“Give me my other glove, Ariane or I am warning you . . .”
Ariane’s heart hammered in her breast, but she refused to back down. “No, I am warning you, Catherine. I mean to revive the council of the daughters of the earth, the guardians against such misuse of the old ways as you have done.”
“The council,” Catherine scoffed. “I’ll set witch-hunters after the lot of you.”
“Go ahead, but there will be far too many of us. Even you cannot fight us all. Think of it, Catherine. A silent army of wise women. Do you really want to be constantly looking over your shoulder, anticipating the arrival of another Louise Lavalle to expose your secrets to the world? One more clever, one whose eyes you can’t read next time.”
“The witch hasn’t been born whose eyes I can’t read,” Catherine snarled. “Do you know how easily I could strip you of all your secrets?”
Catherine roughly seized hold of Ariane’s chin, compelling her to gaze straight into those cold, dark eyes. Ariane wanted to jerk away, but she forced herself to meet the Dark Queen’s challenge, mentally erecting a wall to guard her thoughts.
Never had she been subjected to such a piercing stare, such a clash of will. Sweat beaded on Ariane’s brow as she fought to beat back Catherine’s relentless probing. She stared fiercely back, unblinking, feeling as though they were locked in mortal combat, steel pressed to steel, neither willing to yield.
The veins in Ariane’s head throbbed and she did not know how much more of this intense pressure she could bear. Miraculously she felt Catherine begin to waver.
Her defenses crumbled and Ariane suddenly saw the pathetic woman who lurked in the heart of the Dark Queen. The one who’d craved love and been denied, who’d filled up her emptiness with the lust for power. Who trusted no one, who believed in nothing. Whose greatest fear was being brought down by her enemies. Dying reviled and alone. Who was slowly being consumed by her own darkness.
Ariane understood now why her mother had pitied Catherine, although she was unable to do so herself. The destruction that Catherine had wrought was too great. But Ariane knew she would never fear the Dark Queen in quite the same way again. Catherine shuddered. She abruptly released Ariane. Her hand trembled as she used it to shield her eyes as she stalked back to the desk and retrieved the warrant.
“Very well,” she muttered. “I agree to your terms. Just make certain I have that second glove back before sunset or I’ll send my soldiers hard after you. You’ll never set foot on the shore of your beloved Faire Isle again.”
Catherine thrust the order for Renard’s release in her direction. Ariane’s fingers quivered as she took hold of it. Her urge to flee the palace was strong, to effect Renard’s release and get him and her sisters out of Paris before Catherine changed her mind.
But she had just won a significant victory over the Dark Queen. It would be cowardly to retreat now.
“There is one more thing. I need to know the fate of—of Nicolas Remy.”
“The Scourge? Dead no doubt. I certainly hope so.”
But Catherine did not sound entirely sure. Ariane felt a flicker of hope. She continued boldly, “And what about Remy’s young king, Henry of Navarre? I understand you have him imprisoned here in his apartments. I would like him to be released as well.”
Catherine’s lips thinned. “You overreach yourself, my girl. You can have your wretched Renard, but not the king.”
“You intend to execute your own son-in-law?”
“No, that will no longer be necessary. Without his advisors, Henry is nothing, not nearly as clever and formidable as his late mother was. He is a very malleable young man and will easily renounce his heretic beliefs. Nonetheless, I prefer to keep him under my watchful eye.”
Ariane frowned, but saw that Catherine would never yield on this point. She had achieved as much with the woman as she dared. She dipped into a stiff curtsy, backing toward the door when a thought occurred to Ariane. She could not believe she had almost forgotten.
“There is something else . . .”
“What now?” Catherine asked impatiently.
“My ring. I want it back.”
Catherine pursed her lips, then vented a weary sigh. “Why not? I no longer have a use for it and the blasted thing never fit me all that well.”
Rustling over to her desk, she unlocked one of the drawers and produced the ring. She slapped it down on the corner of the desk, but when Ariane went to retrieve it, Catherine’s hand shot out, covering hers.
