Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)

by Robin LaFevers

  We had but a hand span of moments together, my babe and I.

  “I do not know how—from some unearthly power?—d’Albret heard her birthing cry and made his way to my chamber door. I looked up at his glowering form and bristling black beard and knew that if he let me keep this babe, I would do anything he asked of me. But even as I opened my mouth to tell him that, to give him my complete and unconditional surrender, he strode forward and grabbed the babe from my breast.

  “She was so small, he could fit her head in one hand and it terrified me how carelessly he held her, but I said nothing for fear of antagonizing him. He carried her to the window, where he examined her small, dainty features in the light. I held my breath, hoping he was as bewitched by her perfect rosebud lips, her tiny little nose, and her dark blue eyes as I was.

  “He lifted his eyes from the babe and turned them on me. ‘I had hoped the whelp was Julian’s.’

  “In that moment, I saw what he meant to do. I struggled to get out of bed. ‘Stop him!’ I cried, but of course, none of the servants would dare cross him.” I look up into Beast’s stricken face. “Only Alyse. She was the only one who moved to save my baby. She threw herself at him, trying to grab the baby from his hands, but he struck her, knocking her to the ground, where she hit her head on the leg of the heavy wooden chair. I did not know until days later that she had died from the blow.

  “Then he put his thick fingers around my baby’s frail neck and broke it. When he was done, he tossed the baby to the floor, and left the room.”

  That was when the screaming started. And the blood, although I did not learn until later that it was my own birthing blood.

  “After that, I remember very little. Strong, gentle hands pushing me back upon the bed. A sweet, bitter syrup being spooned down my throat. And then darkness. Blessed, blessed darkness. With not a drop of crimson in sight.

  “I learned afterward that my father rode away two days later. That is what most likely saved my life, for old Nonne would never have taken the risks she did if my father were nearby. But he left me to the indifferent care of Madame Dinan, and she was not concerned that I would not rouse myself from my bed, nor eat a bite. But old Nonne was. She clucked and badgered, poked and scolded, trying so hard to coax me back to the land of the living that I thought I would go mad with it.”

  Mayhap I did.

  “Was it madness that possessed me to slip into the stable one night, take a thick, stout rope from a hook, and knot it firmly around my neck? Was it madness that caused me to jump from the hayloft, hoping to end my life?

  “I say it was courage. I said it then and I say it now. I had found the courage to rid the world of at least one of the dark, twisted d’Albrets, for if I was my father’s daughter, then I was every bit the abomination he was, and I deserved death just as much as he did. If I could not kill him, I could at least rid the world of my own tainted presence.

  “But it was not a long enough fall to break my neck, and as I lay dangling, wondering how long it would take me to die, old Nonne found me and cut me down.

  “‘Go away,’ I told her. She could not stop me. I knew where there was more rope and I would devise a longer drop on my next attempt. There was nothing she could do to stop me, or so I thought. Until she spoke.

  “‘He is not your father.’ Her words caused everything inside me to grow still, and for the first time in many days, a small bit of the despair lifted.

  “She told me of my birth then, how I was my mother’s last chance to bear a son. Her first child—a daughter—was stillborn. But my mother outsmarted d’Albret, for while giving birth to me, she left with Death, her lover.

  “I tried to follow them, and I came from the womb cold and blue, the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck, but Death rejected me. So old Nonne rubbed my limbs and blew into my mouth, trying to force some spark of life back into my cold, limp body. It eventually worked.”

  “Is she the one who took you to the convent of Saint Mortain?” Beast asks. Somehow I am in his arms, standing with my back against his chest.

  “Yes,” I say. “That is when I was sent to the convent. I was wild at first; I do not blame the nuns for being exasperated. But eventually, I grew calmer and came to believe that I had found sanctuary there. That I would have a purpose, a place where my dark talents could be put to good use. And they were, at first. I killed several traitors before they could betray us to the French. But then . . .” Here my voice falters, for the truth is, I still cannot believe it happened. “The abbess sent me back into d’Albret’s household. She said his aid—or lack thereof—had the power to turn the tides of the war, and I needed to be in place there to keep them apprised of d’Albret’s intentions.”

  Beast says nothing, but his arms tighten around me, as if he would keep me safe even across the strands of time. “I argued with her. I fought. I begged and pleaded, but her mind and her heart were set. And then she dangled the one lure in front of me that she knew I would grasp for: she was certain Mortain would marque the count so that I could kill him. She even claimed Sister Vereda had Seen it. That is why I went, but it turned out that it was but another lie she told me.”

  “Who was the babe’s father?” Beast asks.

  “Josse, the blacksmith’s boy. Alyse tried to help us run away. She helped us plan and prepare, even thought up the excuses she would give when I did not show up for days. But d’Albret found out anyway.” I did not love Josse, but loved the freedom he offered me.

  It was Julian who betrayed us to d’Albret.

  “They rode Josse down like a dog on the road, then pierced him with a lance. They dragged me back tied in ropes because I fought them so.”

