The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  “Catherine and I have arrived at an understanding. She has agreed to let you go.”

  “She did what?” Renard frowned, then sighed as understanding broke over him. “You surrendered the gloves to her, didn’t you? You should never have done that, Ariane. Not to save my thick hide. Those gloves were your only evidence, the only chance you had to bring down the Dark Queen, to avenge the wrongs she has done to so many innocent people, including your poor Maman.”

  “You have always read my eyes too well, Renard,” Ariane said ruefully. “But obviously not well enough or you would know that my desire to undo Catherine could never mean as much to me as your life.”

  She stroked the hair back from his brow, studying an angry red cut on his forehead, her mind already racing ahead to what sort of ointment she must apply.

  Renard’s hand closed over hers. Holding it up to the light, he stared at the metal band encircling her finger.

  “You got the ring back from her.” He added in a tone of even greater wonder, “And you are wearing it.”

  “Yes,” Ariane said. “And I promise you I will never be so careless with it again.”

  His eyes searched hers. “Ariane—” he began.

  “I know.” She whispered the gentlest of kisses across his lips. “I am sure we both have much to say to each other. We must get back to the inn where Toussaint is waiting for us.”

  “Toussaint is here, too?” Renard flinched as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Of course, he would be. The king’s entire army couldn’t have kept that stubborn old fool from coming to hunt for me.”

  “My sisters are here as well and I am afraid even your redoubtable Toussaint may be having a hard time restraining Gabrielle. She is determined to search for Remy.”

  A shadow fell across Renard’s face. “Ma chère,” he began. He was unable to continue, but he didn’t need to. A painful lump lodged in Ariane’s throat as she read the dreadful truth in Renard’s eyes.

  The private room at the Half-Moon Inn provided a welcome haven in which Ariane could finally give way to her grief. Perched on the settle before the hearth, she cradled Miri in her arms, mingling their tears for the quiet captain from Navarre who had so briefly touched their lives.

  Ariane feared that Gabrielle had come to care for Remy far more than she would have admitted. And Gabrielle was just realizing that fact. Now, when it was far too late.

  But she refused to cry. Gabrielle leaned up against the wall, maintaining a stony silence as Renard quietly finished the account of Remy’s last minutes.

  “He died as bravely and honorably as he lived. And he wanted you to have this.” Renard approached Gabrielle, Remy’s sword balanced across his palms. Gabrielle stared down at the weapon, making no move to take it.

  “There was something else he wanted me to tell you, but he died before he could finish,” Renard continued. “And yet perhaps you can guess what it was he wanted to say.”

  “Yes,” Gabrielle said hoarsely. She took the sword from Renard at last, her eyes burning fiercely with unshed tears. “We—we have to go and find him.”

  Renard looked a little taken aback. “Gabrielle,” he said gently. “Perhaps you have not completely understood me. Remy is—is—”

  “I know he is dead,” she snapped. “But we can’t just leave him to rot on the banks of the Seine. We have to find him, see he is buried properly.”

  Renard cast her a compassionate glance. “I am sorry, Gabrielle. That is not possible. There are too many dead. We will likely never find him. And there is still much unease and tension out there in the streets, bad feeling against the Huguenots. It would be far too dangerous to go looking for Remy.”

  Gabrielle clenched her teeth. “I don’t care. I won’t leave him to be dumped naked in some unmarked grave. He deserves to be laid to rest with honor as . . . as a knight would be.”

  She started for the door. When Renard blocked her path, she glared up at him, furious tears streaming down her face, Remy’s sword clutched dangerously in her hand. Ariane eased Miri away from her and leaped up hastily to intervene.

  She rested her hand gently but firmly on her sister’s shoulder. “Gabrielle, I am so sorry. But we must be content to honor Remy’s memory. We have no other choice and you know he would never have wanted you to place yourself in danger by looking for him.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t, the noble idiot. So busy protecting everyone else, he never had a care for himself.” Gabrielle glowered at both Ariane and Renard. She stormed away from them. “We should have kept him locked in the cellar. It’s all my fault. I—I could have made him stay—”

  “Oh, Gabrielle,” Ariane said. “You must not blame yourself. Remy’s sense of honor was so strong, nothing would have stayed him from his duty. Not even you.”

