Deeper in the Shirlstrienne, the trees drew together and grew much greater in girth, while the underbrush turned spindly and hunched like whipped dogs. I knew some of the plants from treatises, and cataloging them inside my head provided me with some relief from the growing pressure inside my skull.

Soon enough, a cannonade sounded and water crashed onto the forest’s canopy. I roused myself when the thunder sounded, and we halted. Oiled cloaks were pulled from saddlebags, and Tristan wrapped a large one around both of us. The cloak trapped his warmth, closed it around me. Oddly enough, the heat soothed my aching head.

We joined the Guard an hour or so into the forest, and I only dimly remember the event, for I was half conscious, the relief of an averted half-head conspiring with the exhaustion of fever to make me a loose-jointed doll. I sank deep into my thoughts as if through a weight of cold water. We resembled nothing so much as cloth-swathed turtles atop horse legs moving through misty darkness though twas near nooning, each with a crested-feather hat, like an illustration in a bestiary from the Angoulême’s time.

The day turned aqueous, and troubling thoughts lurked under the surface of my consciousness. I heard Tristan murmur once or twice, and I felt a tingling in my fingers and toes. The feeling melded into damp heat sticking my hair to my temples and collecting under my arms, at the back of my throat, and at the small of my back. Fever-heat, kept only slightly at bay by the soft prickling that crested every time Tristan whispered. Twas a long, weary day, and one I heartily wished over by the time we halted, early because of the swimming darkness.

I found myself half-falling from the broad back of the horse into Tristan’s hands. He wrapped me in a smaller cloak, and I was set under the sheltering boughs of a giant tam tree. The tree made a half-cave that was actually quite dry and fairly level, and the abrupt ceasing of the tingling in my limbs made it somewhat easier to think. Someone had set down a pad of blankets for me, and I dropped gratefully onto them, pulling the cloak tight around my shoulders.

Tinan di Rocham brought me a cup of hot, sweet-spiced chai. Someone had started a fire—the tingle of Court sorcery warned me and I looked up in time to see flame bloom through the infrequent drips from the Shirlstrienne’s roof. The wood hissed, and smoke billowed up. The fire would burn as long as the sorcery held. Dangerous—we could be tracked by it—but necessary.

“Drink, an it please you, d’mselle.” Tinan’s young face was grave and drawn. “I think we’ve more of the tisane. And meatpies for dinner.”

“Not all at once, I hope.” I sought for levity. He gave me a quick smile, unlike his usual easy merriment. That shook away some of my lethargy. “Why so worried? What it amiss?”

He was young to look so grave. “We have seen no bandits, but they may be about. We shall set a heavy watch tonight.” He closed his hands over mine, around the battered metal cup. “No worries, d’mselle!” he added hastily. “You are safe enough with us.”

Safe enough? I seem to have lost the luxury of safety. Still… “After the past week, nothing could terrify me,” I said slowly, to calm him. He was the most impressionable of them…and my plan tickled the back of my brain. Tis never too early to prepare your ground, Vianne. Intrigue and gardening have both taught you as much. “Certainly not bandits.”

“Oh, aye.” Tinan took heart, and his dark eyes shone. “I must help with the horses, d’mselle. Call if you need aught.”

I shall call upon you soon enough, young one. I gave a small sound of assent and sipped at my chai, watching them work. I felt useless, a burden easily cast aside. All that held me to them was the Seal.

I closed my eyes, the Aryx thrumming under my heartbeat, against my skin. The comforting darkness behind my eyelids ran with ghostlights, as if I had pressed my fingers too hard against the tender flesh.

What could I do? My hand uncurled, unwillingly, from the chai-cup to touch the lump of the Great Seal under fabric. If I knew enough Court sorcery to keep them hidden from trackers, I might be less of a uselessness.

The Aryx pulsed.

