He whispered into my hair. “Sleep if you can. We’ve a long way to go.”
I did not sleep, but I leaned against Tristan d’Arcenne and watched the forest from under my lashes. The light was failing, though it was morn, the clouds from the north cloaking the Sun’s wheel-eye. My skull ached with the pressure, but perhaps I would escape a half-head. I could hope to be granted such luck, at least, and since I had been so unlucky of late perhaps the Blessed would take pity on me.
There was a slow ominous roll of thunder, but the storm did not break. Not yet.
Chapter Fourteen
Deeper in the Shirlstrienne, the trees drew together and grew much greater in girth, while the underbrush turned spindly and hunched like whipped dogs. I knew some of the plants from treatises, and cataloging them inside my head provided me with some relief from the growing pressure inside my skull.
Soon enough, a cannonade sounded and water crashed onto the forest’s canopy. I roused myself when the thunder sounded, and we halted. Oiled cloaks were pulled from saddlebags, and Tristan wrapped a large one around both of us. The cloak trapped his warmth, closed it around me. Oddly enough, the heat soothed my aching head.
We joined the Guard an hour or so into the forest, and I only dimly remember the event, for I was half conscious, the relief of an averted half-head conspiring with the exhaustion of fever to make me a loose-jointed doll. I sank deep into my thoughts as if through a weight of cold water. We resembled nothing so much as cloth-swathed turtles atop horse legs moving through misty darkness though twas near nooning, each with a crested-feather hat, like an illustration in a bestiary from the Angoulême’s time.
The day turned aqueous, and troubling thoughts lurked under the surface of my consciousness. I heard Tristan murmur once or twice, and I felt a tingling in my fingers and toes. The feeling melded into damp heat sticking my hair to my temples and collecting under my arms, at the back of my throat, and at the small of my back. Fever-heat, kept only slightly at bay by the soft prickling that crested every time Tristan whispered. Twas a long, weary day, and one I heartily wished over by the time we halted, early because of the swimming darkness.
I found myself half-falling from the broad back of the horse into Tristan’s hands. He wrapped me in a smaller cloak, and I was set under the sheltering boughs of a giant tam tree. The tree made a half-cave that was actually quite dry and fairly level, and the abrupt ceasing of the tingling in my limbs made it somewhat easier to think. Someone had set down a pad of blankets for me, and I dropped gratefully onto them, pulling the cloak tight around my shoulders.
Tinan di Rocham brought me a cup of hot, sweet-spiced chai. Someone had started a fire — the tingle of Court sorcery warned me and I looked up in time to see flame bloom through the infrequent drips from the Shirlstrienne’s roof. The wood hissed, and smoke billowed up. The fire would burn as long as the sorcery held. Dangerous — we could be tracked by it — but necessary.
“Drink, an it please you, d’mselle.” Tinan’s young face was grave and drawn. “I think we’ve more of the tisane. And meatpies for dinner.”
“Not all at once, I hope.” I sought for levity. He gave me a quick smile, unlike his usual easy merriment. That shook away some of my lethargy. “Why so worried? What it amiss?”
He was young to look so grave. “We have seen no bandits, but they may be about. We shall set a heavy watch tonight.” He closed his hands over mine, around the battered metal cup. “No worries, d’mselle!” he added hastily. “You are safe enough with us.”
Safe enough? I seem to have lost the luxury of safety. Still… “After the past week, nothing could terrify me,” I said slowly, to calm him. He was the most impressionable of them…and my plan tickled the back of my brain. Tis never too early to prepare your ground, Vianne. Intrigue and gardening have both taught you as much. “Certainly not bandits.”
“Oh, aye.” Tinan took heart, and his dark eyes shone. “I must help with the horses, d’mselle. Call if you need aught.”
I shall call upon you soon enough, young one. I gave a small sound of assent and sipped at my chai, watching them work. I felt useless, a burden easily cast aside. All that held me to them was the Seal.
I closed my eyes, the Aryx thrumming under my heartbeat, against my skin. The comforting darkness behind my eyelids ran with ghostlights, as if I had pressed my fingers too hard against the tender flesh.
What could I do? My hand uncurled, unwillingly, from the chai-cup to touch the lump of the Great Seal under fabric. If I knew enough Court sorcery to keep them hidden from trackers, I might be less of a uselessness.
The Aryx pulsed.
Hedgewitchery could hide them, if I had the power for such a charm. The magic of the peasants and healers was opposed to Court sorcery, difficult and slippery to track even for a bellhound; since it took its power from the land itself it tended to be well camouflaged. Yet I sighed. I was only a fairly good hedgewitch with the aid of my books and treatises, not good enough to hide a half-dozen men seamlessly from Court sorcery and sensitive bellhound noses, not to mention tracking-spells.
The Aryx pulsed again, insistently.
A silent shockwave blurred through me as wine pours into a cup, filling empty spaces, setting me alight. A perfect circle — I saw it from above, a wall of magic large enough to enclose the Guard, protecting them. It was not quite hedgewitchery or Court sorcery, but a seamless blend of both, doors inside my head thrown open, showing me.
You could do thus, it whispered. The touch was light and slow, scouring along the inside of my head, a hall of doors receding into infinity. One blew open, golden light spilling forth, and the glow scorched along my skin, filled the channels of my blood, and pushed through me, leaving a scalding wave of weakness in its wake.
I returned to myself with a jolt like a cart’s axle breaking, my entire body trembling, chai slopping in the cup. The fever drained away, as did the power. Yet part of the knowledge remained, as if the doors had been closed…but not locked. Corridors of a magic I did not know how to use.
Yet.
You could do thus, beloved, the voice whispered again. I pushed it away, chai spilling, burning my fingers. I slumped, trembling afresh, and shook my head to clear it.
An idea rose slowly. My own thought, not an alien voice whispering inside my head: The Aryx is indeed awake. It seeks to teach me.
Why does it stir itself now?
Shouting, confusion. I sought to steady myself, the world whirling most distressingly underneath me. My heart beat a thin tattoo in my wrists and temples. My pulse now matched the silent beat of the Seal against my skin, its metal scorching and the serpents writhing. Their scales rasped pleasantly, not quite rough as a cat’s tongue.
“Vianne?” Tristan’s hands closed around mine. “Vianne!”
I found myself wide-eyed, meeting his gaze. “The Aryx,” I whispered. Rain misted down, each drop a separate colorless jewel with its own name.
“You nearly flattened us all with that sorcery.” Was he pale? Perhaps it was merely the chill in the air. His eyes were darker than usual, and worried. Behind the worry was something else, an expression I could not decipher since my head was aswim. “Drink your chai.”
“Captain!” someone called.
He looked over his shoulder, his dark hair disarranged as he had shed his dripping hat. “Bring her something to eat, now. Pilippe, Adersahl is to set the watch. Tell him double. Find di Chatillon, send him to me.” Tristan’s fingers were hard and warm, and clasped too tightly in mine. “Vianne, m’chri, speak to me.”