She forced her lips into the semblance of a smile. “Come now, my dear. There is no reason that you and I should part in this cold fashion. The Queen Mother of France and the Lady of Faire Isle should not be such bitter enemies. Your mother and I were once the best of friends.”
Closing her fingers over the ring, Ariane wrenched away from Catherine. “I am fully aware of how much your friendship cost my mother, so I leave you with one final thought, Your Grace. If you ever seek to harm anyone under my protection or those whom I love, you will discover exactly how much of a witch I can be.”
Head held high, Ariane exited with quiet dignity, never looking back.
Long after the door had closed behind Ariane, Catherine stood with her hands braced upon the desk, deeply unnerved by her encounter with the young woman. No one had ever been able to shatter Catherine’s defenses that way, to read all the fears and vulnerabilities Catherine sought to hide. No one except perhaps Evangeline.
But even more painful to Catherine was what she had glimpsed in Ariane’s face. Ariane’s eyes were like some mystical mirror, reflecting to Catherine a haunting image of the wise woman she might have been if her life had taken a different path, if she had made different choices.
Trembling, Catherine forced herself to straighten. Ariane had a vein of steel in her that not even her mother had possessed. Catherine wondered if she was being a fool to let the girl leave here alive. But loath as she was to admit it, she had been shaken by some of Ariane’s threats. Catherine certainly had enough other enemies to fight without having a union of daughters of the earth to deal with as well.
The girl was more powerful and clever than Catherine had supposed. How had Ariane known about her secret council meeting? About the miasma? Could she have already planted another spy of whom Catherine was ignorant?
She decided she had best proceed with caution. Catherine had time enough later to decide what might need to be done about Ariane. Very likely she was getting into a fret over nothing.
Ariane would return her glove as promised, then retreat to her island. Likely that would be an end of all commerce between them. Catherine was tired of the whole affair and she still had one more loose end that wanted trimming.
That wretch Le Vis had been demanding to see Catherine since daybreak, no doubt expecting her to redeem her promises.
Moments later Le Vis was ushered into her presence. The bloodbath in Paris seemed to have put him over the edge of excitement. His eyes glinted with an insane joy. Attired in his bloodred robes, he reminded Catherine of a cardinal from hell, but she concealed her loathing and contempt, inviting the man to be seated, offering him a cup of wine.
Le Vis accepted eagerly, raising his cup in a toast to what he acclaimed as the victory of the one true faith.
“The streets of Paris are paved with the blood of the heretics,” he gloated. “Such a pleasing sight for the eyes of God.”
“Yes,” Catherine said dryly. “I am sure the angels of heaven must be weeping tears of joy.”
Le Vis did not appear to notice the irony in her voice. Catherine watched with narrowed eyes as he greedily quaffed his wine.
He continued to enthuse. “This great victory paves the way for our greater work, Your Majesty. The destruction of all the witches in France. When shall we commence the trial of the demon Renard and his sorceress, the Cheney woman?”
“Never,” Catherine replied softly.
“What?” Le Vis set down his cup to frown at her.
“I h
ave released the comte,” Catherine informed him coolly. “He and Ariane Cheney will shortly be leaving Paris.”
The blood rushed to Le Vis’s face. “But—what of our glorious plan? Our campaign to rid France of every last witch.”
“I am afraid that was never of much interest to me.”
Le Vis uttered a choked sound, but it was less of protest than distress. He clutched his throat and gasped for air. He tried to stagger to his feet, only to collapse, tipping over his wine cup in the process.
Catherine came round the desk to stand over him, dispassionately watching as Le Vis writhed in his throes of agony. His eyes bulged, staring up at her in terror and confusion.
Catherine leaned over him, murmuring, “You see, Monsieur Le Vis, I may have forgotten to mention it, but I am a bit of a witch myself.”
She was amused to see the horrified realization flicker across his face only moments before he gave his last pain-filled gasp and was still. His sightless eyes stared up at her, spittle trickling from his gaping mouth.
