Risaine’s sharp eyes were on me. This hedgewitch’s gaze missed next to nothing, and asked for — or granted — precious little quarter. “You hold the Seal. The fate of every soul in this village weighs on you now. Yet you could take the throne from d’Orlaans and continue on your merry way, taxing the poorfolk to pay for your pleasures. The Blessed, it seems, would not care enough to stop you.”
I closed my eyes against the hideous thought. In the darkness behind my lids, I heard a child’s laughter. The teaching-rhyme marked out its even cadence, the priestess’s voice helping along a stumbler. Someone called out, and a woman’s voice lifted in a light lilting peasant song about Baron di Wintrefelle and the Citrine War, in the time of Archimvault the Tall.
Truth is never pleasingly spiced. I swallowed bitterness, felt the Aryx’s hum against my chest. Even though it was a gift of the Blessed, the Seal might not care for the agony of peasants.
It was merely a tool, for all its power. A tool that could slumber. And the Blessed? Perhaps they had larger concerns. At least the harvests did not fail under their care — but a single glance at this small village made me painfully aware that even that was no guarantee for common folk.
Yet Arquitaine was a rich land — what need was there for this?
“You must have wanted to show me this very much,” I said finally, when I could bear to speak.
“I never thought to have a chance to avenge myself on Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin and his foul brother. The Blessed have heard my prayers.” She did not say it piously.
“What did he do to you?” I thought of the King’s carefully curled hair and his silk and velvet, the endless banquets and Court protocol. Tristan had been rumored as the King’s catamite, early in his Court career, but I saw no evidence of that. Still, there were others — though the King was also rumored not to mind a woman’s bed when the mood struck him, either.
There were precious few of either sex who would refuse a King.
“Oh, not much. Sired a bastard and banished me from Court when the swelling began to show, so I would not damage the negotiations for his cow of a Damarsene bride. I believed a King’s promise of love, and paid for it like any fool. I was no more than another silly little Court chit to him. And my son…” She laughed, shook her head as if freeing an unpleasant thought from its confines. “No matter. I have my nephew, strong in my old age. He should have been hunting and hawking with the nobles, at the King’s table. Instead, he is a bandit and I am a hedgewitch bandit-woman, binding broken bones and salving wounded peasant hearts.” I heard a rustle of cloth and opened my eyes to find her standing before me, her hands folded. She looked thoughtful, her sharp gray eyes staring across the village’s quiet bustle. “My best revenge is this — I have shown you Henri was too self-centered to be a proper sovereign. He allowed d’Orlaans far too much power and asked no questions. He sired a princess unfit for the throne on his foreign wife, threw away a good Arquitaine heir because freeing us from the chains of paying tribute would require he bestir himself to war or diplomacy.”
I had never heard the dead Queen referred to as a “cow of a Damarsene.” It would have been highly impolitic to say that in Lisele’s part of the Court, since her mother had died in childbirth, and my Princesse often felt the lack. “My thanks for the truth, m’dama.” My voice was barely audible above the village’s tapestry of sound.
She turned to me, her fingers clenched tight against each other. Now I could see the echo of old-fashioned manners in her gestures, and I knew why she stood thus. “Truth is the best revenge, child, and I have had much time to think on the wrongs done, not merely to me, but to others. I shall tell you this further; whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you, Vianne. Tis more important than you think.”
That pricked me. “You mean d’Arcenne.” I almost said Tristan, caught myself just in time.
“Sharp tools are necessary for a sovereign. I simply warn you that you do not cut yourself.” But the spasm of distaste before she smoothed her features spoke much louder than the prettily-phrased warning.
Does she hate him because he reminds her of the King, or does she hate him for his part of the King’s injustice? Tristan would not have lent himself to this misery, would he? And he is too young to be part of her misery. I nodded slowly. Twould not be useful to argue thus with her. “My thanks.”
“Of course.” Risaine dropped her hands to her sides, loosening them with a shake. “I have other patients to physick. I think you are well enough to sit for a bit.”
I agreed, and she left me under the shifting shade of branches. I sat, listening to the song of movement all about me, and thought long and hard. The motion and noise, subtle as it was, reminded me of the bustle of Court. There was always movement in the Palais, the sense of other breathing lives. I thought best with that quiet music enfolding me.
Where was her son now? Had the conspiracy reached even into the Shirlstrienne — or was there a darker reason for her to hate the King?
I found my hand at the Aryx, one thumb stroking the curve of a metal serpent through thin fabric. I ceased with an effort. The Seal purred, a subtle vibration against my skin.
It troubled me.
I watched the small village from my perch. Every thin, haunted face accused me. I could not help but wonder how many of the Court banquets I had been excruciatingly bored through, or had eaten at with good grace, had been bought with a peasant’s blood.
Chapter Twenty
After another few days of Risaine’s constant fussing and dosing with herbal tisanes, I found myself able to bathe in a tub I helped her laboriously fill in front of the fire. It was so delicious to be clean that I stayed until the water grew cool. Afterward, she clucked and fussed over me as she chafed my hair mostly dry and braided it. She hummed as she did so, and I shut my eyes, remembering Lisele performing the same task. A high honor, but we never saw it thus. It was simply what we did — I dressed Lisele’s hair, and she dressed mine, as we had since childhood.
The memory sent a flintstrike of pain through me, yet I swallowed it. The time had come to make myself sterner. I could not hope to keep anyone safe if I did not temper what little steel I possessed.
After the bath, Risaine left me to my own devices. Every day brought more and more wounded souls to this small place, and I heard whispers of other villages hidden in the forest’s vastness. A whole province of the fled and dispossessed, taking shelter in the Shirlstrienne as children will hide behind a nurse’s skirts.
Here at the edge of the darker Alpeis forest, they did not fear the demieri di sorce. Instead, they feared d’Orlaans.
I had set myself to tidying her table of jars and herbs, and when a shadow filled the door I looked up, expecting to see Tristan. Instead, Adrien di Cinfiliet leaned against the door, his half-smile more mocking than ever. “And a good morn to you, my lady Riddlesharp.” His sharp light eyes passed through the room once, the same glance I saw Tristan use so often. Gauging the ground, or searching for enemies.
“Good morn, sieur bandit.” I set down the jar of woundrot, lining it up with the next. “M’dama Risaine went to—”
“—minister to her patients, I know. I thought you might chafe at this small cage, and came to offer my services as jester. Would you care to walk with me?” He delivered the invitation in such a light tone I was hard-pressed not to laugh.