The wine had loosed my tongue. “Neither are you,” I retorted sharply. “Yet you would torture an assassin to death to salve your wounded pride, and you would call it duty. I know your duty in this matter, Tristan d’Arcenne, and I will have obedience.” There is death lying on this cot; does not it make your heart break? If it does not, why? Why are you so willing to spread more of it?
“Very well.” He shrugged, winced slightly as if his side pained him. “I can always kill him later.”
How can you say such things so calmly? Is that what a man is? “You may. But not until I say so.”
“As my Queen commands.” Was that a new coolness in his tone? I hoped not.
If it was…I would mourn the loss of warmth, but it would not alter my course.
I turned my attention to the boy on the cot. Bootless, sweating, the bandage at his belly staining with fresh bright red and darker, fouler matter, he seemed very small.
I have not served you well, chivalier. Dear gods.
I took Tinan di Rocham’s hand in both of mine. “Tinan,” I whispered, and the Aryx shifted against my chest. A fine thin vibration ran through my marrow.
I closed my eyes. The wine loosened my mind, dilated my heart, turning inside my chest like a giant gyre. Show me, I pleaded. You have power, a great deal of it; you showed me once how to use it fully. Show me now, please. Let me save his life, and I will not fight you.
The Aryx, wonder of wonders, answered, doors flung open inside my head again and the golden riptide of sorcery swallowed me. Yet I did not witness it. I did not gainsay the Seal, only gave myself up to it. When the gold faded there was only soft restful darkness, and a brushing like wings.
I woke the following morning, in Tristan’s bed, with my Consort standing guard at the door.
He was silent as I dressed myself, not offering to help with the laces as he usually did. That was sometimes worth a half-hour of my laughter and his good-natured cursing before the dress was laced properly, and kisses as well. Today, however, it was indigo satin and quiet; I laid the Aryx atop the fabric and braided my hair with unsteady hands.
Tristan exited the watercloset and stalked to his clothespress, pulled on fresh breeches and a new shirt. He struggled into a leather doublet without my help. The silence between us grew brittle. I stood at the window, looking down over the practice-ground and garden, now familiar sights. I tied off the last braid with a bit of ribbon and sighed, leaning against the stone. Lisele would laugh to see the simplicity of my hair lately, but I was far too hurried during the day to stop and re-dress my braids. Besides, I had not a ladyservant to help; Tristan had been more than enough help with laces, and I had not felt I needed more. He was not so fine at braiding a woman’s hair, not quick-fingered enough. It was the only clumsiness I saw in him.
Tristan approached me slowly. He stopped at my shoulder, looking past me out the window. Or at least, I felt his breath upon my cheek and thought that was where he gazed. The heat of him was a comfort and a grievance at the same time.
“Are you angry with me, m’chri?”
Of all the questions I expected, that was the last. “With you? Of course not.” My own question rose hard on the heels of that denial. “I expect you are rather furious with me, though?”
“No.” His hands stole around my waist. “You were right. I was not…calm, last night. I am furious, but at the thought of you in danger, m’chri. I wish him to suffer.”
Again he surprised me. I was glad we were both gazing in the same direction and not at each other, for my jaw gaped in a most unladylike manner. And there are things that may be said while two people study a vista instead of each other. “Ah.” I searched for aught else to add. “Tristan, I am sorry. I was unkind last night.”
“You were right, Vianne. You often are.” He drew me back against him. I could dimly hear the sound of clattering wood and effort from the practice-ground; they were at morning drill. Sunlight bleached the white stone of Arcenne. “Do you think me a murderer?”
I do not know what to think, but I doubt you would not murder, did you need to. “I do not—”
“Hush.” He covered my mouth, but it was gentle, a reminder of the road from the Citté. “Do you suppose I have any honor left, after being Henri’s Left Hand? After…what I have done in his name?”
Whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you…tis more important than you think. Risaine’s words rose up to haunt me. Hard on their heels came the words of her son:
You are not such a secret to me as you are to our d’mselle…Besides, I look forward to the day all is revealed.
But Tristan was so gentle. He had done nothing but watch over me. Who did I have to thank for my escape from the conspiracy? What did he speak of?
And now that I knew more of lovers and having a Consort, the thought of the Duc’s limp white hands touching me made me sick all through.
“Whatever you did for the King is finished.” I tried to make my tone a balance of light and serious, to put paid to his uncertainty. “You are my chivalier, and my Consort. Well enough?”
“More than I deserve,” he said into my hair, a long sigh. “On my honor, then, Vianne; I will never be so angry I cannot comfort you. Well enough?”
My heart swelled to its normal size, and melted at the same moment. “Indeed. And on mine, likewise.”
He paused, as if there was summat else he would add. I waited, but when he spoke next, it was to turn to business.
“Then I am content. I suppose you have some new variety of heartstopping excitement for us this morning?”
“Questioning the Pruzian. And di Rocham…” Dare I ask? Abruptly, I felt the bite of shame. That should have been my first question.
“He lived through the night, and likely will mend.” Tristan paused. “The Aryx.”
“Yes.” I leaned in to his warmth. “I do not recognize myself anymore, Tris.”
“I know you.” He pressed a kiss onto my hair. But his hands trembled. “You are my Vianne, and the Queen of Arquitaine.”
I did not protest. Instead, I let Tristan hold me until a maid knocked at the door, bringing breakfast. Twas a respite before the storm; and a welcome one. Had I known what was to be, I would have cherished it all the more.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Baron d’Arcenne was exceeding unhappy. “He sought to kill me, and my wife, and my son,” he informed me, as if I did not already know. “I want him hanged. I want him dead, for the crows to peck at his—”
“He is remanded to my justice, Baron.” It took work to keep my tone even. I stood at the fireplace, my hands clasped in front of me. The Baroness, her hazel eyes wide and unwontedly dark, sat on a divan, her embroidery in her lap. I wanted badly to ask her if she was hurt or frightened, but Tristan’s father had given me little time. Instead, he had set upon me the moment I arrived, without even a good morn greeting.
I did not blame him, but still.
Tristan himself was outside the door, conferring with Jermain di Vantmor. I did not ask of what; I would learn of it later if necessary.
The Baron fixed me with an icy blue d’Arcenne glare. “Your justice? And just what is your justice, you silly little—”