With a shudder of distaste, Catherine moved away from him. Fetching the cup that had fallen, she placed it back on the desk. One of her simpler poisons, really, crude but most effective, acting quickly. It would have been quite a waste to have employed anything subtler on a witch-hunter.
Stepping to the door of her apartment, Catherine dispatched one of the pages to fetch Bartolomy Verducci. The thin gray-haired man responded quickly, all too eager to ingratiate himself with Catherine after his recent failures with Captain Remy and the missing gloves.
He bowed and scraped, asking breathlessly, “What service can I perform for Your Grace?”
“There is a dead witch-hunter in my antechamber. Remove him,” Catherine replied tonelessly.
Bartolomy’s eyes nearly popped from his head, but he sought to recover from his shock. “Y-yes, Your Grace.”
“And be discreet about it,” Catherine commanded. “Slip Monsieur Le Vis in with the other bodies being removed for burial. One more will hardly be noticed and in any case I doubt Le Vis will be mourned or even missed. His entire order of fellow witch-hunters has been destroyed, all except for that boy.”
The boy . . .
As Bartolomy moved to obey, a mischievous thought suddenly struck Catherine. Until she knew the full extent of Ariane’s power, she was wary of attacking her outright. But there were indirect methods she could use.
“On second thought, Bartolomy,” she said. “Run Le Vis through a couple of times with your sword and return the body to Master Simon Aristide. Tell him that his master was destroyed by the Comte de Renard and Ariane Cheney. Follow Ariane after she obtains the comte’s release from the Bastille and make sure young Aristide knows where to find them.
“Tell him . . .” Catherine smiled. “That Renard is the grandson of Melusine and that she is the witch who likely destroyed his village.”
Although Bartolomy blinked in confusion at these instructions, he hastened away to carry out her commands.
Would the boy believe such a tale? Catherine wondered. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. If he did, and decided to seek revenge on Ariane and her comte, at least Catherine might end up rid of one of her enemies, however the affair played out.
In any event, she had accomplished all that she could. The past few days had been quite eventful and Catherine was quite fatigued. The Dark Queen gave a wearied yawn and went to seek out her bed.
Renard shifted painfully on the camp bed, one eye partly swollen, the other bleary from a sleepless night. Sunlight filtered through the high window of his tower room. The sound of the sentry ringing the bell to announce the quarter hour carried even through the thick walls. Renard stuffed the feather pillow over his head until it stopped, the peal calling up too many grim memories of a few nights ago.
His head still throbbed from the whack of the cudgel that had rendered him unconscious. Luckily, his skull was too thick to have been split open. His ribs had not fared as well. He was certain that quite a few of them were cracked from the blows and kicks he’d taken. His entire body was one mass of bruises and he feared he might have broken his nose. Again.
But he was better off than Nicolas Remy. At least he was still alive. He couldn’t even complain about the conditions of his imprisonment. His tower room was spacious enough, well-aired and reasonably clean. He’d been provided with hot water for bathing, decent food, and wine. The governor had called for a doctor to see to Renard’s injuries, but Renard had taken one look at the jar of leeches clutched in the man’s hand and sent him packing.
He was even allowed to receive visitors, although he’d had only one. That miscreant Le Vis had shown up early this morning to gloat. It had been from him that Renard had learned how the Dark Queen had acquired his ring and also why Renard was being kept alive.
He was the bait to entice Ariane to come to Paris. Renard only hoped she’d be wiser than he had been. They had parted on such bitter terms. Perhaps she wouldn’t come rushing to try to save him.
But even as he considered that possibility, Renard realized it was a slim hope. He knew Ariane’s sense of responsibility too well. She’d be blaming herself for the loss of the ring. Even if she now regarded him as her worst enemy, she’d try to come to his rescue and charge straight into the clutches of the Dark Queen.
