I took a deep breath. The hook has been swallowed. Give the line a tug, Vianne. “If you are so fond of riddles, I shall play you a game of riddlesharp. If you win, we shall give up our coin with good grace. If I win, you shall let us pass unmolested.”
The pause that followed was so long I felt sweat prickle under my arms. Please, gods. Please. Let us have no more blood spilled.
“We have you at arrowpoint, d’mselle. Why should I play riddlesharp at all?”
I sighed, loudly, theatrically, as if I were at Court and all eyes were on me. The very situation I hated and avoided, and yet I acquitted myself with some skill when twas necessary. I hoped my skill was still with me. “Then you are not the noble bandit the songs make you.” I sought for the quarter-mocking tone of Lady Arioste di Wintrefelle, who had near every man at Court for a swain. Arioste could make even a priest of Danshar forget his vows, and she knew exactly the right edge of scorn mixed with faith that would tempt a man into performing some ridiculous feat for her momentary amusement. “And I should be gravely disappointed not to hear such a riddlemaster’s skill.”
There was a rustling in the bushes.
I had to admire the flair with which he vaulted from a low-hanging branch of a giant tam tree. Dressed all in brown and green, a bow slung at his back and a rapier at his side, a lean man with weather-brown skin and sharp glittering eyes regarded us from the faint track leading into the trees. “Well enough. Never let it be said Adrien Jirlisse disappointed a d’mselle, especially one so fair.” He bowed, sweeping his hand back. It was an approximation of a Court bow, and I dearly hoped none of the Guard would laugh at him. If he had shown himself, he did not wish a pitched battle, and if they had been truly hungry for coin, one quarrel from a crossbow would not have sufficed for an opening thrust.
“What are you doing?” Tristan, in my ear again.
My head cleared slightly. This game is mine to play, Captain. And it will require no bloodshed. “Let me down,” I whispered back. “Please, Captain. Trust me, I beg of you.”
“What if he—”
“Tristan, please.” I did not raise my voice. But he stilled as if I had shouted. “They do not wish a battle any more than we do. If I overmatch this man in wits, there’s no shame in losing to a d’mselle in the woods. Twill be out of a tale, and we shall go our way.”
A long pause, during which the bright-eyed bandit folded his arms and regarded us. I could not be certain, but I thought I sensed a smile on his weather-darkened face.
Stiffly, Tristan dismounted. I half-fell from the saddle into his hands, but he lifted me down so lightly it looked as if I had planned it. He set me on my feet, yet his touch lingered at my waist. “As you like, Vianne,” he said softly.
That was strange enough, but he set me free. I half-turned, and made my way through the screen of horses and my Guard. My legs shook with effort. The Aryx rang quietly, a bell-tone I suspected they would not hear. My eyes threatened to fall closed, I forced them wide and set myself the task of walking straight.
“Captain—” Jierre did not like this turn of events.
“Ware now,” Tristan said over his shoulder. “If he makes a single move toward her, kill him.”
The sense of wrongness returned, a giant sharptooth fish sliding through dark water, stalking. The forest floor was no floor for dancing, but I made my passage as gracefully as I could and stopped ten paces from the man.
I lifted my gaze slowly. This was the moment we would first truly match wits, the bandit and I, and much depended on it.
Jierre swore. But softly, and I did not flinch.
The bandit regarded me. His eyes were the color of the sea during a storm, thickly lashed with charcoal. Wide cheekbones, a generous mouth even now curving into a half smile. There was a shade of familiarity to his features, one I could not quite place. “Well,” he said. “I spoke half in jest, thinking you a boy. Yet you are fair, d’mselle.”
I blinked. His speech was now accented like mine—the half-singing sharp consonants of the Court. I straightened, wishing I’d half a chance to comb my hair, or a decent dress to be seen in. “I am Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” My shoulders went back, my chin lifted. My head pounded, and blackness clouded the edges of my vision. Oh, no, do not, please. Let me not be useless this once. They are depending on me. “You are?”
Did I imagine a swift darkening of his face? “Adrien di Cinfiliet, at your service.” His pale eyes flicked up past my shoulder. I set my jaw, determined not to sway on suddenly numb feet. “And honored to have your acquaintance.”
