The Bandit King (33 page)

A cry rose within me. Was suppressed. The ice was all through me.

Her hand on the knob. “Do you hear me?” She addressed the door as if it were my face, earnestly. Softly. “Do you?”

“I hear,” I croaked.

A slight turn of her head, as if she wished to glance over her shoulder. Dry-eyed, pale, and utterly lost to me. “Tristan.” Her lips, shaping my name. “Believe me when I say this: I wish you to
live
.”

A rustling, a quiet step, a brush of her skirts, a click… and she was gone.

She wished me to
live
. Oh, aye. I’d no doubt she did.

After all, there could be no greater revenge.

The Citté is the heart of Arquitaine. Under the slopes of Mont di Cienne the Palais gleams, white and gold and sprawling, the mark of each reign stamped in its corridors and passages. Below it, in the cup that the River Airenne threads a long silver ribbon through, the Citté throbs and pulses. Biscuit-colored stone, roofs of slate and red tile and wood, the Ladytemple’s dome and the twisting streets that can confuse even a lifelong inhabitant; the
Quartier Montarmête
and the Pleasure District, the quays and the bridges, the glitter of Court and the ragged poverty of the beggars. The Citté, built where the Blessed demanded, the city of our gods and our hope. The plague had run rife through it, and those who lined its streets to welcome their Queen no doubt were too happy to be spared to think of the chaos hosting an army would cause.

She wore white, and rode my mother’s well-traveled white palfrey. The gentle mare looked near to expiring with satisfaction, glossy-brushed and oiled, red silk ribbons tied in her mane and tail, tiny silver bells jingling on her reins and decking the saddle, so that the Hedgewitch Queen rode on a wave of music. You could not hear the sweet sound, though, for the crowds roared fit to drown even the thinking inside a man’s skull.

Adrien di Cinfiliet rode beside her, tall on a nasty-tempered white stallion, also in spotless white. Without a hat, the blue-black sheen to his hair threw back the sun, and they made a pretty picture indeed.

Arran stepped high and proud; I rode with the Conte di Siguerre and Jierre di Yspres at the head of the Guard. The survivors of the Old Guard, worn and wounded but grinning hugely and in fresh uniforms, were given pride-of-place. The New Guard caught the thrown flowers—where the blooms were found that showered our path, I do not know.

After us in procession rode the Navarrin and the bandits of the Shirlstrienne, and then the d’Arquitaine army itself. The peasants had begun to trickle away home; d’Orlaans’s pardoned troops marched behind the Mountain Army, as twas called. The amnestied marched under the black banner of penitence. After the coronation they would be granted the right to bear a device again. The long snake of humanity took a day to file into the Citté, and the cheering never abated.

The Ladytemple greeted us the morning after our entrance, while the dregs of the procession were still winding into the city. I do not know if Vianne slept—we were quartered not in the Palais, for she would not enter it until crowned, but at the edge of the Pleasure District in the
P’tipalais d’Orlaans
, the vast, traditional house Timrothe the Accursed—for so they had named him now, with characteristic desire to bite the author of their suffering—had inhabited while the brother of King Henri.

She is old, the Ladytemple, built when places of worship were full of sharp spires instead of the softer shapes later generations fancied. Her stone is dark, and the vast round window over her wide, never-closed doors is named the
Rosaille
. A great sorcery is contained within it, and the glass shifts color according to its own whims. During the quiet observance at dawn or dusk, when all in the vicinity of
l’Dama
hold their tongue and breath, you may hear the tiny bits of glass shifting and clicking, a dry song of power.

The inside was packed with nobility of the sword and the robe. Songs have been written of the Hedgewitch Queen, how she paused in the courtyard and knelt, silent, for twelve long peals of the Ladytemple’s great bell. How she rose gracefully, a silver-eyed man at her side. How she climbed the steps into the Ladytemple and was greeted with absolute silence.

