The sitting room was a surprise, dressed in light colors and decorated with silk pillows and pretty floral hangings. A needlework frame stood in one corner, a large harp in the other. The windows were wide and airy, since this room faced the gardens inside the walls.

Tristan closed the door and I found myself enveloped, two soft arms around me and a woman’s greeting-kiss on my cheeks in turn. “Oh, you poor child.” Soft and clear, a cultured voice. She had me whisked away from the door and into a seat by the fireplace, tucking a blanket around me. “Tris has dragged you all through the Citadel, has he not? Of course. Regrettable, that boy, just like his father. Not a thought for us lesser mortals. Oh, child, you’re pale.”

Tristan’s mother, her long black hair piled atop her head and threaded with pearls, twitched her pale green skirts back and sank onto a footstool. Her wide hazel eyes were full of merriment.

Her perfume was apple blossom and silk, a scent that reminded me of Lisele just as the harp did. “Baroness—,” I began, a pretty speech summoned from the recesses of my brain, but she held up one pale, elegant hand.

“Hellsfire,” she swore cheerfully, hazel eyes sparkling. I could see Tristan in the softness around her mouth—his infrequent look of happiness seemed to have come direct from her. “Call me Sílvie. Well, let us have a look at you.” Her gaze moved over my face. “Hmmm. Tristan told me you were lovely, but he never mentioned how beautiful you truly are.”

My cheeks grew hot, savage embarrassment rising. Did I seem to need the flattery? “Oh, I am sure he…he…”

“Stuff and nonsense. You’re exquisite. My dressmaker will be pleased—she is an artist, and loves to have a canvas. Now, Tris, fetch her a cup of chai, very sweet. And Talya will be along with a very light lunch soon—I thought sweetrolls and soup, and some of the apples from the orchard. I love the apples here, they remind me of Vintmorecy. You did not know I was of Vintmorecy, did you? Though your father’s family is liege, and mine merely a chivalier’s holding.”

Slightly stunned, I stammered out something polite.

“Mére, do not fuss at her.” Tristan crossed to the window, glancing out. “There should be a guard here.”

“I sent them to sup,” she said. “Poor men. You’re too hard on them. Just like your father. And you are looking finer than I’ve seen in months, Tris. Did you know, young d’mselle, that our son—”

“Mére,” Tristan said firmly. “She is weary, and she has just endured a—”

“A series of nasty shocks.” The Baroness fixed her son with a mother’s level, serious gaze. “The best thing for her is a bit of normalcy. Let me fuss over the ill, Tris, tis my duty. You’ve probably frightened the poor girl half to death with your serious face and your always this and never that and danger the other.” She tossed her black curls and laughed, and I saw another echo of Tristan in her face. I found myself smiling.

“Pére will wish to speak with her soon.” Tristan laughed, spreading his hands to indicate defeat. “Do not give me the sharp edge of your tongue, Mére. I cannot stand it. Vianne, tell her not to scold me.”

I was so enchanted by the spectacle of him truly laughing, I barely comprehended what he said.

The Baroness patted my arm comfortingly. “I was not certain the dress would fit well, but Perseval said we are of a size, you and I. Though I am a trifle taller, I think. And my long arms fill me with dismay. So tell me, child, what do you think of my Tristan? He quite fancies you—do not give me that look, Tris, I am your mother, I can say so—and he wrote about you in his letters. Said he danced with you.”

I stole a glance at Tristan. He leaned at ease next to one of the windows, out of the sunshine, and there was a definite crimson stain in his cheeks.

Tristan d’Arcenne was blushing. In front of his mother. He wished to be my Consort, and he was blushing.

The Baroness watched me with a faint line between her charcoal eyebrows. She is not as carefree as she seems. She is seeking to set me at my ease.

I rallied, and took a deep breath. “He danced with me twice. He forgot it quickly, too, for he asked me if it was at the Fête of Flowers, when it was the Festival of Skyreturn.”

The Baroness’s mouth twitched, then she chuckled. It was a happy, musical sound. “Just like a man!” She rested her hands on my knees, just as I would sometimes do with Lisele. It sent a pang through me. “Forgetting a dance. I thought I raised him better, my dear. My apologies.” That startled me into a laugh, and we were on familiar territory. “Tris m’fils, why are you in that dark corner? You see, dear, he and his father are of a pair, nothing in their heads but Guard rosters and politics. Boring, dry, dreadful stuff. If not for me, everyone in the castle would be eating hardtack and sausage, doing endless weapon-drill.” She smiled at me, her ear-drops glittering. They held pale peridot stones, and a matching necklace clasped her slender throat.

“You might someday thank me for being dreadful and boring, Sílvie,” Tristan’s father said from the door.

I sank back down in the chair. The Baroness did not seem to notice that I had jolted upright upon hearing a new voice. Tristan’s gaze rested on me from the shadow near the window, and I knew he had noticed.

It was absurdly comforting.

Baron Perseval d’Arcenne moved precisely two steps into the room and closed the door. He wore the uniform of an Arcenne guard, though his doublet was finer than a plain chivalier’s and his sword probably an heirloom, with a ruby in the hilt. His dark hair was thickly peppered with gray but less mussed than last night, and in the unforgiving daylight I could see the lines on his face more clearly. Time had visited the elder Baron, whispered her secret in his ear, and he looked as if he had only nodded and pressed on.

