“I am well enough,” he said grimly. “Come quickly, Vianne.”
Shouts, more clattering feet. Tristan pulled me aside into a shadowed hall, pressed me back against the wall. Several more of the Citadel Guard passed at a run, Tristan shook his head. Pressed another kiss onto my temple, through the fraying mat of my hair. He swore, in a low shaking voice. “Nine knives,” he whispered. “Nine. This rather changes things.”
I was about to ask again how badly he was hurt when he clapped his hand over my mouth. I looked past him, out into the running torchlight of the hall, and saw the two remaining assassins, each masked and dressed in black, their hair in tails clubbed and bound with ribbon. They drifted in the wake of the clattering Citadel Guards, deadly shadows. The Guard was making enough noise to warn even a deaf man of their passage.
Tristan moved away from me. His gaze met mine, a silent warning; words and breath died in my throat. No. No, stay here with me, where it is safe.
Yet I could not tell what was safe. If there were assassins boldly trailing after a pack of Guards, could more not be hiding in this passage?
Oh, gods…
His sword whispered free of its sheath, and the two Pruzians froze.
Tristan attacked.
If I live a centuriad I will never forget that sight, Tristan d’Arcenne dueling two Pruzian Knives in the hall of the Citadel. I understood then why he was Captain of the Guard.
He fought as if the blade was a part of his hand, forgotten until the hilt met his palm, the steel weaving in a complicated pattern that kept the Pruzians at bay. He backed them away from the mouth of the darkened hall, their longknives sorely unprepared for the reach his rapier gave.
One of them actually flung a knife, and I gasped. But Tristan ducked and lunged, his boot sliding along stone and his knee grating against the floor, and in the same movement had run one Pruzian through. Blood whipped free of his blade as he flung himself backward, somehow on his feet in one sharp movement, the rapier describing a complex movement I do not have the knowledge to name even now. The black-clad man dropped without a sound, and Tristan faced the last Pruzian as the sounds of the Guard returning grew louder.
I bit down on the soft fleshy part of my hand under my right thumb, unaware that I had covered my mouth. Tristan, oh be careful, gods, please—I could barely even pray. The fear threatened to smash me as the Aryx did, robbing me of myself.
The Pruzian’s gaze, dark and narrow above his mask, flickered toward me, but Tristan lunged at him, both men moving back toward Tristan’s room, out of my field of vision.
Thus it was I did not see the end of the duel: the Guard coming from Tristan’s chambers with a bloody but unbowed Jierre at their head, the last flicker of the knife, Tristan moving in on the assassin and smashing the knife away with a contemptuous movement, his hilt-armored fist blurring in to crunch at the man’s masked face. The Pruzian dropped, and Jierre told me later Tristan looked sorely tempted to run him through, but halted himself. “Strip him, bind him, and chain him. Then put him in an oublietta and wait further orders.” His voice was quiet but harsh. “But before you place him in the pit, Jierre, teach him a lesson.”
They dragged the Pruzian away past the darkened hall I cowered in, Jierre favoring his left shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt, and his eyes wore a fey glitter that warned me not to speak. I stood there stupid and useless, biting down on my hand. Four of the Guard remained; there was shouting in other parts of the Citadel. Every room and corridor would be searched now.
Tristan’s voice. “Vianne? Are you hale?”
It took a fair bit of courage to step out. I bit down harder, afraid I would start screaming if I loosed the pressure of my teeth. I did not dare to look to see how badly Tristan was injured. Luc di Chatillon knelt by the fallen Pruzian and made certain he was dead by the expedient of sinking a dagger in his throat with a meaty crunching sound.
I swayed. Make certain. Shoved the thought away. I could not afford to keep it.
Tristan caught me, his fingers coming up to gently free my hand from my mouth. “Gods.” His voice had lost its hurtful edge. “You need a physicker, d’mselle.”
I almost choked on the final crowning absurdity. He was bleeding, and Jierre too. And yet he said I needed a physicker for a hand bruised by my own teeth. I summoned every scrap of my wit that remained. “I have never seen you duel before.” I sounded faraway and strange even to myself.
He shrugged. “Peasants armed with knives. You are pale, m’chri.”
“Should not I be?” It was a faint witticism, but he laughed. Took my right hand in both of his, gently.
