The Bandit King (29 page)

I remember little of the stumbling behind her, still mazed with sleep, the tearing in my chest familiar and so, pushed aside. I remember even less of the wild ride a-horseback through Merún’s burning streets. A predawn attack, and it blurs together in my dreams with Arcenne and the Graecan fire. At least I had resheathed my sword, and someone had saddled Arran for me.

Hooves sparking on paving-stones, flames and the
stink
, Vianne’s tangled head bobbing as the white palfrey bestirred herself to a gallop she had rarely been called on for in Arcenne. The slope of the ramparts behind the gate, switching back and doubling on itself to provide the horses with enough footing. Silvery witchfire crackling around the Hedgewitch Queen as she rode, a globe of protection forming even as she pulled her horse to a halt atop Merún’s eastron gate and flung out both hands, the Aryx’s singing reverberating through my body like the tramp of boots on a stone bridge, a harmony that could crumble granite.

A shattering rumble, hedgewitchery burning like a green flame and the witchfire surrounding her brightening. Arcs of Graecan fire halting, spinning, smashed aside, Merún’s walls shuddering as sorcery plucked at them.

Behind us, the cup of the city smoked and fumed, alive with screams. Massive orbs of Graecan fire, smears of deadly orange-yellow on the hush of the darkest portion of night—the long dark shoal of fourth watch, when the old die and the living feel their blood slow if they are unlucky enough to be waking—poured up in high arcs from the siege engines massed below the walls. The white horse standing frozen as a statue, and the high whistling sound is coming. I cannot stop it; I
know
what comes next, as dream and reality twist together in a fevered braid.

For I
was
fevered. The weakness in me was infection, always a risk with hurts newly mended. The charm holding my chest together had not frayed much, but perhaps the ditchwater had done the work d’Orlaans could not finish. I fell from Arran’s back, the tearing in my lungs becoming a river of hot acid in my throat. I spat blood, stumbled as the whistling became a scream—

—and the crossbow bolt pierced the still-building shell of witchfire, shrieking like a mountain-spirit, burying itself in Vianne’s shoulder.

The Aryx, bell-like, tolled, almost throwing me to my knees. I skidded, caught her as she spilled from the horse in a gray blur. Her cry was lost under the noise of the Seal screaming its distress and the howls of Graecan fire, now rising unchecked and falling in long slow liquid streams into the city.

Knees hit the stone flooring of the walkway, jarring through me. She was paper-white, her mouth moving slightly, perhaps praying. My hand closed around the shaft of the bolt.
Get it free, then staunch the blood. And hope tis not poisoned.

Twas a fine time to wish I were a hedgewitch. The bolt was an ugly thing; she would be lucky to escape a shoulder-halt. My lips moved as another bubble of warmth broke on my lips, Court sorcery flaming against my fingers, the bolt shivering. It had not gone all through, the barbed tip grated on bone, and I
twisted
, wood suddenly flexible in my hands and the metal of its head giving out a low note of distress unheard in the cacophony.

Jierre was suddenly
there
, ashen, his hand under her shoulder as she thrashed. Her skirts tangled, her hair curtaining her face as she sought to breathe, a double shock of pain and sorcery she should never have had to bear. More warmth ran down my chin. I let out my own frantic cry, Jierre’s Court sorcery stinging my fingers as I pulled the suddenly-drooping bolt free. Weakened by sorcery, it bent instead of breaking, and did not tear muscle and skin overmuch.

I clapped my hand over the wound.
“Hedgewitch!”
I screamed, blood spraying from my lips and dripping down my chin.
“Fetch a physicker!”

Vianne’s head tipped back. The Aryx boiled with light, silver blazing from its writhing curves. Shadows leapt, there was a breathless moment of stasis as they reloaded the siege machines below. Archers from our walls let loose, and the flaming city behind us convulsed.

Her hand came up, clamped over mine at her shoulder. Her blood, slippery and hot against my fingers, sent a flare of nausea and weakness through me.

Merely a nightmare. I will wake and find this a dream.