The thought was enough to drive him mad. He had no way of getting word to anyone on the outside. Nor had he come up with a plan for escape. When offered the chance of exercise yesterday, he’d dragged himself out of bed to walk along the Bastille parapets. But he’d been closely watched and in the fading daylight, he had been unable to gain any real sense of the fortress’s layout.
Nor was he in any condition yet to try to overpower his guards. All he could do was lie here like a damned useless lump, try to rest, try to heal. He forced his eyes closed and finally managed to drift off for a while, only to be roused by the chink of the key in the lock.
The massive door creaked open. Baroit, his chief warder, entered, a fellow with a long face and thick gray mustache. He was a respectful enough man for a jailer, extremely mindful of Renard’s rank.
“Monsieur le Comte,” he said with a bow. “You have a visitor—”
Renard swore and flung one arm across his eyes. “If it is Le Vis again, tell him to go to hell. I don’t care how many of you try to protect him. If he sets one damned foot in here, I swear I’ll stuff his bloody arse through that window—”
“Monsieur!” Baroit exclaimed in shocked accents. “Please watch what you say, my lord. Your visitor is a lady.”
Renard lowered his arm. A lady? No, the woman he glimpsed hovering behind Baroit was a golden vision, too lovely to be real, like those serene figures of ladies woven into tapestries, taming unicorns or offering knights tokens of their favor.
Except that this particular lady did not look all that serene. Her eyes were filled with consternation, her soft mouth a-tremble. Any joy Renard might have felt at seeing her was lost beneath a crushing wave of defeat and despair.
“God’s teeth, Ariane,” he grated. “What are you doing here?”
“This is hardly the welcome I’d hoped for,” Ariane tried to tease, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Renard’s ravaged face and she could tell by the stiff way he moved that that was not the full extent of his injuries.
Gritting his teeth, he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. As the guard slipped quietly from the room, Ariane rushed over to Renard and sank down beside him.
As a healer, she’d always prided herself on her ability to remain calm and detached. But she could not refrain from crying out, “Oh, Justice. What have they done to you?”
Renard made a grim effort to smile. “Nothing compared to what I did to them. Trying to disarm a man with a sword and take him alive puts you at a certain disadvantage. I was doing well enough until some sneaking bastard crept up on me from behind with a very large club.”
Ariane r
an her fingers through his hair, anxiously probing. Renard hissed when she found a large lump, but at least she felt no break in the skin. The injuries to his face appeared by far the worst, his lip split, one eye swollen, dark ugly bruises blossoming across his cheekbones. Ariane touched his cheek lightly. When he winced, her eyes filled with tears.
“Ah, don’t cry, ma chère,” Renard protested. “My face never was all that pretty, you know.”
“I—I thought it was,” she sniffed.
“Mon Dieu.” He started to laugh, then stopped with a sharp indrawn breath. “The Dark Queen must have put one devil of a spell on you.”
“No, it was you who did that.”
Despite his hellish bruises, something in his gaze softened. Renard stole his arm about her waist only to stop with a low groan.
“Damnation, you should not have come here, Ariane. Why did you ever allow that evil woman to lure you to Paris?”
“Why did you?” she retorted.
“Because I am a great fool who would go anywhere, take any risk if I thought you were in danger.”
“Then the same answer must suffice for me.” She swallowed hard and then faltered, “Oh, Justice . . . about that last night on Faire Isle. The way we parted. Some of the terrible things I said to you. I am so sorry—”
“Hush, ma chère.” He drifted his fingers lightly across her lips to silence her. “I said a good many things I regret myself. But none of that is important right now.”
Ariane mopped her eyes. “You are right. The main thing is to get you out of here.”
“I fear you will have a hard time doing that unless you have smuggled a rope ladder and pistol under that lovely golden gown.”
Ariane managed to smile. “I have done something even better. I have given the governor the order for your release. I daresay he is even now instructing the guards to retrieve your sword and any other possessions they confiscated from you.”
Renard realized his cell door had been left open. He regarded Ariane with confusion. “What—what is this, chérie?”
The Dark Queen Page 47
