They came over the west wall,” the Captain of the Citadel Guard—thin, intense di Vantmor—said. His fine waxed mustache was now sadly drooping, his curly hair ruffled. But his blue mountainfolk eyes were keen, and his sword had seen blooding this night, too. “One of yours was on the wall with the night-watch, sieur.”

Tristan shut his eyes as Bryony, the Citadel’s head hedgewitch physicker, probed at the slash on his ribs with gentle fingers. The small infirmary cubicle was stone-walled, with a faded red curtain drawn over the door. Tristan sat on a high bench while Bryony examined him. A cot was made up in the corner, but Tris had no need of it, for which I was profoundly grateful.

I stayed sitting up only by sheer force of will, in a hard chair next to the healer’s table.

“The di Rocham boy. He is alive, but—” Di Vantmor’s blue gaze flicked over to me. I sat numbly with my bandaged right hand lying quiescent, placed prettily on my silken lap.

“Tinan?” I gained my feet in a single convulsive rush. My skirts made a low sweet sound. “Where is he?”

“They are bringing him now.”

My Consort sighed. “Patch me up quickly, then. Jermain, would you have someone bring me a fresh shirt?”

“Sieur.” Di Vantmor bowed. I felt a slight twinge—I should have thought of that.

I was at the door of the small cubicle, all but on di Vantmor’s heels, when Tristan spoke again. “Vianne? Wait a little, an it please you. I would accompany you.”

I looked over my shoulder. My hair was a tangled mass against my back. “The infirmary is full-to-choking of armed men, Tris. I doubt I am in any danger.”

His face changed, and I leaned against the wall by the door. It was no affected pose—I was simply too weak to stay upright on my own unless I was moving. Tristan did not look threatening, simply weary—but I knew that if I went through the door he would follow me, disregarding the physicker’s care. My heart gave a huge throttled leap.

“This should just take a moment,” the young peasant healer in his pale shirt and green trousers said. He had been wakened roughly, as had we all.

I smelled the peculiar green of hedgewitchery, dropped my eyes as Bryony’s power became evident. He was a much better hedgewitch than I had ever been. I longed to have time to study with him, as I had with Risaine and Jaryana.

“There. Try not to fall on any knives anytime soon, Tris?” Bryony had been a child in the Keep with Tristan, and was easier with him than most of the Guard.

“If the Pruzians would stop sending assassins, I would. Is my Vianne well?”

“The d’mselle is well enough, a bit of rest and some food will ballast her nicely. I would offer her a drop of wine, but she has already said nay.”

I felt the weight of Tristan’s gaze on me. “Vianne, m’chri, would you bring me some wine? I feel a trifle pale.”

I peeled myself away from the wall and managed to reach the wine jug, poured both Tristan and myself a healthy dollop—and tossed the contents of one cup back and poured another measure. Warmth exploded in my stomach. Well. I’ve survived my first assassination attempt.

If I did not count Lisele’s murderers among assassins, that was. Had the Pruzians come to kill me, or Tristan, or Tristan’s father? Or all of us? And so soon after the other attempt.

I needed to think on this, to tease out the implications. First, though, there were questions to be asked. “How is the Baron?” At least I sounded relatively calm.

“Well, and cursing at everyone in sight. The Baroness is doing her best.” Bryony sounded amused. “Well, you’re ready for more mischief, sieur. I am to take care of other poor souls.”

I brought my Consort the winecup, awkward with my bandaged hand, and settled on the bench beside him. Bryony swept from the room with one last eloquent glance at me. If he meant to give a message, it was one I did not understand

Tristan took a swallow of wine, rolled it in his mouth. Grimaced as if it had turned, though it seemed perfectly fine to me, if strong. “You did not stay in the room,” he said quietly. “Tis a good thing, too; the other Knife would have found you. But in the future, Vianne—”

Gods grant there is never another episode such as this. “I shall tarry still and quiet, I swear. I simply could not stand the thought of…you were alone. And I could not stay there with the…the bodies.” I wished to add, Yes, I am a coward, but I did not.

“My apologies.” He smiled, a little ruefully, over the top of his goblet. “I did not wish to leave you, Vianne. I had to.”

“I know.” I poured down the rest of my second cup of wine in four long swallows. Blinked owlishly at him. “I believe I am handling this rather well.”

“Good, for I am halfway to a nervous wreck.” He took another swallow. “I adore you, m’chri. You are too brave for my comfort.”

I leaned in to his shoulder, happy for his solid warmth. “Who would hire a Pruzian to kill you and your father? And why?”

“Besides d’Orlaans and whoever he is depending on to prop up his claim to the throne?” Tristan leaned against me, too, a subtle movement but one I cherished. “Have I told you how lovely you are, m’chri?”

“No.” A silly smile spread over my face as a warm haze swirled through my middle. “You could, though. Before we visit di Rocham.”

“Ever duty, hmm?”

“I am worried for him.” I rested my head on his shoulder, the goblet loose-held in relaxing fingers, resting in my lap. “How pretty am I, Tristan?” For I would like to hear this, even if tis vain to ask.

