Romance of the Arquitaine 02 The Bandit King by Lilith Saintcrow

Author:Lilith Saintcrow
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fiction, Fiction / Fantasy - Historical, Fiction / Romance - Historical, Fiction / Fantasy - Epic, General, Romance, Fantasy, Fiction / Romance - Fantasy, Historical, Fiction / Romance - Paranormal, Epic
ISBN: 9780316187817
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2012-06-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Night, soft and prickling as the straw-yellow wine of Anjerou. Full of the rustling crispness of harvest season, a chill sparking in the blood of every creature. Sleek fat coneys gleaning the leavings, market-squares a-chaos in every town we rode through, peasants begging us for news as we passed with haggard faces and globes of witchlight spelled in relays among the men to light our way. From Tourleon to the outskirts of Orlaans we rode against the tide, but word of our passage seemed to have spread like wildfire. I did not know whom to thank for that—perhaps my father, or merely the chain of rumor written on air that tugs on every peasant ear. In any case, the refugees sought to scatter as we passed, some cursing, shaken fists, children crying in fear. Our pace quickened, though the horses were almost reduced to bone. Arran hung his head at every stop, barely flicking an ear as I muttered to him, apologizing for this treatment and yet, never ceasing to demand.

In the distance, Orlaans lit with torches and witchfire, and the faint carillon of its towers pealing to mark the watch wafted to us on the breeze. We breasted a short rise, as a bloody, not-quite-full harvest moon heaved its bloated self over the horizon, and the Field d’Or glittered below us. Torch and witchlight, smoke from the cookfires, horses neighing in greeting and our own mounts too exhausted to reply. None of them lame or stumbled, one of the hedgewitches riding double with a Guard, the twain belted together so the peasant could sleep without fear of falling.

“Halt! Who goes there?” they challenged through the moonlit dimness, and I found myself forced to use my voice.

“In the Queen’s name!” My shout, gravel from a long-abused and dust-scorched throat, surprised even me.

But what surprised me more was the answering bellow from fifty scarecrow-gaunt young noblemen, witchlights fizzing and sparking into being as they answered. “For the Queen’s honor!”

Perhaps twas enough of an answer. In any event, there was some to-ing and fro-ing. Our horses stamped, the hedgewitches waking and tending to them automatically, several of the Guard dismounting to save their mounts’ strength. Hands rested on rapiers, and there was precious little talk. We were too tired, too nerve-strung. And too conscious of the crossbows leveled at us, not to mention the size of the breathing animal that an army becomes while it sleeps.

“Dear gods.” A familiar voice, shaking me from my torpor as I forced myself to perch, spine straight and knees tight, on Arran’s bony back. “As I live and breathe, Tristan!”

It was Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, in the familiar crimson-sashed uniform of a Guard—black doublet, white shirt underneath, black breeches, boots that had seen hard use and fresh polish. I finally dismounted, and he approached at the head of a dragoon of hard-faced lowlanders, their pikes held high and their mustaches waxed—though none so fine as Adersahl’s.

He was freshly shaven, except for said mustache, and looked as fit as hard drilling can make a man.

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