I was about to rise, wishing to be on my feet to meet this new challenge, but the Baroness caught my hand. “Do not, child,” she said quietly. “It is not meet.”

She was correct—a lady does not rise; tis a nobleman’s duty to gain his feet when she enters. And there was the Aryx, as well.

“There you are, bossing everyone about,” Tristan’s father said drily. “I trust you have rested, Your Majesty.”

I suppressed a guilty start at hearing the title applied to me. “Well enough, sieur. Rest has been hard to gather of late, and I suspect that state of affairs shall continue.”

The Baron examined me for a long moment. “Well.”

“That’s Pére’s way of saying you look weak and pale, Vianne,” Tristan said from his shadowed place. Why on earth did he stand there? “Pére, m’Mére sent the guards away again.”

“So I see.” When the Baron gazed at his wife, his face changed. The austere lines relaxed into an infinitely tender expression, his blue eyes softening. “Sílvie, you must think of your safety.”

“I am in the middle of Arcenne, Perseval, what could possibly happen? Especially with the city closed, the Citadel closed too, and your son stalking the corridors daring anyone to step out of line.”

“Well, if you will not think of your safety, think of hers.” The Baron lowered himself into a chair opposite me. “Your pardon, d’mselle, but my bones ache. It has been a busy day.”

“Please. Do not trouble yourself for me.” I found my gaze could not stay away from Tristan, still watching out the window. His shoulders were stiff. “I have been traveling with the R’mini for months. Tis a treat to sit on a chair not in a moving wagon.”

“I can imagine.” The Baron settled, steepling his fingers before his long nose. “I must know, d’mselle, what your intentions are.”

That must be a habitual pose with him, he thinks and hides his mouth at the same moment. “My intentions?” Is he asking if I mean to wed his son? Blessed, they are direct in the mountains.

“Hellsfire,” the Baroness broke in, “give the lady some time to rest, at least, before you start questioning her!” She tapped my knee, a sharp deft gesture. “Do not answer him. Let us speak of something easy first. Look at how pale she is, Perseval!”

“I am well enough,” I said, as gently as I could. “Truly, Baroness. I simply wish to finish whatever duty I have now so I may go back to sleep. I must confess I am extremely weary.” I brought myself up to sit straight, instead of sinking into the chair. “Now, sieur Baron, what do you mean when you speak of my intentions?”

“I must know if you intend to field an army before or after the winter.” His eyes half-lidded, an inward-turning expression. “We must also turn our attention to a provisional Council for you, and the best way to publicize your survival—and your possession of the Aryx.”

My fingers leapt to touch the medallion. It thrummed under my fingers. The serpents shifted slightly, and the Baroness gasped, her curls shaking. Soft and wondering, her hazel gaze was a burden. “The Seal. Blessed, I never thought to see it.” Her hand lifted, as if she would seek to touch it.

Oh, how I wished her luck.

“Careful, Sílvie.” The Baron’s sudden tension did not go unremarked, for Tristan stepped forward, just to the edge of the bar of sunshine. “It sparked last night.”

She stopped. There was a sapphire-and-silver signet on her left hand, and a copper marriage band too. “Oh.”

Tristan’s gaze met mine. As if he had thrown me a rope that stretched taut between us, a wave of strength came down that rope and cleared my head. I had made my way through the Shirlstrienne and to Arcenne with my own wits as a guide; surely my wits would not fail me now. And with my Captain with me, what could I not do?

“I know little of Councils, sieur, so you will have to guide me.” I thought for a moment, decided to ask the most pressing question first. “Is there no way to avoid war?”

A slight smile touched the Baron’s lined face. “Wiser than I credited.”

A well-mannered knock at the door jolted me again. Tristan crossed the room, opened it, exchanged some words in a low tone.

“Always thinking of food, Mére,” he said, as three serving maids bustled in, their starched white caps glimmering in the sunshine and their gray skirts brushing. “I think we can eat and strategize at the same time, can we not?”

The Baron did not move. “Well enough. At least this child-Queen has the sense to ask for help when she is out of her depth.”

“If your tongue were any sharper, you would cut your own teeth out,” the Baroness replied. “No more, Perseval. We have waited long enough to have these questions answered. An hour or so over a small meal will do no harm.”

I sank back into the chair as the Baroness rose, and Perseval d’Arcenne hurriedly rose with her. He took her arm and said something in a low tone.

She laughed, tossing her raven hair, and the light was kind to her. Another thing Tristan had inherited; hers was a face that would not collapse with age, the bones a fine structure that would hold to loveliness as long as she breathed. “You are too serious by half. No wonder the poor child is frightened out of her wits!”

“She is the Queen of Arquitaine, and a bloody usurper squats upon the throne, murdering all in his way. We should bend our minds toward keeping our country from full-scale civil war.” He brushed a loose curl from her face. “We have no time for the gentler things, Sílvie, sorely as I miss them.”