  But she realized that Gabrielle was not even listening to her. She gestured wildly with his sword. “So now what? We are just going to go back home to Faire Isle with our tails tucked between our legs? And let that evil woman go unpunished for murdering Remy and every other terrible thing she has done?”

  “Gabrielle,” Ariane began. “We really—”

  “I know, I know!” Gabrielle interrupted bitterly. “We have no choice, but one day . . . one day . . . I swear I’ll bring her down. The Dark Queen will no longer be the most powerful witch in France.”

  Gabrielle faltered, the anger that had shored her up draining out of her. She slumped down at the table and buried her face on her arm. Miri crept over to sit beside her, looking sad and helpless. She rested her fingers timidly near Gabrielle’s arm.

  Ariane ached to go to Gabrielle and wrap her arms about her sister, but she knew from bitter experience the futility of trying to comfort Gabrielle.

  She felt Renard rest his hand upon her shoulder. “Best to leave her be, ma chère. Give her time.”

  Ariane nodded sadly and turned her attention to the wounds that she could heal. Despite Renard’s insistence that he was doing fine, she led him over to the settle and insisted that he sit down while she inspected the cut on his forehead. Ariane pursed her lips. The gash should have been stitched, but at the very least she would make sure that it was properly cleaned to avoid any risk of infection.

  Toussaint was busy seeing to the horses, readying the provisions for their journey from Paris, which could not take place too soon as far as Ariane was concerned. She placed no faith in Catherine’s ability to honor any agreement that she had made for long. As soon as the horses were readied, and Renard a little more rested, they must go.

  When she heard the tramp of approaching footsteps, Ariane straightened eagerly, expecting it to be Toussaint returning to tell them that all was ready for their departure. But the door burst open to admit the last person Ariane had ever expected to see again.

  Simon Aristide stormed into the room. The boy’s black hair tumbling about his face was as wild as the expression in his eyes.

  “S-simon.” Miri leapt up. She took a faltering step toward him, but Ariane held her back.

  Simon did not appear to notice her. His gaze locked on Renard with a hate-filled glare. “There you are! You—you black-hearted spawn from hell.”

  Renard shoved to his feet as swiftly as his battered body would allow. He positioned his broad-shouldered frame squarely in front of Simon, blocking his farther entrance into the room.

  “You’ve one devil of a nerve, showing your face again, boy,” Renard growled. “What do you want?”

  “Retribution for the death of my master. You—you murderer.”

  Despite his bruises, Renard managed to arch one eyebrow in haughty fashion. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “As if you didn’t know. Monsieur Le Vis is dead, cruelly hacked apart by your bloody sword.” Simon choked. “And—and he didn’t even have a chance to defend himself. He was not even armed.”

  Ariane moved forward to stand by Renard. “Simon, I don’t know who has been telling you such lies, but the comte has been imprisoned in the Bastille
. He was just released a few hours ago.”

  “If you want to find Le Vis’s murderer,” Gabrielle spoke up scornfully, “You would do well to consult the mistress that you both served. Very likely this is some more mischief of Catherine’s.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt she was involved,” Simon said, his voice trembling with fury. “My poor master was too bewitched to realize how evil she is. And I was too stupid to see that you have all been in league together.”

  “No, Simon, you are wrong,” Miri quavered. “The Dark Queen is our enemy too.”

  Simon ignored her, leveling an accusing finger at Renard. “I know who you are. You are the grandson of an evil witch named Melusine and she—she was the one who destroyed my village, murdered my family.”

  “That is completely ridiculous,” Renard said gruffly. “My grandmother has been dead for years.”

