalesced, slowly took shape. Fever. They have stopped in a town, and are in terrible danger. Because of me.

  “Not yet.” Jierre’s tone was strange, as if he sought to hold back laughter.

  “Clear to see he fancies her. And her such a pretty young d’mselle.” The hedgewitch clucked her tongue. “Now, here’s the tisane. And, sieur, not to be moving her for a good three days, that’s my recommend. She is quite ill. If you move her, she may suffer more fever.”

  “My thanks, m’dama.” There was the sound of cloth moving. The hedgewitch’s fingers left my forehead, but the wonderful warmth remained. There was a clink—coin changing hands.

  “Many thanks to you, sieur. Tis touching to see a brother caring for a sister so; and you two all alone in the world now.” The woman sounded chatty as a Court dama, and I
hoped he would let her stay. The sound of a woman’s voice comforted me, reminded me of other voices. At Court, there was always chatter; it was a soothing sea-song behind even the quiet of the bedchamber.

  But no, she left soon after, and my eyelids drifted open. I found Jierre di Yspres pulling a wooden chair up to the bedside. The angle of the sunlight had changed—late afternoon now, instead of morning. The white ceiling and thick beams were the same.

  He saw I was conscious and smiled, his lean, dark face easing for a moment. Yet graven lines of worry bracketed his mouth, a single line between his dark eyebrows too. “Hello, d’mselle.” Softly and carefully. “We are in Tierrce d’Estrienne. The rest of the Guard has gone into the Shirlstrienne to wait for us. Tristan and I brought you to an inn, and contracted a hedgewitch physicker. How do you fare?”

  I found I could speak, though still light-headed and dreamy. “Danger.” I wet my lips with my oddly numb tongue. “For you.”

  He shook his head. “Not so much. The Duc’s spies are seeking a noblewoman fleeing at haste with a group of men four dozen strong. There are letres and heralds in the marketplaces with the wrong description, enough to make one laugh. Garonne di Narborre is probably near to Marrseize by now—the rumor is those phantoms have gone further to the south, to take ship for Tiberia. We have some breathing room, d’mselle. Do not worry so.”

  I sighed. “The Captain?” It was the only question I could think to ask.

  “Sore grieved you’re ill, d’mselle, but otherwise himself. He would not hear of leaving anyone else with you.” Jierre looked very serious now, but the lines had lessened. “He was very pale, when we found you had been struck by fever.”

  Pale? No doubt he thinks of the danger to his men, even if you are too kind to say so. “I beg your pardon,” I whispered. “The trouble.”

  “No trouble, d’mselle. Little good it would do to have you die of fever. We can afford to halt a day or two.” He was seeking to be comforting, I realized, and wondered at it. When had di Yspres turned into a tut-tutting nurse?