The Bandit King (21 page)

“Whose hands would those be?” As if she did not know.

Mine, of course.
“I found it interesting who you addressed your missives to,
m’chri
. Who among your Council sought to kidnap you?”
And you fled Arcenne both to put an end to the attempts and to move against d’Orlaans. Did you foresee this?

It was an uncomfortable thought. For if she were able to see the future so clearly, what need had she of me?

There is a need, Left Hand. However much she can see, she cannot bring herself to kill. That is your function.

She faced me fully now, her chin lifted, but she still did not rise. Instead, she folded her slim fingers together. The Aryx glowed against her skin, the dress’s neckline low enough to make a man sweat. She nodded, as if she had expected me to ask. But she did not answer.

It rankled.

“Very well.” I dismissed the questions she would not answer with a shake of my head. My hair had grown long as a
chivalier
’s fashion again, and it whispered against my collar. “What would you have of me, Vianne?”

The dark circles under her eyes spoke as she did not—of weariness, of worry, of the weight on her. Finally, she moved slightly, as if to ease her steel-straight spine. “I have a task to set you, Left Hand.”

“Say it, and tis done.” The traditional response, did she but know it. Had it ever tasted this bitter, any of the times I uttered it in Henri’s hearing?

She swallowed, her throat moving. I did not look at her mouth. “I am to meet d’Orlaans after the nooning.”

I nodded, slowly.

Then she told me, very softly, what she required of me.

What did I feel?

Regret. Relief. My heart leapt, settled into a high hammering rhythm.
This
was what she would ask?

She waited, as if expecting me to disagree. I nodded again. “Tis done,” I repeated. “Is that all?”

“Is it not enough?” She reclasped her hands, very prettily, as if she were on a divan at Court. “Tristan—”

So now I was
Tristan
instead of
Captain
or
d’Arcenne
. “Was my reply too complex, Vianne?
Yes.
There is my answer, and it is the only one you shall hear from me.”
Unless you ask me to abandon you.

The candle fluttered inside its spun-glass holder. It touched the gold in her hair. “Even though I am asking you to—”

“Oh, you knew there would be little trouble in inducing me to this.” Did I say it to wound her? Perhaps. Her flinch scored me to the quick, and I instantly sought to reverse the damage.
“M’chri—”

She recovered quickly. Far too quickly, and far too thoroughly. “It should please you that I am finally ordering such things.”

Yes, she had changed. What had she been about these past few weeks, to emerge so altered?

I finally managed to catch a glimpse of the copper marriage-ring. It glowed on the traditional finger, mellow in the dimness, and a spike of something hot and complex speared me. “What pleases me is that you are alive. Is there aught else you would have of me,
m’dama
Queen?”

“Not until afterward.” She tensed again, as if she expected me to cross the remaining distance and strike her. “You are dismissed until the nooning.”

I bowed. No hat, but there was no polish lacking in the courtesy I did her. “It surprises me, Vianne, that you would trust me in this matter.”

“It surprises me as well,” she returned, brittle and quick, and I retreated.

If I tarried any longer in that tent, I would have tried to touch her.

Tried? No. I would have added to the list of my crimes, and torn d’Orlaans’s gift-dress from her in ribbons. So, she had changed.

Or had I? If someone had told me that I would do half of what I had to her, I would have called him to a dueling-circle as a liar. I was not the man she thought I was.

I did not know whether to be grateful… or to curse who I had become.

*   *   *

A curious quiet hung over d’Orlaans’s army. It was a hush not of stasis but of anticipation and preparation. The false King wished to ride to Arquitaine’s defense—as soon as matters were settled with the Hedgewitch Queen.

Did it not occur to him that she would settle matters to suit herself? Or did he think her merely a catspaw?