Tristan touched my shoulder. I had not even noticed him beside me. “They shall bicker through the soup and finally settle to business after chai,” he said softly. “My father is harsh, but he has a fine mind, and he’s loyal to the Aryx.”

I nodded. “I can tell as much. All is well, Captain. Though I would dearly love more sleep, for all that I had a surfeit this morning.” I sought to ease him—after all, I had traveled with the R’mini and simply endured, and before that I had dealt with stronger shocks than a sitting-room conversation over soup.

“After an engagement, some soldiers love to sleep. I think you are no less battle-weary, Vianne.” His hand did not move from my shoulder, and something in the pressure of it was very improper, though his fingers did not move. “My father has made arrangements for us to visit the Temple this evening. If you have not changed your mind.”

I took his hand, our fingers lacing together. “I would think you would be wary of how much trouble I seem to attract.”

His mouth quirked. “You seem to be constantly escaping trouble, tis certain.”

“How dire is it?” For I needed to know.

He shrugged. Now that he had moved into the light, blue highlights in his dark hair showed, and the lines of worry about his mouth and eyes were clearly visible. “Dire enough that my father would press you to act quickly. Di Narborre is making himself troublesome, and there has been little news other than d’Orlaans seeking to keep control of the nobles. The plague is ravaging, and—” He saw my expression and ceased, closing his mouth firmly.

Plague and restive nobles. “I am well enough. I must hear it all.”

“You’ve gone pale. And you’re swaying, Vianne.”

“I think tis relief.” It was a lie, but merely one to ease him. “I am heartened, Tristan. As long as you are alive, all will be well.”

Why did he look so troubled at that? The Blessed knew the news was terrible enough. But was this sadness for something I had done, something I had said? I had certainly caused him enough worry.

His face did ease, so perhaps I had not been entirely useless in that regard. “Thank you, m’chri. I will strive to be worthy of your faith.”

“You could strive to bring her some soup and a sweetroll,” his mother said laughingly. She was supervising the laying of the table. The Baron inspected both of us, his arms folded as the servants set out the china. I suffered a brief flash of unreality—less than two days ago I had been scrubbing pots in a R’mini camp. Now I watched the serving maids, one middle-aged matron and two fresh-faced girls, and I wondered who they were. Did they possess Consorts, sweethearts, fathers, brothers—men who could die if I made the wrong decisions? And what of the suffering that attended war? I had read more than enough Tiberian histories to know what misfortunes followed in an army’s wake.

Tis not merely Tristan and the Guard, or a few lone peasants. Every person I see could come to harm because I have the Aryx, and d’Orlaans will kill to keep Arquitaine. He must be mad, to murder his brother and niece. Mad. And di Narborre—how did he find us in the Shirlstrienne? Was he the author of that terrible spell, or was it the Duc? What hope have I of fighting a Court sorcerer that powerful without losing myself to the Aryx? “Captain?”

“What thought has struck you now, m’chri?” Lightly, but with an edge.

“How did di Narborre track us?”

He seemed almost relieved by the question. “Di Palanton, almost certainly. It gave him enough for the tracking spell. The Duc is a fair Court sorcerer, Vianne, perhaps the strongest in Arquitaine. Yet you have the Aryx.” His voice dropped to a murmur.

I nodded, resting my head against the back of the chair. If it came to fighting d’Orlaans as a sorcerer, would I be able to endure the Aryx’s swallowing of my soul?

If I must, I must. And Tristan will bring me back to myself, will he not? “Tell me what I must do, Left Hand.”

“I would suggest partaking of luncheon, as you certainly need it. Tonight we shall visit the Temple. Tomorrow there will be dispatches, and plenty of work. For today, my father will ask questions, and we shall answer as best we can.”

“You eat, and answer. I might merely sit and think.” Since I can see very few avenues that do not end with death and blood.

Very few? No. I cannot see a single one.

“You worry me.” His mouth curled into a smile. “We shall have to stuff you like a partridge, to regain your lost health.”

That won a weary laugh from me. “What can I say? This would tax any constitution, even a di Rocancheil’s. I am glad you are here.”

“Tris, m’fils, as you love the lady, bring her to the table,” the Baroness interrupted. “She is so thin it makes me hungry to look at her. Come, child, have a cup of chai and some sweetrolls. Cook is a genius, and she is quite pleased to have a royal to cosset.”

A stray memory of Head Cook Amys pierced me. I wondered how she fared—and if she was preparing eels for d’Orlaans.

If she is, may he choke on them.

I let the Baroness bully me into eating, though I barely tasted Cook’s cosseting. I was too busy pondering what Baron d’Arcenne would ask of me.

Now I must plan for Arquitaine. I have come this far, but there is more yet to do. Much, much more. My eyes strayed to Tristan, who had folded his snowy napkin into a flower and presented it to his mother with a mischievous smile. She laughed, and I could see how her husband and son prized her.

I wish my mother… What could I wish for, that would not be ungrateful? I looked down into my chai-cup, the specks of leaf in the swirling liquid making a pattern for a bare moment before twas whisked away.

I have no time for regret. I must think of Arquitaine. Everything is different now, and I must be different, too.