Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  He flashes me a grin. “Because there are feral chickens behind one of the cottages. I say we pick a cottage and I will go hunt for our dinner.”

  I stare at him, my mind consumed by the image of him stalking feral chickens. Unable to come up with any semblance of a reply, I simply say, “Very well. The second house on this side was sturdier than the others, with a thick door that locks. There’s also a small barn in back.”

  “That will do.”

  I leave him to his adventure and lead our horses to the barn. When I return to the cottage, I remove my damp cloak and begin poking around, happy to find half a sack of large gray peas and two onions. I lift the patched iron pot from its hook on the wall and go outside to fill it with rainwater from the barrel. In addition to the rain barrel, there is a large stack of firewood within easy reach of the door.

  Once I have set the pot on the hearth, I return to collect some wood to start a fire. With a brief plea to Saint Cissonius, the patron saint of travelers, I search the stones near the hearth, looking for flint and tinder, and am pleased when they are there. Maraud returns just then, triumphantly bearing a plucked chicken in his left hand.

  I raise my eyebrows. “You think it safe to start a fire?”

  “I think the company we saw earlier is too far away by now to see any smoke. Besides, the cloud cover and darkness of night should mask it well enough.”

  “Excellent.” I nod to the pot, then to the spit iron standing leaning against the hearth. “Do you want to stew it or roast it?”

  He glances at the chicken. “Which is faster?”

  I cannot help it. I laugh. “The pot, I think. Also, it is most likely a tough old bird and could use some stewing.”

  After putting the chicken in the pot, he kneels to start the fire. I have finished chopping the onions, and he steps aside so I can toss them into our stew. As I look up, he smiles—​a smile that reaches straight into my chest and squeezes my heart so tightly I can scarce draw breath.

  There is so much . . . trust in that smile. Trust and warmth and satisfaction ​in having found shelter, food. Maybe most impressively, there is no hint of expectation or assumption. The smile pierces my heart like a fisherman’s hook—​bearing twin barbs of guilt and regret. Regret that things cannot be easy between us. Regret that we cannot be lovers again or even take pleasure in this simple shelter we have found.

  Well, I cannot, anyway. “Peas and onions make for a thin stew,” I say abruptly. “I will go forage to see what the other cottages might offer up.”

  Maraud takes a step as if to come with me, but I stop him. “I don’t need help.” Before he can argue, I grab my cloak, throw it around my shoulders, and step outside.

  I lift my face to the deepening twilight, letting the soft rain wash the heat from my cheeks. Back in Cognac, my plan seemed so sound. Fair even. Maraud would at least have a chance to plead his case before the king and not simply rot like a forgotten slab of meat.

  But I have lost the taste for the bad bargain I made on his behalf. My weakness shames me. What would my aunts say, they who traded men for a night’s lodging, a sack of wheat flour, or a meal without so much as a sigh of regret?

  What would my mother say—​she who was able to trade her daughter for a sack of coins?

  No, I remind myself, not simply a sack of coins, but to give that daughter a better life than hers.

  Even so, she didn’t look back. Not once. I know because I waited and watched and prayed that she would, that there would be one last goodbye between us, even if it was silent.

  But there wasn’t. She did not look back, nor hesitate. That I should do so now, when the entire convent’s future is at stake, embarrasses me. The better life my mother envisioned for me did not entail becoming soft or weak.

   Chapter 71

  fter combing through the cottages and their gardens, I acquire two blankets, a handful of leeks, a wilted cabbage, and two somewhat leathery turnips. Even better, hanging from the ceiling of the last house in the village was both a bundle of rosemary and a chunk of salt pork that someone was in too big a hurry to collect.

  It is nearly full dark when I reach our cottage. A thin line of smoke oozes out of the chimney. As I approach the yard, the back of my neck starts to itch, slowing my steps. I quickly glance for any signs of others, but there are no horses, no people—​it looks as deserted as when we first arrived.

