“Adersahl.” For a moment I could not find the words I wanted. It was not ladylike to ask, but here I was in breeches, strolling about unescorted with men. Propriety could not be my sole worry. “I would ask you summat of the Captain.”
What does he think of di Cinfiliet, and his aunt? What happened to Risaine’s son? Was the King truly unconcerned with d’Orlaans and the tax farmers? How soon will we leave here, and what place is safe? Even Arcenne might not hold or hide us well.
I could not decide what to ask first, and I had to prepare my ground in other directions as well. While I framed my first sally, he neatly took me by surprise by slanting me a dark glance, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Certainly, d’mselle. Tis high time you did. Twas often a joke among the Guard that the Captain could not draw his lady’s attention away from old books and peasant magic. He has haunted your steps a long while.”
Tis not what I meant. My heart gave a thundering leap. “He did not ever seem to care before.”
“Well, he was discreet. He has enemies, d’mselle, as do you. Someone might have known enough to strike at you to harm him, for there are few surer ways.” Adersahl let go of my elbow. There was a small path worn down a hill toward the brook, and I chose my steps with care. “I think he has fancied you since he came to Court, but tis only the opinion of a lowly Guard.”
“He came to Court when I was thirteen.” Fascinating as this line of inquiry was, I had other business. “Who exactly is di Cinfiliet?”
“I suspect Tristan knows, and Jierre. But I do not. Not exactly.”
You, sieur, are a very unpracticed liar. “Risaine bore a child to the King. She implies her son is dead, and yet she has a nephew of a certain age. I have not heard the Cinfiliet name before, and it would ease my mind to know a little more.” I did not dare voice my darker imaginings.
Adersahl’s gaze met mine. I paused on the path, looking up at him.
“You are the Queen.” The stocky Guard did not smooth his mustache this time, but I sensed he wished to. As it was, he rested one hand on his rapier-hilt, and flushed like Tinan di Rocham.
I nodded, my chin set high. “Queen perhaps, but of what? A bare half-dozen of the Guard. I am not convinced of the wisdom of staying in Arquitaine for the Duc to catch us.”
He mulled this over, and I let him. Some chivalieri can be led to the water’s edge, and they will drink if you keep them there long enough. But all is lost if you try to force their muzzles down, no matter how thirsty they may be.
Adersahl was silent for a considerable while as we faced each other. When he finally spoke, twas in a level, serious tone I had not heard from him before. “Plague is spreading through Arquitaine. If the Seal is removed from the borders of the land of the Blessed, who can tell what will happen?”
I do not know the Aryx will allow itself to be so removed. Yet that is a problem I will solve when the time comes. “Tis the peasants who will suffer most,” I said quietly. “I find I believe they have suffered enough. What must I do, Adersahl? Whatever move I make, someone grieves, and there is pain aplenty.”
He cocked his head, and I saw strands of gray amid the dark curls. He was no longer young. “I do not envy you that. Yet I must say, if we are in your hands, I am content.”
I sighed, frustrated. Come, chivalier, I am inviting you to drink. “Adersahl, I am not fit for this.” I do not know half of what I wish to, and I cannot see my way through this tangle.
“Yet d’Orlaans thinks he’s fit to be a King. Can you guess why I would rather you ruled Arquitaine, d’mselle?”
For the love of the Blessed, stop being dense. I was about to reply, but the Aryx warmed against my chest. I stilled, my attention turned inward, seeking.
I heard the thunder of hooves, and men shouting. For a moment my heart leapt, thinking Tristan had returned; then a scream pierced the air. The copper of fear started to my tongue, and my hands turned hot and wet.
His face changed. Adersahl cocked his head, listening. “What is it, d’mselle?”
“I hear horses. And shouting.” I turned to retrace our steps, but Adersahl’s fingers sank into my arm, the sword-roughened hand of a Guard neither gentle nor overly harsh.
He shook his head. “Not the village. They will expect you there. Come, this way.”
I followed him, still stupidly clutching the bundle of washing. My emerald ear-drops were safe in a pocket. They were the only thing of any value I possessed, except the Seal, and the Aryx was not mine. Even if it was what they wanted of me, the Aryx is held only in trust.
