And the other spell, the circling blackness and crushing, fetid wave of power, had sought to strike at us as well. If not for the Seal, we would be dead or wandering witless in the woods.
I should have noticed. I endangered them. Inexcusable, Vianne. Try harder. Try again. “Tristan.” My lips were cracked.
“I told you not to use the Seal. You’ve forced a return of fever.” Stroking my forehead now, callused fingertips. Infinitely gentle, so gentle I thought perhaps I dreamed it. “Di Cinfiliet has graciously offered the services of his village for a few days.”
“How could I not?” The bandit’s laughter held an edge. “Tis not every day a Duchesse falls into my arms. You have quite a talent for making an entrance, d’mselle.”
I tried not to use the Aryx, Tristan. You might as well scold it for using me. My eyes opened slowly, dim firelight pouring into my head. At least I was not blind. Twas a small mercy from the Blessed, that.
The first question, the most witless one, was all I could think to ask. “Where…?”
“The Shirlstrienne,” Tristan answered patiently. “You must rest, Vianne. I cannot answer for my temper if you do not. And you frightened young di Rocham. He’s been praying to the Blessed and wandering around sighing.” Haggard despite his light tone, his cheeks hollow but freshly shaved, dark hair falling into his darkened eyes. Blue shadows ringed his eyes, and his mouth pulled against itself, a tight line.
I blinked. “What…?” I had no luck shaping more than the single word. My mouth simply would not obey me.
“You swooned. Our friend di Cinfiliet caught you, and there was some confusion, but nobody died. A few of the bandits have some bumps and bruises, and there is some scorching in the clearing where the Aryx woke — and Jierre swears he saw something in the trees.” Tristan stopped, stroked my cheek. “Why did you not tell me you were so ill?”
There was something in the trees. Something foul. “We must…reach Arcenne,” I croaked. There is no time to waste. I am not strong enough for a repeat of that performance.
“Not at the cost of your life.” His fingertips still rested against my cheek. “Please, Vianne. Promise me.”
I sighed. The room was low, exposed ceiling-beams with bundles of hanging herbs, and the green smell of hedgewitchery filled it from wall to wall. Firelight ran over every surface, and misty sunlight spilled in from a door I could not see. Sounds came, too — horses stamping, metal clashing, catcalls, murmurs.
Tristan perched on the bed beside me, holding my hand in his, touching my cheek with his free hand. He glanced at Adrien di Cinfiliet, whose storm-colored eyes were busy with a spot on the far wall. “Ask her what you will,” the Captain said harshly, “but be quick. She has little time for foolishness.”
“Who is the fool, sieur?” the bandit replied, comfortably enough. “Me for bringing you here, or you for allowing me to? Or her, for trusting you with her life? It seems you’ve done a fair job of placing her in danger.” He had one hand to rapier-hilt, and I did not blame him. Tristan did not look away from my face, but the temperature of the air changed around us, and I was suddenly very glad he was not angry with me.
Dear gods. A pair of prickly men hissing at each other like prodded cats. “Cease this.” I surprised myself. “Both of you.” I had to take a deep breath, the swimming weakness was so awful. “Sieur Cinfiliet. My…thanks for your hospitality. Ask me…your riddles, I am ready.”
Silence. The fire crackled.
Then Adrien di Cinfiliet threw back his head and laughed fit to die. “She near dies of fever and magical attack, and as she lies abed she wishes to play riddlesharp!” He found this extraordinarily funny, and I cannot say I missed the humor myself, now that he mentioned it. Still, it seemed improper to chuckle, even if I could have found the strength to do so. I contented myself with a sleepy, thin smile.
A shadow passed through the low door — a woman, her white hair cut into a cap of flyaway curls, ducked into the room and straightened, her hands on her hips. She wore a simple gray shift-dress belted with silver; her eyes were pale as the bandit’s, and just as thickly fringed. “Cease that noise,” she said sharply, and Adrien di Cinfiliet subsided, his eyes merry. He bit his lip, looking as unrepentant as any well-loved child. “Tis not enough you bring a sick noblewoman here, and now you bawl at her like a fishwife? Out with you, Dri, go do something useful for a change.”
“Like rob another caravan, or steal you more herb cutlings? Ease yourself, R’si Thornlet. She just awakened, and demanded to play the game of riddlesharp I promised her. Do you know they sing songs of me at Court?” Now a swift snarl passed over his tanned face, and I shivered.
Perhaps that gambit had not been the best one to use.
The white-haired woman was less than impressed. “You brought her here, now leave her to my care unless you wish her dead. Stop baiting the chivalier, too; tis bad manners.” With that, she stamped across the packed-earth floor to the fireplace, and stirred briskly at a hanging cauldron. The richness of stew filled the air, and my stomach reminded me I was near starved.
“I do not bait him, m’dama Tante.” The bandit folded his arms. “Besides, he takes no offense from a backwoods thief.”
Tristan stroked my cheek, touched my lips. He ignored the rest, very pointedly. “Rest, Vianne. Everything else can wait.”
My heart sank and swelled two sizes at the same moment. We cannot delay, Captain. A Court sorcerer is seeking us, and I think his strength might overmatch mine even with the Aryx. “If I continue resting, we shall…never reach Arcenne.”
“I would rather never reach Arcenne than see you kill yourself for trying.” Sharply, as if I were one of his men who had committed a silly error. But his touch was gentle, tracing along my jawline. “Shhh, m’chri. There’s a fine hedgewitch here, and she has the tending of you.”
“The sorcery — the spell—” My lips moved against his fingers, and he smiled.
“Di Narborre will not find us here. There is a defense of hedgewitchery around this camp, woven by m’dama here.” The smile he wore filled his eyes, erased some of the gaunt lines scored around his mouth. “And you have given d’Orlaans more than a slapped wrist to nurse. The Seal is no trifle; the breaking of his tracking sorcery will most likely be unpleasant for him.” He broke off, stroked my chin. “We are in little danger here, except from the bandits. Who have rather a high opinion of you at the moment.”
“Tis the stuff songs are made of.” The hedgewitch pushed her white curls back from her face. “Ease your mind, d’mselle. We have survived here by avoiding notice, and I laid the defenses for this place myself. I said to get out, Dri.”
The bandit shrugged. His mood had shifted to almost-sullenness. “I have no pressing business.”
A mercurial man. I stored this tidbit in my memory, watching him as best I could without seeming to. This altered my plans, perhaps.
“You do. Elsewhere.” The woman turned a fierce glare upon him. “Give these two some peace and lee to speak. He has not left her side since he carried her here; you get out.”
The bandit raised his hands. “As you like, Tante. Do not sharpen your tongue on me!” But he did not leave. Instead, he bent over the bed, peering over Tristan’s shoulder at me. “Rest yourself, d’mselle di Rocancheil.” His eyes were kind, for all the mockery of his tone. “I swear to you, no harm will come to you or your Guard while you rest here. You are under the protection of Adrien di Cinfiliet.”