Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  “In the servant’s chapel.”

  “And the priest?”

  “I told him I wished to be alone with the body. He did not see fit to argue.”

  “Wise man.”

  We stare at each other a long moment, and then he takes a step back, his hands coming up to scrub at his face. “Saints teeth, Sybella! You scared ten years off my life back there.” Even though he has not raised his voice, the force of his words feels like a small windstorm.

  “And you scared nearly twenty off of mine, riding with a handful of men into a force nearly five times your numbers.”

  His hands snake out and grab my head, pulling me close for an urgent kiss—​a kiss filled with his fear and the terror he felt on my behalf. The kiss softens, allowing us both to take comfort from it. Slowly, he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine. “Your fighting is a wonder to behold. A thing of terrible beauty. No one can see that and doubt you are an instrument of the gods.” His pale blue eyes are alive with intensity.

  “It is the same with you,” I whisper. “You become lit from within by some invisible light so that every movement, every stroke is full of grace.”

  He draws me into his arms and holds me fiercely. “Some would call it brutality,” he murmurs.

  “And they would be fools.”

  Because I wish to stay like this forever, I force my head from his shoulder. “The duchess asked me to examine Captain Dunois to look for answers.”

  With a brusque nod, he lets me go. “I assumed you would. I’ll stand guard while you do.”

  I turn to the body. For that is how I must think of it—​the body. Not Captain Dunois, the man whose gruff courage and strategic skill had brought us through so much. Not as the man who had been far more father to Beast than his own. Not as the man who was one of the first to believe me, respect me, and value both my ideas and the sum of who I am.

  A howl of deep, piercing grief threatens to escape, but I ruthlessly shove it back down, afraid the force of it will shatter me. There is no time for grieving. I must be every bit the daughter of Mortain, a ruthless student of death, in order to find out what has happened and who has taken this man from our midst too soon.

  As if sensing how hard this will be for me, Dunois’s soul lies hidden and dormant. Or mayhap he is embarrassed by the examination his body must endure. Begging his soul’s forgiveness, I remove each item of his clothing, one by one, sniffing them carefully for any traces of poison. Even though he is over fifty, he is still thick with muscle, his body well seasoned with scars from his many battles. It takes over an hour to search among his old, healed wounds for signs of any new ones, but there are no scratches or punctures or any manner in which poison might have been introduced.

  “Nothing.” My voice is harsh in the thick silence of the chapel. “There are no new wounds. And while some poisons mimic the sort of fit he had, they are not something that can simply be breathed in. They have to have been administered somehow.”

  “Is it possible he simply died of apoplexy?” Beast’s voice is little more than a low grumble. In anyone else I would think it out of respect for both the dead and the church we occupy, but I suspect that for him he is afraid if he speaks too loudly, his voice will betray his emotions.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  He shrugs. “If he was not struck or shot by an arrow and there are no signs of poison, it is all that is left.”

  I consider the possibility. “He has been working round the clock of late, and barely stopped to sleep or eat. Nor is he a young man.” I feel a chill against my ribs, as if some ghostly finger has poked me for calling him old. “But the timing of his death with the ambush is too convenient.”

  Beast rubs his face. “I agree.”

  “It cannot be a coincidence that just as we arrive in France, ready to take up residence in a court we know nearly nothing about, our most knowledgeable advisor, the one who has known every French nobleman and taken their measure over the last four decades, is struck dead. That the brilliant tactician who was responsible for chiseling this path to victory for the duchess has been silenced from ever giving her council again.” Not to mention the one man who could point out Beast’s father to him will never be able to do so now.

  If that is a coincidence, then surely the gods are more enemy to us than the French.

