The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He hesitated, but I had judged my quarry well. “We are being tracked,” Tinan said, in a low tone. “By who, we cannot tell, but tis sorcery, Robierre says. The Captain agrees.”

  This caused a cascade of unpleasant thoughts, and I spoke unguarded, for once. “But why did not the Captain—”

  “You have worries enough.” Tristan spoke from close enough to cause me to start. I had not even noticed him approaching; he was catfooted even in heavy boots when it suited him. Tinan nodded to me and retreated. “I did not wish your worrying on account of a pack of peasant trash.”

  “Peasants with sorcery? More likely the Duc’s men.” I took a sip of chai. Twas oversweetened—they added stevya to it with abandon, endlessly seeking to bolster my strength. “Bandits seem hardly capable of noble sorcery.”

  “There, you see? You are worrying, exactly what I wished to avoid.” He touched my shoulder, ran his fingers over my sleeve. The chai burned me less than his fingers did. “Tracking does not mean catching, Vianne. Once we leave the Shirlstrienne we are but a few days away from the borders of Arcenne, especially if we brave the Alpeis.”

  “The Alpeis is full of—” I stopped. It was a childish tale, and one I blushed to repeat in the company of hardened chivalieri.

  “Demieri di sorce. So they say. At least the tales may have kept the bandits away. Who can tell? But you have some of the finest swordsmen and sorcerers in Arquitaine, since entrance into my Guard requires proficiency in Court sorcery. If demieri di sorce haunt the Shirlstrienne, steel or sorcery will keep you safe.”

  I took another sip of chai, leaning against the tree. My knees had once again grown suspiciously weak. “Does nothing frighten you, sieur?”

  “Some things.”

  Ah, there’s an admission. “When have you ever been frightened?” I challenged. He seemed more at ease now, certainly easier than he had ever been at Court. I could see traces of the beating he had received, but not many. They would quickly be gone forever.

  He cast his gaze over the camp, noting, cataloging, ever the Captain. “I lay in a cell and wondered if you had been caught. The thought of you frightened and alone, possibly taken by the Duc, without knowing what game you had been caught in—that frightened me.” He smoothed his fingers down my shoulder. He did not look at me; he gazed at the fire, his clean profile presented as a sculpture. “Certainly, seeing you taken with fever, so ill you did not even recognize us—that frightened me. You have a talent for striking fear into my heart, Vianne.”

  I sighed, took another sip of chai. “You should sup, Captain. You look ill-used.” What a magnificent thing to say. Why does he bring forth the idiot in me?

  He smiled, an open boyish grin. “Well, at least you notice me now. That is something to be grateful for, no?”

  My breath caught. I could find absolutely nothing to say.

  He waited, his smile broadening. He looked like a boy caught stealing apples, yet supremely confident the punishment would be slight. “Where is that sharp tongue of yours? Nevermind. Do not trouble yourself, d’mselle. All is well.”

  I gathered my courage, held my cup, and reached with my free hand to touch his elbow. My fingers brushed against his cloak’s damp roughness. “I do not worry for my safety. I worry for yours.”

  He shrugged, turning his head aside to gaze at the fire as if it held a secret. “I treasure that, m’chri, I truly do.”

  My gaze fell. Twas not just a King’s jest. Or does he think to treat me lightly? No, he is not the kind for dalliance, or else I would have heard of it, would I not? Though there was so much I did not hear.

  It was no use. There was a question I burned to ask, and it escaped me before I could bolt my mouth shut. “Why did you watch me, Captain?”

  “I had to, for your safety.” He checked, drawing back whatever he had intended to say next as a falconer will pull a lure. “You look pale.”

  “I feel a trifle pale.” It is the fever speaking. He does not favour you, he favours his revenge. My hand fell to my side, and I sought not to feel the needleprick to my heart. I took refuge in formality. “I beg your pardon, chivalier. You would already be in Arcenne but for me.”

  “Not without riding the horses to death.” Thoughtful now, still considering the fire. “I thank the gods you saw me in the passage, though I do not cherish the thought of you witnessing Simieri’s death. Had I not been watching—had you not met me by chance—I would be beheaded in the Bastillion and you perhaps dead or wedded to the Duc.”