Hedgewitchery could hide them, if I had the power for such a charm. The magic of the peasants and healers was opposed to Court sorcery, difficult and slippery to track even for a bellhound; since it took its power from the land itself it tended to be well camouflaged. Yet I sighed. I was only a fairly good hedgewitch with the aid of my books and treatises, not good enough to hide a half-dozen men seamlessly from Court sorcery and sensitive bellhound noses, not to mention tracking-spells.

The Aryx pulsed again, insistently.

A silent shockwave blurred through me as wine pours into a cup, filling empty spaces, setting me alight. A perfect circle—I saw it from above, a wall of magic large enough to enclose the Guard, protecting them. It was not quite hedgewitchery or Court sorcery, but a seamless blend of both, doors inside my head thrown open, showing me.

You could do thus, it whispered. The touch was light and slow, scouring along the inside of my head, a hall of doors receding into infinity. One blew open, golden light spilling forth, and the glow scorched along my skin, filled the channels of my blood, and pushed through me, leaving a scalding wave of weakness in its wake.

I returned to myself with a jolt like a cart’s axle breaking, my entire body trembling, chai slopping in the cup. The fever drained away, as did the power. Yet part of the knowledge remained, as if the doors had been closed…but not locked. Corridors of a magic I did not know how to use.

Yet.

You could do thus, beloved, the voice whispered again. I pushed it away, chai spilling, burning my fingers. I slumped, trembling afresh, and shook my head to clear it.

An idea rose slowly. My own thought, not an alien voice whispering inside my head: The Aryx is indeed awake. It seeks to teach me.

Why does it stir itself now?

Shouting, confusion. I sought to steady myself, the world whirling most distressingly underneath me. My heart beat a thin tattoo in my wrists and temples. My pulse now matched the silent beat of the Seal against my skin, its metal scorching and the serpents writhing. Their scales rasped pleasantly, not quite rough as a cat’s tongue.

“Vianne?” Tristan’s hands closed around mine. “Vianne!”

I found myself wide-eyed, meeting his gaze. “The Aryx,” I whispered. Rain misted down, each drop a separate colorless jewel with its own name.

“You nearly flattened us all with that sorcery.” Was he pale? Perhaps it was merely the chill in the air. His eyes were darker than usual, and worried. Behind the worry was something else, an expression I could not decipher since my head was aswim. “Drink your chai.”

“Captain!” someone called.

He looked over his shoulder, his dark hair disarranged as he had shed his dripping hat. “Bring her something to eat, now. Pilippe, Adersahl is to set the watch. Tell him double. Find di Chatillon, send him to me.” Tristan’s fingers were hard and warm, and clasped too tightly in mine. “Vianne, m’chri, speak to me.”

I managed another drink of chai, Tristan letting go of my hands for that brief moment. Then he caught my hands again, my fingers burning between his and the chai-cup. “Speak to me, Vianne.” It was a command.

“Captain?” Was that me, the uncertain wonderment? For the love of every god that ever was, I thought, desperately, stop whining, Vianne!

“Here, and hale enough, though we’ve received rather a shock.” He freed one hand to push Tinan di Rocham’s hat back, peering under it to see me. “Can you tell me aught, m’chri? What does it feel like?”

I found a word for the expression under his worry.

It was awe. Of course, I had just performed a feat I should not have been able to even think of attempting. Any noble with even a touch of sorcerous Sight would have seen the moment the Aryx plucked the reins from my hands and pushed the spell through me, a wall of magic protecting them from tracking-sorcery.

“The Aryx.” My voice came from very far away. “Tis awake.”

He nodded. “It is. I do not know why it has awakened now.”

Strangely enough, that Tristan would admit to not knowing something made a thin curl of fear rise up from my belly. “Tis…” I struggled to find words. There are doors in my head, and they are so easy to open. What lies behind them? Do I wish to know? “I am frightened.” I finally whispered.

For the doors are easy to unlock, but what comes through them drowns me.

“I know,” he murmured, as if he did. “I would not have had this happen. I tried to prevent it.”

