Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

“Sybella,” he whispers against my mouth.

  “Here.” I pull my lips from his and slide along the wall to a door. My hand fumbles a moment, then opens it.

  Beast blinks at the room behind us, his brows raised.

  “It is no accident that I waited for you here against the wall of the tack room.” I take his hand, pull him inside, and close the door behind us.

  * * *

  Later, as we rest upon a pile of saddle blankets, I run my fingers along his chest, tracing every scar, every muscle, every rib, as if they hold the key to this man and his generous heart. “So tell me. What happened? Why were you gone so long?”

  He settles his head more comfortably on the saddle he is using as a pillow. “There was a swarm of Rohan’s men just outside the city. It was impossible to find Pierre, at first. It wasn’t until he left his dead retainer where he fell that I was able to see where he’d been. But he had a fair head start. By the number of hoof marks in the ground, he had nearly a dozen men waiting for him.”

  I prop my head up on my elbow. “And you went after them—​alone?”

  “Of course not. I had help.”

  “Who?”

  He grins. “The charbonnerie camp was not too far from there, so I collected six of Graelon’s men, and we settled in to follow.”

  “Why not just return once they were free of the city?”

  “I wanted to track them long enough to be sure they would not simply lie in wait, ready to attack us again when we leave for France.”

  I tap him lightly on the chest. “Smart man. Where did they go?”

  “South, beyond Nantes. They demanded hospitality from the local lords on the first and second nights. When they got past Nantes, I thought we’d finally be able to move against them, but they reached their own holding and were joined by a battalion of men before picking up the road to Gascony the next morning. That is when I decided they would not be doubling back.” He captures my hand in his, holding it still. “I am sorry he got away.”

  “Do not apologize. Even you cannot take on an entire battalion of men.”

  He lifts my hand and kisses it. “For you I would take on the entire world.”

  And he would. I can see it so clearly in my mind—​with a battalion full upon him, wading his way through them like a farmer scything wheat. I shiver.

  “But,” he continues, “I am not that foolish.” He sighs. “It was easier. Before I met you. Before I knew Louise. It is harder now to find my courage.”

  “That is called wisdom, and well that you should acquire some.” I am silent a moment as the weight of the confrontation with Pierre presses down on me once more. “I should have killed him.”

  Beast studies me for a long moment. “Did he bear a marque?”

  “No. But neither did the guards involved in Crunard’s escape attempt. It appears that marques are no more.”

  Hearing the despair in my voice, he leans down to kiss the crown of my head.

  An old familiar wave of shame washes over me. Unable to meet his eyes, I look down and pluck at one of his chest hairs. “I wanted to kill him,” I whisper. “I wanted to with all my heart, marque or no. The only thing stopping me was Charlotte and Louise.” I look up at him. “It was one thing to have those impulses when Mortain was guiding my hand, but that is no longer the case. Surely being so quick to kill makes me just like Pierre.”

  He tightens both arms around me, as if trying to squeeze such thoughts from my head. “No.” The word is quick and certain. “You were sired by Mortain, not d’Albret.”

  “I have done horrible things and caused untold damage long before I came to serve Mortain. I hold darkness inside me like an acorn holds a seed.”

  “You are wrong,” he whispers against my hair.

  I am quiet for a moment, unable to accept the comfort he offers. “At the convent, we used to soak apricots in poisoned honey, for the sweetness disguised the poison. And while the fruit itself is not toxic, a lifetime spent soaking in the poison made it so.” I pull away from him so I may see his face. “What if I am that apricot? No matter that I was born of Mortain, if I have spent my whole life steeped in the d’Albret poison, how can it not have tainted me?”

  Beast brings his hands up to cradle my face, his eyes fierce with certainty. “You are not an apricot. You are a blade that has been brutally forged, painfully hammered, and wickedly honed. You are steel, not poison. You are deadly, not depraved. They are very different things, Sybella.”

  His words soothe something in my heart. I want so desperately to believe him. At the very least, no matter how far I fear I have gone, how beyond salvation I have ventured, he will always accompany me on that road.

   Chapter 24

  n the morning of our departure for France, Ismae and I wait for the duchess near her chamber door, the silence between us thick with all the last-minute things we wish to say, the farewell we have no choice but to make. Instead, Ismae shoots a disgruntled glare at Tola and Aeva, who wait farther away from the door, just beyond hearing. “I do not see why the Arduinnites get to go when I must stay here.”

  Her grousing nearly causes me to smile. “It is their magic that brought this miracle into being. When their leader offered their services, the duchess thought it impolitic to refuse. Besides, with Rohan’s arrival, I am guessing you will have more intrigue and scheming than you had planned for.”

  Her face brightens, but before she can respond, the duchess appears at our side, resplendent in a black satin traveling gown complete with a fur-lined cloak.

  “Your Grace.” We both sink into deep curtsies.

  Her face is pale, her head held high. “If you will come with me,” she murmurs, “I have one stop I must make before we depart.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  It is but a short walk to the cathedral. At the wide ornate doors, the duchess pauses. “I must say goodbye to Isabeau.” Her voice falters only slightly.

