The Bandit King (15 page)

“Tis very simple, Vianne.” My fingers eased, slid up her hand. I did not take the knife from her. I lowered it, the point trembling, and it touched my cheek. Cold metal, and the Pruzian would no doubt be happy to see my blood on it. “I am a traitor; make me bleed for it. I am more useful alive, though. You need me for the Aryx, you need me for protection, you simply need
me
. But do it, if you like. I am at your service.”

In every way.

The relief was immense, as if I had just spent myself in her. I had not realized the constant draining tension of examining her face, guessing if she knew or did not, if she suspected, what she would think of my actions. Instead, she knew, and I was exposed to her in a way I never had been.

“I did not truly believe…” She stared as if seeing me for the first time, or as if I had suddenly melted into a loathsome monster, a
demieri di sorce
with claws and fangs ready to rend and eat human flesh. “I thought to shelter you from whatever game the Duc had planned. I thought to
protect
you.”

By throwing me in a donjon?
But, of course. It made a great deal of sense now—she had perhaps thought to draw out whatever traitors lurked in the shadows by allowing them to think me disgraced and thus, of little value as a means to wound her.

And possibly, amenable to treachery. Which, after all, she had not believed me capable of.

Why had I not thought of it?
Too clever by half, d’Arcenne.
The pain behind my ribs mounted another notch, and despite it, I felt a curious comfort. There was no way to salvage
this
. I had become my own undoing.

“If this is
protection
, Vianne, I should hate to see its opposite.”

I did not mean it cruelly. And yet, as soon as the words escaped, they sounded brutally ill-mannered, and much too sharp. I meant only to provoke her into an explosion, for after a woman rages she is usually amenable to reason. Or, at least, to smooth words. I have used such a strategy once or twice.

I should have known it would not work on
her
.

Utterly still, those fever-spots in her cheeks glaring at me, the pulse beating in her throat. “Lisele,” she whispered, her lips shaping the sibilant most fetchingly.

It took me a moment to decipher the sudden turn of her thoughts. Her Princesse, Henri’s half-Damarsene daughter. “I did not know they were to kill the Princesse.” It was my turn to swallow dryly. “She was to be married. To the Damarsene. In your stead.”

If I thought her pale before, she was ashen now. “In my…”

“Yes.” Was this what the saying
truth is its own reward
meant? The feeling of exquisite nakedness, the idea that she, at last, was truly seeing
me
?

Her eyes narrowed, as a mountain-pard’s the moment before it strikes.

A lick of fire tore down my cheek. The knife plunged, its tip glancing along my chest and tearing through shirt and skin both. Blood flew, and Vianne let out a despairing sound. I twisted her wrist, bruising-hard, and my mouth caught her cry as the knife chimed on stone, flung free. Kisses between us were often shy, tentative; this one was not. Copper and spice filled my mouth, she bit my lip hard enough to add to the bleeding, and I held her pinned as she writhed and fought.

For once, I did not ask. I
took
what I wanted from her. What she had, what she could give, what I would die without. I kissed her even as the blood welled and the wounds burned, the Aryx between us shifting against cloth and skin, metal scorch-hot and her fingers tangled in my hair, wrenching hard enough to add more fury to the explosion between us.

It was not Graecan fire, but it burned nonetheless. Across the room in a tangle of hot blood and her fevered mouth, tipped onto the bed’s sinking depth, and it was Vianne in my arms again, her softness and the marks of her nails in my back. The hot tight core of her, desperation shaking her limbs and her teeth driven into my shoulder—twas deadly-silent as a back-alley assassination, neither of us weakening enough to give so much as a moan. Tears welling from her closed eyelids, the blood smeared between us, and when at last I let myself careen over the edge, helplessly shaking in her arms, the Aryx burning between us like a star, she wept as if her heart would break.

I should have hated myself. But it was worth it. It
was
.

I would do it again, as well.

The knife was, of course, bastard-sharp. It had not cut deep enough to endanger me, but I would scar.

I cared little. Drying blood stung as I moved slightly, brushing her hair back. I had torn her dress, my boots still on, clothing and bedding tangled around us, thrashed and beaten into a mess. I kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Tears welled between her eyelids, vanishing past her temples into her hair. Her mouth, smeared with crimson, was still the sum of most desires, so I kissed her again. Greedy, as if she were an exotic fruit, our tongues sliding, and the thirst in me was not slaked.

The woman was
dangerous
. What would I not do, for her?

I found myself murmuring endearments against her skin, leaving bloody prints as I kissed every part of her I could reach. She lay very still, trembling slightly as she wept. I tried to press the tears away with my lips, over and over again.

You are not meant for this. Let me take the pain away.
“Shh, all’s well. All’s well—”

“It is
not
well!” she finally choked. “It is
not
well! You… I…
you
—”

“I am not a gentle man.” I had told her as much before. I felt the need to repeat it, and immediately gave myself the lie by kissing her again. “But now you know. I am sorry for it, I can explain—”

She struggled uselessly. “Stop. Let
go
.”

The first thread of unease touched me. This should be so
simple
now. Had I not just proven…

Well, what had I proven? That I was a
vilhain
? I already knew as much.

“Not until you see.” The man using my voice sounded far harsher than I liked. “I am
not your enemy
, Vianne. Everything I have done is for
you
, for your safety, for you to—”

“Left Hand,” she spat, going limp and glaring at me, drying blood streaking her face. “You betrayed the King, Tristan. You
swore
to him, just as you swore to me—how can you say you are not my enemy?”

“I swore to
you
before I ever did to the King. The first moment I saw you, everything afterward was part of it. I had to find a way.” I stumbled over the words—after love a man is stupid, and I was doubly foolish to be seeking to explain this now. “One thing led to the next, but it was all in service to a single end.”