  * * *

  When we emerge from the chapel, a servant waiting nearby escorts us to a private dining room where the rest of the duchess’s party are having a small supper. Chancellor Montauban, the Prince of Orange, former marshal Rieux, Father Effram, and the Bishop of Rennes sit around the table, the remains of a meal still spread out before them. As we enter the room, there is a pause—​a moment too long—​before they call out a welcome. That is when I become aware that they have all been scrubbed clean while Beast and I are still in our bloodstained travel clothes. “Take a seat. Eat something,” Chancellor Montauban says. “We are just arguing over the ambush and who might be behind it.”

  As I slip into the chair that Beast holds out for me, I feel the silent stares of the others on me like fleeting darts. Father Effram gets up from the table, crossing to the ewer on the sideboard. Pulling a cloth from some hidden pocket, he dips it in the water.

  “You do not think it Emperor Maximilian?” Beast asks as he takes the seat next to me.

  The chancellor rubs his haggard face with his hand. “He is the most logical explanation. They were German soldiers.”

  “They were mercenaries.” The Prince of Orange is barely able to keep a rein on his temper. “German mercenaries are for sale on every road crossing and street corner. It does not tell us who paid them.”

  Father Effram returns to the table and slides back into his seat, handing the dampened cloth to me. Puzzled, I reach out to take it from him.

  He motions to my left cheek. Understanding dawns, and I lift the cloth to my face, wiping at my cheek. I glance down at the white cloth, now covered with a smear of dark rust-colored blood.

  “They could also have been German soldiers masquerading as mercenaries,” Beast counters. “Just because they were not wearing the Habsburg coat of arms and colors does not mean they were not sent by the emperor. It makes sense he would want to hide his part in the abduction for as long as possible, especially given his daughter’s precarious position.”

  I carefully fold the cloth, closing my hand around it. When I look up, both Jean and Chancellor Montauban look away.

  “Which is precisely why I do not believe he was behind it,” the prince continues. “He has too much at risk with Princess Marguerite still in the custody of the king.”

  “But the king would not hurt her.” As the bishop speaks, he runs his fingers nervously over his rosary beads. “Everything I have ever heard or seen indicates that he is genuinely fond of the girl.”

  “Then who?” Jean adds his braying voice to the mix. “Who else has anything to gain by abducting the duchess?”

  “England?” the Prince of Orange offers.

  “That is absurd,” scoffs Jean. “You are simply trying to deflect the blame from the emperor.”

  The prince narrows his eyes dangerously. “Are you questioning my loyalty?”

  Rieux thrusts his head forward to argue further, but the bishop interrupts before they can come to blows. “But to what end?” he asks.

  The prince shrugs. “To prevent the marriage.”

  “But at the cost of war with France?” the bishop asks. “Surely England knew that would be the final result of such an abduction.”

  The prince reaches for the stem of his goblet. “They have long been looking for an excuse to press their piteous claim to the French throne. Perhaps they see this as an opportunity.” He takes a sip of wine. “A better question might be what did the emperor hope to gain?”

  His brow furrowed in deep thought, Beast leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, causing the plates and silverware to jiggle slightly. “Did the emperor hope to rescue his wife, or .
. .” His next words come more slowly. “To give the accusations he’s been making against France the appearance of truth?”

  Montauban, too, leans forward. “You mean his accusations that the duchess had been abducted in an effort to delegitimize the union?”

  Beast nods, and everyone falls silent.

  “So you see.” Rieux’s voice is smug. “All roads appear to lead to the emperor.”

  I delicately clear my throat. “I may be able to shed some additional light on the situation, or else muddy the waters beyond all comprehension.”

  Reluctantly, their gazes turn toward me. That is when I understand that I make them uncomfortable now. They have always known I was an assassin—​and accepted it. Or so they thought. But now that I sit here with our enemies’ blood splattered on my gown, now that they have seen me kill with their own eyes, they feel differently. Knowing something and seeing it are very different things.

  Doing his best to hide . . . not revulsion, but something akin to it, the chancellor leans back in his chair. “By all means, my lady, we would love to hear it.”