  Duval emerges from inside the vestibule where he has been waiting. She turns gratefully to him. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  He takes her hand in his and gives it a bracing squeeze.

  “Wait here, if you please,” she tells us. Duval looks once at Ismae, his gray eyes the exact same color as the walls of the mausoleum. It is easy to forget that Isabeau was his sister as well. Indeed, it is easy to forget that they were all a close-knit family rather than a political dynasty. Duval has served his sister since she was born, making it his duty to see to her safety and well-being. And now they will be parted. Duval can likely count on two hands the number of times he will see her again. If that.

  I do not mean to listen, but the cathedral is as quiet as a grave, and its high open ceilings allow sound to echo freely. “You will see that candles are lit for her daily?” the duchess asks.

  “I will.”

  “I knew when I married—​whoever it would be—​I would have to leave Isabeau behind.” Her voice breaks. “But I did not want it to be like this.”

  Duval reaches out and pulls her into his arms. “There is naught you could have done. She was always plagued with ill health.”

  “While that is true, I always wonder how much the constant worry of war and a lifetime of intrigues hastened her death.”

  “You protected her from it as much as you could.”

  “As you protected me. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done, Gavriel. I would have given up a hundred times if not for you and your determination—”

  “Hush. It will not change now. I will simply do it from afar.”

  Her composure crumbles, and she allows herself to lean against his chest. “I do not know if I can live in the midst of those who have been our enemy for so long.”

  His arms tighten around her. “Ah, but I know that you can. If not for you, we would be a conquered people with a new overlord. You found a way to win the king’s heart. You wrested victory from defeat. It is your child who will inherit the French crown. The woman who did that will easily me
et whatever the French court may throw her way.”

  She pulls away, wiping at her eyes. “If I was strong, it was because you were the iron at my back. So have a care for yourself. Do not plot too hard. Do not let Rohan unsettle you too much. I will speak to the king immediately and see that he is removed and returns to his lands in France.”

  The smile Duval gives her is bright, but even through the dim light of the cathedral I can see the faint melancholy that tugs at its corners. “All will be well,” he assures her.

  The sound of a distant trumpet drifts in through the cathedral’s door. “Now,” he says more briskly, “the traveling party is assembled, the baggage train is loaded. All they are waiting for is you.”

  She nods, straightening her shoulders. In that gesture the young girl who will sorely miss her older brother disappears and the young queen-to-be takes her place. When Duval escorts her back to us, Ismae stares at him a brief moment, realizing for the first time, I think, just how much this goodbye is costing him and why the duchess wished her to stay.

  * * *

  Our departure requires speed as well as some discretion. Not only is the marriage arrangement most irregular, but the bishops involved have not, in fact, effected a miracle and produced the required dispensation by the pope.

  Even so, our traveling party has all the subtlety of a mummer’s parade. Part of it is inevitable. It is impossible to hide fourscore knights, three litters, and a baggage train the size of a small village. Add to that a collection of travelers who are adorned in their grandest finery—​surcoats in gay colors, ornate hats that flutter in the breeze. They remind me of a flock of self-important pheasants, plumage bobbing as they chatter excitedly.

  At the duchess’s appearance, a small cheer goes up from the crowd. She receives their jubilant adoration with a gracious smile as Duval escorts her to Chancellor Montauban, with whom she is to ride pillion.

  Ismae walks beside me as I make my way to my own horse. I do not relish saying goodbye. The farewell we just witnessed has nearly ripped off the chains that keep my own feelings tightly contained, and I fear they will spill out into the courtyard in a jumbled mess.

  Ismae sighs. “For all that you are sharp-tongued and ill-mannered, I shall miss you. And if I thought you would not slap me, I would hug you goodbye.”

  “Since I am the bossy one, it is I who should hug you,” I point out, then wrap my arms around her and pull her close, savoring the feel of her, her strength, her stubbornness, and her unwavering loyalty. “I shall miss you, dearest sister,” I say, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Before she can so much as squeak in surprise, I let go, grab the pommel of my saddle, and mount my horse, not caring how unladylike it might look.

  The horse prances a bit, eager to be on its way, and Ismae twitches my skirts into place. “Have you decided how you will look for the convent’s other initiates?” she asks.

  I busy myself testing the length of my stirrups. “Not yet. The red-haired one will be easiest to locate. I will search for her first.”

  “If all else fails, you can simply hand every woman at court a crow feather and see how she reacts,” she suggests.

  “It may well come to that,” I mutter. The trumpet blares again, crisp and loud in the chill air. We are out of time.

  A hush falls over the crowd as a priest of Saint Cissonius comes forward. He grasps a large wooden staff with both hands, bows his head, and prays. When he is finished, he reaches into the pouch at his waist and casts a handful of salt upon the ground.

  It is not until the salt touches the earth that it hits me—​I am truly leaving. A sense of loss and mayhap even panic ripples through me. Brittany has been the seat of all my darkest memories and vilest hours, and to leave that behind is no loss.