  I can feel Beast’s anger moving through his limbs, but he says nothing. I focus on the fluttering ghosts who have drawn near as I talked. There is Alyse, who gave me Louise and laughter. And Françoise, who gave me Julian, my first friend, and a true brother before he became my enemy. My own mother, who gave me life, and Jeanne, whose story, I now realize, was no cautionary tale, but one of courage—the courage to face death rather than the horrors life held for her.

  For all the atrocities d’Albret has committed—and there have been many—it is these innocents he swore to love and protect that have been betrayed most grievously. These are the ones that deserve to be avenged.

  Any doubts that I held about Beast being strong enough to bear all the horrors of my past are gone. The last of my secrets has been spilled, and still he holds me in his arms as if he will never let me go.

  Something wakes me. At first I think it is the silvery moonlight streaming in the window and falling across the bed. And then I hear a faint sound, like barren winter branches rustling in the wind. Although I do not hear my name precisely, I know that the sound is calling me, beckoning me closer, and I am afraid. Afraid it is the ghosts of d’Albret’s dead wives, calling me to account.

  But the sound comes again, and I know I must go. Quietly, I lift the covers, swing my feet onto the floor, and rise from the bed.

  The sound comes a third time, and it is as if there is a string tied to my heart that pulls me toward it. I step into my shoes, throw my cloak around my shoulders, and slip from the room.

  It is the dead of night and all is quiet. For the first time that I can remember, I do not feel afraid in my father’s house. Whether it is because of Beast, who sleeps nearby, or because of the otherworldly voice beckoning me, I do not know. Perhaps I simply have nothing more to lose.

  The castle corridors are empty, as is the great hall. There are a few sentries posted at the door, but since I am born of darkness, the shadows are my friend, and I use them to hide my passing.

  Outside, the night has turned bitterly cold. Mortain’s freeze, the farmers call it, an unexpected cold snap that threatens the emerging spring crops.

  And that’s when I know who is calling me. I pull my cloak closer and hasten my steps, not surprised when the rustling leads me to the cemetery.

  The waning moon ca
sts the graveyard in pale silver light, but I am drawn to the darkest corner where the shadows are the deepest. As I approach, a tall, dark figure emerges. He is dressed all in black and smells of the earth in early spring, when the fields have just been tilled. With a jolt that pierces my heart, I recognize my true father. Every doubt I have had that He existed, every fear that I have possessed that I am tainted by d’Albret’s dark blood, falls away from me in that moment. Like a lamb in a field that trots unerringly to its own mother, I know that I am His. At first, the wave of gratitude and humility this brings makes me want to fall on my knees before Him and bow my head. But as I look upon Him, the years of anguish and terror unfurl inside me, and a great whip of anger lashes out. “Now? You come to me now? Where were You all those times when I was small and terrified and truly needed You? Where were You when d’Albret cut down the innocent time and time again?”

  Then, just as suddenly as it came, the anger is gone. “And why did You abandon me? When You came for my mother, why did You not take me with You?” The last question comes out in a whisper.

  “It was your own mother’s wish, that you live.” When He speaks, His voice is like a cold wind from the north, bringing snow and frost. “She prayed not only to be delivered from her husband but that other women be spared her fate. That prayer brought Me to her so that I was there when you were born, to see you safely into this world as well as to carry your mother away, as I had promised.”

  “So You did not reject me?”

  His voice, like the rustle of dying leaves, fills my head. “Never.”

  “But I have sinned against You and acted on my will alone, rather than Yours. Do I not deserve Your retribution?”

  “No, for you are My daughter and I would no more punish you for plucking flowers from My garden than I would for your drawing breath. Besides, the men you killed had earned their deaths. If they had not, the knife would have missed, the quarrel gone wide, or the cup laced with poison remained untouched.”

  “Are the marques not meant for us to act upon?”

  I realize I do not so much as hear Him speak as feel Him inside my mind, as if He is unfurling some great tapestry before me, filling me with understanding.

  As a person’s death draws near, his soul ripens and readies itself for plucking. That ripening can be seen by some. As souls ripen, they begin to loosen from their bodies, much as fruit makes ready to leave the branch. But even the same fruits on the same tree fall at different times—occasionally defying all odds and clinging throughout the entire winter.

  And just like one who toils in the orchards, He does not control everything. Not the wind, nor the rain, nor the sun. And just as those elements shape the fruit on the tree, so do many factors shape a man’s life, and therefore his death.

  Then He reaches out and lays His cold hand on my head, and His grace and understanding fill me, burning away all vestiges of d’Albret’s evil darkness weighing on my soul until the only darkness that remains is that of beauty. The darkness of mystery, and questions, and the endless night sky, and the deep caverns of the earth. I know then that what Beast said was true: I am a survivor, and the taint of the d’Albrets was but a disguise I wore so that I could pass among them. It is no more a true part of me than the cloak on my back or the jewels I wear. And just as love has two sides, so too does Death. While Ismae will serve as His mercy, I will not, for that is not how He fashioned me.

  Every death I have witnessed, every horror I have endured, has forged me to be who I am—Death’s justice. If I had not experienced these things firsthand, then the desire to protect the innocent would not burn so brightly within me.

