The Hedgewitch Queen Read Free

violence but none of its quiet, as if he reminded himself who I was. And yet, there was something—an accent, perhaps, or simply the way his lips shaped the words—that seemed highly improper.
    Heat rose up my neck, stained my cheeks. I dropped the wet rag. It made a small sound as it hit the floor.
    “You—you—,” I stammered. “You k-k-k—”
    “Not I. The spell was laid on him by another.” His blue eyes burned in a sharp face. I had never before noticed how much he looked like one would expect a d’Arcenne to. They are mountainfolk and have the faces to prove it, sharp and handsome. “Are you part of it, then, hedgewitch? Are you? ”
    My fingers curled around the corner, the sharp stone and the dusty tapestry. I smelled crushed green things from the garden, my own sweat, dust in the air, and a different horrible odor of violent death, the killspell’s reek vanishing as the spell faded.
    He moved toward me in a quick light shuffle, a swordsman’s move. I stayed where I was, staring woodenly at the Minister Primus.
    The corpse who had been the Minister Primus.
    “ Are you?” D’Arcenne almost spat the words.
    I tore my gaze away from the body and up to his blue eyes. He examined me for a moment. Slowly straightened, and sheathed his sword. “No, I do not think you are,” he continued meditatively. “Unfortunate timing, tis all. Duchesse—”
    That was all I heard, for I turned and bolted back the way I had come.
     
    * * *
     
    I gave him a good chase. I streaked down the stairs and passed through the kitchen like a shadow—a wild-eyed shadow in a mud-splattered green velvet dress, glittering ear-drops, and half-unbound hair. I doubt any of the kitchen staff even saw me, but perhaps they saw Tristan d’Arcenne, who was almost on my heels.
    I was already tiring by the time I reached the rose garden, and the cloying of blooms remained for a long while after a smell of terror to me. I had a stitch in my side and flagging feet by the time I pounded up a crushed-shell walk, bursting past Baronesses di Clency and di Amoranet as they ended their early-afternoon promenade. I suppose I must have scandalized them dreadfully, as I am sure I looked frightful, but I never saw them again.
    I knew the King would be taking chai in the Rose Room, and that room had a tall, broad casement that looked out on the garden. I skidded to a stop. The window was open—I wrenched at it, hearing the bootclatter of my pursuer right behind me. I ducked into the Rose Room, toppling another small table—this one thankfully did not break—and threw myself to my knees before the surprised King and two of the Guard, who had their blades half drawn.
    “M-m-majesty—” I could not make my tongue work. “Tristan d’Arcenne—murder—the Minister—Majesty—Your Majesty, please —”
    The King was a tall, graying Arquitaine noble with the stamp of the Tirecian-Trimestin family on him, dark eyes and a hawk nose. That day he wore blue velvet, and rings on every finger, his long, graying hair coiffed elaborately in ringlets. He glanced up from his chai-table, laid with dainties and a piping-hot sam’var, and waved a hand at the two Guards. “Wait outside the door, if you please,” he said mildly.
    The Guards paused for only a moment before obeying, closing the door behind them.
    “M-m-majesty—,” I stammered again. My knees throbbed, bruised from the floor. Why would my tongue not work? I was quick enough most times; I can only surmise the shock had temporarily unseated my words.
    He looked down at me. “Well, Tristan.”
    I cast one terrified glance over my shoulder to see Tristan d’Arcenne step inside the casement and half-turn to shut it with a gentle snick . The uniform of the Guard—black doublet and white shirt, red sash and breeches—suited him very well. He turned back, folded his arms over his chest, and regarded both the King and me with his blue d’Arcenne eyes.
    He would have looked entertained, had his jaw