The Guard was housed in a long barracks hall, and when we stepped inside Jierre let out a whoop and leapt from his chair. Cots ranged along either side of the hall for a distance. There was a space of long tables and benches, a fireplace with chairs and benches set before it, a large cauldron of something familiar-smelling bubbling over the fire.

I had missed the smell of their stew, without knowing it.

I found myself surrounded. Luc di Chatillon embraced me, Jierre kissed me on both cheeks, Tinan di Rocham, blushing fiercely, clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. The hall became a hubbub of shouted questions, congratulations, and oaths cheerfully yelled.

Though I have been greeted in many ways, I believe this is the welcome I cherish the memory of most.

I was hugged, kissed, buffeted from one place to another before Tristan gave a sharp bark of an order and the fuss died. I looked around the wall of leather doublets and swordhilts. I did not see Adersahl. Tristan offered me his arm, but I peered around Jierre, whose lean dark face held two tear tracks none commented on.

Adersahl sprawled in a low chair tucked almost behind the chimney, a deeply shadowed corner.

I looked up at Tristan. “A moment, please?” I had fallen into sharply accented Court Arquitaine again. The R’mini drawl so quickly fled my tongue, for all I still carried Jaryana’s medallion in my skirt-pocket.

An expectant hush fell over the Guard, broken only when Luc di Chatillon let out a sharp breath. “He is drinking himself to death, d’mselle.”

Jierre’s hand closed over di Chatillon’s shoulder. “Let her.” He nodded to me. Jespre di Vidancourt folded his arms over his lean chest, his blond eyebrows arched.

I approached Adersahl quietly, my skirts brushing the clean wooden floor. A scabbarded rapier lay across his knees. You could scarce see Adersahl’s face, but his shoulders slumped and he seemed frailer now.

Older.

I was less than six feet from him when Adersahl lifted his head. He’d lost his fine mustache. His chin and cheeks were marred with stubble, hollows lay under his eyes, and his gray-salted hair stuck up in wild tufts.

“Oh.” I could not help myself; I sighed. “Adersahl.”

He had a crock of something that smelled stronger than rhuma tucked into the crook of his elbow. “As you see,” he croaked, lifting the large jar slightly. I did not allow my nose to wrinkle, though the smell of unwashed man soaked in alcohol and stale sweat was enough to make even a seasoned courtier sniff. “Come to mock me?”

This may not end well. I searched for something useful to say. “I must beg your pardon. For I lost your dagger, chivalier, and you entrusted it to my care.”

He snorted rudely. I had seen no few men in their cups, at feasts or fêtes, but this was some other type of drunkenness, bleak instead of gluttonous. “Lost’er. Slip of a girl. Too brave by half. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

His slurred speech was no surprise; he smelled as if he had drank a sea’s worth. It must have been valadka, that clear liquor that can make a man blind if overindulged. I strove for a gentle tone, no laughter or pity. “I should thank you. If I had not the dagger, I would not have survived.”

There was a fierce whisper behind me. I paid no attention, kneeling down, my hands taking care of arranging my skirts as they had not for months. The silk pooled about me, and I touched his knee with two fingers.

Adersahl’s weary, baleful glare sharpened. He was bleary enough to serve as a caution to younglings. “D’mselle? Duchesse?”

“As you see.” I found myself smiling. “You did well, chivalier. If not for your advice, di Narborre would have caught me. I barely escaped him, and would I have stayed where you set me, I would not have been lost.” The Aryx tilled against my skin, as a softly stroked bell. “Next time, I swear I will listen to you more closely.”

He blinked at me. “D’mselle?” As if he could not quite credit it. “Lost. You were lost.”

“Lost no more.” I peered up into his face. Give him a task, he requires summat to focus on. “I require your assistance, chivalier.”

He grunted, unimpressed, settling further into the chair with a creak. I could not judge his expression with any surety; the firelight was simply not enough to penetrate this corner.

I tried again. “I shall need every member of my Guard.” I leaned earnestly forward. “For the border provinces are preparing for war, and d’Orlaans will learn soon enough that I live.” I sighed, as if saddened. “And if my Guard is less than it was, I am sorely afraid I shall be in peril.”

Twas not very elegant, but Adersahl mulled over my words, some life stealing back into his shadowed face. He burped, and I was hard-put to stifle a gasp. Valadka slopped against the side of the crock as he leaned forward.

I took the earthenware jar from him. He made a grab for it, but I was quicker, having spent two months working among the R’mini, who prize dexterity. They had not taught me the secrets of R’mini thievery—I was, after all, still g’ji—but I had learned enough to keep liquor away from a drunken man.

Adersahl’s hand curled around his swordhilt. Tristan said something I did not hear, but his tone was fierce and cold.

“Not fit!” Adersahl half-shouted, harshly. “Slip of a girl! Dead in the woods.”

A chill spread through me. Very nearly, my friend. If not for a goatherd, you would be right.

“Chivalier di Parmecy et Villeroche,” I said crisply, “your Queen requires your service. Are you, or are you not, a member of my Guard? You swore your oath to me, and I call upon you now.”

Silence crackled in the barracks. Then Adersahl slid forward off his chair, going to his knees. He was near as thin as I was, a far cry from the solid, stocky man I had known. He still wore the crimson sash of the Guard, but twas soiled and dull. His cloth was sorely the worse for wear.

He presented his swordhilt to me. “Not fit t’be a Guard.”

“Nonsense. No more valadka, Adersahl. Are you a member of my Guard, or not?”

He stared blearily, blinking, and burped again. “‘F y’want me. Pretty Vianne, pretty pretty Vianne. Slip of a girl.”

That, at least, is a hopeful sign. I shall overlook the flattery this once. I nodded. “Very well, then. No more drinking.”