  “I won’t listen to any more lies. At least I will give you more of a chance than you gave my master. Draw your sword.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy,” Renard said, but Simon advanced on him, unsheathing his own weapon. “Draw! Or I will cut you down right now.”

  Renard muttered a vexed oath. Thrusting Ariane out of the way, he drew his own sword in time to parry Simon’s first blow.

  The swords met in a loud clash of steel. Miri cried out in protest, but the boy had been driven to the brink of despair by the death of the one man he had trusted.

  Ariane watched the furious battle anxiously. Ordinarily she would have had no fear for Renard, but he had been weakened by his recent ordeal. And she saw clearly that he refused to go for the swift clean blow his superior skill would have allowed. He would never cut that boy down before Miri’s very eyes. Renard was trying desperately to disarm Simon, giving the boy a decided advantage.

  He struck and lunged with a strength born of his fury, nearly breaking through Renard’s guard time and again. Ariane glanced about her, frantically seeking something she could use as a weapon to render Simon unconscious.

  Before she could act, Miri rushed forward, crying. “Simon! Please! No!”

  She managed to seize hold of his sword arm. But as she deflected his blade, Renard’s weapon broke through. There was no way he could check the blow. His sword flashed in a downward arc, slicing through Simon’s right eye and cheek.

  The boy staggered back, dropping his sword with an agonized cry. He clasped his hand to his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

  “Oh, S—simon.” Crying, Miri hovered over him. “Let me help you.”

  But he wrenched free of her. “Get away from me,” he ground out. “I thought to save you, but you—you are just like the rest of them. A—a witch.”

  He glared at Miri through his remaining good eye and her heart froze, reading that same expression she had seen too many times in creatures injured beyond repair. That dark empty look of a soul that had fled.

  “N-no,” she whispered brokenly, reaching out to him.

  Simon shrank away from all of them. Still clutching his bloodied face, he fled, disappearing through the open door.

  Miri sank to her knees, sobbing as though her heart would break. Ariane bent down to wrap her little sister in her arms, holding Miri’s shuddering frame against her.

  Renard peered gravely at them both. “Do you want me to go after the boy, chérie? Try to bring him back?”

  “No,” Ariane said sadly. “I fear it would do little good. Please Justice, just find Toussaint and then take us home.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sunlight spilled softly through the windows of Belle Haven as the summer’s day faded to twilight. But Ariane did not find the peace she had expected with her arrival home. She was, if anything, even more aware of all the responsibilities she had left behind, especially regarding her two sisters.

  Gabrielle was so withdrawn, the hard look in her eyes more pronounced. It was as though the death of Nicolas Remy had obliterated what final trace remained of the innocent girl she once had been. Miri, devastated by what had happened with Simon, seemed more dependent than ever on Ariane.

  Ariane had hoped that being tucked in her own bed with Necromancer curled at her side would afford Miri some comfort. But Miri had begged Ariane to stay with her until she fell asleep.

  She would barely let Ariane leave her side long enough to bid farewell to Renard. Ariane found him waiting for her in the great hall. The journey home had been such a long and arduous one, she had scarcely found a moment for a private word with Renard.

  When she had rushed to Paris to rescue him, she had felt that she would know exactly what to say to him if she ever had him in her arms again. Now back at Belle Haven, matters no longer seemed so simple.

  The bruises that had marred his face had largely faded. His face was shadowed by weariness more than anything else as he smiled at her. “I am glad you have come down, milady. I wanted a word with you before I return to Tremazan.”

  Ariane nodded. “But I cannot stay long. Miri is so distressed. She needs me.”

  “I know that, ma chère,” Renard said, and once again Ariane realized he was reading her all too well, the doubts that had arisen to trouble her.

  “About my proposal of marriage,” he began.

  “Oh, Renard, please,” Ariane interrupted him. “I know what you would say.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said with a rueful smile. “Ariane, I have had much time to think, while I was in prison and—and even before that when I was alone at my castle. I just wanted to tell you that I realize how wrong I have been, about the ruthless way I have pursued you from the very beginning, concealing the truth about my grandmother.”

