My flesh shuddered on my bones at the thought of dropping the Aryx down my shirt again and feeling those delicately carved metal serpents slither-rasp against my chest.
The serpents slowed and ceased, but now the black gold was the uppermost and would show over my shirt. Trembling returned, settling into my marrow. I cannot hide this. I cannot brook the feel of this against my skin.
Then, I must. Tristan would wish it.
I braced myself against the wall, a most unladylike sheen of sweat on my forehead. I forced myself to consider this as if it were a riddle, or an intrigue. I had studied the Graeca philosophers’ Rules of Logic — one could not study Tiberian and not hear of the Rules — and they would tell me to cease my thrashing and begin in a particular place.
First, what could I state with any certainty?
The Aryx will not harm me — or at least, it has not yet. And it does not slumber. I had used it to power the witchlight. Whatever it had been before, it was most definitely awake now.
What if the Aryx remembered I was not the royal it wanted — merely a hedgewitch pressed into service to hold it until someone else could be found? “Do not strike me down, I beg of you,” I whispered to the Seal. “I mean no harm.”
The snakes stirred again, slightly. I managed to restrain a flinch, but only just.
There was a courteous tap on the door that nearly sent me out of my skin. “D’mselle? Are you well?”
I had to try twice before my dry throat would give out a word or two. “Well enough.” It took another effort to make my clutching fingers loosen and let the Seal nestle against my shirt over my breastbone.
I flinched. Heavy sluggish warmth spread from the contact, and the sensation was at once terrifying and queerly comforting.
I exited the watercloset to find the lieutenant alone, leaning at the mantel with his feathered hat clasped in one brown hand. His lean face changed at he gazed upon me. “D’mselle? Your Majesty?”
I swallowed again, drily. “Chivalier di Yspres.” It took yet more courage I did not know I possessed to lift the Seal with damp fingertips. “Might I have you examine this?”
He took two steps away from the mantel, and paled, stopping dead. “Gods,” he breathed. “The serpents…they have moved.”
“So I am not crazed.” I should have felt relieved, but fresh unsteadiness welled through me. “I…”
His dark eyes widened until I saw an echo of the child he must have been. “You are the Queen. I thought…but you…”
To hear him flounder snapped me back to some manner of sense. “I seek only to be the Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, sieur. I must stop Tris — ah, the Captain from pursuing a ridiculous course of action and finding himself murdered for it.” You are not ideal, but I have you off balance now. You may even help me. “Will you help me?”
His throat-apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze moving from the Seal to my face. “The Aryx has not awakened since the time of King Fairlaine.”
“I thought…” There were indeed stories of the power of the Aryx before Queen Toriane’s death — but none after. It was not spoken of, for the wonders of Court sorcery practiced by the nobles still held at festivals and fêtes. Hedgewitches practiced only among the peasants, and physicked their betters for coin.
Yet had not the nobles been using less and less Court sorcery? After all, it had become more difficult, even for those of noble birth. Some said the illusions wrought now were more wondrous and complex, yet…
I did not wish to travel further down that road. I had Jierre di Yspres in a state most conducive to intrigue now — or as conducive as he would ever be. I decided to return us to a more promising line of conversation. “I do not wish the Captain to kill himself seeking to field an army and put me on a blood-soaked throne. I do not want this, sieur chivialier.” I used his given name, then, judging the time right. “Jierre. Please, aid me. Help me.”
He looked about to reply, but just then Tristan d’Arcenne opened the door after a token knock. “Is she — ah. D’mselle. Are you ready?”
I dropped the Aryx back down my shirt, despite the crawling in my flesh at its warm living pulse. Distract his attention, or di Yspres’s face will tell all. The man is almost useless. Irritation boiled under my breastbone. I had been so close.
“Ready enough.” I tried a bright smile as if for a dress fitting. The Captain paced into the room to take my arm. The touch of his hand on my elbow sent a firebolt through me.
“You still look pale, Vianne. I wish there were some other way.” A faint, vertical worry line between his charcoal eyebrows gave the words some truth.
“I shall be well enough,” I lied, and let him lead me from the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Tierrce d’Estrienne huddled under red tiled roofs, narrow cobbled streets Tristan guided us through like thread through needle-eye. The market sounds came from a street away from the inn, which was a scrubbed-white building I would never be able to find again, did you return me to the town and ask me to do so at daggerpoint. Twas eerie to hear the life of a town echoing all about us, and yet every street d’Arcenne chose was well-nigh deserted.
Di Yspres rode silent behind us. I looked a boy too young to ride a destrier, perhaps — my braided hair safely hidden under Tinan’s hat — and the peasants would not question obvious nobles.
But they could be questioned later, and they might remember. We could only hope our pursuers would not know the correct questions to ask. Much now depended on whether yesterday’s visitor had sent a missive to his master.
Once we left the town’s edgings, we found ourselves on a cart track slipping into the shadows of the forest.
The Shirlstrienne’s fringes were lovely as a courtsong, trees arching up over the cart track, dappling the grass and dusty wheelruts with shade. They provided a measure of relief from the heat, though dust danced and swirled fair to choke one.
The sky remained clouded, yet the day was close and oppressive. Dark clouds stacked themselves in the northern sky, glimpsed once or twice before the trees closed us away. I shivered, the unpleasant sensation of approaching storm weighting my arms and legs. I was sensitive to such things even without the help of hedgewitchery; sometimes at Court the looming of a storm would send me to bed with half my head knotting itself tight with pain. Lisele fretted, and Comtesse di Rocheburre and Lady di Chvreil also suffered storm-pains and the half-head after, so I knew I was neither imagining the agony nor likely to die of it.
Though dying might have been preferable, once or twice. The half-head is distinctly unpleasant, and those who do not suffer it rarely understand.
D’Arcenne’s arms tightened. “What is it?”
I prayed the Blessed would spare me the half-head. “Merely a storm. I am well enough.”
Di Yspres was before us, gloomy light gathering between the trees. His horse paced, sprightly for such a large creature, and dappled leaf shadow ran wetly over beast and rider. The feather in his hat bobbed, a lazy counterpoint.
I searched for aught to say. “How far to the others?”
“Another hour.” His breath touched my ear once more, and a hot flush went through me. “Perhaps a little less. They know we are approaching.”