The Consort strode behind her. One woman, two men, treading with the measured ceremonial gait observed for the most solemn of Court occasions. Step, pause; step, pause. The Aryx sang, the
Rosaille
answering and the Great Bell overhead trembling with reverberations. The crowd elbow-to-elbow, the heat of massed bodies causing sweat; twas crowded too tight within to draw a poniard. Those of the sword, the descendants of the Angoulême’s noble companions, removed their hats as she drew abreast of them. Those of the robe were already hatless, and breathless beside. Later they would begin to play the games of privilege and position at Court. Later they would jostle, and she would need a shield. Later, those who still owed d’Orlaans some loyalty might prove troublesome, and I? Would I be admitted into her presence? Would I be able to guard her from afar?

Arcenne was a long way from Court. And hither she wished me to take myself.

I wish you to live.

But for today, they watched her approach the Great Altar, her head high and her hair pulled back into a simple half-braid, the remainder of its curling mass alive with golden highlights. The white she wore, subtly brocaded, glowed as the Aryx rippled with light. Witchlights spun and wove overhead, hissing and crackling in the charged hush. Her fingers rested on Adrien di Cinfiliet’s arm, and his shoulders were tense.

He was armed. So was I, though no other in the Ladytemple was to carry a weapon. The Guard were outside, waiting in the crisp harvest sun. The morning had been etched with frost.

Winter was coming.

The Great Altar is an empty block of bluestone, the same stuff as the Pavilion of the Field d’Or. It is roughly squared, and it is dedicated to Jiserah the Gentle first and the rest of the Blessed afterward. Offerings laid upon it vanish, taken straight to the Blessed.

Or so tis said. It is one thing the Left Hand does not know the truth of.

There are others. Too many for my comfort. And chief among them was exactly what my
d’mselle
thought as she paced that processional way.

Step, by step, by step. Once she reached the altar and the Aryx spoke, she would be crowned. Irion di Markui was in place, holding the iron casket. Inside it, the confection of spun lightmetal—
platiere
, more precious and rare than gold—and sapphires would rest on gray velvet. She would take it from the casket, settle it on her brow, and be crowned Queen of Arquitaine.

Would she renounce me at that moment, or afterward? Would she take a new Consort? They were cousins, but closer marriages have been made in the name of power. And as the hero who had brought the Navarrin and his bandits to the relief of Merún, and Henri’s son, no matter how bastard, he was a fine choice.

And he was not a murderer. At least, not as her Consort was. He would not be able to keep her from the knives of intrigue half so well.

But perhaps he would also not wound her. Perhaps he would not bring her world down in flames about her with his unthinking desire. Perhaps he would not shame her, or make her weep.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Adrien di Cinfiliet was a better choice. If I were to be honest—and aye, starting now was too late, as always—I could admit as much.

And yet.

She reached the Three Stairs, and she halted. She glanced up at di Cinfiliet, and they shared a moment of silent accord. My heart writhed inside my chest. My place was next to di Markui, hands loose though they longed to clutch a rapier-hilt, my face set and composed.

The years of not even daring to glance at her at Court were nothing compared to this.

She stepped forward. So did di Markui. A long pause. She took the next step. Di Markui approached the bottom of the Stairs. Di Cinfiliet glanced at di Markui, whose craggy face was unreadable.
Do your part
, that glance seemed to say, and my pulse raced. Treachery? Here?

No. I was merely too practiced in the art to credit truth when I saw it.

She took the last step, and turned. The Aryx glowed. She beckoned, and a gasp went through the assembled.

Di Cinfiliet took the first Stair. A pause, and the second. Would she declare him Heir? What was this?

He took the third, and Vianne’s hand came up to her chest. She cupped the Aryx in her fingers, lovingly, and her lips moved. None could hear, but with the ease of training and habit I deciphered the words she spoke.

I have done what you asked. Let me free. Let me go.

And the Great Seal…
sang
.

The Ladytemple shook, the
Rosaille
echoing and blazing, and a fierce silver light burst free. Twas not witchlight or any other earthly radiance. The only time I had witnessed its like was in Arcenne’s Temple, on my wedding day, when the statue of Jiserah kindled and my Queen had stared unblinking into that light.