  And yet . . . I roll my shoulders but proceed cautiously, placing my feet so they make no noise. When I step inside the yard, my heart starts to race. No.

  Not my heart. Someone else’s.

  I drop my bundle of goods, draw my sword with my right hand and my long knife with my left, then hurry to the window with the broken shutter to peer inside.

  Three men face Maraud, whose back is to the hearth. They are tall and well armed, their cloaks embellished with braid, their boots of excellent quality. One of them, with a thick mustache, holds Maraud’s own sword at his throat. The other two men’s hands rest on their hilts but have yet to draw them. Their voices are low, the words fast and guttural.

  “. . . here first. It is ours.”

  “You were nowhere to be seen for the last two hours, so forgive me if I doubt your claim.”

  “Doubt all you want, but we will be sleeping here tonight.”

  Through the window I can see that the door is not only unlatched, but slightly ajar. I silently back away from the broken shutter. Which of them should I attack first? If I take out the one wielding the sword, can Maraud get to his other weapon in time?

  If he can’t, I have seen for myself how good he is at disarming an opponent. What I do not know is how quickly he can disarm two.

  By the time I reach the front door, my heart is hammering so fast I can scarcely think. The men are still facing Maraud, their backs to me. One takes a step closer to Maraud. “Who sent you?” I ease my sword arm into the room, pausing long enough to be certain I have not been spotted. Then I suck in my breath and squeeze through the narrow space.

  “How long have you been following us?”

  Should I kill them? Will Mortain consider this self-defense? The weapons are not pointed at me, but they would be if they knew I was here.

  “Did you pick up our trail in Le Blanc?”

  I glance at Maraud. To his credit, he does not look at me, but moves his finger—​only slightly—​at the man talking. My heartbeat kicks into a gallop.

  I lunge forward, using the full weight and force of my body to drive my blade through the back of the intruder holding the sword at Maraud’s throat. The momentum shoves him forward, but Maraud is able to leap aside and avoid being skewered. Using my foot for leverage, I yank my weapon from the body as my chest is filled with yet another heartbeat, lurching and careening against my ribs. I pivot, then drive the blade into the second man just as he rushes at me.

  The intensity of his own attack drives him into my sword with such force that I must use both hands to hold my position. With his body impaled on my blade, our eyes meet, his widening in surprise before his hand spasms and lets go of the hilt.

  I glance over in time to see Maraud drive the spit from the hearth into the remain—​

  I gasp. A shocking and unfamiliar . . . presence . . . fills me, stretching the contours of my mind and rubbing against my soul.

  It is both the most intimate of connections and the most galling violation.

  “Lucinda?” Maraud’s voice comes to me as if from far away. “Are you hurt?”

  I try to make my mouth answer his question, but a second presence crashes up against me, a thundering wave of new sensations, followed closely by a third.

  I look down at my hands, my arms, fearing that I am bursting out of my own skin. A moment passes, then another, and then the intensity, the sense of overfullness, begins to recede. I can breathe again and feel my heart beating.

  But I am not alone.

  Images fill my head—​things my own eyes have never seen, my hands never touched, my h
eart never felt. Faces. An ocean crossing. A dowager duchess with a steel spine. A fair-haired man.

  Souls, I realize, after a long moment. These are the souls of the men we’ve just killed.

  As if that very thought agitates them, they writhe within me, already growing cooler than the shocking heat of their initial presence.

  Should I thrust them from me? Can I thrust them from me?

  Or is this some weight we of Mortain must bear, to forever carry the souls of those we have killed?

  Lessons from the convent quickly take over. Three days. That is how long souls linger near their bodies after they die.

  I must endure this—​this violation, for three days?

  No. The knowledge rises up from my very bones.

  “Begone!” I say.

  “Who are you talking to?” Maraud asks in a whisper.