The Field d’Or holds a stone Pavilion, gold leaf gleaming on its ornamental cupola and pillars of fluid sorcery-carved blue stone. That stone is not found anywhere inside our borders. Some say it is from the Angoulême’s home, the blessed Isle riven to splinters by the Maelstrom off our westron shores. Others hold that it was transported from Rus, a gift from their Zar to a new conqueror in the days when Far Rus’s borders lapped against the hedge of Badeau’s boundaries, before the bull-headed god of Damar awoke, before Polia slipped the yoke and became a blood-soaked, obstinate collection of proud rebels preferring death to slavery. Even Sirisse, safe behind their mountains, had been watchful of Rus’s power then.

In any case, the Pavilion d’Or is bluestone and gold leaf, kept safe from thieves by its air of sacredness. A round dais under its stem-legged dome, two wings curving forth and a gathering-ground of that same blue stone held in its arms, it was a ceremony-theater soaked in Arquitaine history.

Vianne approached it that day on my mother’s white palfrey, her hair lifted on a crisp wind smelling of approaching winter. Any summer-heat remaining had broken, coolness soughing across the fertile cup of Arquitaine, and in the Citté there would be relief from the oppressive clinging breath from the shores of the River Airenne.

But we were not at the Citté or the Palais. Instead, we—the fifty gaunt noblemen of the New Guard and the half-dozen or so of the Old, lacking only Tinan di Rocham—paced in honor-guard behind our Queen. Dust whirled, the Aryx’s song muted as Court sorcery threaded down our ranks, repelling the fine penetrating grit.

I did not walk with them. Instead, I held the palfrey’s reins, leading
m’dmselle
’s horse. The mare was sleek and glossy, and looked near to bursting with satisfaction at bearing such an august personage. She seemed to find my shoulder fascinating as well, and I held her to a stately pace.

There was not room for the entire army to see, despite the Pavilion’s crowning the highest point of the Field. There were nobles gathered, though, and the officers, lining the ribboning processional way.

It should have been Vianne on the dais, waiting for the conquered to kneel before her. Or d’Orlaans doing whatever he pleased, as long as my
d’mselle
and I were safe in Tiberia, beyond his murderous reach.

I took careful note of faces I recognized along our route. The closer to d’Orlaans, the higher they would be in his estimation, for whatever reason. Majesty flows from a fount, and those it trusts—or wishes to watch—are placed close to the source.

A ripple ran through them at the sight of Vianne. Not just of her straight slimness in blue and silver, but the fire on her chest. The Aryx glowed, its carved serpents shifting, and the ribbons of Court sorcery keeping the dust from us rose above her head, writhing as the Aryx did. Twas the sign of royalty, seen in many a tapestry and painting, those circle-twisting streams, and I suppressed a grim smile at the thought of d’Orlaans’s fury as he watched her so neatly rob him of legitimacy.

He thought to have her wander to him as a beggar, instead of this.

As we drew closer, the shade of the Pavilion quaked. There was a weak shimmer from under the dome, and it was with no little satisfaction that I saw the gleam from Timrothe d’Orlaans’s false Aryx stutter.

I halted Vianne’s horse before the Pavilion. Inhaled deeply, and performed a herald’s duty.
“Her Majesty Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy et Tirecian-Trimestin, Queen of Arquitaine!”
The charm was a simple one, to make a voice heard above a din or a multitude, and the words echoed as a cheer rose from the Guard both Old and New. It sounded thin in the hush, but the Aryx flashed, uttering a low hum, magnifying the cry until it fair threatened to shake the Pavilion. I felt it in every bone, the ache of our journey washing away under that welter of pure force.

The cupola ran with fierce golden light, tolling like a bell, and I do not know who was the first to kneel. What I
do
know is that the urge to bend knee caught like wildfire, and if enough in a crowd do so, it becomes well nigh impossible to halt the movement.

This will make him even more furious.

He stepped out of the Pavilion’s shade, a tall figure in a fine blue doublet, a shade to match hers. A lean man—his brother had run to fat, but d’Orlaans had not yet. His hair was only touched with gray, instead of threaded heavily like Henri’s; at his chest on a silver chain was a spot of brilliance.

Who could have mistaken that thing for the Aryx? The difference was obvious.