So Adrien Jirlisse is a use-name. What is a nobleman doing here? “And I, yours.” My voice came from very far away. “What is a nobleman about stealing purses in a wood, sieur? May I ask?”
He shrugged, his pale eyes searching as they sought to read my countenance. “Hiding. Is it not obvious?”
“Hiding from what?” I have you now, my fine bandit. No man can resist a woman’s wide-eyed interest. Even if I do look a maying jest, dressed as I am.
“If I were to tell a stranger, even one so fair, I would have poor skill at hiding, would I not? You owe me a game of riddlesharp, d’mselle.”
And I begin to suspect you will be more than my match. “I do.” I swayed, cursing my unruly body. Tristan inhaled sharply. “And I—”
Whatever I wished to say was lost in rising darkness. The world shrank to a pinprick, a rushing black wind descending on me, plucking at my hair and twisting hot lead into my marrow. The stink of it filled my throat, branches snapping as hot wind pressed down like a giant’s hand.
“Vianne!” Tristan, shouting. I fell sideways, his hands no longer gentle, catching me bruising-hard.
Confusion. Jierre di Yspres bellowing.
The Aryx woke in a blinding flash, a convex mirror of power, twisting fire poured into a shield of glass. Another door thrown wide, knowledge tipped into me as if I were a wineskin, overflowing, stretching, pushing through me.
The reek was shoved aside, and I heard a snap as of a ship’s cable breaking. The hunting-spell, cheated, turned back on itself, and I felt a moment of fierce satisfaction that it would recoil on its maker. Twas a piece of Court sorcery akin to a killspell, but requiring much more care and skill, and if I had not the Aryx standing guard under the surface of my skin I would not have known.
Down, I thought incoherently. Down! I will not be used, no matter what god gave you to the Angoulême—
The tide of flame retreated, folding down into itself. The Great Seal of Arquitaine released me.
It obeyed.
Men’s voices. Tristan, very near. “If you’ve killed her—”
I heard my own voice. “Tristan—the Duc—”
“What?” Jierre di Yspres. “Shall I kill him, Captain?”
“Back—get back—,” I gasped. It took so much, to ride the Aryx’s shifting supple flare of power that was even now fighting the insidious spells that had been dragging us down for days, kept from us only by the Seal’s sleepy defense. We had not even realized, so blind to the subtle sense of wrongness, the growing exhaustion.
“Carry her,” someone said, all pretense of levity fled. “We shall take her to the village. Risaine will know what to do.”
“I swear to you, if you do aught to harm her—” Tristan’s tone was soft, conversational, but furious all the same.
“You think I would harm a helpless woman? Ho there, Timarche, lead them to the village. We shall follow with the d’mselle. Tis safe enough; they’re no Orlaans dragoon.”
Darkness, again, and I knew no more.
Chapter Seventeen
My auntie was at Court once too.” The voice was familiar, but not one of the Guard. “Left under a cloud, as I am sure you well know.”
“It matters little.” Tristan, tense and exhausted. Someone held my hand, ran a callused thumb over my knuckles. “I care not a whit.”
“I can see what you do care for. Look, she wakes, and pretty as a maiden in a tale
.” Shifting cloth. Smoke, and meat stew, and baking bread. I lay on something soft. I groaned, sought to make my eyes open. They did not obey, foolish things. Or perhaps they had seen enough, and would brook no more.
Am I blind? Sometimes, after the half-head, I felt this weak, and my vision would not work properly. The irrational fear of blindness would rise, and I would be too frail to combat it.
“Vianne?” Tristan, soft and hopeful. I had never heard that tone from him before. “Do not seek to speak, simply rest. You are safe enough.”
“Aye to that, d’mselle.” I thought I recognized this, too—the man in brown. The bandit.
Or was he? A bandit who spoke as a courtier hiding in the Shirlstrienne? And the Seal had chosen that moment to push aside the spells weighing us down, making it impossible to move.
How long had we been feeling the effects? Why did I not know? I sought to keep them safe. Inexcusable inattention, Vianne. You must do better. You must do more.
And the other spell, the circling blackness and crushing, fetid wave of power, had sought to strike at us as well. If not for the Seal, we would be dead or wandering witless in the woods.
I should have noticed. I endangered them. Inexcusable, Vianne. Try harder. Try again. “Tristan.” My lips were cracked.