  I shake my head. The pressure of the souls lessens, as if they are considering my command. It is that hesitation that allows me to see more clearly. No matter who the men were, their souls are confused, cut adrift from the bodies they have lost.

  It is life they hunger for, not me.

  Begone, I say again, although this time silently.

  To my surprise, they do what I ask, although reluctantly, like sullen children.

  I am touching a miracle, I realize, a shiver running through me.

  As I come back into my body, the first thing I am aware of is the warmth on my cheeks. Puzzled, I put my hand up and am surprised to find Maraud’s hands cupping my face.

  “There you are,” he murmurs, quickly removing his hands.

  I am struck by two things at once—​the grave concern writ so plainly on his face, and that as soon as he knew I was no longer in danger, he stopped touching me. He not only hears the messages I have been sending him, but respects them. Except when my safety is at stake.

  That brings a jumble of new emotions that threaten to sink my wits altogether. “I am fine,” I reassure him.

  “You are not only fine, you are wondrous!” He takes my hand and, just as I fear I have reached the wrong assessment of him, pulls me over to the fire before letting go. “That was as impressive a rescue as anyone could ever hope for.”

  I blink up at him, half my mind still consumed by the souls—​who now hover in the corners of the room. “You were hoping for a rescue?” I ask stupidly.

  He snorts. “I didn’t spend all that time sparring with you so you could leave me to a band of rapacious bandits.”

  His babble, for that is what it is, helps anchor me in my skin and tether me to my bones. I can once again feel where my own soul begins and ends, the boundaries firmly back in place.

  “Here,” he says. “You are cold.” He throws his cloak over my shoulders and pulls me even closer to the fire.

  “I am not cold,” I protest, and yet I am shivering slightly. But not with cold. Not even with fear. But with the enormity of what just happened.

  I can see dead men’s souls. Indeed, they are drawn to me in their moment of death. By some strange gift, they are able to share pieces of themselves, their lives, with me. And for all that these three men wished us ill, it feels miraculous. I have—​finally!—​experienced the fullness of my gifts from Saint Mortain.

  But those gifts are weighted with both responsibility and gravity. I have never, in all the five years I’ve been gone, more fervently wished for someone from the convent to speak to. To explain to me what just happened. To let me know what it means, what we are to do with it, if anything.

  “Lucinda?” Maraud’s hand reaches out, his fingers lightly brushing my cheek. “Don’t go away again. I don’t know how to bring you back.”

  I look up into his eyes, which seem nearly black in the shadowed light from the fire. Such concern shines there, such caring.

  Perhaps it is my befuddledness at what just occurred, or perhaps it is simply basking in the gravity of my new gifts, but I don’t shrug from his touch nor slap his fingers away. “I am fine,” I tell him. “Truly.”

  “But something just happened.” His deep voice is low and soothing.

  “Yes.”

  He runs a hand over his head. “I felt like I witnessed something.” His voice grows deeper still. “A miracle, I think.”

  It is the respect and reverence in his voice that allows me to speak of it. “You did. I told you that I was an initiate of Mortain, but what I did not tell you was that I hadn’t yet killed a man.” I glance over at the bodies on the floor. “Until tonight.”

  Without realizing he is doing it, he reaches out and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It is a hard thing, the first time. A shock, no matter how much one has trained.”

  “You’re right,” I tell him slowly. “But it is more than that. There are gifts that Mortain bestows upon those of us sired by Him. And I”—​I take a deep breath—​“I have never experienced the fullness of those gifts before.”

  “That is where you went? Into the realm of Mortain?”

  “Yes,” I say, realizing that is precisely where I went. “In their moment of death, I am able to experience men’s souls as they leave their bodies. I am able to . . . speak with them, although not with words. I know that they are here on the orders of a dowager duchess. A Lady Margaret, perhaps? And that they also serve a younger fair-haired lord.”

  Maraud stares at me. “That is quite a gift. All I was able to determine was that they were trained soldiers from Burgundy and wanted to kill me.”

