I nodded. “I can tell as much. All is well, Captain. Though I would dearly love more sleep, for all that I had a surfeit this morning.” I sought to ease him — after all, I had traveled with the R’mini and simply endured, and before that I had dealt with stronger shocks than a sitting-room conversation over soup.
“After an engagement, some soldiers love to sleep. I think you are no less battle-weary, Vianne.” His hand did not move from my shoulder, and something in the pressure of it was very improper, though his fingers did not move. “My father has made arrangements for us to visit the Temple this evening. If you have not changed your mind.”
I took his hand, our fingers lacing together. “I would think you would be wary of how much trouble I seem to attract.”
His mouth quirked. “You seem to be constantly escaping trouble, tis certain.”
“How dire is it?” For I needed to know.
He shrugged. Now that he had moved into the light, blue highlights in his dark hair showed, and the lines of worry about his mouth and eyes were clearly visible. “Dire enough that my father would press you to act quickly. Di Narborre is making himself troublesome, and there has been little news other than d’Orlaans seeking to keep control of the nobles. The plague is ravaging, and—” He saw my expression and ceased, closing his mouth firmly.
Plague and restive nobles. “I am well enough. I must hear it all.”
“You’ve gone pale. And you’re swaying, Vianne.”
“I think tis relief.” It was a lie, but merely one to ease him. “I am heartened, Tristan. As long as you are alive, all will be well.”
Why did he look so troubled at that? The Blessed knew the news was terrible enough. But was this sadness for something I had done, something I had said? I had certainly caused him enough worry.
His face did ease, so perhaps I had not been entirely useless in that regard. “Thank you, m’chri. I will strive to be worthy of your faith.”
“You could strive to bring her some soup and a sweetroll,” his mother said laughingly. She was supervising the laying of the table. The Baron inspected both of us, his arms folded as the servants set out the china. I suffered a brief flash of unreality — less than two days ago I had been scrubbing pots in a R’mini camp. Now I watched the serving maids, one middle-aged matron and two fresh-faced girls, and I wondered who they were. Did they possess Consorts, sweethearts, fathers, brothers — men who could die if I made the wrong decisions? And what of the suffering that attended war? I had read more than enough Tiberian histories to know what misfortunes followed in an army’s wake.
Tis not merely Tristan and the Guard, or a few lone peasants. Every person I see could come to harm because I have the Aryx, and d’Orlaans will kill to keep Arquitaine. He must be mad, to murder his brother and niece. Mad. And di Narborre — how did he find us in the Shirlstrienne? Was he the author of that terrible spell, or was it the Duc? What hope have I of fighting a Court sorcerer that powerful without losing myself to the Aryx? “Captain?”
“What thought has struck you now, m’chri?” Lightly, but with an edge.
“How did di Narborre track us?”
He seemed almost relieved by the question. “Di Palanton, almost certainly. It gave him enough for the tracking spell. The Duc is a fair Court sorcerer, Vianne, perhaps the strongest in Arquitaine. Yet you have the Aryx.” His voice dropped to a murmur.
I nodded, resting my head against the back of the chair. If it came to fighting d’Orlaans as a sorcerer, would I be able to endure the Aryx’s swallowing of my soul?
If I must, I must. And Tristan will bring me back to myself, will he not? “Tell me what I must do, Left Hand.”
“I would suggest partaking of luncheon, as you certainly need it. Tonight we shall visit the Temple. Tomorrow there will be dispatches, and plenty of work. For today, my father will ask questions, and we shall answer as best we can.”
“You eat, and answer. I might merely sit and think.” Since I can see very few avenues that do not end with death and blood.
Very few? No. I cannot see a single one.
“You worry me.” His mouth curled into a smile. “We shall have to stuff you like a partridge, to regain your lost health.”
That won a weary laugh from me. “What can I say? This would tax any constitution, even a di Rocancheil’s. I am glad you are here.”
“Tris, m’fils, as you love the lady, bring her to the table,” the Baroness interrupted. “She is so thin it makes me hungry to look at her. Come, child, have a cup of chai and some sweetrolls. Cook is a genius, and she is quite pleased to have a royal to cosset.”
A stray memory of Head Cook Amys pierced me. I wondered how she fared — and if she was preparing eels for d’Orlaans.
If she is, may he choke on them.
I let the Baroness bully me into eating, though I barely tasted Cook’s cosseting. I was too busy pondering what Baron d’Arcenne would ask of me.
Now I must plan for Arquitaine. I have come this far, but there is more yet to do. Much, much more. My eyes strayed to Tristan, who had folded his snowy napkin into a flower and presented it to his mother with a mischievous smile. She laughed, and I could see how her husband and son prized her.
I wish my mother… What could I wish for, that would not be ungrateful? I looked down into my chai-cup, the specks of leaf in the swirling liquid making a pattern for a bare moment before twas whisked away.
I have no time for regret. I must think of Arquitaine. Everything is different now, and I must be different, too.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Temple of Arcenne stood above the town, blocks of white stone on the mountainside. Inside, incense-scented quiet enfolded me. I had rarely been in a temple since my Coming-of-Age, and Lisele’s Coming-of-Age ceremony a year after.
I breathed in, looking about. Thirty-six provinces, three each for the Blessed both old and new. The six that were, and the six who came, all watch over our land.
It was a teaching-rhyme, and an old one. The Angoulême and his armies had brought their gods, and the arms of Arquitaine had opened to both. The Old Blessed — the old gods of hedgewitchery and harvest — had greeted the New Blessed, of war and conquest, hearth and hunt, trade and sorcery. The Aryx was a relic of that time, granted by the gods themselves at the Field d’Or, when the invading army and the defending had gone to their knees on the battlefield, a great light breaking over both.
Or so twas said, and I had never disbelieved it. Or truly believed it, for that matter. Teaching-rhymes were all very well, but I preferred Tiberian histories, dry tomes of hedgewitch charms and plant lore, and the comfort of dusty pages, where scratches of ink did not require such decisions of me.
The rest of the Guard gathered outside in the falling dusk. Jierre and di Chatillon stayed behind with Adersahl, but a contingent of Citadel Guard accompanied us up the hill, Tristan on his horse and I on a docile white palfrey from the Arcenne stables. It was strange to ride sidesaddle again, let alone in the midst of a procession.
A round, smiling priest of Danshar, Jiserah’s husband, took our names, not remarking on the Aryx against my dress. He wrote out the contract, we signed three copies, and he sealed two to be kept — one in the Temple, one sent to the Great Archive in Avignienne by carrier pigeon. Though d’Orlaans might well be watching the Archive, yet it did not matter.