“I told you not to use the Seal. You’ve forced a return of fever.” Stroking my forehead now, callused fingertips. Infinitely gentle, so gentle I thought perhaps I dreamed it. “Di Cinfiliet has graciously offered the services of his village for a few days.”
“How could I not?” The bandit’s laughter held an edge. “Tis not every day a Duchesse falls into my arms. You have quite a talent for making an entrance, d’mselle.”
I tried not to use the Aryx, Tristan. You might as well scold it for using me. My eyes opened slowly, dim firelight pouring into my head. At least I was not blind. Twas a small mercy from the Blessed, that.
The first question, the most witless one, was all I could think to ask. “Where…?”
“The Shirlstrienne,” Tristan answered patiently. “You must rest, Vianne. I cannot answer for my temper if you do not. And you frightened young di Rocham. He’s been praying to the Blessed and wandering around sighing.” Haggard despite his light tone, his cheeks hollow but freshly shaved, dark hair falling into his darkened eyes. Blue shadows ringed his eyes, and his mouth pulled against itself, a tight line.
I blinked. “What…?” I had no luck shaping more than the single word. My mouth simply would not obey me.
“You swooned. Our friend di Cinfiliet caught you, and there was some confusion, but nobody died. A few of the bandits have some bumps and bruises, and there is some scorching in the clearing where the Aryx woke—and Jierre swears he saw something in the trees.” Tristan stopped, stroked my cheek. “Why did you not tell me you were so ill?”
There was something in the trees. Something foul. “We must…reach Arcenne,” I croaked. There is no time to waste. I am not strong enough for a repeat of that performance.
“Not at the cost of your life.” His fingertips still rested against my cheek. “Please, Vianne. Promise me.”
I sighed. The room was low, exposed ceiling-beams with bundles of hanging herbs, and the green smell of hedgewitchery filled it from wall to wall. Firelight ran over every surface, and misty sunlight spilled in from a door I could not see. Sounds came, too—horses stamping, metal clashing, catcalls, murmurs.
Tristan perched on the bed beside me, holding my hand in his, touching my cheek with his free hand. He glanced at Adrien di Cinfiliet, whose storm-colored eyes were busy with a spot on the far wall. “Ask her what you will,” the Captain said harshly, “but be quick. She has little time for foolishness.”
“Who is the fool, sieur?” the bandit replied, comfortably enough. “Me for bringing you here, or you for allowing me to? Or her, for trusting you with her life? It seems you’ve done a fair job of placing her in danger.” He had one hand to rapier-hilt, and I did not blame him. Tristan did not look away from my face, but the temperature of the air changed around us, and I was suddenly very glad he was not angry with me.
Dear gods. A pair of prickly men hissing at each other like prodded cats. “Cease this.” I surprised myself. “Both of you.” I had to take a deep breath, the swimming weakness was so awful. “Sieur Cinfiliet. My…thanks for your hospitality. Ask me…your riddles, I am ready.”
Silence. The fire crackled.
Then Adrien di Cinfiliet threw back his head and laughed fit to die. “She near dies of fever and magical attack, and as she lies abed she wishes to play riddlesharp!” He found this extraordinarily funny, and I cannot say I missed the humor myself, now that he mentioned it. Still, it seemed improper to chuckle, even if I could have found the strength to do so. I contented myself with a sleepy, thin smile.
A shadow passed through the low door—a woman, her white hair cut into a cap of flyaway curls, ducked into the room and straightened, her hands on her hips. She wore a simple gray shift-dress belted with silver; her eyes were pale as the bandit’s, and just as thickly fringed. “Cease that noise,” she said sharply, and Adrien di Cinfiliet subsided, his eyes merry. He bit his lip, looking as unrepentant as any well-loved child. “Tis not enough you bring a sick noblewoman here, and now you bawl at her like a fishwife? Out with you, Dri, go do something useful for a change.”
“Like rob another caravan, or steal you more herb cutlings? Ease yourself, R’si Thornlet. She just awakened, and demanded to play the game of riddlesharp I promised her. Do you know they sing songs of me at Court?” Now a swift snarl passed over his tanned face, and I shivered.
Perhaps that gambit had not been the best one to use.