But there was no waking. Her hair brushed the ground; I bent over her as her fingers bit with surprising strength. The Aryx spoke again, and her entire frame stiffened, the heels of her familiar pair of garden-boots digging into stone.

The body will seek to escape mending from such a blow, if possible. It will thrash with surprising strength, thinking the charming is a fresh assault. I held her, and Jierre shouted something over my head. I turned my face to the side, coughed out a mouthful of hot copper, seeking not to foul her hair.

She sagged, and the moment of breathlessness ended. The Aryx twinged sharply, power shaking me as a trained farrat will shake a caught mouse. I folded over, her only shield my aching, wound-racked mess of bones and meat, the scar on my face shivering madly as if I had the falling-sickness.

Hands on me, seeking to draw me aside. I denied them until she twitched, her hair finally falling back as she shook her head as if to clear it. White as flour, two spots of hectic color high on her gaunt cheeks, blood spattering her face. Was it mine or hers? Mine, I hoped. The thought of her bleeding would unman even Danshar himself.

She struggled against my grasp. I let her go and slumped aside into someone’s embrace—twas a hedgewitch, I caught a blur of green and a shocked face under a glaring, bloody head bandage. My chest was afire, and I coughed yet more blood.

Vianne surged to her feet. Jierre lunged upward and caught her elbow, bracing her. She shouted something, pointing at me, and stumbled for her horse. Her dress flapped at her left shoulder, pale skin underneath.

She had charmed the wound closed, and even now caught up her skirts. The horse sidled nervously, but Jierre laid hold of its reins and Vianne had the saddle-horn. She mounted with more determination than grace, wincing as she pulled herself into the saddle, cinders raining from the dark sky.

The charm on my chest gave a burst of spiked agony. I coughed more blood and fluid; the hedgewitch rolled me aside. I cared little—I could still see Vianne, twas all that mattered. The Aryx flamed, and the globe of silver witchlight shimmered into being around her again. This time twas stronger, and her chin rose. The siege engines below released their cargoes of fiery death—and Vianne’s hands lifted.

In the east, the first faint gray of dawn was rising, along with white veils of fog.

Dawn came up red as blood, again, through a screen of ground-cloud. The white horse stood braced, her head hanging, and Vianne looked at least as weary. Quiet had fallen, only a few whistling bolts from below, answered occasionally from one of our crossbows. Jierre conferred quietly with a haggard blond Luc di Chatillon—there had been another attack on the southron side while we had been occupied here. Ladders and grapples, and a swarm of men. They had been thrown from the walls with a vengeance, but di Chatillon was not sanguine about success on our side should another night such as this one pass.

Tieris di Siguerre crouched easily at my side. He had come to bring word of the fires—still raging in a third of the city, there simply were not enough hedgewitches to corral them. Also crouching over me was a young peasant boy—a hedgewitch with a bandaged head and a torn, much-mended lace ruff, his hand glued to my chest as he repaired the torn charming. Every so often, coughing and shuddering would rack me. At least I had ceased spitting blood, and the fever was receding.

Vianne, atop the white palfrey, clutched at her right shoulder. Morning breeze played with her dark curls, and she gazed down at the fogbound Damarsene army, expressionless. The silver protection-globe was pale in the morning light, drops of water vapor scintillating as it shifted. At least they had ceased to shoot at her.

She dismounted, awkwardly and unremarked. I ached to help, but my limbs would not obey me. “Tieris,” I croaked, my throat slick and foul. “Attend her.”

He rose in a rush and was at her side in a moment. “Your Majesty?”

She handed over the palfrey’s reins. “My thanks.” Hoarse and weary. “Find someone to take her to stable, an it please you, and Tris and Jierre’s horses as well. Treat them well; they have endured much this dawning.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Was it worship on his young face? No doubt. “Is there aught else I can do?”

“No,
sieur
. I thank you for your pains.” She still clutched at her shoulder, and Jierre broke away from di Chatillon as she swayed.

“D’mselle—”
Jierre was pale, too.