  “Renard, I—”

  “No, please hear me out. You were right to be angry with me. It was your greatest fear, not being able to trust a man, and all I did was prove you right.”

  “I understand why you did it,” Ariane said. “It was your greatest fear, being rejected because you were the grandson of Melusine, and that is exactly what I did.”

  Renard sighed. “I cannot pretend that Lucy was an innocent woman. She did do many of the evil things she was accused of, but she paid a high price for it, and I don’t mean the terrible manner of her death. She’d already been punished by the loss of her daughter. She studied all that black magic, but never learned enough of healing to save her own child.

  “She raised me, loved me, and then I rejected her. She could have used her powers to save herself, but she didn’t. It was not the witch-hunters who condemned her to such a terrible death, Ariane. She did that herself.”

  He reached for her hand. “And as for these rings. Lucy did fashion them for a ruthless purpose, hoping that with such a charm her daughter would ensnare herself a wealthy comte. Just as I tried to trap you.

  “But my mother never misused these powerful tokens the way I did. She gave the ring to my father freely, out of love, demanding nothing in return. Only that he might send for her whenever he needed her.”

  “And that is what I should have done. This ring is yours, ma chère, even if you decide you can never marry me. I give it to you freely, unconditionally. But if you ever do want me . . . you know what to do.”

  Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it tenderly, then turned and walked away.

  Late that night, incense wafted through the hidden workroom, Ariane slipping into the now-familiar trance. Her mother’s image shimmered in the water of the copper bowl set before her.

  “Maman, I—I love him and I don’t know what to do,” Ariane faltered.

  “Oh, I believe you do, my dear.”

  “I want to be with Renard so desperately, but never have Gabrielle and Miri needed me more than since our return from Paris. I am convinced Gabrielle is planning something wild and desperate, but am not sure what, and that frightens me.

  “And Miri was so crushed by what happened with Simon, her spirit seems quite broken.”

  “The child will recover, Ariane,” Evangeline said firmly. “As for Gabrielle, she will
pursue her own path no matter how you mount guard over her. You cannot chart your sisters’ destinies forever.”

  “I know that. But—but what of Faire Isle? I am sworn to be its protector.”

  “And so you will continue to do. I never agreed with your Great-aunt Eugenie that to be the Lady of Faire Isle meant to forsake both the joy and grief of being a wife and mother. This place was supposed to be a refuge, a haven, not somewhere to hide from love and the risks of being hurt.

  “There comes a time when every woman must leave her island, my daughter. And a time to leave her mother as well. You must let me go, Ariane.”

  “I know that,” Ariane whispered. Even as she had lit the black candles tonight, she had realized that this was going to be the last time she would ever conjure her mother’s spirit. “But it is very hard, Maman. I think I will always miss you and need your love and wisdom. Your image is already fading in my mind. Papa took your portrait away with him, and I am so afraid that I am going to forget you.”

  “You won’t, my dear. You will find something hidden away in the bottom of my cupboard that may help you remember. Just look at it whenever you feel the need of me and you will find me there.”

  The water rippled, her mother’s image vanishing in the cloudy depths, and Ariane felt her eyes grow heavy. She fell into the deep sleep the potion always induced. But when she awakened, she immediately remembered her mother’s final words to her.

  Heart racing, she rushed upstairs, certain that she knew what she would find. Papa had not taken Maman’s portrait away after all. It had been buried all along in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Eagerly rummaging through the pile of her mother’s clothes, Ariane’s fingers closed around the gilt frame, trembling as she brought it out into the light. But as she turned the frame over, she sank back on her heels, stunned.

  Her eyes misted with wonder as she beheld the strength and wisdom of Evangeline Cheney peering back at her. Captured forever in her own reflection in the mirror.

  Days later, Ariane picked her way carefully through the underbrush, twigs tugging at her skirts. The open fields, the distant stone walls of the Château Tremazan were lost from view as she plunged deeper into the woods.