  I laugh, as he no doubt intended, and in that moment of laughter feel wholly myself once again.

  Albeit with a wondrous new awareness and appreciation for who and what I am.

  * * *

  After the bodies have been removed and our dinner eaten, we stretch out before the dying fire. It is dark except for the faint glow of the embers. “What has Saint Camulos gifted you with?” I don’t know what prompts me to ask such a question—​the sense of awe that still fills me? The darkness? I remember his impressive fighting back in the city. “Are you possessed by battle fever?”

  “Me? No. That is truly rare. I have only ever met one man who possessed it, and he would tell you it’s no gift.” Maraud puts his hands under his head and stares up at the timbered roof. “His name was Beast, and he could easily slay a dozen men—​twice that when the fever was upon him. But it was a great burden to him as well.”

  “Is that the only gift Saint Camulos bestows upon his followers?”

  He shrugs. “I can see men’s weaknesses. Like a mason sees fault lines in stone.”

  I turn on my side and prop my head in my hand. “What of those who attacked us? Could you see their weaknesses?”

  “One was arrogant, too certain his weapon gave him an advantage over me. The second preferred to act on orders rather than his own thinking, and the third was too cautious, giving himself too much time to calculate the risks before making his move.”

  It all fits with what I saw with my own eyes and gleaned from their souls. “What of me?” My voice is almost a whisper—​I am desperate to know my weakness so I may pluck it from me, but afraid of the answer as well.

  Maraud turns his head so that he is facing me. “Trust,” he says. “Your weakness is your inability to trust.”

  And just like that, the spell is broken. “Trust,” I snort. “Trust is a fool’s game, and I stopped playing it long ago.”

  There is a creak just outside the cottage door. Before I can react, the door bursts open. A half dozen armed men pour in, their weapons drawn and pointed straight at us.

   Chapter 72

  Sybella

  t will be easy enough to verify that the regent was visiting Princess Marguerite. Indeed, I find myself with a number of questions I would like to ask the young princess. I think it is time to pay her a visit.

  I do not tell Beast. He will only try to stop me. Instead, I tell Aeva in case something should happen and I don’t return. And while she does not try to prevent it, she does insist on coming with me. �
��You will be traveling at night. It will be safer to travel together.”

  “But I want you watching the girls.”

  “They will be safe enough. It is you I am worried about.”

  “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I am not saying you aren’t, but there is no shame in having someone watch your back. Especially when venturing into unknown territory where someone may be conspiring with your enemy.”

  She is right, dammit.

  “Besides.” She tilts her head and smiles knowingly. “Have you given any thought to how you will get past the traps and snares placed in the surrounding woods? You will not be able to venture out on the road, which leaves only the forest.”

  I sigh heavily, as if her suggestion greatly inconveniences me. “Very well. If you insist.”

  * * *

  Dressed as men, we sneak to the stables. As we saddle our horses, Aeva works some Arduinnite magic to keep the others from growing unsettled by our presence and giving us away to the grooms. When we are done, we also take the time to wrap our horses’ hooves with burlap sacks before leading them out onto the cobblestones in the courtyard. It is not until we reach the palace garden that we remove the cloth and mount.

  We have not gone a hundred paces before Aeva puts out her hand. “Hold.” She backs up her horse in order to cut a wide swathe around a patch of bracken.

  “What was that?” I whisper.

  In answer, she reaches up, breaks a small branch off the closest tree, and throws it into the spot she has just avoided.

  A loud, metal crunch ruptures the silence, and I find myself staring down into the closed jaws of a steel trap. “How did you know?”

  She shrugs one shoulder. “I can smell them.”

  “A gift from Arduinna?”

  She snorts. “No. A gift from living in the woods all my life and being able to recognize the stench of iron.”

  At her words, a new realization comes to me. The assassin would have needed to avoid these traps as well. Which means he was either someone from the palace or someone shared that knowledge with him.