“The city?” She did not look at him. Instead, her dark gaze lit upon me. Twas welcome, even if I was filthy with soot and blood, not to mention struck to the ground and unable to rise.

“Fully third of it burning. We shall not last another such serenade. There is a ship prepared to bear you to the Citté. Please,
d’mselle
—Vianne.
Please
.”

A slight, weary smile. She was still looking at me. “There is no need, Captain. I shall remain here until we are relieved. Continue evacuating the children, the old, and the wounded.”

“There is no relief,” he pressed. “Were there hope of one, we would know by now. The Citté—”

“The Citté is safe enough for the moment. Here is where I am needed, else this collection of wolves will descend upon the heart of Arquitaine. We must merely hold a little longer.”

“D’mselle.”
Luc di Chatillon approached. Bloody, singed, but unbowed, his golden hair grimed until twas near as dark as Jierre’s, he made as if to bow and she waved the courtesy away. “Jierre has the right of it. We will not hold another night, and their strength has not diminished. If anything, they have received reinforcement from their fellows in the
Dispuriee
. I am loath to flee as any nobleman, but—”

“Here is where I stay,
chivalieri
. Do you wish to seek refuge downriver, I release you.” She dredged up a smile, and it took the sting from her tone. “If you do not, there is much work to be done to ease the suffering of those under our care.”

Di Chatillon was no match for her, but he still tried. “
D’mselle
. I would beg you to take more care with yourself.”

“And take my ease?” She shook her head. Even now, her hair loose and tangled, drying blood a river down the right side of her dove-gray dress, she was, in a word, magnificent. “Or flee when I have asked them to hold? No, Luc. The gods have spoken. If you would be of use, find some breakfast and return to your tasks.”

He accepted the rebuke and the command with equal grace, swept her a bow, and was on his way.

Jierre sighed. “I suppose if I were to ask…”

I waited to hear what he would ask of her.

Her weary smile broadened. “I would tell you that
I
know, and it is enough.” She winced, peeling her fingers away from her shoulder. The hedgewitch next to me muttered, and a fresh wave of coolness slid through my body from head to toe. “Mauris, is it?”

The boy nodded, his attention all on my chest. “Aye, tis. The fever’s down, but the charm here unravels ’lessits refreshed. Fine work, but he’s torn it to shreds.”

“He is most enthusiastic, yes.” She approached, slowly. Jierre offered his arm, and she accepted with a grateful glance. Then she was beside me, looking down, a ghost of amusement in her worn, beautiful voice. “I begin to think I should lock him in a donjon cell to force him to rest, but I have proof twill not work. Here,
sieur
, let me help.” She bent to touch his shoulder. “Take what you need.”

I opened my mouth to protest—she was well-nigh dead on her feet, as were we all—but the flood of sorcery roared into me, the spiked mace in my chest receding. The unhealthy heat of fever faded, and I shivered, suddenly aware I had been lying on damp stone for hours.

If I survive this, I shall not stir from a comfortable bed for a month.
Twas a comforting thought—I had it at least once each time I found myself exhausted and in danger.

Her knees buckled. Jierre braced her. She opened her eyes and lifted a hand, touching her forehead as if unable to quite credit her head was still on her shoulders. “Jierre?”

“Here,
d’mselle
.” Hushed and respectful.

“See to his comfort.” She gained her balance and stepped away. “I will be here.”

“But surely, breakfast and—”

“You may send breakfast up with Adersahl; I would speak to him. Something to drink would not be amiss either, I am parched.”

“Vianne,” I croaked. “If you stay, I stay.”

She looked about to command me to close my mouth, then visibly checked. Our gazes locked, and the hedgewitch next to me muttered something about a tisane. He seemed supremely unconcerned otherwise.

We eyed each other, my Queen and I. Flat on my back was not a position to bargain from, but I would not be carried hence without some protest.

Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Send something more comfortable for him to rest upon, Jierre. And, Mauris, tell
sieur
di Yspres what you require for tisane.” And she turned away, making her way to the edge of the wall. She took care that her head did not show above the parapet, though, and I held my peace.