You do not know, sieur. None can know what this is. Tinan di Rocham’s hat had been knocked aside, and my braid had suffered. Stray hair fell in my face. I blinked, and could finally see him clearly, blue eyes, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “I cannot do this. It will eat me whole.” I managed to sound a little less stunned. “The Seal…it is hungry.” My wits returned, slowly. Do not admit weakness. What will he do, if he judges you unfit?

But it was too late. I had just said what I should not. Again.

“Do not cast any sorcery without me,” he said quietly, still holding my hands. “I would add my strength to yours. That may keep the Aryx from swallowing you. It is dangerous to attempt such things while fevered, m’chri.”

I nodded. Say something else. Make him speak to you. For the sound of his voice was an anchor, and if he turned silent I was afraid I would not stay here in this misty glade. I felt as if I might slip out of my flesh and into the long hall of the Aryx’s sorcery, passing through those doors in a dream of golden light. “I never saw you duel.”

His mouth twitched slightly, whether with anger or amusement I could not tell. “There was once or twice. I suppose you never noticed.”

“I suppose I never did.” The pulsing subsided below the surface of my conscious mind. I shuddered, my ribs heaving. The sensation of drifting outside my skin receded, bit by bit.

“Always with your nose in a book, or in a garden plot.” His tone was light, but he examined my face intently. “Vianne, if I told you…” Maddeningly, he stopped short.

I dropped my gaze, studied the cup. It was of blue metal, with a curved handle, full of rapidly cooling, sweetened chai. “Told me what?”

But someone came with a meatpie, and Tristan told me to eat. I did, suddenly ravenous, the sorcery burning a hole in my stomach. Luc di Chatillon appeared, and felt my pulse while his fair blond face turned serious. He lacked hedgewitchery but had some physicker’s skill, and pronounced me well enough, if still suffering the aftereffects of fever. He measured out the tisane and scolded me into taking it, and refilled my chai-cup.

The Guard seemed much easier now, laughing quietly, bantering back and forth. “Cook us something new, Tinan!” Jai di Montfort called from one end of the fire, and Tinan replied with an oath that would have made me blush at Court. As it was, I produced a wan smile, licking my fingers free of crumbs.

Jierre di Yspres brought me his flask of ansinthe. “Only a mouthful,” he said quietly, sinking down into an easy crouch next to me.

I coughed as the green venom burned all the way down. “My thanks, chivalier.” And what do you wish from me, to bear me such a gift?

“Think nothing of it, d’mselle.” He shifted slightly, accepted the flask’s return, and capped it with a quick efficient movement. “We seem never to finish our conversations.”

On the other side of the fire, Tinan di Rocham and Jai di Montfort bantered back and forth. “You come and cook, then!” Tinan said.

“I am no woman.” Jai’s lip curled.

“You certainly complain like one,” Tinan shot back, and there was a general shout of laughter. Tristan stood close to Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, conferring, but his gaze rarely left me.

I found I did not mind as much as I should. “Then tell me what you wish to tell me, and have done with it.” I had lost all desire to be decorous. “More to the point, Lieutenant, will you help me?”

I had chanced a throw, and his answer told me I had lost. “You ask me to act against my Captain. I cannot do that, d’mselle. Wait out the harvest and winter in Arcenne, then we may decide what course is best.”

My heart plummeted. The weakness in my hands taunted me. Were they not clasped around the cup, they would shake, showing my feebleness even more plainly. “My thanks for your honesty, chivalier,” I murmured. I even meant it. The fire’s leaping light filled my vision.

His tone turned low and urgent. “You are a scholar, and a practical woman. You must set that sharp wit of yours to leading us aright. We have wagered our lives on this cast of the dice, d’mselle.”

“Do you think I do not know? Why do you think I am asking your aid in such a manner?” My shoulders sagged. “If I had not seen the Captain in that passageway—”

“—we would all be dead. We would have waited for Tristan until d’Orlaans closed his jaws on us. You saved us all. Please, be kind to Tristan. He…he prizes you, d’mselle.” His eyes were level, dark, and intent.