“Come, to the hedgewitch with you, Your Majesty. The rest of you, take care of that…thing.” Faint disdain colored his voice. How could he be so calm? I was only holding to my composure by a thread. “Burn it. I wish a report in less than a candlemark. I want every corner searched and every person in the Keep accounted for.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
They came over the west wall,” the Captain of the Citadel Guard—thin, intense di Vantmor—said. His fine waxed mustache was now sadly drooping, his curly hair ruffled. But his blue mountainfolk eyes were keen, and his sword had seen blooding this night, too. “One of yours was on the wall with the night-watch, sieur.”
Tristan shut his eyes as Bryony, the Citadel’s head hedgewitch physicker, probed at the slash on his ribs with gentle fingers. The small infirmary cubicle was stone-walled, with a faded red curtain drawn over the door. Tristan sat on a high bench while Bryony examined him. A cot was made up in the corner, but Tris had no need of it, for which I was profoundly grateful.
I stayed sitting up only by sheer force of will, in a hard chair next to the healer’s table.
“The di Rocham boy. He is alive, but—” Di Vantmor’s blue gaze flicked over to me. I sat numbly with my bandaged right hand lying quiescent, placed prettily on my silken lap.
“Tinan?” I gained my feet in a single convulsive rush. My skirts made a low sweet sound. “Where is he?”
“They are bringing him now.”
My Consort sighed. “Patch me up quickly, then. Jermain, would you have someone bring me a fresh shirt?”
“Sieur.” Di Vantmor bowed. I felt a slight twinge—I should have thought of that.
I was at the door of the small cubicle, all but on di Vantmor’s heels, when Tristan spoke again. “Vianne? Wait a little, an it please you. I would accompany you.”
I looked over my shoulder. My hair was a tangled mass against my back. “The infirmary is full-to-choking of armed men, Tris. I doubt I am in any danger.”
His face changed, and I leaned against the wall by the door. It was no affected pose—I was simply too weak to stay upright on my own unless I was moving. Tristan did not look threatening, simply weary—but I knew that if I went through the door he would follow me, disregarding the physicker’s care. My heart gave a huge throttled leap.
“This should just take a moment,” the young peasant healer in his pale shirt and green trousers said. He had been wakened roughly, as had we all.
I smelled the peculiar green of hedgewitchery, dropped my eyes as Bryony’s power became evident. He was a much better hedgewitch than I had ever been. I longed to have time to study with him, as I had with Risaine and Jaryana.
“There. Try not to fall on any knives anytime soon, Tris?” Bryony had been a child in the Keep with Tristan, and was easier with him than most of the Guard.
“If the Pruzians would stop sending assassins, I would. Is my Vianne well?”
“The d’mselle is well enough, a bit of rest and some food will ballast her nicely. I would offer her a drop of wine, but she has already said nay.”
I felt the weight of Tristan’s gaze on me. “Vianne, m’chri, would you bring me some wine? I feel a trifle pale.”
I peeled myself away from the wall and managed to reach the wine jug, poured both Tristan and myself a healthy dollop—and tossed the contents of one cup back and poured another measure
. Warmth exploded in my stomach. Well. I’ve survived my first assassination attempt.
If I did not count Lisele’s murderers among assassins, that was. Had the Pruzians come to kill me, or Tristan, or Tristan’s father? Or all of us? And so soon after the other attempt.
I needed to think on this, to tease out the implications. First, though, there were questions to be asked. “How is the Baron?” At least I sounded relatively calm.
“Well, and cursing at everyone in sight. The Baroness is doing her best.” Bryony sounded amused. “Well, you’re ready for more mischief, sieur. I am to take care of other poor souls.”
I brought my Consort the winecup, awkward with my bandaged hand, and settled on the bench beside him. Bryony swept from the room with one last eloquent glance at me. If he meant to give a message, it was one I did not understand
Tristan took a swallow of wine, rolled it in his mouth. Grimaced as if it had turned, though it seemed perfectly fine to me, if strong. “You did not stay in the room,” he said quietly. “Tis a good thing, too; the other Knife would have found you. But in the future, Vianne—”
Gods grant there is never another episode such as this. “I shall tarry still and quiet, I swear. I simply could not stand the thought of…you were alone. And I could not stay there with the…the bodies.” I wished to add, Yes, I am a coward, but I did not.
