As if we were still at Court, and I had to be careful of propriety.
“The women, of a certain age, from the village. When it was clear none of them were you, di Narborre ordered them killed.” Flat and cool, the same tone he had used when speaking of the dead peasants. “Twas not a gentle end. But it was none your fault,” he added hastily. “I would not have you thinking it was.”
“Gods.” My breath left me in a great swoop. I hurried to keep pace with him, and the sound of my skirts was a balm. I felt myself again with heavy material swaying, the brushing of fabric against my legs a familiar reassurance. “And…Adrien?” I meant to ask if Risaine had been found, but my mouth shaped di Cinfiliet’s name instead.
He shortened his strides, granting me a single indecipherable glance. “He and his bandits are on patrol, riding the borders of Arcenne. Vianne, Risaine sought to fight di Narborre and his men.” Tristan steered me down another long hall. “She killed two of them.”
Blood drained from my face. “Gods,” I said again. Blessed, grant her peace.
“Twas not your doing, Vianne.” Tristan did not slow further, but his tone gentled. “The fault lies with di Narborre and his master.”
“You are certain twas not another who—”
“There was no doubt it was the Marquisse.” Tristan stopped short, surprising me, and righted me as I swayed. This hall was bare and plain, racks of weapons along either wall, lit by glowrocks and pierced with shafts of Sun-arrows from high, narrow windows. “Look at me, m’chri.”
Tristan’s face was grimly serious, his blue gaze winter-chill and sharp. The streak of gray at his temple glowed in the directionless light, and it was obvious how the stone of this place was in his very bones. “There was nothing you could have done. If you had been taken, their deaths would be for nothing. D’Orlaans would be King in truth as well as in name, and I would most probably have killed myself seeking to free you from him.” He clasped my shoulders, not hard enough to bruise but firmly enough to hold me upright. “I would not lie to you. There was nothing you could have done.”
I nodded. But something deep-buried in me did not believe him. “Tristan—”
“Strength, Vianne. If you have none left, use mine.” He kissed my forehead, stroking my shoulders with his thumbs. Silk crushed under his touch. “Do you understand? Use mine.”
I nodded. I have been using your strength as my northneedle since this ordeal began. “I do not feel very well.” Twas laughable understatement, to say the least.
He paused, and I knew he was on the verge of suggesting I go back to bed. My chin lifted, my shoulders coming up under the familiar weight of duty. Twas a heavier duty than the one weighting me at Court, but I was robbed of choice. I could not swoon like an empty-headed Court dame now, taking refuge in weakness. After what I had endured, I wondered how much more I could bear.
If I am wearing the Aryx, I must be as strong as I can.
“Yet I am to meet your father.” I made the words as decisive as possible. “I owe your mother a polite greeting as well. Lead the way.”
Chapter Thirty
The sitting room was a surprise, dressed in light colors and decorated with silk pillows and pretty floral hangings. A needlework frame stood in one corner, a large harp in the other. The windows were wide and airy, since this room faced the gardens inside the walls.
Tristan closed the door and I found myself enveloped, two soft arms around me and a woman’s greeting-kiss on my cheeks in turn. “Oh, you poor child.” Soft and clear, a cultured voice. She had me whisked away from the door and into a seat by the fireplace, tucking a blanket around me. “Tris has dragged you all through the Citadel, has he not? Of course. Regrettable, that boy, just like his father. Not a thought for us lesser mortals. Oh, child, you’re pale.”
Tristan’s mother, her long black hair piled atop her head and threaded with pearls, twitched her pale green skirts back and sank onto a footstool. Her wide hazel eyes were full of merriment.
Her perfume was apple blossom and silk, a scent that reminded me of Lisele just as the harp did. “Baroness—,” I began, a pretty speech summoned from the recesses of my brain, but she held up one pale, elegant hand.
“Hellsfire,” she swore cheerfully, hazel eyes sparkling. I could see Tristan in the softness around her mouth — his infrequent look of happiness seemed to have come direct from her. “Call me Sílvie. Well, let us have a look at you.” Her gaze moved over my face. “Hmmm. Tristan told me you were lovely, but he never mentioned how beautiful you truly are.”
My cheeks grew hot, savage embarrassment rising. Did I seem to need the flattery? “Oh, I am sure he…he…”
“Stuff and nonsense. You’re exquisite. My dressmaker will be pleased — she is an artist, and loves to have a canvas. Now, Tris, fetch her a cup of chai, very sweet. And Talya will be along with a very light lunch soon — I thought sweetrolls and soup, and some of the apples from the orchard. I love the apples here, they remind me of Vintmorecy. You did not know I was of Vintmorecy, did you? Though your father’s family is liege, and mine merely a chivalier’s holding.”
Slightly stunned, I stammered out something polite.
“Mére, do not fuss at her.” Tristan crossed to the window, glancing out. “There should be a guard here.”
“I sent them to sup,” she said. “Poor men. You’re too hard on them. Just like your father. And you are looking finer than I’ve seen in months, Tris. Did you know, young d’mselle, that our son—”
“Mére,” Tristan said firmly. “She is weary, and she has just endured a—”
“A series of nasty shocks.” The Baroness fixed her son with a mother’s level, serious gaze. “The best thing for her is a bit of normalcy. Let me fuss over the ill, Tris, tis my duty. You’ve probably frightened the poor girl half to death with your serious face and your always this and never that and danger the other.” She tossed her black curls and laughed, and I saw another echo of Tristan in her face. I found myself smiling.
“Pére will wish to speak with her soon.” Tristan laughed, spreading his hands to indicate defeat. “Do not give me the sharp edge of your tongue, Mére. I cannot stand it. Vianne, tell her not to scold me.”
I was so enchanted by the spectacle of him truly laughing, I barely comprehended what he said.
The Baroness patted my arm comfortingly. “I was not certain the dress would fit well, but Perseval said we are of a size, you and I. Though I am a trifle taller, I think. And my long arms fill me with dismay. So tell me, child, what do you think of my Tristan? He quite fancies you — do not give me that look, Tris, I am your mother, I can say so — and he wrote about you in his letters. Said he danced with you.”
I stole a glance at Tristan. He leaned at ease next to one of the windows, out of the sunshine, and there was a definite crimson stain in his cheeks.
Tristan d’Arcenne was blushing. In front of his mother. He wished to be my Consort, and he was blushing.
The Baroness watched me with a faint line between her charcoal eyebrows. She is not as carefree as she seems. She is seeking to set me at my ease.