Oh, for the love of the Blessed. I almost choked on a sip of chai. “Will you cease with that?” My voice hit a decidedly indecorous pitch.

Silence fell. Di Yspres’s cheeks flushed, and his gaze cut away from mine.

I searched for a bit of Court wit to use. A laugh rose out of me, a thin unhealthy sound but well enough to bear up appearances, as if di Yspres had jested, perhaps a riddle with an end not meant for a lady’s ears. I leaned forward, touching his shoulder with my free hand, and the laugh quickly became natural.

The absurdity of the situation quickly made my merriment real—the Duchesse di Rocancheil in the Shirlstrienne with a group of King’s Guard, sick with fever and the plaything of the Great Seal. It sounded like a courtsong, and not a very good one at that.

“Vianne?” The Captain, using my name as if it belonged to him, stood taut and inquiring on the other side of the fire.

“Sieur di Yspres and I were trading riddles.” The lie rose so naturally I was almost afraid of it, my cheeks flushing as well. “Some are decidedly not fit for a lady’s ears.”

I do not know if Tristan believed me, but the other Guards laughed. Tristan’s eyebrows drew together, a faint line between them. His blue eyes were shadowed in the failing light, fixed on my hand on Jierre’s shoulder.

Di Yspres stood hurriedly, brushing his knees with a quick, habitual movement. “I gave her more ansinthe, Captain. She was shivering.”

That brought the Captain to my side. He knelt, pressing his fingers to my forehead.

“I am well enough,” I told him. “Sieur di Yspres merely worries.”

“He should.” Tristan’s jaw was set. “How much did he give you?”

“Merely a swallow.” I submitted to his touching my cheek, smoothing my hair down. “Truly, I am hale. He sought to ease my mood, for I confess I was most—”

“Ansinthe. What were you thinking?” He did not even look at me. His gaze had turned up to Jierre, who stood aside, pocketing his flask.

“I was cold, and I asked him for a swallow of summat to warm.” I sought to calm him. “It does no harm.”

He snapped me a glance that could have broken stone. I almost gasped at the violence in his expression.

Tristan straightened and glared at di Yspres. “Do not give her more. Ansinthe is dangerous.”

“I asked him,” I lied. “He was merely being kind.” The Aryx fluttered against my chest. I pushed the sensation away with an effort. No. I will not.

It subsided.

“Tis not a fit drink for hedgewitches,” Luc di Chatillon said in the ensuing silence. “Truly, d’mselle. Hedgewitchery makes one most vulnerable to the green venom. And you must not risk the fever’s return.”

I thought he perhaps tried to soothe troubled waters, so I did not answer. Instead, I looked at the tips of the Captain’s boots, muddy from the forest. I stared at that clinging mud for a long moment, until di Yspres made some movement—a shrug, perhaps, I could not see—and moved away.

I pulled the cloak closer about my shoulders, setting the cup aside. Rain dripped hissing into the fire. My fingers tensed, curling into fists in the harsh material.

I could use the Seal. It has chosen me, for now. I could use it—and do what? If I escape them, this will merely follow me, as crows follow the gibbets. Or I will let this thing at my throat use me, and become merely a vessel for it. Loneliness rose, fair threatened to choke me. Next was panic, a deep well of it. The Seal had worked that spell through me, as if I were only a door for it, and I was not certain I liked the feeling.

Not certain at all.

Silence stretched.

“Dinner.” Tinan’s voice was unnaturally bright. “Who hungers? They shall be fed!”

“And lo! Said the maid in the cow byre,” di Chatillon gave the next line of the old maying-song, and a ripple of amusement went through the men. “For the want of a sausage, I’m dead!”

The Captain said nothing. I could not tell if he watched me or not. I kept my head bowed, staring at his boot-toes, reciting a string of Tiberian verbs in my head. Eventually the laughter and banter returned to normal as they ate.

I remained closed in my bubble of silence. The Aryx pulsed.