“My apologies.” He smiled, a little ruefully, over the top of his goblet. “I did not wish to leave you, Vianne. I had to.”
“I know.” I poured down the rest of my second cup of wine in four long swallows. Blinked owlishly at him. “I believe I am handling this rather well.”
“Good, for I am halfway to a nervous wreck.” He took another swallow. “I adore you, m’chri. You are too brave for my comfort.”
I leaned in to his shoulder, happy for his solid warmth. “Who would hire a Pruzian to kill you and your father? And why?”
“Besides d’Orlaans and whoever he is depending on to prop up his claim to the throne?” Tristan leaned against me, too, a subtle movement but one I cherished. “Have I told you how lovely you are, m’chri?”
“No.” A silly smile spread over my face as a warm haze swirled through my middle. “You could, though. Before we visit di Rocham.”
“Ever duty, hmm?”
“I am worried for him.” I rested my head on his shoulder, the goblet loose-held in relaxing fingers, resting in my lap. “How pretty am I, Tristan?” For I would like to hear this, even if tis vain to ask.
“Beautiful enough to bring a man to his knees crying out in praise of Alisaar.” He turned, kissed my forehead gently. “Are you hale enough to stand?”
“You should finish your wine.”
“I have lost my taste for it. Here.” He offered me the goblet.
Why, very sly of you, my Consort. Nevertheless, I drained it with good grace. “I know I am merely Lisele’s plain little lapdog. I was told enough.” And it does me well to hear you gainsay it.
And so he did, as a good Consort. “You were lovely when I came to Court, Vianne. Time’s only made you more so. Here, lean on me; we shall see what misfortune befell Tinan.”
The world tilted slightly under me. “Dear gods; the wine’s at my head.” Or the fear. Both were equally likely.
“Tis unwatered, the strongest we have. Bryony believes in it as a tonic, I think. I also think you should have more.”
For once I did not argue. “I think that is a most excellent idea.” I rather suspected I would need it.
* * *
Di Rocham was feverish, and Bryony looked grave. I settled into the chair by the cot in another cubicle, watching Tinan’s fair young face as he lay drug-quiescent, sweat sheening his brow. Bryony lifted the dressing over the wound on the boy’s belly, and his sharp mountain face grew even graver.
“He will recover, will he not?” I felt childish for asking, my head muddled with wine.
A low knock sounded at the door. I looked up to see Jierre di Yspres. “The Knife has regained consciousness.” A bandage glared white against his shoulder, under his shirt’s open throat-laces. I could see a bead of drying blood on his collarbone. His lean face was chalky, and grim. “How is our d’mselle?”
I lifted my chin. “Hearty and hale.” My mouth did not seem to work quite properly. And well-tonic’d, though now I regret the last glass. Twill not do me well for long.
Tristan shrugged. “Unwounded. Her nerves have taken a shock, tis all.”
“And Tinan?” Di Yspres did not glance at the bed, but I sensed he wished to. We all turned our gazes to the physicker, and hope rose under my pounding heart.
Bryony opened his mouth, closed it, glanced at Tristan, at me. “He will not last the night,” he said heavily. “I can do nothing for him.”
What? I could not contain myself. “But you are a hedgewitch!” And a fine one, too!
“There are other wounded.” Gently enough, his jaw set, his hands curling into fists, relaxing. “This young one’s gut-cut. I cannot sew his intestines up. I have not the charm nor the power for it. The most I can do is ease his passing—”
“Get away.” I did not recognize the harsh, croaking voice as my own. “Now.”
The peasant physicker paled swiftly. Twas gratifying to see he did not look to Tristan; he simply bowed and obeyed.
“Is he ready to speak?” Tristan asked, as Bryony retreated to the door. Tinan did not moan—Bryony had dosed him with poppy and caresfree—but his breathing was labored.
“Pruzian. And difficult.” It was di Yspres’s turn for a shrug.
“I care not how difficult he is,” Tristan said. “Make him speak.”
It occurred to me they were speaking of the assassin, the one who had survived. My Consort’s gaze, extraordinarily blue, met mine.