Adersahl led me a good distance from the path. I heard steel clashing, and cries. Hooves resounded against the earth as fingers against a drumhead. It seemed a wonder he could not hear it; my skull rang as if the half-head was about to strike me in protest of the cacophony.
The elder Guard laced his fingers together, I stepped into them, and he lifted me into the branches of a tam tree, as if we were children in an orchard. He handed the washing up, and I clutched it to my chest.
“Climb, an it please you. I shall return with news. Here.” He lifted up a dagger that glittered briefly in the afternoon sunlight.
I leaned down, clinging to the rough bark, my damp braid spilling forward over my shoulder. “Surely tis not di Narborre?” My heart lodged in my throat. I felt like a fool the instant the words left me, for what else could it be?
He shook his head. “I cannot give you a comforting lie, d’mselle. Climb as high as you may, do not make a sound.”
I nodded. Tristan. Dear gods, let him be safe. “Be careful, chivalier.”
He made a brief noise of assent, then turned and ran back toward the village, with the step of a much younger man.
I clung to the branches, working only a little higher before my courage failed me and I decided to wait. It was a warm, bright afternoon, sunshine filtering through the treetops, a slight breeze carrying the faroff sound of something terrible. I heard one piercing scream and shut my eyes, clinging to the branches.
Risaine. Was she caught in the village? What of the shimmer of spells that kept this place hidden?
And Tristan. Where was he? Out searching for di Narborre’s tracks with di Cinfiliet. What of the rest of the Guard?
The noise grew greater, screaming and clashing steel. I clung to the tree, perched on a branch as thick as my leg, grateful the thick leaves hid me from view. But the foliage also obscured my view of everything but the tree. I could not look for danger or discover what transpired, even had I wanted to.
I rested my sweating forehead against the rough bark of the trunk, clutching at the bundle of cloth and the knife. Please let it be something else, not the Duc’s men. Please, let it be some other thing, some ordinary thing.
What ordinary thing could this be? We had tarried too long.
We? No.
I had tarried here too long, and others were paying the price.
The Sun had dropped in the sky, the light taking on a rich golden cast, when the noise finally ceased. Silence folded thick around me. I shifted uncomfortably. My body ached again—the aftermath of fever, hard riding, and now clinging in a tree. What a queenly picture I present. I had to bite back a laugh perilously close to panic.
What if night falls and I am still perched here? I listened as hard as I could. Heard only the wind through the trees and the sough of blood in my ears.
I had never noticed before what manner of silence falls with no human beings present. Since I was young, I had been surrounded by the clamor of the Court, barely a moment left to oneself, solitude grasped only in quick moments on back stairwells or a fraction of an hour hiding behind thick curtains. Even in my bedroom there had been a servant at the door, and Arioste and Lisele to listen for. Then with the Guard, I barely had enough time to find a moment for the privy—and during the day I was in the saddle with Tristan. Even in the village there were the constant sounds of human presence.
How many times had I wished for solitude, as well as the enviable freedom of men�
�s clothing? Now another of my wishes was granted in a way I would rather not have had.
I bit back another laugh.
The awful, ringing silence lasted through the afternoon, as I shifted every so often in the branches, aware of the deathly hush whenever the sound of trees moving broke it. Birdsong threaded through the hush, low and timid. Dusk came, purple and glorious. I saw a slender doe balanced on graceful legs wander by underfoot. I held my breath, my heart hammering, and she passed without remarking me—or perhaps being too mannerly to remark upon me.
Before the last of the light failed, I thought I heard more horses. I strained my ears, but the trick of hearing had deserted me. I could perceive nothing but the soughing of wind.
What will you do if anyone finds you, Vianne? You are a coward; you cannot spill an enemy’s blood. What will you do?
I set my jaw and peered down. I had climbed up too far to comfortably drop to the ground. I cannot tarry here forever. Night approaches, what will I do?
I was already moving, stiff and sore, dropping the bundle of wash. I flung the knife down too, judging its landing-point as best I could. I did not wish to land upon it and cause myself an injury.
I moved slowly, climbing as low as I dared. Slid my legs off the lowest branch large enough to comfortably hold my weight, clinging. The most terrifying moment was when I hung from the shelter of the tree, my hands slipping on bark, and finally fell. A moment of weightlessness, and I landed on the washing. My knee buckled, but I soon enough found myself unharmed and sprawled upon the ground, glad of Tinan di Rocham’s breeches.
