Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)

by Robin LaFevers

  “Yes.” The word comes slowly, as if he must haul it up from some deep well. “But I also know you are quick to paint yourself in the darkest light possible. How old were you?”

  “Fourteen,” I whisper.

  “Was it your own hand that dealt the killing blow?”

  “No.”

  Beast nods thoughtfully. “Can you tell me how a lone fourteen-year-old maid could stop one such as d’Albret?”

  “I could have told someone,” I say in anguish.

  “Who?” Beast says fiercely. “Who could you have told who would have had the means and the power to stay his hand? His soldiers, who were sworn to serve him? His vassals or his retainers, who had sworn similar oaths? No one could cross a dangerous, powerful lord such as d’Albret at the say-so of a mere child.”

  “But—”

  “All those things you did—or didn’t do—were a matter of survival. Telling anyone would only have exposed you as knowing the full scope of what went on in d’Albret’s household and endangered you even further.”

  “It is not just that,” I say. “I was unkind and laughed when my brothers teased Alyse or played cruel jokes on her. I would laugh as loudly as they did.”

  Beast’s jaw clenches, and it is clear that I have finally managed to make him see the extent of my cruelty.

  “And what would have happened if you hadn’t?”

  “Alyse would have had a true friend, someone to stand by her instead of someone who ran at the slightest threat.”

  He leans across the distance between us, getting as close to my face as he can. “If you had not laughed at the cruelty, you would have become the next target.” He holds up a hand, stopping my flow of words. “Do not forget, I have seen you dreaming and know how much darkness haunts you. I am also fair certain that very little of it is yours. I say again, all those things you did—or didn’t do—were a matter of survival.”

  We stare at each other for a long, hot moment, then my temper flares. “Why do you not have the good sense to see that I am not deserving of such forgiveness?”

  He laughs—a harsh, humorless sound. “The god I serve is near as dark as yours, my lady. I am not one to pass judgment on anyone.”

  As I stare into his eyes, I see the faint echo of the horrors of the battle lust he has endured, and understanding dawns. He truly knows some of the darkness I struggle with.

  We sit in the deepening night for some time. His face is mostly dark angles and planes, with only the faintest glow of the fire reaching this far away. “I would like you to tell me how my sister died,” he says at last.

  Even though he has every right to know this, my heart starts to race and it feels as if a great hand has wrapped itself around my chest. But Sweet Mortain, it is the very least of what I owe him. I close my eyes and try to grasp the memory, but it is as if a thick door bars my entrance, and when I struggle to open it, pain shoots through my brow and my heart beats so frantically I fear it will shred itself against my rib cage.

  I remember the screaming. And the blood.

  And then there is nothing but a black mawing pit that threatens to swallow me whole.

  “I cannot,” I whisper.

  Something in his face shifts, and his disappointment in me is palpable. “No, no,” I rush to explain. “I am not refusing or playing coy. I truly cannot remember. Not fully. There are just bits and pieces, and when I try too hard to force the memory, only blackness comes.”

  “Is there anything you do remember?”

  “I remember screaming. And blood. And someone slapping me. That is when I realized the screaming was mine.” The giant hand around my chest squeezes all the air from my lungs. Black spots begin to dance before my eyes. “And that is all.”

  He stares at me a long moment and I would give years of my life to be able to see his face clearly, to know what he is thinking. Through the darkness, his big warm hand tenderly takes hold of mine, and I want to weep at the understanding in his touch.

  The road to Morlaix takes us uncomfortably close to my family’s home. It sits but a few leagues to the north, and simply knowing how close it is makes my whole body twitch with unease. Beast says nothing, but I see his gaze drift in that direction a time or two and cannot help but wonder what he is feeling. Luckily, it begins to rain, soft fat drops that quickly turn into a torrential downpour, forcing our minds to other things. We cannot afford to stop, however, so we continue on. While no one complains, it is only the charbonnerie who do not seem to mind. By midmorning, the forest floor is muddy, and our progress is reduced to a slow slog. But as long as we can keep moving forward, we do. We must. Even now, d’Albret is likely camped in front of Rennes and giving the signal to his saboteurs. Please Mortain, let us have gotten all of them. And if not, let us hope Duval and Dunois are on their guard.