“This?” She struggled again, seeking to free herself of my hands. “All this
death
? You
intended
this?”

I pushed her deeper into the bed’s embrace. At least she could not run away; she
had
to listen to me. Dried blood flaked over us both. “I intended to be
with
you!” The force of the cry made her flinch. I sought to contain myself, failed miserably. My fingers bit her wrists, she flinched again. “I intended us to escape through Marrseize, taking ship to Tiberia. I intended for Timrothe d’Orlaans to have what he wished and much joy of it. I intended for you to be safe; I
intended
so much. Everything turned to ash, Vianne. They caught me, and of a sudden I was not only without you, I had
nothing
. Not even my honor. And you… You were
depending
on me. And the damnable Aryx, making it even more… I could not forsake you.” I ran out of words. Struggled blindly with all I wished to say. How could the truth turn into such a complex mess?

“Lisele married off to a Damarsene, the King dead, d’Orlaans pillaging Arquitaine—all because of me? Because you…” She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to look at me.

Of course she cannot. You cannot even stand to look at yourself, d’Arcenne. What makes you think she can?
“D’Orlaans wanted Henri’s throne for decades, Vianne. If he had not succeeded at this toss of the dice, there would have been another. Twas only a matter of time; I have known as much for years. I saw my chance and took it. The King had made the arrangements, Vianne. You were to be shipped to Damar, forced into—”

“A marriage? With a man I did not care for?” She laughed, a tiny, bitter sound. “Too late to save me from
that
.”

It cut unexpectedly deep. I loosened my grasp on her wrists and slid from the bed. At least I had not torn my breeches as well, in the madness. She lay as if broken, her throat moving as she swallowed.

“You do not have to love me,” I lied.

“Oh, if I do not, you will kill me as you killed the King? Or marry me off? What will you do to me? What could be worse than
this
?”

“I am your Consort,” I reminded her. “Until you repudiate me in a Temple. I am your Left Hand, and you shall not be free of
that
as long as I breathe. As one already dead, I swore myself to your service.”

“You swore to the
King
.” A glimmer of eyes under her lashes. Was she examining me? She held herself so still, as if faced with a wild, unpredictable animal.

I was an animal, certainly. Look at what I had done to her. Shame bit me, hot and rank.

But I was exceedingly predictable once she knew where to apply the pressure. Once she knew that the sum of my desires lay in the form of one shivering, frightened, beautiful hedgewitch. What would I
not
do, to bring her where I needed her to stand? “He may have thought so. The world may have thought so. But in the end, Vianne, it was to
you
.”

She finally moved, curling on her side, away from me. I had not just torn her dress, I had savaged it. I hoped I had not bruised her. Or… hurt her.

You have
, I realized.
Of all the things you swore you would never do, and now you have. You did not ask her leave, you merely took.

“Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me be.”

“You still do not understand.” I stood, the light of morning drenching the bedroom, and loathed myself even more completely. “I cannot. You would have to kill me.” I swallowed, my throat moving. “Until you do,
m’chri
, my darling hedgewitch, my Queen, you have a hawk at the wrist. Set me after prey or hood me, Vianne. But you cannot rid yourself of me.”

I backed away from the bed, step by step. My face ached, and the wound on my chest stung. I found a chair by backing into it, and dropped down. I gripped the arms, but not in fear.

No, I held to them splintering-hard. Dear gods.

Loathing turned inside me, married to frustrated tenderness. She was deathly silent, and I cursed myself. Not for the first time.

And most certainly not for the last.

She did not look at me, and the new dress—rich crimson this time, its lacings loose because she had lost weight—rustled as she moved. Her hair was braided back; I had watched her trembling fingers perform the job. She did not wince as she settled into the hard chair at the head of the table, and the small fresh mark on her shoulder, where I had suckled hard enough to bruise, was covered by the red velvet.

What did it cost her, to look so calm? Her eyes were red with weeping, but none remarked upon it.

The Council, a collection of noblemen, took their seats silently once she had settled. My hands, crossed before me in a traditional posture, ached for my rapier-hilt. Outside the door was a fuming Jierre and a bruised Pruzian Knife; seeing the look that passed between my lieutenant and Vianne when she opened the door and he realized I was behind her had been… uncomfortable.

“You are called to order,
chivalieri et sieurs
.” Very quiet, very contained, she sounded every inch the Queen. Paper littered the table, and the Aryx gleamed. My gaze riveted itself to Vianne’s expression, seeking to decode every nuance. “Before we examine… my Consort, I will hear reports. Conte di Siguerre? Your preparations?”

“Complete.” The cranky old turtle hunched his shoulders and blinked. He was strangely subdued. Normally he was a whistling cantankerous rattle of a man. “All is in readiness.”

“Thank you. Conte di Dienjuste?”

He was a young blond
chivalier
, his excitability muted as well. He stole a glance at me, sidelong. “Avicial has declared for you, Your Majesty. Between a third and a half of Arquitaine, now. I’ve sent the proclamations; we should start seeing the results soon.”

Proclamations? She’s raising an army. Hm.
I caught Siguerre glancing at me as well. I stood before the fireplace, its warmth a balm and penance all at once. At least she had not ordered me clapped in chains again.

She had been seeking to protect me. I should have
known
. I had thrown away every advantage, and I had perhaps lost her. Who knows what a woman can forgive, much less a Queen?

Gnarled old Irion di Markui’s fist crashed on the tabletop. “I see not why we must waste our time on this. Is the man a traitor or not? If he is, let us have him beheaded and done with!”