What can I do? I wailed into the darkness of myself. I am far more helpless than before.

Stop being a ridiculous little twit. Come now, think. Use that practical brain of yours, and reason through this tangle.

Without me, they would not be in danger. If the Captain reached Arcenne safely there would be some hope of his crossing the border into Navarrin. Despite his protests, any Court would be glad of his skill. And I thought it passing likely the Left Hand would have agents in foreign lands to shelter him.

He would live.

The Duc will pursue us if we have her—but if we simply flee, we may escape with our lives. Jierre di Yspres, speaking truth, for all he apologized for it later.

It was one thing to think of leaving them, quite another to think of being left and any possible step I might take afterward. I shivered, pulling the cloak even tighter. The Captain stood, motionless. What was he doing? Why would he not join his men and leave me be?

My brain pawed at the problem like a trained farrat, turning it over and over. Slowly, everything outside me stilled as I turned inward, into that peculiar half-dream state of complete attention, where one’s faculties may suddenly cease thrashing, step aside as if following a pavane, and suddenly know every step of the dance.

If you may learn to use the Seal properly, you could do something, for good or for ill.

I straightened, taking in a sharp breath. Then, just as quickly, I slumped again, lest anyone had seen my sudden movement and guessed at the cast of my thoughts. I had already used the Aryx to protect the Guard. Could I do so again, to protect them further? Damp woolen material resisted my fingers as I pulled, twisting it tighter.

To have those doors open inside my head again, to feel that force pushing through me in its scalding tide, blind to the world, would be…gods.

It would be like…what? Ceasing to exist.

Like dying. I had not suffered death yet, but I imagined losing oneself in that swelling tide was very close. I shivered.

The Guard finished their meal. Some of them undid their sleeping rolls. The tingle of Court sorcery washed over my skin again—dry ground, the rain shunted aside from where they would rest. A toast was called out to me, for they would be sleeping in the rain if not for the Aryx’s protection from tracking-sorcery. I smiled wanly and nodded, seeking to appear pleased, then went back to hugging myself, desperately weighing the chance of being swallowed whole by the Great Seal against the pressure of their faith in me.

Tristan’s faith in me, however misplaced.

I sighed, rubbing at my forehead. I had only wished to change my clothes before waiting on Lisele. How on earth had I ended up pursued in the Shirlstrienne with a half-dozen noblemen and a head full of doors for the Aryx to open whenever it slipped the chain of my refusal?

The Captain brought a sleeping roll and laid it beside me. “You should sleep, d’mselle.” His tone was chill.

Then mine should be, too. “I suppose I should.” I did not dare look to his face, only his shoulder. “Captain?”

“For the sake of every god, Vianne, do not address me thus.” His jaw set, his shoulders stiffened.

Well, if you wish me to address you otherwise, sieur, I shall. “Very well. Sieur d’Arcenne, I wish to ask you something,” I persisted.

His shoulders stiffened, his jaw firming. Why? He smoothed a blanket over the sleeping roll, flicked his fingers. A breath of heat brushed my cheek—he was warming the blanket. Court sorcery tingled along my fingers, a familiar feeling.

“Ask what you will.” He settled back on his heels. His boots creaked.

Perhaps I can make you see reason. I marshaled my arguments, made my tone soft and conciliatory. “If I drew pursuit away—perhaps to the east—would you be able to reach Arcenne safely?”

I watched his hand tense against his knee, I barely dared to breath. See reason. Please, do not force this madness further.

“And how would you draw pursuit away, Vianne?” Yet he sounded oddly relieved. Had he merely been waiting for me to broach the subject again?

I had my list of requirements ready. “I would need a horse. I am fairly sure I could create a commotion, or use enough Court sorcery to be tracked.”

A shake of his dark head, tossing a thought aside. “If d’Orlaans—”

“I wish to give you the Aryx.” If I can tear it from my skin. If I can rip it free, dear gods, I will. I did not let myself pause. “If you have the Seal, you do not need me. I can serve a better purpose distracting the bellhounds. You said yourself di Narborre has likely received word of our course.”