  But, I realize, looking up at the rooftops of the townhouses and the church tower, I was safe here in Rennes—​at least for a time. I was also welcome in this city. Indeed, it was one of the most welcoming places I have ever lived, second only to the convent. I was respected here, admired even. Everything good about myself—​my friendships, my faith, my belief that I was someone with something to offer—​is tied up in this place. And now I am leaving.

  It has been hard enough to cling to faith here in Brittany, one of the last places the gods once walked the earth. One of the last places where lives have been touched by those gods—​although I must remember more than ever to call them saints. How much harder will it be to keep faith alive in a land that has been stripped bare of their wonder and mercy and gifts? How will my faith not crumble like week-old bread?

  At the head of the party, Beast raises his gloved hand, then motions us forward. We are on our way.

  I do not look back.

   Chapter 25

  Genevieve

  move numbly through the days, ignoring the sad, drawn faces and the quiet tears of the other women. My own grief is like a moat between us, only instead of being filled with water, it is filled with thorns and nettles and spikes.

  It is unbreachable.

  I also avoid the entire fourth floor of the palace, having no wish to encounter Margot’s enraged soul as it lingers.

  Count Angoulême sends for me twice, but I ignore the summonses, keeping mostly to my rooms, sneaking out only to exercise my body in the dark of the dungeons.

  I do not visit the prisoner. He has seen me in my darkest hour, my guts spilled out onto the dungeon floor, more fully exposed than if I had paraded naked before a host of leering men. That he was deeply kind makes it all worse somehow. I did not ask him for such kindness and do not wish to be beholden to him because of it.

  * * *

  It is hunger that finally drives me from my room. When I am certain that dinner is over and most of the kitchen staff have retired for the night, I go in search of food.

  That is where Angoulême’s steward finds me, pilfering cheese and bread from the larder. “My lady?”

  I whirl around, stuffing the food into my pockets. “Master Gelais. You startled me.”

  “I am sorry, my lady. That was not my intent. Count Angoulême requests your presence in his office.”

  “I am not up to seeing him just now. Please send my sincere regrets.”

  The steward shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “I am afraid refusing is not an option, demoiselle.” His eyes are full of resolve, and for one ridiculous moment, I wonder if he will throw me over his shoulder and drag me to the count. I welcome the rush of anger that thought brings. But he is only the messenger. I will save my wrath for Angoulême.

  When we reach the count’s chamber, the steward opens the door, ushers me in, then closes it behind me.

  Angoulême’s study is in disarray. A travel pouch is open and filled with dispatches. Large maps lie on his desk, held in place with weights at each of the corners.

  I curtsy. “My lord.” My voice is colder than the winter sky. Surely he knows I hold him responsible for Margot’s death. He cannot think to seek comfort with me, or worse, try to offer me such comfort. My grief is still raw and fresh and deeply colored by my anger at him. I square my shoulders. Let the count try to comfort me. I welcome the chance to cross swords with him and point out just how much this death falls on his shoulders.

  He pushes the map aside and gives me his full attention. “Why have you refused my summonses?”

  I stare at the floor in front of me. “Because I was mourning my sister, my lord.”

  “You’re not the only one who grieves.”

  My head snaps up, angry words gathering on my tongue.

  “She asked for you, you know,” he continues. My heart—​my heart does not know whether to leap for joy or dissolve in a fresh wave of sorrow. Why had no one told me? Fetched me to her side? “And yet you did not come.”

  I force my voice to steadiness. “What did you wish to speak to me about that had your steward threatening to drag me here?”

  His lips flatten into a thin white line, and for a brief moment, I do not know what he
will do. “I have been summoned to Langeais to attend the wedding of King Charles and Anne of Brittany. I must leave tomorrow and will be gone through Christmas.”

  My mind can scarce make sense of his words. How can the world continue as if nothing has happened?

  “I should have left two days ago,” he continues. “But I could not. Not with all that has happened.”

  I am filled with outrage that he thinks to dance at the king’s wedding while his young mistress lies cold in a grave merely days old. “The abbess of Saint Mortain should be there. She often attends affairs of state. Will you tell her how Margot died?”

  He looks away, reaching for the dispatches. “There has been a message from her.”

  “When? What does she say?”

  He pulls a letter from his travel pouch, and my heart skitters nervously in my chest. Though I have waited for this very thing for five years, I am suddenly unsure I want to see it. “Under orders of the king and the Church . . .” Although he reads softly, his voice feels thunderous in the thickly charged air. “The convent of Saint Mortain has been ordered to disband.”

  The words crash into me, knocking me off my feet and shoving me into deep water where I cannot regain my footing. “I do not believe you.” My voice sounds breathless. Desperate. “What reason would the duchess have to do such a thing?”

  “I do not believe it was the duchess who was behind this decision. My guess is that the king’s bishops used the opportunity to cluck in his ear about the old-world beliefs still practiced in Brittany and he acceded to their wishes in the matter.”

  My chest feels so tight I can scarce get the next words out. “What of the other Nine? Are their convents and abbeys to be disbanded as well?”

  “I do not know, as I am not involved in those. And the king does not know I am involved in this one either,” he adds pointedly. “The letter from the abbess explains it all.”

  The impact of the news works its way into my limbs, and I begin to tremble. “But how am I to serve the convent?”