My entire body chilled, as if I had been doused with cold water.
I turned, my fingers curling around the edge of the washstand. It was heavy frigid porcelain, and I clutched at it with all my waning strength.
I did not hear the door open. Sharp fingers of unease touched my back.
The footsteps paced to the window, back to the main door. I could have peered out through the small space between the watercloset door and the jamb — I had left the door slightly open, in my haste.
Faint scuffing, and a deep silence.
The tingle of Court sorcery began to edge along my skin.
Sight blurred, my gaze weakly piercing the veil of the visible. Any type of sorcery is difficult when the physical body is ill, even the passive use of Sight. I swayed against the washstand, my hip bumping its unforgiving edge.
The Aryx pulsed against my chest, a second heartbeat. I put my free hand up blindly and felt warm metal move under my fingers. Now that I was not seeking to remove it, the Aryx slid freely against my skin.
The sorcery in the other room stilled. Someone was waiting…and I smelled something I had once before, something quite distinct. An odor like acid, magic, and rust; apples and wet dog.
A killspell. Not a poisonous one, but one that reeked of steel and iron-spill blood.
Tis not the Captain or di Yspres. My legs turned weak as water. The fever was returning, sick unsteady heat mounting in my cheeks, turning my fingers to slick heavy sausages. Who? And why?
I could not simply stay in the watercloset and let a Court sorcerer use a killspell on whoever entered the room. Di Yspres had said he would return — and Tristan d’Arcenne. They would be walking blindly into danger.
Why cannot he sense me, if he has enough sorcery for Sight? Of course, I am a practicing hedgewitch, I sink into the scenery. But still…
I cast about for something, anything, to use as a possible weapon, my fingers still clutching at the Aryx.
I was near frantic when inspiration struck. There was a hedgewitch charm that would turn a killspell back on itself. If I could only remember it.
My heart leapt against the cage of my ribs. D’Arcenne. A killspell would hurt him even if he had the presence of mind to shunt it aside; it could kill him if it took him unawares. He was a Court sorcerer too, but if he was caught off his guard there was precious little hope.
With a type of swooning terror, I realized I could hear other footsteps. Light feet in heavy boots, a gait I knew.
Stupid, silly fool that I was, I was still listening for him.
I cast about again. I could not for the life of me remember the thrice-damned charm. I wished frantically I had spent time training my memory instead of reading romances or dancing, frittering away time in the Princesse’s chambers.
No, not hedgewitchery. Try something else, Vianne. Think!
I was an abysmal Court sorcerer, with only some tiny skill at rough illusion and enough power to light a candle despite all my sword-noble blood.
A killspell must be triggered. If tis thrown at someone in haste instead of laid with careful preparation, you must be able to see them. I remember that much.
There. I had my answer.
There was a brief courteous tap at the door, such as a chivalier might use to warn an invalid but not wake her if she slept. I dropped my hand from the Aryx and took two steps forward, reaching for the watercloset’s door. Court sorcery took shape on my fingertips, a quick, growing shimmer.
The door from the hall pushed open, hinges squeaking slightly.
I jerked the watercloset door open and flung my own small magic in the general direction I guessed the intruder was hiding, just before the killspell roared free. Light burst free, a white-hot globe of witchlight, so intense it hurt to look at. I whispered the last syllable of my sorcery, heard a cry and the dry rasp of steel leaving the sheath before my head struck the floor.
Court sorcery is not as draining as hedgewitchery, but it still takes a toll on the body — a toll I was ill prepared to pay.
“—light—”
“—truly chills the blood.”
“—Tristan—”
Confused motion. A group of men all speaking at once, yet seeking to keep the noise down. For all that, they would be lucky to escape notice.
Why must we escape notice? What is happening?
“No.” Tristan d’Arcenne sounded ragged, and furious, as if he had been weeping. His voice broke. “No. Vianne—Vianne.”
“I will kill you — I will kill you!” A man, Court-accented, but not one of the Guard.
What are they doing in my room? For a mad moment, I once again thought I was safe at Court. Had I swooned? I was not given to fainting fits, that was Lady di Wintrefelle’s trick—
“Keep him quiet. Gag him, if you must,” Jierre di Yspres hissed. “For the love of the gods, Tristan, calm yourself!”
“I am still alive?” I asked wonderingly, high and breathless. Nobody could be more surprised than I at the thought.
Breathless silence. Someone smoothed my forehead, picked up my hands. I found myself reclining, the sheets still smelled of lavender. Warm, callused fingers traced the back of my hand, touched my cheek. “Vianne.” Tristan d’Arcenne, husky and ragged. “You saved my life yet again, d’mselle.”
Hazy shapes played as my eyelids fluttered. “Twas a killspell, I knew you would be returning.” I blinked, finding my gaze could focus now.
“You blinded him with a witchlight, m’chri.” D’Arcenne’s blue eyes blazed, and he had pushed his dark hair from his forehead. There was a fresh cut on his cheek, and a trickle of blood had found its way down to his chin. “And a fair one, too. When did you become such a Court sorcerer?”
“I never was,” I protested weakly, and he stroked my cheek again. It was a strangely intimate, highly improper touch, and I would have blushed had I had not been looking wildly about for the source of the killspell. Sense was flooding me, and uneasy was too pale a word for the terror returning as I gathered myself. “Where — what did you—”
“Safely bound and awaiting questioning.” D’Arcenne’s gaze turned dark, and he ceased touching my face. “I think I will take particular pleasure in interrogating him. How do you feel, Vianne?”
“Tired,” I breathed. “Dear gods. I thought he would kill you. Who is he?”
“I believe he is Yveris di Palanton. Do you remember him?” D’Arcenne recommenced touching my cheek. Oddly, the touch made me feel better. Comforted.
The name meant nothing. “Do not hurt him,” I whispered. He seemed fearfully angry, for all his tenderness. Why does he touch me so? It is improper. “Please.”
“When death comes for him, it will be merciful.” Low and conversational again, and I knew enough of him now to guess at the danger such softness held. I shivered to hear it, and he touched my eyebrow, ran his fingers over my cheek, touched my lips.
Comtesse Rochburre would have been scandalized. “Why was he trying to kill you? None of this makes sense.”
“I shall solve the mystery, Vianne. Rest.” He held a small cupful of the tisane to my lips, and I took it gratefully. It tasted foul and medicinal against the copper fear coating my tongue. I almost gagged, but I knew it would help me. “What were you seeking to do?”