Had the death of Fairlaine’s Queen broken whatever was necessary for its use? His grief had driven him mad, and he had the dubious distinction of being the only King of Arquitaine to die by his own hand.

If Vianne required me for the Aryx’s use, or merely required
a
Consort, much hinged on whether the gods would bless whatever union she saw fit to make… It gave me much to think upon. And think upon it I had, during six days of hard riding.

D’Orlaans made a gesture. Limp white hands, rings flashing in the brilliant autumn sunshine. The season had changed overnight, as it sometimes does in the lowlands.

Perhaps we could hope for our fortunes to change for the better as well.

“Most beloved!” D’Orlaans used the same charm to make his voice echo. He now affected a pencil-thin mustache, and there were dark pouches under his sharp hazel eyes. “My dearest Consort!”

I remembered the hypnotic power of his heavy-lidded gaze, the softness with which he laid out the plot.
Do you merely remove the impediment, d’Arcenne, and you shall have all you wish. I am grateful to those who aid me.

And he called my Queen “Consort,” having proxy-wed her in the Citté’s Ladytemple, the Grand Dama. My fist tightened on the palfrey’s reins.

Had the Aryx still slumbered, had my
d’mselle
’s wits not been so sharp, had luck not run with us… he might well be calling her
Consort
in truth.

Vianne’s chin raised. “Tristan,” she said softly.

So easily, she slipped my leash. Unhooded the falcon, and now I only had to stoop to my prey. There is a certain relaxation in merely obeying.

I dropped the reins, my boots sounding on the stone as I strode forward. I had the pleasure of seeing d’Orlaans recognize me, whether from the set of my shoulders or the quality of my step I do not know. I reached the stairs as he stepped back a half-pace, and movement in the shadows behind him was his Guard, their blue sashes a lighter shade than his doublet.

I could not see if Garonne di Narborre was among them, but it did not matter. Nor did it matter who else he had in the Pavilion’s shade. Those nobles he kept with him on the dais would feel the scourge soon enough.

The glove, borrowed from young Siguerre, left my hand. I’d weighted the fingers with small stones to make it fly true. It described a high arc, then landed with a soft sodden sound on the second of the four stairs. I had aimed at d’Orlaans’s feet in their dainty half-boots, but this was far better.

“You accuse me of murder, Timrothe d’Orlaans.” Each word clear and carrying, Court sorcery crackling as it spread the sound wide.
And it is true, but this is a theater of politics. Let us dance upon a stage, you and I.
“You accuse me of treason and treachery, and you further impugn the honor of my Queen. The insult you have offered calls for blood.
Sieur
, I challenge you.”

Did I imagine the indrawn breath from those assembled?

No nobleman takes such a challenge lightly. D’Orlaans stepped forward, an ugly flush rising up his throat from the snow-white folds of his ruffled shirt-collar. Royal pride, and the pride of the viper that stings from behind because it feels its weakness keenly. He was ever a duelist at Court during Henri’s life, imagining slights to remove those he took a dislike to. Or those who stood in the way of whatever he wished at the moment.

He mastered himself, the false Aryx on his chest shimmering a flat, unhealthy shine. How did he fuel such Court sorcery, for so long? Or did he merely use it for public occasions?

Does it matter?
The curious comfort of being locked to a course of action deepened. There was naught for it, now, but to see how the dice landed. All else could wait.

D’Orlaans’s rings glistened as he motioned. Stepping forth from the Pavilion’s shadow came a familiar lean and hungry sight.

Garonne di Narborre bent, a trifle awkwardly, and scooped up the glove. We locked gazes, the Black Captain and I, as he straightened. He did not glance at Vianne.

I was unsurprised. Of course Timrothe d’Orlaans would not risk himself in a duel.

“Your challenge is accepted.” The false King made another gesture. “Name your second.”

I had considered the question. “
Chivalier
Jierre di Yspres.”

A rustle behind me. Had Vianne glanced at her new Captain? Had she warned him of this?