  Later, I would think of this conversation as if I held it suspended in crystal, like the classic Illusionne Iluminatrixe. I would think of it as the moment Tristan d’Arcenne spoke to me without reserve for the first time. I would think of it, as well, as the moment some tiny internal weight shifted—the first small stones falling in advance of an avalanche, the first thin drops that herald a storm, the uneasy waves that mark the sea’s furious rising.

  The first time I realized what I felt for him.

  It is ever so—those moments pass unremarked, and it is only later, in the wreckage, that one realizes where the fatal seed was planted. But at that moment, under the pinon tree in the vastness of the Shirlstrienne, I merely shivered. “I do not cherish that thought. Tristan…”

  I meant ask him if he truly favoured me, and swallowed the question just in time. It was not a question a well-bred woman should ask. Another query rose to my lips: if Simieri had been in the passage to catch me, bring me to the Duc as the conspiracy boiled to its climax, why did Tristan say it was by chance? Had he followed the Minister, or had he been watching me?

  By chance, he said. A good chance, I should think, for it saved me from di Narborre’s tender attentions, not to mention the Duc’s.

  I did not care to think on it too closely. I could always ask him later, when my head was not so muzzy.

  “Vianne.” He still looked away, but the set of his shoulders warned me something was afoot. Luc di Chatillon was stirring something—stew; one of the Guard had brought down a brace of woodsfowl. The rain was slackening, finally, its endless rushing retreating to spatters falling from soaked leaves. Tristan d’Arcenne gathered himself afresh and bolted forward, much as a duelist would. “If we were still at Court and I left a token for you, what would you do?”

  For a few heartbeats, I thought I had not heard him aright. Then I knew I had.

  He does favour me. If he had declared his intent to take an oath of celibacy and spend his life in the service of Kimyan, I could not have been more surprised.

  As it was, I almost choked on my chai. But everything lightened within me, as if the Aryx held me in that hall of golden light and unlocked doors. Only this was a different gold; the vastness of a meadow inside me. “I suppose I would send you a token in return,” I finally managed, around the beating of my heart high in my throat. “And ask you to meet me by the stairs from the herb garden.” I paused, judiciously, but not too long. “Perhaps,” I added, for to seem too forward was not what a noblewoman should do.

  His breathing had quickened, and two spots of color burned on his hollow cheeks. “What token would you send me, then?”

  I leaned against the tree, sighing internally. Why now? Of all the… If only we were at Court, and safe. Though it seems Court was more perilous than even I thought. “Tis not polite to ask. But I would not have refused yours, chivalier.” Would I? Mayhap. But not for long. And if I did not suspect you of any interest in doing my Princesse harm. Perhaps we would have had some small luck, you and I.

  His mouth quirked into another, gentler smile, one I found I liked almost as much as the boyish, proud grin. “I certainly hope not. I would be terribly embarassed if you did.”

  I strove for a light, laughing tone, failed miserably. We were at Court no longer, and coquetry was out of place here. Still, the habit steadied me. “I am certain you would have been able to overcome the embarrassment.” I took another sip of my oversweetened chai. Though it was not the chai that gave me fresh strength, t
he warmth of it was welcome.

  “Not likely. You could strike me to the heart, did you realize it.” His eyebrows drew together. “Are you certain you are hale? You are pale, and your hands shake. Do not think I do not notice.”

  I closed my eyes. “I wish we were somewhere safe. Anywhere but here.” Twas ungrateful of me, perhaps.

  “So do I. For now, however…” Amazingly, he stepped close and slid his arm around me, so I leaned against him rather than the tree. None of the Guard seemed to notice. In fact, none of them looked at us at all, which was odd. “Rest.”

  I laid my head on his shoulder, hearing the fire hiss. The rain slacked even more, thunder dying in the distance. “The storm is passing.”

  “We can only hope.” His tone did not admit of much hope, and I silently agreed.

  Why was Tristan in the passage? Why was Simieri truly there? I sighed, the thoughts disappearing under a weight of weariness.

  His was a welcome heat in the eternal, damnable, dragging damp. It was a day for strange things, for he bent his head down and kissed my wet, disheveled hair. I felt a tingle of Court sorcery along my nerves.