I picked myself up, dusted bark and dirt from my hands, and spent a moment searching for the knife. My fingers finally closed on the hilt, and I took a deep breath. Adersahl had told me to stay, but how could I? He would have returned by now, if…
I shied away from the thought.
It took a little doing to find the trail to the brook. Once I found it, I stood, irresolute, in the shelter of a pinon tree, sweet, pungent sap dyeing the air with scent. I needed the privy, and if any of the women had been doing washing, perhaps some of them had survived?
I thought this, and then turned miserably toward the village.
I had to know.
I relieved myself behind another tam tree and picked my way back to the path just as dusk deepened and cool evening wind began to sing among the trees. The path was a little more difficult to traverse this way, for I had to force my way up a slight hill and remain poised to dive into the scant undergrowth at any moment.
It seemed to take forever, and burning choked the air the closer I drew to the buildings. Thick acrid smoke drifted between the trees, full of a sick roasted sweetness.
I found myself on the outskirts of the village, hearing crackling and snapping sounds.
I forgot soon enough to shrink back into the undergrowth. There was nothing left to hide from. Risaine’s shimmering curtain of hedgewitchery, drawn close to the village and encompassing the washing-stream, had evaporated.
Mounds of char that had once been houses now lay in smoking ruins. I did not vomit when I found the first body—it was a child, a child, so small—but twas only because breakfast had been so long ago.
It seemed a lifetime.
Hot bitterness rose in my throat. The sickly smell was roasting human flesh. I retched once, twice, and wandered from place to place, one hand across my rebelling stomach and the other clutching Adersahl’s dagger. I had not smelled the smoke because the wind had blown it away from my hiding place.
I found nothing living. Even the dogs had been slaughtered, most with arrows buried in their flesh. I saw faces that were half-familiar from my stay, each one a fresh scar upon my heart. The smallest, sodden bodies were the worst.
I found Risaine’s house, simply a smoking skeleton by now. There was no sign of Risaine’s body, though I circled the fuming wreck to be sure.
Night fell while I wandered, dazed, from flaming house to broken house. The trees had not caught fire, still wet from the spring rains. At least I would not have to worry about the entire forest burning down about me.
I realized I had seen none of the Guard among the dead. Nor had I seen Adrien di Cinfiliet and most of the quiet, thin bandit men who followed him about. The dead were women, children, dogs. The few elderly peasants who stayed in the village.
None of Tristan’s Guard. No sign of Adersahl. None of the bandits hale enough to fight.
What this meant, I could not fathom. I sank down before Risaine’s burning cottage under the spreading willum tree, the crackling of flames echoing in my head. The tree’s questing fingers that had made a veil over Risaine’s roof were scorched now, curling back singed from the heat.
Dead, all dead. Death followed me like a swain from a courtsong, dogging my steps. Inviting me to dance, then turning away to strike elsewhere.
I wept until full dark descended and the only light was a venomous glow from the smoldering ruins. Then I crept to the rear of Risaine’s house and sat with my back against the willum tree, my knees drawn up and the knife clenched in my nerveless fist. If di Narborre came back, I would strike however I could. I would not let them take me.
What will you do tomorrow? I asked myself. Tis imperative you think, Vianne, you witless worm.
Bury the dead as best I can, then strike south for Arcenne, even if that route is watched. I must keep the Aryx from the Duc. Such a thing as this must not happen again.
My free hand rose, touched the Aryx under my shirt. “Tristan,” I whispered. The Aryx’s pulse under mine was strong and steady.
Women, children, even animals, murdered. My presence had brought the attentions of di Narborre upon these people, whose only crime was to shelter me.
I wiped slick wetness from my cheeks with one soot-blackened hand. I do not know how long I hunched there, sobbing, watching the smoke and flames through blurring eyes. My neck ached, my knees throbbed, my shoulders tight as ship’s cables. I finally fell into a troubled doze, clutching the dagger, waking every time I thought I heard a footfall.
Each time I woke, I repeated to myself, No more. I will not allow this.
Never again.
The Traveler
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 Queen Page 23