The Pruzian moaned. His eyes were almost swollen shut. He was naked, and his hands and feet were chained together. “Gods.” I looked in vain for water, for food. Nothing. “Adersahl, a waterskin. A cambric — no, I have one. A waterskin, for the love of the Blessed.”
“Be careful, Vianne.”
“I do not think he is a danger. He is chained and beaten near to death.” I knelt by the Pruzian, pinching my nose shut against the smell.
Last night he had been a figure of terror. Now he was merely broken.
The glimmer of a hedgewitch charm began on my free hand’s fingers, the Aryx moving sleepily to obey me. I had spent so long fighting; it was no longer necessary. The Great Seal did as I asked with only token resistance, without trying to force the doors of magic open and propel me through them.
I was still in danger of drowning, but at least I was learning to swim.
Jaryana had taught me this charm, one to still a fever and bolster a sick man’s strength. It took a new depth of power from the Aryx, and I had to take care lest the sudden flow of sorcery harm the life I sought to save. I wished suddenly that I had known what Jaryana and Risaine had taught me before. I might have been able to stave off death from Lisele, and save her from the Duc as well.
Wishes will not stop the tide, nor will they bring the dead back to life. Ware your work at hand, Vianne, not what you wish could have been.
The man’s skin was fever-hot under my fingers. He moaned. I saw marks on him, terrible marks, and my heart compressed itself with a pang. He lay curled into a ball like a child, his long dark hair tangled and matted with blood.
I repeated the charm, the magic sliding through my fingers and into his flesh. The Aryx, muttering, sank back into quiescence and I was left with merely my own power to charm. Twas enough, now that I knew what I was about.
I could not hold my nose clamped shut forever, and the fresh green scent of hedgewitchery mixed uneasily with the reek of rot, stone, pain, blood, and foulness.
Above me, I heard returning footsteps.
“Where is — oh, no. Vianne!” A horrified cry bounced off stone. The Aryx muttered, spilling fresh force through me, and I had to throttle the flow lest it drown my patient.
I returned to myself slowly, the tide of sorcery retreating. “I am safe enough, Tristan,” I called up. “But you shall have to find a way to bring us both out. He is sorely injured. Can you lower the waterskin, Adersahl?” I brought my square of cambric out. “And are there keys for these cuffs?”
Tristan’s face appeared at the top of the oublietta. His eyes were alive with blueness. “Vianne.” His cool, soft dueling-tone; as if I were an enemy. “He is a Pruzian Knife. Get away from him.”
Do not order me about. I bit the words back, chose summat else to say. “He is chained and beaten to a pulp. I suggest you turn your wits to finding a way to get us both out of this hole if you are so worried for me.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Have some chai.” Sílvie poured; I rubbed my fingers against the green satin of my skirt. The indigo dress needed cleaning, twas fouled with donjon and other things. “Would you care to speak, or do you wish silence?”
“I cannot tell.” I picked up a strawberry. Set it back down. “They might have killed him, Baroness.”
“If you are Vianne, then I am Sílvie. There.” A single nod, curls swinging free over her ears. The rest of her dark hair, caught back in a complicated knot, glowed in the bright warm light. “Yes, they might have killed him. You stopped them.” She handed me the delicate porcelain cup, its saucer held correctly. I accepted, my smallest finger just so, a little Court mannerism.
“They are too angry. I had plans which required that man.” I sounded plaintive. My shoulders slumped before I straightened, Comtesse Rocheburre’s ghostly voice ringing in the mists of memory. A noblewoman does not slouch, Duchesse. Keep your shoulders back, and sit straight.
The Baroness’s gaze was kind. “Tis well you hold the Aryx, then. Have a pastry, Vianne. You shall need it. You have a long dreary afternoon full of angry men before you.”
Tristan was outside the door with Luc di Chatillon. I did not know what they would say to each other, and despite my determination I was still afraid of my Consort’s anger. They had hauled us both out of the oublietta, and I had supervised the installing of the Pruzian in a freshly-swept infirmary cell, Bryony had examined him and added his own hedgewitch healing to mine. Tristan was tight-lipped and silent during the whole process. The Pruzian had not regained consciousness, so the scribe was sent back to his work in the Archives. Nobody in Arcenne spoke Pruzian, it seemed, so I had to hope the Knife spoke Arquitaine.
I had left Adersahl to guard the Pruzian and made it understood to others of the Guard that I needed information this man had, and he had to be whole to give it. Jierre still had not shown his face; Jai had not returned either.
I could only guess at why.
I had also made it understood that any Guard who lifted a hand to the Pruzian would be summarily dismissed from my service. Oddly enough, that made even Adersahl blanch. I was as certain as I could be that the assassin would be safe.
Until he awakened and was well enough to question, that is. Which presented an entirely new set of ugly plans to be made.
Sílvie’s sitting room was a haven of peace, sunlight slanting through the windows. The needlework frame seemed dipped in gold glow, and the harp vibrated with its eagerness to make music.
Still, uneasiness had invaded the Keep along with killspell and Knives. I could almost taste the brittle copper of fear, hanging in the halls and creeping in the corners. “I fear Tristan is rather angry at me for denying him the pleasure of beating the Pruzian to death.” Ware what you say. This is his mother.
“Mh, that storm will pass. He cannot stay angry with you for long. Have a dainty, I implore you.” Her eyes twinkled. Altogether she was too sunny-calm, and while I cherished her ease, I wished she would be serious with me.
I selected a biscuit. “Oh, he can stay angry at me. And I am rather afraid he will.” It was a plea, and she must have recognized it. Dearest Baroness, how do I handle your son? “I should beg your pardon, for you were attacked as well.”
“Oh, well. What can one do? I must confess I barely woke, even when Perseval cursed and dragged me out of bed. I cursed him back roundly for disturbing me, too.” She laughed, her ruby ear-drops swinging. I had to admit that there was nothing Perseval d’Arcenne denied his Baroness, for all his harshness. “I think you have the right of it. If it were up to Perseval and Tristan we would all be endlessly doing our wretched duty without respite. Tis something in the d’Arcennes, I think. Bones from the Mountains and a sense of noble obligation to match.”
“I am not practiced at this at all, Sílvie. I belong at Court with my books and nothing more pressing than which skirt to wear and which gossip not to repeat.” And Lisele to watch for. “I shall get us all murdered and d’Orlaans will triumph…” I bent my head, dabbed at my eyes with a linen napkin. It was terrible manners to weep so, but I could not stop myself. “And I ruined the lovely dress you had made for me,” I finished mournfully. The indigo would likely never be the same.
“The dress matters not a whit.” She selected a biscuit of her own. “Of all those in the world, in Arquitaine, the Aryx chose you.”