The blaze did not dim, but it became easier to pierce. Blinking furiously, tears rising to every eye, Arquitaine witnessed the Aryx pass from the Hedgewitch Queen’s hands. She folded Adrien di Cinfiliet’s fingers about the Seal’s glow, and the picture they made…

I cannot describe it. The courtsongs will tell you. They will not be able to express a quarter of its fineness.

The cry that rose was Vianne’s, and it carried a deep authority. Had I not known every shade and tone of her, I might have mistaken it, as every other present did, for the voice of Jiserah herself.

“Arquitaine!”
she cried.
“Behold your King!”

And the Hedgewitch Queen, before the Great Altar, knelt to Adrien di Cinfiliet. A rippling wind went through the Ladytemple, its walls groaning, and the assembled nobility fell to their knees. Heralds posted on the steps cried out the news.

The silvery radiance intensified, flushed with gold as if the Sun and Moon had come together atop the Great Altar. A roaring cheer rose, every bell the Ladytemple owned tolling at once, and wild jubilation roared over the Citté.

When the light faded, Adrien di Cinfiliet was crowned. The Hedgewitch Queen had brought the Bandit King to power. She had never wished the burden of rule; she had only appeared, twas said, to turn back the tide of invasion and civil war. She was blessed of Jiserah, or Jiserah’s hand on earth, but the important thing, the critical thing, was this:

Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy had vanished.

I took advantage of the ensuing confusion to vanish of my own account. For one who had been Left Hand, twas child’s play. The Citté enfolded me as Arcenne’s Keep would; I took further advantage of confusion and celebration outside to steal a cloak and shed my fine hat. I stole a not-so-fine drover’s headgear, and made my way to the Palais’s shimmer.

My apartments in the Guard barracks had been ransacked and sealed. Dust lay thick over every surface, and the brazier I had burned the incriminating papers in still had ash in its depths. My clothing had been shredded, my narrow bed torn apart, my cabinets hacked open. For all that, they had not found everything, and only a fool has merely
one
hiding place.

Life returned to the Palais that evening. Twas midnight before a certain quiet descended. An hour passed, and another.

I waited.

The traditional resting place of a new monarch after crowning is the Angoulême’s Cell in the west wing of the Palais. Tis a narrow room, with a narrow bed and only one tapestry—a
fleurs-di-lisse
, white thread upon deep blue. The narrow window casement looks only upon bricks, for the Cell has been enclosed by other parts of the Palais, accreting around the most ancient bits in layers, as a pearl. Or a gallstone.

The blank window is shrouded with deep blue velvet curtains, stiff with age and dust even when hastily beaten clean. Twas there I waited, and I knew my prey was close when a servant bustled in to light the fire in the tiny fireplace with a coal from a Ladytemple brazier and the flick of a hedgewitch charm. The servant—no doubt he had performed the same office for d’Orlaans—shuffled away. I relaxed into dimness, breathing softly.

They approached. Several, the tramp of booted feet. I rested a hand on my rapier, my boots glove-supple from hard use and not creaking as I shifted my weight to keep muscles ready for action. Did he suspect? If he did, he might well order the Cell searched, though I had waited until they had already performed such a search before secreting myself here.

Some low conversation. But only two men entered the Cell, and I closed my eyes. Reopened them in the stiff, dusty darkness behind the curtain.

“At the end of the hall,” Adrien di Cinfiliet said. “Tis enough.”

Jierre di Yspres sighed. “A foolish risk. You know he will at least wish to pass words with you.”

“He is more likely to seek
your
company, Captain. What am I, to him? Nothing.”

“I hope he will pause to hear your argument before seeking to run you through.” Jierre, ever pessimistic, heaved another sigh. “Should I search the room, Your Majesty?”

“For the love of the Blessed, address me as Adrien. If he is here… then perhaps he
will
listen to my argument. Perhaps he will listen when I say I do not know where she has vanished to, and that I wish I could have gainsaid her. And that, does he wish any aid at all, he has merely to ask it of me.”