  When the second horse flounders in the mud and it takes us an hour to dig out one cart’s wheels, Beast decides we must wait out the storm and sends scouts ahead to find us shelter.

  A short while later, they return. “There is a cave a mile or so north of here,” Lazare tells him. “It is large and can hold all of us and the horses as well.”

  De Brosse’s horse shifts uneasily on its feet. “It is an old cave, my lord. With strange markings and old altars. I am not sure the Nine would appreciate us trespassing.”

  I laugh—mostly so they will not hear my teeth chattering with the cold. “Between us we serve Death, War, and the Dark Mother. Whom do you think we must fear?”

  De Brosse ducks his head sheepishly, and Beast gives the command to head for the cave. I almost hope it is a mouth that opens directly to hell, for of a certainty, we could use the heat.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  EVEN AS HALF THE PARTY is still filing into the cave, the charbonnerie have torches lit and get to work building fires. The cave is indeed enormous. We could easily fit twice our company inside.

  There is much stomping of feet, groans of relief, and creaking of leather and harness as fifty mounted men dismount and jostle to create room for themselves and their horses.

  Once I have dismounted and handed my horse to Yannic, I pace the perimeter of the cave, trying to get blood flowing in my limbs. I would also like to know in whose abode we will pass the night. The charbonnerie call this place the Dark Mother’s womb, and it may well be, but other gods have been worshiped here, and more recently.

  There is an old altar at the very back. The torches hardly cast any light that far, but I can see the faint outline of small bones, some offering made long ago. Old drawings flicker on the cave walls: a spear, a hunting horn, and an arrow. It is not until I see the woman riding the giant boar that I am certain we have stumbled into one of Arduinna’s lairs, where she and her hunting party would rest from their hunts.

  Thus reassured, I return to the front of the cave, where the rest of the party stands, torn between getting comfortable and bolting.

  It is the youngest of the men, the sons of farmers and woodcutters and blacksmiths, who are the most unsettled. The charbonnerie have no fear of this place, and the men-at-arms are too disciplined to show such fear, even though I can smell it on them as surely as I can smell their sweat. But the green boys stand huddled together, looking about with wide eyes, their shivers equal parts cold and fear.

  “Arduinna,” I announce. “The cave belongs to Saint Arduinna. Not Mortain, nor Camulos, nor even the Dark Mother”—I send a quelling glance at Graelon, who looks to correct me—“but the goddess of love. There is nothing to fear.” Although that is assuredly a lie, for love terrifies me more than death or battle, but these youths do not need to know that. Indeed, Samson snickers then, and his gaze goes to Gisla, who is helping Malina set up pots for boiling. Now, that is what we need. The goddess of lust moving in all these men with but half a dozen women among them.

  “Come,” I say sharply. “Grab your weapons and move to the back where there is room to spread out.”

  Samson, Jacques, and the others gape at me. “Here?�
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  “Do you think your skills are so great that you may set aside your practice?”

  “But there’s no room.”

  “Oh, but there is. Now, follow me, unless you are afraid. Samson, Bruno, bring the torches.”

  Of course, none will admit to such fear, and certainly not in front of me, so I lead the group deeper into the cave and have the boys secure the torches.

  I place myself at the very back of the cave, for even though it is clearly one of Arduinna’s, I can feel Mortain’s cold breath upon my neck. I do not know why His presence should be so strong here, and I would not have the boys turn their backs to Him.

  After much grumbling and complaining, the boys finally take their positions. “Begin,” I order, and their arms, clumsy with cold, start moving through the exercises we have been practicing. Within half an hour, the cold is forgotten, along with their fear, and they are concentrated on besting their opponents.

