Dear gods, anywhere but here. This is madness. There must be somewhere—
I heard footsteps and dropped down to sit on the bed, my hands clasped together, my braid disheveled and pushed forward over my shoulder, my skirts spread prettily as if I was on a divan at Court. The last bit was habitual, my busy fingers accomplishing it without any direction from the rest of me.
A courteous knock at the door. I had to try twice before I could say “Enter, an it please you” in anything resembling a normal voice.
The door opened and revealed Tristan d’Arcenne.
He had bathed, and his face looked both better — because he was relieved — and worse, because it was now apparent he had been very badly beaten. His hair was combed back damp, and he had no red sash. He wore a white linen shirt, a black leather doublet, and a pair of breeches. The siang-stone signet glinted on his left ring finger. He had not worn it yesterday — someone must have brought it to him. His sword was in its accustomed place, his boots freshly brushed, and his gloves thrust through his belt.
I felt even more rumpled. “Captain.” I tilted my head just as I had seen Lisele often do.
Oh, but the thought of Lisele sent another arrow through my already-torn heart. My eyes prickled hotly.
“Duchesse.” Equally formal. “You heard.”
I shrugged. “I thought to come find you. Or to see if I had been left.” I sounded wistful insted of polished, so I pulled my shoulders back, giving myself a sharp mental slap.
I was Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I had to act so.
“You did not leave me to the donjon, I would not repay your kindness by leaving you here.” He examined me, and I saw he had a fall of cloth over one arm. I glanced at it, then up at him. He shrugged, blue eyes darkening. The swelling around his one eye had gone down quite a bit. “Well. One of the Guard — Tinan di Rocham. He is a slight boy, and we may belt in a pair of his breeches for you. You cannot ride in that dress. This will be more comfortable. And a group of men traveling will raise little suspicion, while a group of men traveling with a young noblewoman may cause comment.” A high flag of color stood out along his cheekbones, a novel occurrence.
I glanced again at the clothes he carried. “Tis true. I shall only be trouble to you.”
He dismissed the notion with a single gesture, his signet glinting. “Your father and mother both have bloodlines tangling with the royal tree. Did you not ever wonder why you were brought to Court?”
“My father told me twas my mother’s dying wish. I am a noblewoman of Arquitaine, and tis good enough for me. Lisele…” Grief rose again, and my eyes began to fill. I gazed at the floor, seeking to swallow the rock lodged in my throat.
The Captain swept the door shut behind him. “Gods,” he said quietly, but with great force. He strode across the room, tossed the clothes on the bed beside me, and went to his knees, taking my cold hands in his. It was highly improper, but I could not move, I seemed nailed in place. “Vianne, you must listen. Whether you will or no, you have the last drop of untainted royal blood in Arquitaine. Lisele and Henri are both dead—you are what is left. It is your duty to free us from the Duc d’Orlaans.” His eyes were burning now, and I found it increasingly difficult to breathe. “He killed your Princesse,” the Captain continued, pitilessly. “Would you leave her death unavenged?”
It was a sharp pinch in a sensitive place. I started, and stared down at him. What does this matter to you? I have nothing you want, Captain. And I realized twas not true just as he spoke again. I did have something he wanted, and it rested on a chain around my throat.
“The Aryx has accepted you as its holder. And furthermore, I need you.” A pause, while he struggled with the words. “An army will need a rallying point. If I am to somehow enlist the help of the King of Navarrin, he is a distant cousin of yours and your pretty face will put a debt on him. I ask you for duty, and for honor, Vianne. Please.”
A horrible realization dawned. Tristan d’Arcenne, Captain of the King’s Guard, had danced with me and followed me at Court to keep watch — to see if I was any danger to Lisele. If I had shown any sign that could be interpreted as ambition, I might have been spied upon more assiduously. He had been relieved to see me as he lay trapped in the donjon — not for myself, but because I was useful.
I was a way to serve the King, though the King was dead. As usual, I myself had very little value.
All my value lay in how I was to be used.
“Oh.” Fresh tears filled my eyes. I had been a fool. Thank the gods I had never said, or done, anything more foolish.
He waited, examining my face. Anger washed through my whole body, a great hot spate of it. I had been shipped off to Court at nine years of age, needled and buffeted because I was not content to simply be an empty-headed featherbrain, watched constantly because I was Lisele’s friend, and taunted because I chose to work with herbs and practical spells instead of gaudy, violent Court sorcery. Now, even a rash of death and conspiracy did not free me. I would be forced to marry a man who had murdered the King — the King my half-uncle, who had only addressed me directly twice in my life — or compelled to become a figurehead for a rebellion and a civil war that could devastate Arquitaine.
Yet in the midst of that anger was the vision of my Lisele, lying on her back on blue silk, her hair tangled and her chest full of blood. Make certain. I heard the terrible voice again. And the horrible crunching sounds as the Duc’s Guard obeyed, making certain the witnesses to murder would forever hold their peace.
I licked my dry lips. “As you like, Captain d’Arcenne.” But do not think I will always be this easily manipulated. I watched relief and fresh worry cross his face. He really was very handsome, though it would do me little good to mark it. Fair face may hide a foul heart, I heard the Comtesse Rochburre’s voice intone piously from the mists of my childhood.
She had often glanced at Arioste di Wintrefelle while she did so; the Comtesse worried for Arioste.
I could have told her not to bother. Those with di Wintrefelle’s wits and charm seldom fail to land afoot. It is the rest of us who should worry, for they tend to trample wherever they do land.
And now the vision of Arioste’s crumpled body rose up in vivid, horrifying detail. Dear gods. Had the Blessed received her? They must — Jiserah welcomed all, she was the Merciful.
But still, I wondered, and the thought of her slumped, lifeless form—
“What’s this?” His tone had taken an abrupt turn into something like concern. “Vianne?”
Do not use my name so freely, sieur. “I must dress myself.” I sought to pull my hands from his. Much to my surprise, he allowed me. “There is little time. We may be tracked; the sooner we depart, the better.”
“I cannot argue, but why are you suddenly so pliable? I distrust your meekness.”
And well you should. He had sworn me service in the donjon of Palais D’Arquitaine, but I did not doubt he would just as easily kill me if it suited him — if I showed any sign of disloyalty. “I hate to be used, Captain. By Duc d’Orlaans or by Captain of the Guard, I hate to be used. I will accompany you and aid you however I may, because I owe it to Lisele.” I felt my throat closing with tears and denied them, feeling my eyes burn. “But do not think for a moment you can force me into anything…dishonorable. I will act as the holder of the Aryx, but I am not a Queen. Surely someone else can be found. There are royal bastards everywhere.”