  “One of the last things Captain Dunois said to me was that we should look to the castle.”

  The bishop regards me as if I am trying to tempt him to evil. The prince is intrigued, but wary, and the former marshal aggrieved. “Did he not simply mean to look to the castle at Angers for refuge from the attackers?”

  So much for our bond of mutual trust and respect. Clearly that was only something they were willing to extend to Lady Sybella, not the Sybella who excels in the art of death. “He could have, yes. But do you not find it interesting that we keep crossing paths with the regent? She could not have gotten much of an earlier start than we did. Why not simply travel with us?”

  “With a smaller group, she could travel more quickly.”

  I ignore the chancellor’s feeble explanation. “And what of the soldiers she provided? Only one or two of them survived. Did she just happen to leave us France’s most poorly trained soldiers, or was that by some design? And Rohan’s appointment as governor still bothers me.”

  Father Effram nods and spreads his hands wide. “What if they are playing a game within a game? As was said before, the king is very fond of Marguerite. Some have even claimed that he loves her. If the duchess were to disappear, Marguerite’s original betrothal agreement would still stand. The king would be free to marry the princess and have Brittany by right of conquest.”

  “Only if he assumes the next in line will not retaliate,” the Prince of Orange mutters.

  “He knows the next in line cannot raise any more troops,” Beast says quietly, and the prince falls silent.

  “It is possible,” the bishop concedes. “But why not simply press his military advantage when he was encamped before Rennes? Why go through the pretense of a betrothal and marriage?”

  A thought, a most disconcerting and unwelcome thought, comes to me. The secret to our victory was the power of Arduinna’s last arrow. What if the power of it has worn off? Or what if those powers only work in Brittany, where the goddess still holds sway? This council, and the bishop, are already so uncomfortable with the gods and their hands in the duchess’s affairs that I say nothing out loud, but resolve to ask Aeva more about her goddess’s powers when next we are alone.

  The chancellor sighs. “I fear we must at least consider it a possibility. And a most grim one at that.”

  Father Effram turns to me. “Were you able to learn how Captain Dunois died, my lady?”

  The room falls silent at Father Effram’s question, except for the bishop, whose rosary beads click even faster as he casts a dark glance my way.

  “No.” Disappointment makes my voice sharp. “There was no sign of any weapon. No wounds, no entry point, no poison.”

  “So it was just a coincidence of timing?” The Prince of Orange’s voice holds all the skepticism I feel.

  “Perhaps you should pray to your god of mistakes,” I suggest to Father Effram. “And ask that he look elsewhere for his amusements for a while.”

   Chapter 33

  hen we all gather in the grand salon the next morning to break our fast, it is clear that none of us have slept well.

  The duchess is nearly beside herself with grief. Of all her councilors, Dunois was the one most closely linked with her father in her mind. It was he who carried her to safety when d’Albret tried to kidnap her. It was he who provided steadfast council and an almost father-like affection for her, gruff as it could sometimes be.

  She tries to insist we must take Captain Dunois’s body with us to Langeais. It takes Lord Montauban, the Prince of Orange, and the Duke of Bourbon combined to convince her that she cannot arrive at her wedding carting a dead body. Besides, the duke assures her, he and the captain were old friends, and he will make the arrangements as if burying his own brother. And no matter how much I wish to distrust this man, no matter how hard I peer into his face to see some sign of treachery, I find none. Every instinct I possess tells me he is genuinely kind and considerate. This most likely makes him appear weak to others, and may render him weak in many circumstances. But today I am grateful for this much-needed balm to our hearts.

  Before we depart, however, the duchess asks me to accompany her to bid Dunois a final farewell. Candles have been lit around the captain’s body, and Father Effram kneels beside him, praying. As soon as I enter the chapel, Dunois’s soul rises up from its resting place, like a sleeping hound that has been dozing in the sun.

