I rallied, and took a deep breath. “He danced with me twice. He forgot it quickly, too, for he asked me if it was at the Fête of Flowers, when it was the Festival of Skyreturn.”
The Baroness’s mouth twitched, then she chuckled. It was a happy, musical sound. “Just like a man!” She rested her hands on my knees, just as I would sometimes do with Lisele. It sent a pang through me. “Forgetting a dance. I thought I raised him better, my dear. My apologies.” That startled me into a laugh, and we were on familiar territory. “Tris m’fils, why are you in that dark corner? You see, dear, he and his father are of a pair, nothing in their heads but Guard rosters and politics. Boring, dry, dreadful stuff. If not for me, everyone in the castle would be eating hardtack and sausage, doing endless weapon-drill.” She smiled at me, her ear-drops glittering. They held pale peridot stones, and a matching necklace clasped her slender throat.
“You might someday thank me for being dreadful and boring, Sílvie,” Tristan’s father said from the door.
I sank back down in the chair. The Baroness did not seem to notice that I had jolted upright upon hearing a new voice. Tristan’s gaze rested on me from the shadow near the window, and I knew he had noticed.
It was absurdly comforting.
Baron Perseval d’Arcenne moved precisely two steps into the room and closed the door. He wore the uniform of an Arcenne guard, though his doublet was finer than a plain chivalier’s and his sword probably an heirloom, with a ruby in the hilt. His dark hair was thickly peppered with gray but less mussed than last night, and in the unforgiving daylight I could see the lines on his face more clearly. Time had visited the elder Baron, whispered her secret in his ear, and he looked as if he had only nodded and pressed on.
I was about to rise, wishing to be on my feet to meet this new challenge, but the Baroness caught my hand. “Do not, child,” she said quietly. “It is not meet.”
She was correct — a lady does not rise; tis a nobleman’s duty to gain his feet when she enters. And there was the Aryx, as well.
“There you are, bossing everyone about,” Tristan’s father said drily. “I trust you have rested, Your Majesty.”
I suppressed a guilty start at hearing the title applied to me. “Well enough, sieur. Rest has been hard to gather of late, and I suspect that state of affairs shall continue.”
The Baron examined me for a long moment. “Well.”
“That’s Pére’s way of saying you look weak and pale, Vianne,” Tristan said from his shadowed place. Why on earth did he stand there? “Pére, m’Mére sent the guards away again.”
“So I see.” When the Baron gazed at his wife, his face changed. The austere lines relaxed into an infinitely tender expression, his blue eyes softening. “Sílvie, you must think of your safety.”
“I am in the middle of Arcenne, Perseval, what could possibly happen? Especially with the city closed, the Citadel closed too, and your son stalking the corridors daring anyone to step out of line.”
“Well, if you will not think of your safety, think of hers.” The Baron lowered himself into a chair opposite me. “Your pardon, d’mselle, but my bones ache. It has been a busy day.”
“Please. Do not trouble yourself for me.” I found my gaze could not stay away from Tristan, still watching out the window. His shoulders were stiff. “I have been traveling with the R’mini for months. Tis a treat to sit on a chair not in a moving wagon.”
“I can imagine.” The Baron settled, steepling his fingers before his long nose. “I must know, d’mselle, what your intentions are.”
That must be a habitual pose with him, he thinks and hides his mouth at the same moment. “My intentions?” Is he asking if I mean to wed his son? Blessed, they are direct in the mountains.
“Hellsfire,” the Baroness broke in, “give the lady some time to rest, at least, before you start questioning her!” She tapped my knee, a sharp deft gesture. “Do not answer him. Let us speak of something easy first. Look at how pale she is, Perseval!”
“I am well enough,” I said, as gently as I could. “Truly, Baroness. I simply wish to finish whatever duty I have now so I may go back to sleep. I must confess I am extremely weary.” I brought myself up to sit straight, instead of sinking into the chair. “Now, sieur Baron, what do you mean when you speak of my intentions?”
“I must know if you intend to field an army before or after the winter.” His eyes half-lidded, an inward-turning expression. “We must also turn our attention to a provisional Council for you, and the best way to publicize your survival — and your possession of the Aryx.”
My fingers leapt to touch the medallion. It thrummed under my fingers. The serpents shifted slightly, and the Baroness gasped, her curls shaking. Soft and wondering, her hazel gaze was a burden. “The Seal. Blessed, I never thought to see it.” Her hand lifted, as if she would seek to touch it.
Oh, how I wished her luck.
“Careful, Sílvie.” The Baron’s sudden tension did not go unremarked, for Tristan stepped forward, just to the edge of the bar of sunshine. “It sparked last night.”
She stopped. There was a sapphire-and-silver signet on her left hand, and a copper marriage band too. “Oh.”
Tristan’s gaze met mine. As if he had thrown me a rope that stretched taut between us, a wave of strength came down that rope and cleared my head. I had made my way through the Shirlstrienne and to Arcenne with my own wits as a guide; surely my wits would not fail me now. And with my Captain with me, what could I not do?
“I know little of Councils, sieur, so you will have to guide me.” I thought for a moment, decided to ask the most pressing question first. “Is there no way to avoid war?”
A slight smile touched the Baron’s lined face. “Wiser than I credited.”
A well-mannered knock at the door jolted me again. Tristan crossed the room, opened it, exchanged some words in a low tone.
“Always thinking of food, Mére,” he said, as three serving maids bustled in, their starched white caps glimmering in the sunshine and their gray skirts brushing. “I think we can eat and strategize at the same time, can we not?”
The Baron did not move. “Well enough. At least this child-Queen has the sense to ask for help when she is out of her depth.”
“If your tongue were any sharper, you would cut your own teeth out,” the Baroness replied. “No more, Perseval. We have waited long enough to have these questions answered. An hour or so over a small meal will do no harm.”
I sank back into the chair as the Baroness rose, and Perseval d’Arcenne hurriedly rose with her. He took her arm and said something in a low tone.
She laughed, tossing her raven hair, and the light was kind to her. Another thing Tristan had inherited; hers was a face that would not collapse with age, the bones a fine structure that would hold to loveliness as long as she breathed. “You are too serious by half. No wonder the poor child is frightened out of her wits!”
“She is the Queen of Arquitaine, and a bloody usurper squats upon the throne, murdering all in his way. We should bend our minds toward keeping our country from full-scale civil war.” He brushed a loose curl from her face. “We have no time for the gentler things, Sílvie, sorely as I miss them.”
Tristan touched my shoulder. I had not even noticed him beside me. “They shall bicker through the soup and finally settle to business after chai,” he said softly. “My father is harsh, but he has a fine mind, and he’s loyal to the Aryx.”