The Baron’s jaw set. “As you wish, my liege.” He took the parchment from me. “I will have a proclamation and the letters drafted in a matter of hours.”
“Good.” I looked at Tristan. “Fetch me a scribe, as well. There are other letters to write.”
“D’Orlaans will know his killspell failed.” Tristan folded his arms, but his tone was not combative.
He will. “He will only know it did not kill anyone, not a whit else. It is the more imperative we move quickly. I will hold a Session this afternoon, Baron, of all members of my Council that are here. We may fill the vacancies later.”
The Baron nodded. The crackling anger in his tone had smoothed. “I will send a scribe and gather the Council. Is there aught else, my liege?”
“Not at this moment. My thanks.”
He turned on his heel, nodding to his son, and was gone just as swiftly as he’d entered.
Tristan took a long gulp of wine, perhaps to bolster himself.
I settled myself down in my chair, forcing calm. “Now, Chivalier di Tatancourt. Tell me of Court, and of d’Orlaans. You are a Messenger, so you will know what is of import.”
He nodded, and took a swallow of wine. His cheeks were still flour-pale, and he trembled just the slightest bit. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”
“No thanks necessary,” my new, brittle voice told him. Who am I? Who have I become? I no longer knew. “Now, we shall start with the Court. Tell me, what is the latest gossip?”
Tristan opened the door, and I leaned on his arm, stepping inside his sitting room. “Gods above. Another day like that, and I may save everyone the trouble by retiring to a convent.”
He laughed, then kicked the door shut and took me in his arms, resting his chin atop my head. I fell into the safety of his body, sliding my arms around him. He moved slightly, restless, and I felt his readiness, a hardness against my lower belly. He looked almost giddy with relief. “I seem to always be thanking you for saving my life, demiange.”
That made me shiver. “Do not name me so — it might attract the attention of one.”
“Which would not be a bad thing — you seem to need more protection than I can provide.” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. “My darling Vianne. Do you have any idea how utterly magnificent you are?”
“I thought Lord Siguerre was going to pop when I told him to hold his tongue, and that I shall have no war before spring. He is a disagreeable old stoneshell turtle.” I could have picked many another term for the man, but none were fit for a noblewoman’s mouth.
“He is tactics-wise, and organized. And he holds the adjoining province. Enough of business.” He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, then crushed me to him again. “I wish to hold you.”
“You could comb my hair.” I laughed, a weary chuckle, as his fingers fumbled with the pearls the Baroness had insisted I wear. He swore good-naturedly, and the pearls finally came free. He threaded his fingers in my hair, kissed me deeply. I turned to water against him. He picked me up and twirled me once, then twirled me again as if he could not help himself. Yet a thought struck me, and I had to voice it. “Tristan, why did your father say Navarrin is no true ally? I thought you always planned on seeking help from Navarrin.”
He groaned. “Must you always speak of business, Vianne? I am beginning to think you torment me for sport.”
“Oh, never that.” I traced the line of his jaw with one fingertip. I knew of the first flush of love and hoped it would not fade too soon, and also hoped that we would be friends after the sweetness had passed. “I do not seek to torment you. I would never be so unkind.”
“I know you would not.” He changed between one moment and the next, his face gone serious, his mouth a thin line. He cupped my face in his hand, the pearls his mother had pressed upon me smooth and hard against my cheek. “What are you thinking, m’chri, my beloved? Your eyes are dark, and that is a sign of trouble.”
I am merely curious and unsettled. Something does not seem aright to me. “I am thinking of Navarrin and how I wish my curiosity satisfied. And how do you know my eyes go dark when there is trouble?”
“I have watched you enough to tell, and I shall satisfy any curiosities you care to voice to me. What else?” His thumb stroked my cheek.
I blushed at the entendre. “I am only uneasy.” I would have looked down, but he did not let me. “Truly, Tristan.”
“What of, m’chri?”
Of everything. Of all this madness. “Merely…I thought when I reached Arcenne this would be over. I thought I could give the Aryx up to someone and — I do not know. Go about with…something. My life. I thought I would be free, d’Orlaans would fall, this would make everything right again.” The truth rose to my lips and would not be denied. I could not produce more than a whisper. “I suppose I thought it would bring my Lisele back.”
Tristan kissed my forehead again. He was silent.
“I do not wish this burden.” As if telling him a terrible secret. “I thought Court was so awful, I hated it there. Yet I wish to go back. At least there, I…I do not know.” At least it was familiar. And I am still terrified of you wasting yourself for your duty to a dead King, Tristan. I cannot stand to lose you.
But though I could admit to much, I could not say that to a nobleman. A noble’s honor would make him stubborn as a Scythandrian horse, and Tristan d’Arcenne had more than his share of prickly d’Arquitaine pride. To speak to him of danger would merely make him rash.
He rested his forehead against mine, closed his eyes. “I am sorry. I was too late.”
“You did what you could.” I tried to smile, but it felt unnatural. A mask. “I do not mean to hurt you.”
His mouth tilted up, a charmingly lopsided grin as his eyes came out, surprising me again with their blueness. “Come.” His arms tightened, he picked me up and half-dragged me over the stone floor. I let out a blurt of surprise, and he tossed me carefully on the bed, following me with a sigh. A moment’s worth of rearranging ended with my head on his shoulder, my hair beginning a tangle on the velvet coverlet. Lying down only made me more acutely aware of how weary I was.
“There.” Tristan scooped up my free hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Better? Speak to me of what you will, m’chri. I do not even begrudge your perpetual obsession with dispatches.”
“I know you would prefer—,” I began.
“I do not think you do. Speak to me, Vianne. Weave me a tale.”
“But you must—” I bit my lip. It was not a thing a lady should say.
“You think I am dragged about by my breechclout, my liege? I am occasionally capable of chastity, am I not? You have no idea what it was like, sharing a saddle with you through half of Arquitaine. I thought I would die of frustration.”
Indeed? “Really?”
“Do you know how lovely you are, dear one?” He raised my knuckles to his lips. “You could make Danshar himself forget his sword and think of bedplay. But tis your quick mind, I think, that makes you so alluring.”