The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  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?

  S
o 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-Trime
stin, 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.