  My focus on the greenlings is so great as I try to keep them from accidentally killing one another that it takes me a while to realize we have drawn a crowd. Easily a dozen of Beast’s soldiers have gathered round and are watching the boys with narrowed eyes and folded arms.

  “My money’s on the smith’s boy,” de Brosse says. “The one with the long hair.”

  “I’ll take that wager. I think the boy with the ax will win the bout.”

  There is a rustle of purses and jingle of coin as bets are made. Their casual betting raises my hackles; this is no game. The boys’ lives likely depend on what they learn here. Besides, the greenlings do not need the distraction of being surrounded by true soldiers.

  Or so I think until I see how the greenlings take the soldiers’ attention to heart. There—Samson has finally started taking the practice seriously, his face creased in concentration. Jacques, too, is no longer so worried about hurting his opponent and finally manages to wrestle him into position so that he can get the leather cord around his neck.

  Cheers go up, and Jacques smiles shyly. Then Claude sneaks up from behind him and gets his knife handle around his neck. Another jingle of coin changes hands. I cannot decide if I am amused or annoyed that the soldiers’ opinions seems to carry more weight than mine. “Again,” I say. “And this time, Claude, try not to laugh as you slit your opponent’s throat.”

  Dinner that night is a cheerful affair. Half of the soldiers’ purses are heavier from their wagers, and the greenlings’ sense of pride has grown in equal amounts. Even the charbonnerie seem to have relaxed some.

  As men leave the fires to lie down on the cave floor, Beast comes to find me. I have selected a spot for my bedroll toward the back, still wishing to place myself between that faint chill of death that is haunting me and the others.

  “We reach Morlaix tomorrow,” he says, easing down onto the ground.

  I try to ignore the heat coming off his body, try to pretend he is not close enough for me to touch and that my fingers do not yearn to do just that. “I know.”

  Beast reaches across the small space and takes my hand in his. It is a big hand, and hard, the entire palm filled with calluses and scars. “It was well done, you training the greenlings.”

  “I know.” My answer startles a laugh out of him, but it is true—I do know that it was a good thing.

  He shakes his head. “I fear I have lost my touch for commanding men. It is an assassin who has finally managed to bring them all together, not me.”

  “Now you go too far and mock me. I do not have any knack for bringing men together.”

  He threads his fingers through mine, then slowly brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it. “I would never mock you. I speak only the truth.”

  It is the most comforting thing I have ever felt, that hand on mine, the quiet steadfastness it promises. That he offers me this after all the secrets I have told him humbles me. I want, more than anything, to keep that hand in mine and never let it go.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  NEAR NOON ON THE FOURTH day of our journey, we come in sight of Morlaix. We do not approach the town directly but stay on the far side of the river, where we can just make out the ramparts of the walled city.

  Beast turns our party northward. The farther north we go, the more the land changes. The rich fields and forests turn scrubbier with tall rippling grasses, and the sharp tang of salt is in the air. In the distance I can hear the steady crashing of the waves as they throw themselves upon the rocky shore.

  Beast directs the main portion of the party to set up camp in the thicket of trees that we can just see off to the east. He orders two of his men and two of the charbonnerie to accompany him, along with myself. We follow a trail that is naught but a deer track and find ourselves winding our way to the coast. When the rocky shore comes into sight, I see an old stone abbey and beside it one of the even more ancient standing stones. I glance at Beast. “Saint Mer?”

  Beast nods. “The abbess of Saint Mer has been keeping Duval informed. She and her acolytes have been in communication with the British ships, and have been keeping track of the French movements in the area as well.”

  I tamp down a little flutter of—not fear—apprehension. Saint Mer is a watery old hag of a goddess, with a tangle of seaweed for Her hair and bones formed of driftwood. She is wild, uncontrollable, both playful and deadly, beautiful and terrifying. Her appetite for men is insatiable and She often plucks them ripe from the boat, pulls them into Her watery maw, then spits them out when She is done with them.