The white-haired woman was less than impressed. “You brought her here, now leave her to my care unless you wish her dead. Stop baiting the chivalier, too; tis bad manners.” With that, she stamped across the packed-earth floor to the fireplace, and stirred briskly at a hanging cauldron. The richness of stew filled the air, and my stomach reminded me I was near starved.
“I do not bait him, m’dama Tante.” The bandit folded his arms. “Besides, he takes no offense from a backwoods thief.”
Tristan stroked my cheek, touched my lips. He ignored the rest, very pointedly. “Rest, Vianne. Everything else can wait.”
My heart sank and swelled two sizes at the same moment. We cannot delay, Captain. A Court sorcerer is seeking us, and I think his strength might overmatch mine even with the Aryx. “If I continue resting, we shall…never reach Arcenne.”
“I would rather never reach Arcenne than see you kill yourself for trying.” Sharply, as if I were one of his men who had committed a silly error. But his touch was gentle, tracing along my jawline. “Shhh, m’chri. There’s a fine hedgewitch here, and she has the tending of you.”
“The sorcery—the spell—” My lips moved against his fingers, and he smiled.
“Di Narborre will not find us here. There is a defense of hedgewitchery around this camp, woven by m’dama here.” The smile he wore filled his eyes, erased some of the gaunt lines scored around his mouth. “And you have given d’Orlaans more than a slapped wrist to nurse. The Seal is no trifle; the breaking of his tracking sorcery will most likely be unpleasant for him.” He broke off, stroked my chin. “We are in little danger here, except from the bandits. Who have rather a high opinion of you at the moment.”
“Tis the stuff songs are made of.” The hedgewitch pushed her white curls back from her face. “Ease your mind, d’mselle. We have survived here by avoiding notice, and I laid the defenses for this place myself. I said to get out, Dri.”
The bandit shrugged. His mood had shifted to almost-sullenness. “I have no pressing business.”
A mercurial man. I stored this tidbit in my memory, watching him as best I could without seeming to. This altered my plans, perhaps.
“You do. Elsewhere.” The woman turned a fierce glare upon him. “Give these two some peace and lee to speak. He has not left her side since he ca
rried her here; you get out.”
The bandit raised his hands. “As you like, Tante. Do not sharpen your tongue on me!” But he did not leave. Instead, he bent over the bed, peering over Tristan’s shoulder at me. “Rest yourself, d’mselle di Rocancheil.” His eyes were kind, for all the mockery of his tone. “I swear to you, no harm will come to you or your Guard while you rest here. You are under the protection of Adrien di Cinfiliet.”
“My thanks, sieur,” I managed to whisper. You have a prickly pride, and sometimes such men are easily led if one is careful. Well enough.
He left, whistling a tune I seemed to faintly remember. Where was it from? But I was interrupted from pursuing this line of thought.
As soon as the bandit was out of earshot, Tristan claimed my attention. “What songs do they sing of him, Vianne? How did you know?”
I closed my eyes. If I spoke slowly, I could string the words together in a necklace, and grant myself time to think as well. “I knew nothing, Captain. There are no songs. All bandits like to hear about themselves.”
Tristan was still for a long moment. Then he leaned down, kissed my cheek, and I smelled leather, steel, and healthy maleness. A disbelieving laugh brushed my face. “You were wasted at Court, m’chri.”
“Step aside, sieur, an it please you,” the hedgewitch told him. “I’ve to tend my patient now.”
He nodded, straightening and stepping aside—but not very far. “As you like, Marquisse.”
Marquisse? Well, she speaks like a noble. I am unsurprised.
She did not react, simply bent over me, testing my pulse with dry, gentle fingers. This close, I could see the network of fine lines on her face, crow’s-feet fanning at the corners of her eyes, laugh lines around her mouth. Her beauty ran bone-deep, her face simply settling on the framework instead of collapsing with age. The Angoulême’s Companions had gifted us with such beauty, and even diluted it was a wonder to see. “So you guess, do you? And I guess what you are, and what she is. News reaches me even here, in the backwoods of Arquitaine among peasants and bandits; the Blessed know I’ve worked hard enough to stay informed. Greedy d’Orlaans has reached the summit of his dreams and still wants more, of course.” She peered at the whites of my eyes, felt my forehead. “And you. What is the summit of your dreams, d’Arcenne?”
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