  New warmth stole through me. Slowly, a little life crept back into my numb fingers and toes. It was merely a simple charm, but it felt wonderful. I finished my chai, slowly, luxuriating in dry warmth. “I never knew you were such a Court sorcerer.”

  “I was born with some talent, and I’ve studied. Lean on me, Vianne.”

  And, may the Blessed forgive me, all questions fled me. I did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The rain finally stopped, but I noticed little. I was busy swallowing spoonfuls of the hedgewitch’s diminishing tisane and seeking to stay conscious. A great exhaustion settled on me, so large and deep every day took on the quality of a dream except for the Aryx’s sluggish pulse.

  Now that I know what was stalking us, I curse myself for not recognizing it in time.

  I remember the Sun briefly smiling upon us the thirteenth day as we rode through a meadow, the nodding wet heads of dandille flowers smiling up at the cloudy sky. We pulled our horses to a halt—at least, they did; I was too busy hanging to the pommel. The sudden sunlight made our cloaks steam, and Tinan di Rocham laughed and sang a few lines of a hymn of praise to Jiserah.

  I did not think him a religious man, being so young. But I took note, though it cost me some effort to do so. I knew them all by now, and some part of me was ashamed at how I hoarded my knowledge, added to it, all in service of someday, perhaps, saving them from themselves.

  The Sun helped clear my head, and I straightened my spine, the Aryx sparking under my shirt. Why do I feel so odd? This is not fever.

  Something teased at the corner of my memory, something—

  —but the Sun hid himself behind a cloud, and I sank back against Tristan, who stroked my hand before we continued on. The sense of something badly amiss returned, but I was too draggled to try to discover the source of the feeling. When I had the energy to think, I realized this should intrigue me.

  Then a cloud would descend upon me. Why bother? All was amiss since the moment I had climbed to the servants’ passage and discovered violence and conspiracy. My nerves were simply threadbare, as any gently-born woman’s would be.

  One night I woke to a great blundering in the forest, branches snapping as something crashed close to our camp. I clawed my way out of sleep, bolting to my feet as steel sang loose from sheaths around me, the Guard all rising. Those on watch had arrows nocked, I know, because Tristan arrived at my side and pushed me back down to the bedroll, then stood poised with a bow in his hands, an arrow to the string. The shield of magic over our small camp held firm, its edges blending seamlessly with the night. Yet my heart knocked fearfully against my ribs, and I smelled something foul that fair threatened to swoon me back into my blankets. Twas merely a breath, and I choked on it before it vanished and I pushed myself painfully up to my knees, staring into utter darkness lit only by an edge of banked firelight.

  The crashing and snapping faded.

  “Demieri di sorce,” someone whispered. Whoever it was, in the dark they sounded very young, but twas not Tinan di Rocham.

  “More likely a treecat,” someone else replied. “Or an ursine.”

  “Enough.” Tristan’s tone sliced through the mutters. “We stand fast, and double watch.”

  He did not mention sorcery, and none of the others did either. I was not sure what I had sensed in the darkness, being possessed of no woodscraft at all. Yet I wondered, when I could find the strength to wonder.

  On the twentieth day of our entrapment in that dismal forest, something else happened.

  The rain had briefly ceased but clouds still filled the sky’s eye, and the dark of the Shirlstrienne seemed more than the shade of trees and clouds. We rode single-file, following Robierre and Pilippe, who conversed in low voices. They seemed to disagree over our course, for the first time.

  Prickles of unease roiled over my skin. I raised my head from the languor trapping me, weighting my body. “Tristan?” My voice was foggy, slurred as if I had been at mead during a wedding celebration.

  “What is it?” Worried, far more worried than I had ever heard him before. It was not right—the Captain, my Captain, should not sound so.

  My unease crested, sparking through the dragging weight. When had I become so heavy, so inert? “Something is wrong,” I managed, my lips not quite meeting.

  “Halt!” Tristan called. Between one step and the next, the hair rose on my nape.