“Beautiful enough to bring a man to his knees crying out in praise of Alisaar.” He turned, kissed my forehead gently. “Are you hale enough to stand?”

“You should finish your wine.”

“I have lost my taste for it. Here.” He offered me the goblet.

Why, very sly of you, my Consort. Nevertheless, I drained it with good grace. “I know I am merely Lisele’s plain little lapdog. I was told enough.” And it does me well to hear you gainsay it.

And so he did, as a good Consort. “You were lovely when I came to Court, Vianne. Time’s only made you more so. Here, lean on me; we shall see what misfortune befell Tinan.”

The world tilted slightly under me. “Dear gods; the wine’s at my head.” Or the fear. Both were equally likely.

“Tis unwatered, the strongest we have. Bryony believes in it as a tonic, I think. I also think you should have more.”

For once I did not argue. “I think that is a most excellent idea.” I rather suspected I would need it.

Di Rocham was feverish, and Bryony looked grave. I settled into the chair by the cot in another cubicle, watching Tinan’s fair young face as he lay drug-quiescent, sweat sheening his brow. Bryony lifted the dressing over the wound on the boy’s belly, and his sharp mountain face grew even graver.

“He will recover, will he not?” I felt childish for asking, my head muddled with wine.

A low knock sounded at the door. I looked up to see Jierre di Yspres. “The Knife has regained consciousness.” A bandage glared white against his shoulder, under his shirt’s open throat-laces. I could see a bead of drying blood on his collarbone. His lean face was chalky, and grim. “How is our d’mselle?”

I lifted my chin. “Hearty and hale.” My mouth did not seem to work quite properly. And well-tonic’d, though now I regret the last glass. Twill not do me well for long.

Tristan shrugged. “Unwounded. Her nerves have taken a shock, tis all.”

“And Tinan?” Di Yspres did not glance at the bed, but I sensed he wished to. We all turned our gazes to the physicker, and hope rose under my pounding heart.

Bryony opened his mouth, closed it, glanced at Tristan, at me. “He will not last the night,” he said heavily. “I can do nothing for him.”

What? I could not contain myself. “But you are a hedgewitch!” And a fine one, too!

“There are other wounded.” Gently enough, his jaw set, his hands curling into fists, relaxing. “This young one’s gut-cut. I cannot sew his intestines up. I have not the charm nor the power for it. The most I can do is ease his passing—”

“Get away.” I did not recognize the harsh, croaking voice as my own. “Now.”

The peasant physicker paled swiftly. Twas gratifying to see he did not look to Tristan; he simply bowed and obeyed.

“Is he ready to speak?” Tristan asked, as Bryony retreated to the door. Tinan did not moan—Bryony had dosed him with poppy and caresfree—but his breathing was labored.

“Pruzian. And difficult.” It was di Yspres’s turn for a shrug.

“I care not how difficult he is,” Tristan said. “Make him speak.”

It occurred to me they were speaking of the assassin, the one who had survived. My Consort’s gaze, extraordinarily blue, met mine.

I read his expression, and sick unsteady heat filled my stomach. “No, Tristan. As you are my Consort and I am the Queen, no. I will question him tomorrow, as soon as I know if Tinan lives or dies.” The Aryx warmed against my chest. “I will have your obedience on this, sieurs, or I swear I shall prosecute both of you for treason.”

“D’mselle—” Di Yspres, in a patently reasonable tone that threatened to ignite my temper.

Does he think this no more than an attack of women’s vapors? “Your word, Jierre di Yspres. And yours, Tristan d’Arcenne. Your sworn oaths that you will not damage the Pruzian.”

“This is not the time to be merciful,” Tristan remarked. Bryony looked from him to me, as if expecting the next volley in a game of laun, his mouth slightly open and his color no better.

“Nevertheless, that is my command. You call yourself the Queen’s Guard; in this you will do as I say. I do not wish him broken until I may question him myself.”

Perhaps it was the wine speaking. But I dropped my gaze back to Tinan di Rocham’s fair young face, the sweat standing out on his pale brow. “Now get out, hedgewitch. You too, di Yspres, and set a guard on our prisoner. If there is a mark on the Pruzian tomorrow, I shall hold you personally responsible. Send a message to the Baron that the Pruzian is mine, remanded to the Queen’s justice. I care not if I have to threaten to turn myself over to d’Orlaans to make it so, but I will have obedience. Is that clear?”

Bryony left, with more haste than decorum.

Jierre swept me a fine Court bow, pausing long enough at the bottom of it to make it sarcastic, his hand aside as if he held his fine feathered hat. “If that is the Queen’s will,” he managed through gritted teeth, and slammed the door for good measure.

The silence inside the small stone room lay tense and aching until Tristan broke it. “That was ill done, Vianne. Jierre is not your enemy.”

The wine had loosed my tongue. “Neither are you,” I retorted sharply. “Yet you would torture an assassin to death to salve your wounded pride, and you would call it duty. I know your duty in this matter, Tristan d’Arcenne, and I will have obedience.” There is death lying on this cot; does not it make your heart break? If it does not, why? Why are you so willing to spread more of it?