“No more drinkin’.” He blinked and then made a quick motion. I felt the tensing of the Guard behind me to a man, but Adersahl merely presented me with his swordhilt again. “Owe you m’service, d’mselle. Accept m’oath.”

I touched his swordhilt with two fingers, keeping the crock well away from him. For I have learned well that a drunken man may be cunning when it comes to soaking himself afresh. “Accepted, Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche. Now, on your feet. Take my hand.”

He grabbed at my fingers, clutching his sword loosely in his other sotted fist. I found myself struggling to my feet, praying I would not take yet another blow to any grace I might have. If I fell to the floor now I would look very silly indeed.

We hauled each other up, absurdly, like overtired Harvest Festival celebrants. Adersahl steadied me and nearly fell over, so I steadied him in turn. “There.” I brushed his shoulders. It did little good, but he seemed to have a fresh lease on life. At least, he was upright now. “You look a trifle more proper. Perhaps Tinan and Jierre can help clean you up and put you to bed, and when you recover we shall have a long talk. Well enough?”

He would have bowed to me, but I kept his hand, so he could not finish and topple himself. “Well ’nough,” he mumbled, and twas a good thing Tristan was at my shoulder now, for Adersahl promptly lost consciousness and would have tumbled us both to the floor if Tristan had not caught him. Tinan and Jierre were next, taking Adersahl’s weight.

“Well.” I shook at my skirts with one hand, seeking to adjust their hanging. “I made a right proper mess of that. Will he be well, do you think?”

It fell to Jierre di Yspres to answer me. “At least he’ll not be drinking tomorrow. Tis a wonder to have you back, d’mselle, for he would not listen to any of us.”

“I am not sure I have not made it worse.” I looked down at the crock. It smelled awful—I have never been one for drink. Tristan deftly removed it from my hand. “Tis awful stuff, that.” I hope he did not swallow enough to damage his eyesight.

“Very.” Tristan touched my arm. “I must take you to my father now. We are late as it is.”

“Well enough,” I said. Jierre and Tinan carried Adersahl between them. The rest of the Guard stood, hats in hand, some of them grinning like fools. “Tis good to see you. All of you.”

“Good to see you too, d’mselle,” Luc di Chatillon said in the silence that followed. “We were fair worried.”

So was I, chivalier. But I may not admit to it as you can. The Aryx cooled to the temperature of my skin, no longer singing its muted melody. Yet I could still hear the music below the surface of my mind, like the song of earth and wind that made up hedgewitchery’s background. I was still thinking on this when Tristan led me out of the barracks.

“Well.” He closed the door, offering his arm again. “Miracles, again. You are more a demiange than ever. I cannot wait to see what sorcery you work on my father.”

I rather think him unimpressed with me. But we shall see. “Will Adersahl be well? He’s so…thin.”

Tristan’s face paled slightly, his jaw set. “He took it hard when we found the bodies.”

“The bodies.” My stomach flipped. Tristan guided me up a flight of stairs, going slowly. He kept his hand over mine, tucked in the crook of his elbow, and I found myself worrying whether someone would see.

As if we were still at Court, and I had to be careful of propriety.

“The women, of a certain age, from the village. When it was clear none of them were you, di Narborre ordered them killed.” Flat and cool, the same tone he had used when speaking of the dead peasants. “Twas not a gentle end. But it was none your fault,” he added hastily. “I would not have you thinking it was.”

“Gods.” My breath left me in a great swoop. I hurried to keep pace with him, and the sound of my skirts was a balm. I felt myself again with heavy material swaying, the brushing of fabric against my legs a familiar reassurance. “And…Adrien?” I meant to ask if Risaine had been found, but my mouth shaped di Cinfiliet’s name instead.

He shortened his strides, granting me a single indecipherable glance. “He and his bandits are on patrol, riding the borders of Arcenne. Vianne, Risaine sought to fight di Narborre and his men.” Tristan steered me down another long hall. “She killed two of them.”

Blood drained from my face. “Gods,” I said again. Blessed, grant her peace.

“Twas not your doing, Vianne.” Tristan did not slow further, but his tone gentled. “The fault lies with di Narborre and his master.”

“You are certain twas not another who—”

“There was no doubt it was the Marquisse.” Tristan stopped short, surprising me, and righted me as I swayed. This hall was bare and plain, racks of weapons along either wall, lit by glowrocks and pierced with shafts of Sun-arrows from high, narrow windows. “Look at me, m’chri.”

Tristan’s face was grimly serious, his blue gaze winter-chill and sharp. The streak of gray at his temple glowed in the directionless light, and it was obvious how the stone of this place was in his very bones. “There was nothing you could have done. If you had been taken, their deaths would be for nothing. D’Orlaans would be King in truth as well as in name, and I would most probably have killed myself seeking to free you from him.” He clasped my shoulders, not hard enough to bruise but firmly enough to hold me upright. “I would not lie to you. There was nothing you could have done.”

I nodded. But something deep-buried in me did not believe him. “Tristan—”

“Strength, Vianne. If you have none left, use mine.” He kissed my forehead, stroking my shoulders with his thumbs. Silk crushed under his touch. “Do you understand? Use mine.”

I nodded. I have been using your strength as my northneedle since this ordeal began. “I do not feel very well.” Twas laughable understatement, to say the least.

He paused, and I knew he was on the verge of suggesting I go back to bed. My chin lifted, my shoulders coming up under the familiar weight of duty. Twas a heavier duty than the one weighting me at Court, but I was robbed of choice. I could not swoon like an empty-headed Court dame now, taking refuge in weakness. After what I had endured, I wondered how much more I could bear.

If I am wearing the Aryx, I must be as strong as I can.

“Yet I am to meet your father.” I made the words as decisive as possible. “I owe your mother a polite greeting as well. Lead the way.”