  A shrill whistle split the air. A crossbow quarrel buried itself in the leafy mould before Robierre’s horse, and I let out a short, sharp cry. The Aryx sprang to life, thundering against my chest, a wall of force expanding outward. The doors inside my head revolved, flinging themselves open, and I gasped, struggling to retreat, seeking to close myself away from the riptide of sorcerous force.

  Several of the Guard cursed in surprise. The milky shimmer of a globe-shield blurred in the air. I gasped, my heart laboring, and Tristan’s arm slid around my waist. “Let it go, Vianne.” Quietly, but with great force and utter command. “Let it go. Tis not worth your life.”

  If he had taken any other tone but quiet authority, I would not have heard. As it was, the Aryx’s force glided through me, rumbled in the spaces between my veins…

  …and the globe shimmered, folding down into the earth, draining away.

  Most of the Guard had their bows out, and Jierre di Yspres held up a hand, the red glimmer of a firebolt limning his fingers. Twas a showy way to strike an enemy, but a bolt of Court sorcery would unerringly find its target—once Jierre caught a glimpse of whatever that target should be.

  “Bandits,” Tristan said crisply. “Let them show themselves, if they dare.” Then, more quietly, in my ear, “Do not use the Aryx again, m’chri, not even to guard us. The fever will return if you do.”

  “Tristan—” My head fell back against his chest. Something had just become clear to me, some idea just on the very tip of my tongue. It fled, and I could have cursed with frustration had I not needed my breath. The Seal muttered, disconsolate, its pulse as tardy as my own.

  “A fine morn to you, sieurs,” someone called from the woods, a weird directionless voice. I recognized the hint of greenbreath sorcery—it was a hedgewitch charm to distort the sound of one’s voice, and I felt a weary satisfaction at finally remembering a charm on my own, without my books. “Welcome to the Shirlstrienne.”

  “A fine welcome, served on a crossbow bolt,” Jierre di Yspres returned clearly.

  “Nobody was hit,” the voice answered, cheeky as a Citté urchin. “So you have naught to complain of, sieurs. We have yet to discuss your toll for passage.”

  “A tollmaster should show his face,” Jierre barked. “Not hide behind a peasant charm. Coward.”

  “I like the word cautious. Not that it matters—Adrien Jirlisse does not care. Now, sieurs, your purses, and be quick. You may leave them on the road, and we shall let
you pass unhindered.” The voice, directionless, filtered through the dark woods.

  I heard an odd trilling whistle.

  I suddenly understood the Guard were spreading out, ready to commence a battle with sorcery or steel.

  Just like men. Why must this all be so difficult? A solution suggested itself, and I lunged for some certainty in the soup my brain had become.

  “Wait!” Silence descended on the forest. I was half surprised I’d been able to voice so clear a cry.

  “A d’mselle. Well. This is a surprise.” And indeed, the directionless voice sounded surprised.

  Careful, Vianne. You are playing for the safety of others, be quick and cunning. “Are you the same Adrien Jirlisse they sing of?” My tone was pitched to carry, and the Aryx rang under my words. Its pulse had hurried, shaking off deadly languor.

  “What are you doing?” Tristan hissed in my ear.

  Do not trouble me at the moment, Captain. I am otherwise engaged. I ignored him. “The one they call the Scourge of Shirlstrienne?” My entire body was leaden, but my wits suddenly returned. If there are more hidden in the trees, we may fight free but at a cost. If I can feed this man’s pride he may well let us pass; tis not worth a bandit’s time to fight a pitched battle against nobles on warhorses, even though we are few.

  Let us hope I am right.

  “I might be.” Now he sounded pleased. “Tis good to see a woman who knows quality.”

  Ah. So we may bargain, my fine friend. I struggled to force my tongue to work. “I am no merchant’s wife, to test the cut of a word. Tis sung you are passing fond of riddles, sieur.”

  Murmurs among the Guard. I prayed they would not do anything silly. Other murmurs, too—if my ears did not fail me, there were bandits in every direction.

  Dear gods, let this pique his interest. We may yet avoid bloodshed.

  “Twenty of them.” Tristan murmured. “Vianne—”

  “I might be,” the directionless voice repeated. Yet there was an edge to the words that had not been there before. “And you are?”