  When I was nine years old, long before I had heard the stories of my own birth and lineage, I adopted Her for my own. Most girls my age worshiped Amourna, but I had no use for Her and Her soft, gentle love that was naught but a lie told to keep girls hopeful and compliant. For a while, I turned to Arduinna, for She was the one goddess who carried a weapon, and that appealed to me greatly, but in the end, She let me down as well. As a protector of virgins, it seemed She failed as often as She succeeded.

  And so I turned to Saint Mer. Her wildish nature called to me. I wished to dance with storms, like She did. I wished to pick and choose which men I allowed into my domain, then be done with them once I’d taken my pleasure. Not that I believed there was any pleasure to be had between a man and a woman, but the stories and poets spoke of it often, and if it existed, I would have my share of it.

  Mostly, I wanted to be feared as Saint Mer was feared, to have men treat me with great respect and caution and be afraid of what might await them if they did not.

  When we reach the abbey, we rein in our horses. As we dismount, the door opens and a shrunken old woman comes out. In her hand is the sacred trident of Saint Mer, and around her neck are nearly a dozen strands of cockle shells, which mark her as the abbess.

  Beast bows low before her, as do Sir Lannion and Sir Lorril. I sink into a deep curtsy. The charbonnerie look uncertainly about them, then bob their knees.

  “Come inside and be welcome,” the abbess says. She motions with her trident, and two girls emerge from the abbey door and come forward to tend our horses: the daughters of Saint Mer, born of the goddess and drowning men.

  I am filled with curiosity, as I have never met anyone said to be born of another god before. Saint Camulos does not count, for He makes no claim to have sired His dedicants, merely accepts those conceived in His name.

  There is a translucent quality to the girls’ skin, as if they spend more time beneath the waves than beneath the sun. Their hair is long and flowing, one light blond and the other dark. As they draw closer, I see that their feet are bare and they have the slightly webbed toes that mark them as one of Saint Mer’s. When I hand one of the girls my reins, she smiles at me. Her teeth are slightly pointed.

  I nod in greeting and thanks, then hurry to follow the abbess into the abbey.

  Her receiving chamber is sparse, with none of the luxuries the abbess of Saint Mortain enjoys. She offers us cool, clear water to drink, and naught else.

  “I bring thanks from the duchess herself for the aid
you have given her,” Beast says formally, and I am intrigued by this new side of him.

  The abbess nods her head, causing the shells to rattle. “I am committed to doing whatever is in my power to keep our land free.”

  “Are there any new reports? Do the British remain anchored off the coast?”

  “Yes, but they are running out of supplies. Some of the locals were rowing food and water out to them, but the French soldiers got wind of it and began picking them off with their archers, so that has stopped.”

  “And what of Morlaix itself?”

  “There are near five hundred French soldiers stationed in the town, with another two hundred positioned along the estuary. Your biggest problem will be the cannon the French have positioned at the mouth of the bay. I do not know if they can reach the ships, but the captains seem to think they can, and they will not draw near.”

  Beast glances to the charbonnerie, who smile and nod. He turns back to the abbess. “Their cannon will not be a problem. We will take them out easily enough so the ships can get through. My bigger concern is disabling as many French in the town as possible so the British will not be massacred as they attempt to disembark.”

  The abbess moves to a table set up near one of the high windows. “Here is a map of the town,” she says, and we join her.

  “Here,” the abbess says, pointing at the map. “This is where I am told the soldiers are being garrisoned.”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon plotting and planning, trying to come up with a strategy that has some hope of succeeding. All the while, I can feel time eating away at our chance of success, just as the waves eat away at the shore. D’Albret has likely reached Rennes by now. Hopefully, with no saboteurs to grant d’Albret access, the city will hold.

  Chapter Forty

  IT IS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN we rejoin the rest of our party. They have been busy during our absence and have the camp set up. It is abustle with activity: the rubbing down of saddles and tack, the sharpening of blades, and the checking of weapons. The air fair hums with the anticipation everyone is feeling, but there is none of the old acrimony that had been haunting us since we first left Rennes. Whether they have called a temporary truce or merely needed some common enemy to focus on, I do not know.