He shifted slightly, turning to me, and before I knew it his hand cupped my chin. He forced my head up until I had no choice but to look at him. His mouth was drawn tight, into a straight line. “You will not leave my care until we are in the Palais d’Arquitaine again and d’Orlaans is dead. If I must tie you to the saddle, Your Majesty, I will. Is that in any way unclear to you?”

I swallowed. My heart leapt into my throat, began to dance a maying there. His eyes burned, pale d’Arcenne blue, fixing my gaze as a serpent would trap a bird. “Cap—ah, Tristan…I would not—”

“At the moment, we shall make no decision until we reach Arcenne. Cease this, Vianne. You will not leave my side until we are in the Palais again and d’Orlaans is dead. Tis final.”

I searched for an argument, found one. “If you think me a Queen, why order me about?” But the heat of him, and his blue gaze, did strange things to my well-ordered wits and my carefully arranged plans.

“Even a Queen needs counselors,” he returned, callused fingers gentle against my cheek. “I was Left Hand once, and it seems you would need one more than Henri ever did. You are not ruthless enough, Vianne. Not ruthless enough by half.”

Thunder rattled overhead. The trees moved uneasily. “So you were the Left Hand.” It was different, hearing him say it so casually. Did his arm shake slightly? It seemed so.

He shrugged. “Did you ever doubt it?” He stroked my jaw with his thumb, the touch spilling a different heat down my throat. “I shall have your word you will not leave my side, m’chri.”

“Why do you—”

“Your word. I want your promise.” Something dark passed over his face, graving lines upon it, the firelight leaping oddly across the plane of his cheek. Seen in this light, he was even more handsome than at Court—but different.

More dangerous.

My heart quivered like a rabbit’s shudder in the snare. “Tristan—”

“Your word, Vianne,” he repeated, inflexible.

I could not look away. “I promise,” I heard myself say. “I give you my word.”

“Good.” He did not press the point, but neither did he look away. We stayed thus—his hand cupping my chin, me perched on a pad of blankets under the giant tam tree—until another vast wallow of thunder filled the air. “Sleep if you can, m’chri,” he said, as soon as the cannonade died away. Someone laughed on the other side of the fire, but twas a hushed, sleepy sound. Someone else—it sounded like Jai di Montfort—was humming a song popular in the Citté about a noble, penniless damsel and her heart-true chivalier.

It was a pretty tune, but oh it made me think of Lisele.

My heart twisted savagely, and water rose behind my eyes. I denied the tears with every ounce of strength I possessed, swallowed the rock in my throat. He released me, and I huddled deeper into the shelter of the cloak. Tristan rose fluidly and stalked away.

It is hopeless. For good or ill, you are bound to his course.

Was it craven to feel relieved? Perhaps.

I stared at the fire, beginning to burn blue now as the rain found its way past the Shirlstrienne’s canopy and sorcery forced the wood to stay alight. My eyes half-lidded, heavy and full of sand. The men spoke quietly over di Montfort’s singing.

He was on the fourth verse now. Telling of how the chivalier gave up his pride and his place in the Guard for the love of the fair noble d’mselle, who sacrificed herself in an act of sorcery to keep the chivalier safe from the blade of a jealous rival. The song had been much sung at Court last season, a backdrop to the affair of the duel between Miche di Varonne and Alois di Cheremorce.

Di Varonne’s mother had been rumored to be a royal by-blow, and he had died on di Cheremorce’s rapier. I never had discovered what their duel concerned, since whatever intrigue it was did not touch my Princesse. I thought I would farrat out the cause later, for no knowledge is ever wasted. Yet I had never discovered another twist to that tale.

The King had been wroth, his face full of thunder at several suppers. I thought long on this, staring into the fire and hearing the storm walk the sky above, prowling through the vaults of the Blessed’s heaven.