I read his expression, and sick unsteady heat filled my stomach. “No, Tristan. As you are my Consort and I am the Queen, no. I will question him tomorrow, as soon as I know if Tinan lives or dies.” The Aryx warmed against my chest. “I will have your obedience on this, sieurs, or I swear I shall prosecute both of you for treason.”
“D’mselle—” Di Yspres, in a patently reasonable tone that threatened to ignite my temper.
Does he think this no more than an attack of women’s vapors? “Your word, Jierre di Yspres. And yours, Tristan d’Arcenne. Your sworn oaths that you will not damage the Pruzian.”
“This is not the time to be merciful,” Tristan remarked. Bryony looked from him to me, as if expecting the next volley in a game of laun, his mouth slightly open and his color no better.
“Nevertheless, that is my command. You call yourself the Queen’s Guard; in this you will do as I say. I do not wish him broken until I may question him myself.”
Perhaps it was the wine speaking. But I dropped my gaze back to Tinan di Rocham’s fair young face, the sweat standing out on his pale brow. “Now get out, hedgewitch. You too, di Yspres, and set a guard on our prisoner. If there is a mark on the Pruzian tomorrow, I shall hold you personally responsible. Send a message to the Baron that the Pruzian is mine, remanded to the Queen’s justice. I care not if I have to threaten to turn myself over to d’Orlaans to make it so, but I will have obedience. Is that clear?”
Bryony left, with more haste than decorum.
Jierre swept me a fine Court bow, pausing long enough at the bottom of it to make it sarcastic, his hand aside as if he held his fine feathered hat. “If that is the Queen’s will,” he managed through gritted teeth, and slammed the door for good measure.
The silence inside the small stone room lay tense and aching until Tristan broke it. “That was ill done, Vianne. Jierre is not your enemy.”
The wine had loosed my tongue. “Neither are you,” I retorted sharply. “Yet you would torture an assassin to death to salve your wounded pride, and you would call it duty. I know your duty in this matter, Tristan d’Arcenne, and I will have obedience.” There is death lying on this cot; does not it make your heart break? If it does no
t, why? Why are you so willing to spread more of it?
“Very well.” He shrugged, winced slightly as if his side pained him. “I can always kill him later.”
How can you say such things so calmly? Is that what a man is? “You may. But not until I say so.”
“As my Queen commands.” Was that a new coolness in his tone? I hoped not.
If it was…I would mourn the loss of warmth, but it would not alter my course.
I turned my attention to the boy on the cot. Bootless, sweating, the bandage at his belly staining with fresh bright red and darker, fouler matter, he seemed very small.
I have not served you well, chivalier. Dear gods.
I took Tinan di Rocham’s hand in both of mine. “Tinan,” I whispered, and the Aryx shifted against my chest. A fine thin vibration ran through my marrow.
I closed my eyes. The wine loosened my mind, dilated my heart, turning inside my chest like a giant gyre. Show me, I pleaded. You have power, a great deal of it; you showed me once how to use it fully. Show me now, please. Let me save his life, and I will not fight you.
The Aryx, wonder of wonders, answered, doors flung open inside my head again and the golden riptide of sorcery swallowed me. Yet I did not witness it. I did not gainsay the Seal, only gave myself up to it. When the gold faded there was only soft restful darkness, and a brushing like wings.
* * *
I woke the following morning, in Tristan’s bed, with my Consort standing guard at the door.
He was silent as I dressed myself, not offering to help with the laces as he usually did. That was sometimes worth a half-hour of my laughter and his good-natured cursing before the dress was laced properly, and kisses as well. Today, however, it was indigo satin and quiet; I laid the Aryx atop the fabric and braided my hair with unsteady hands.
Tristan exited the watercloset and stalked to his clothespress, pulled on fresh breeches and a new shirt. He struggled into a leather doublet without my help. The silence between us grew brittle. I stood at the window, looking down over the practice-ground and garden, now familiar sights. I tied off the last braid with a bit of ribbon and sighed, leaning against the stone. Lisele would laugh to see the simplicity of my hair lately, but I was far too hurried during the day to stop and re-dress my braids. Besides, I had not a ladyservant to help; Tristan had been more than enough help with laces, and I had not felt I needed more. He was not so fine at braiding a woman’s hair, not quick-fingered enough. It was the only clumsiness I saw in him.
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