  Father Effram smiles as we enter, his face full of both sadness and acceptance. “I imagine you wish to say your goodbyes.” He reaches out to pat the duchess’s hand before shuffling out the door and leaving us alone with the body.

  And Dunois’s soul.

  All my life I have struggled to ignore the souls that I was able to detect. When I was younger, I thought them simply ghosts that haunted me, yet another sign of my brokenness. When I finally understood the nature of my powers, I was still loath to acknowledge their presence. I did not need their heartache, their emotions, their sense of loss and despair. I was drowning in too much of my own. Later, when I had been the one to kill them, I considered my duty done, feeling no need to acknowledge their dying thoughts and wishes.

  But with Captain Dunois, I am grateful to have one last chance to say goodbye and know that he will hear it.

  Dunois’s soul moves ever so slightly toward me, but not too close. While he is glad to see me, his spirit maintains the faint reserve he had in life.

  The duchess clasps her hands in front of her and bows her head in prayer. She stares down at the captain’s face, which somehow looks more peaceful than it did yesterday, as if he has accepted this most unexpected interruption to his plans.

  With the duchess absorbed in her prayers, I open myself to Dunois’s soul, allowing the wall between me and the Otherworld to thin. His presence draws around me like a cloak. Comforting and reassuring, but not touching.

  I have no idea how to speak to souls, so I simply form the question in my mind. Are you at peace now?

  Not yet. I do not know how a soul can feel wry, but the captain’s manages to do so.

  Do you know what caused your death?

  There are no words, but a rush of images and sensations—​a feeling that my heart is exploding, followed by pain in my chest, spreading along my arm. As I gasp with the shock of it, the soul quickly shutters the image from me. Perhaps it was apoplexy. But there are other answers I seek.

  Did you see anything to indicate who was behind the attack?

  There is nothing but a vast sense of not knowing and being nearly sick with it.

  I am so focused on Captain Dunois’s soul that when the duchess places her hand on my arm, I jump. “Are you able to speak with souls, like Ismae was?”

  Frustrated by the interruption, it is all I can do not to tell her I was just doing precisely that. “Yes.”

  “Could you . . . Are you able to tell him how much I have valued him, as well as his couns
el? How much I have come to love him, for he has been much like a father to me, even before my own father died. I want him to know that he will always live on in my heart, and in the courage he has instilled in me.”

  While she is speaking, the soul moves from me toward her. An aching tenderness fills the room, so strong that even she lifts her head and stares in wonder. “Is that him?” she whispers.

  “Yes, Your Grace. He has heard your words and returns them in kind.”

  As the soul continues to hover over her, she bows her head, tears rolling down her cheek.

  Lost deep in my own thoughts, I do not realize the soul has moved from the duchess back to me until I feel awash in a love so deep and profound that it reminds me of my own god’s love and mercy. In that moment, I feel deep in my bones the truth of Captain Dunois’s affection for me and his regard. Afraid I will begin weeping like the duchess, I focus on opening my heart so that he can feel the affection, respect, and, yes, love that I hold for him.

  When our souls meet, I am filled with a sense of weightlessness and light. As if my earthly body has been replaced by rays of the sun. It reminds me of the grace I felt when I found myself in Mortain’s godly presence. I am stunned, for it never occurred to me that human souls were capable of such things. Dunois’s love does not burn with an unearthly heat like Mortain’s did, but burns with all that our human hearts are capable of.

  In that moment, I also realize the great love that I am capable of, that I am sharing right now, and I think, This, this is part of Mortain’s grace that is still a part of me, still available to me, and mine to give as I choose.

  Slowly, Dunois’s soul begins to draw back, except for one tendril, which feels for all the world like a hand laid upon my head in blessing, and then that, too, is gone. Now, I realize. Now he is at peace.

  When I finally open my eyes, blinking to reorient myself in this world, the duchess is staring at me.

  “Are you well, Lady Sybella?” she whispers.

  “Yes, Your Grace. I am.”