“Very well.” He shrugged, winced slightly as if his side pained him. “I can always kill him later.”

How can you say such things so calmly? Is that what a man is? “You may. But not until I say so.”

“As my Queen commands.” Was that a new coolness in his tone? I hoped not.

If it was…I would mourn the loss of warmth, but it would not alter my course.

I turned my attention to the boy on the cot. Bootless, sweating, the bandage at his belly staining with fresh bright red and darker, fouler matter, he seemed very small.

I have not served you well, chivalier. Dear gods.

I took Tinan di Rocham’s hand in both of mine. “Tinan,” I whispered, and the Aryx shifted against my chest. A fine thin vibration ran through my marrow.

I closed my eyes. The wine loosened my mind, dilated my heart, turning inside my chest like a giant gyre. Show me, I pleaded. You have power, a great deal of it; you showed me once how to use it fully. Show me now, please. Let me save his life, and I will not fight you.

The Aryx, wonder of wonders, answered, doors flung open inside my head again and the golden riptide of sorcery swallowed me. Yet I did not witness it. I did not gainsay the Seal, only gave myself up to it. When the gold faded there was only soft restful darkness, and a brushing like wings.

I woke the following morning, in Tristan’s bed, with my Consort standing guard at the door.

He was silent as I dressed myself, not offering to help with the laces as he usually did. That was sometimes worth a half-hour of my laughter and his good-natured cursing before the dress was laced properly, and kisses as well. Today, however, it was indigo satin and quiet; I laid the Aryx atop the fabric and braided my hair with unsteady hands.

Tristan exited the watercloset and stalked to his clothespress, pulled on fresh breeches and a new shirt. He struggled into a leather doublet without my help. The silence between us grew brittle. I stood at the window, looking down over the practice-ground and garden, now familiar sights. I tied off the last braid with a bit of ribbon and sighed, leaning against the stone. Lisele would laugh to see the simplicity of my hair lately, but I was far too hurried during the day to stop and re-dress my braids. Besides, I had not a ladyservant to help; Tristan had been more than enough help with laces, and I had not felt I needed more. He was not so fine at braiding a woman’s hair, not quick-fingered enough. It was the only clumsiness I saw in him.

Tristan approached me slowly. He stopped at my shoulder, looking past me out the window. Or at least, I felt his breath upon my cheek and thought that was where he gazed. The heat of him was a comfort and a grievance at the same time.

“Are you angry with me, m’chri?”

Of all the questions I expected, that was the last. “With you? Of course not.” My own question rose hard on the heels of that denial. “I expect you are rather furious with me, though?”

“No.” His hands stole around my waist. “You were right. I was not…calm, last night. I am furious, but at the thought of you in danger, m’chri. I wish him to suffer.”

Again he surprised me. I was glad we were both gazing in the same direction and not at each other, for my jaw gaped in a most unladylike manner. And there are things that may be said while two people study a vista instead of each other. “Ah.” I searched for aught else to add. “Tristan, I am sorry. I was unkind last night.”

“You were right, Vianne. You often are.” He drew me back against him. I could dimly hear the sound of clattering wood and effort from the practice-ground; they were at morning drill. Sunlight bleached the white stone of Arcenne. “Do you think me a murderer?”

I do not know what to think, but I doubt you would not murder, did you need to. “I do not—”

“Hush.” He covered my mouth, but it was gentle, a reminder of the road from the Citté. “Do you suppose I have any honor left, after being Henri’s Left Hand? After…what I have done in his name?”

Whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you…tis more important than you think. Risaine’s words rose up to haunt me. Hard on their heels came the words of her son:

You are not such a secret to me as you are to our d’mselle…Besides, I look forward to the day all is revealed.

But Tristan was so gentle. He had done nothing but watch over me. Who did I have to thank for my escape from the conspiracy? What did he speak of?

And now that I knew more of lovers and having a Consort, the thought of the Duc’s limp white hands touching me made me sick all through.

“Whatever you did for the King is finished.” I tried to make my tone a balance of light and serious, to put paid to his uncertainty. “You are my chivalier, and my Consort. Well enough?”

“More than I deserve,” he said into my hair, a long sigh. “On my honor, then, Vianne; I will never be so angry I cannot comfort you. Well enough?”

My heart swelled to its normal size, and melted at the same moment. “Indeed. And on mine, likewise.”

He paused, as if there was summat else he would add. I waited, but when he spoke next, it was to turn to business.

“Then I am content. I suppose you have some new variety of heartstopping excitement for us this morning?”

“Questioning the Pruzian. And di Rocham…” Dare I ask? Abruptly, I felt the bite of shame. That should have been my first question.

“He lived through the night, and likely will mend.” Tristan paused. “The Aryx.”

“Yes.” I leaned in to his warmth. “I do not recognize myself anymore, Tris.”

“I know you.” He pressed a kiss onto my hair. But his hands trembled. “You are my Vianne, and the Queen of Arquitaine.”

I did not protest. Instead, I let Tristan hold me until a maid knocked at the door, bringing breakfast. Twas a respite before the storm; and a welcome one. Had I known what was to be, I would have cherished it all the more.