  There in the darkness, shielded by my father’s grace, I bow my head and weep. I weep for all that I have lost, but also for what I have found, for there are tears of joy mixed in with those of sorrow. I let the light of His great love fill me, burning away all the tendrils and traces of d’Albret’s darkness, until I am clean, and whole, and new.

  Beast finds me just before daybreak. Asking no questions, he helps me to my feet. The small circle of frost on the ground is all that remains of Mortain’s presence.

  No. That is not true. For I am utterly transformed by His presence. All the fear and doubt and shame has been stripped away, like dead leaves in a winter storm. Only the clean, strong branches remain.

  I know now why d’Albret bore no marque, and I also know why he has not yet died. Even better, I now possess something I never had before: faith. Faith in myself, faith in Mortain. But most of all, faith in love. Hate cannot be fought with hate. Evil cannot be conquered by darkness. Only love has the power to conquer them both.

  With the strength of that love flowing strong within me, we make ready to go rescue my sisters.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  WE RIDE HARD FOR NANTES, stopping only when it is so dark we cannot see the road in front of us, then start again as soon as there is light enough to continue. Beast brings Yannic and Lazare and two of his men-at-arms. There is little time for talking, and we collapse bone tired into our bedrolls each night and fall into a dreamless sleep.

  When we draw near Rennes, Beast dispatches the two men-at-arms with messages for Duval and the duchess. As we turn and head south, I wonder if this was my destiny all along, to face d’Albret with Beast at my side, for surely it will take the power of our two gods to bring him down. Or—I glance at the silent Lazare, whose rouncey struggles to keep up with our stronger horses—two gods and the Dark Mother Herself.

  By the time we draw near Nantes, we have a plan firmly in place. The desire to ride off straightaway and storm through the gates of the city to the palace is nearly overwhelming. But we will have no prayer of success if we face d’Albret in our current exhausted state. Indeed, we barely have a prayer of success if we are rested and fully prepared, so we stop at the abandoned hunting lodge, the very one where this journey first began, hoping that it is still abandoned.

  “Empty,” Beast says when he returns. “It does not look like anyone has been here since we left.”

  That is all the rest of us need to hear. We put our heels to our horses’ flanks and head for the stable. They hardly need any steering, for they are as exhausted as we and go eagerly to the scent of hay and the promise of rest.

  For all my exhaustion, I cannot sleep. I toss and turn, causing the bed ropes to creak in protest. I can think only of the morrow and getting my sisters to safety. I wonder where they are being kept and who is guarding them. Hopefully, they are in one of the palace’s many chambers rather than in the dungeon, for Louise’s health will quickly fail if she is kept in such a foul, damp place. And while d’Albret might not care for her, he would not want to lose a bargaining piece in this game he plays.

  The desire to leave now is so overpowering I fear I will have to tie myself to the bed. To wait here all alone for morning when I can finally act is agony.

  But you are not alone, a small voice whispers inside my heart. A great, giant-sized love waits in the next room.

  Suddenly, I wish to drown myself in that love, don it like a shield or a suit of armor to keep my doubts at bay. Without stopping to think, I throw aside the covers, get to my feet, and step out into the hall.

  When I pause at the door, my doubts catch up to me. Will he think me wanton or depraved? Surely not, for he has learned every horrible secret I possess and has not flinched. It is impossible not to be humbled by the sheer immensity of that gift.

  I knock once on the door, then open it.

  The room is dark but for a trickle of moonlight coming in from the window onto the bed. At my entrance, Beast starts to reach for his sword, then stops. “Sybella?”

  I shut the door softly behind me. “I have slept with five men, not dozens. Three because I had to, one because I thought he could save me, and the fifth so I could get close enough to kill him.”

  He says nothing, but watches my fingers as they unlace my chemise.

  “I have never lain with a man out of love.” I meet his gaze s
teadily. “I would like to do so at least once before I die.”

  “You love me?”

  “Yes, you great lummox. I love you.”

  He lets out a sigh. “Sweet Camulos! It’s about time.”

  I cannot help it. I laugh. “What do you mean?”

  “I have loved you since you first slapped that vile mud on my leg and ordered me to heal.”

  “As far back as that?”

  “I was too stupid to know it, but yes.”

  “When did you realize you felt that way?” I am embarrassed to ask such a pitiable question, but I yearn to know.

  He tilts his head in thought. “When the abbess announced you were d’Albret’s daughter.”

  I gape. “That is when you decided you loved me?”

  He lifts his hands, as if in surrender. “There was no deciding about it. It was just there. A great, unlooked-for complication. It is why I grew so angry, thinking the gods were having a rich jape at my expense.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

  “So does that mean you will lie with me?” My voice sounds far more vulnerable than seductive.

  He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his face growing serious. “Sybella, with all that you have endured at the hands of men, you do not have to do this. You do not have to give your body to earn my love. It is already yours.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “But I would go to my death having truly loved at least once.”

  He rises to his feet and crosses the short distance between us. I always forget how much he towers over me. Most likely because I never look upon him with fear. His hand comes up to smooth the hair back from my face, as if he would see it—me—more clearly. That simple gesture makes me feel more exposed than standing here in naught but my shift.

  “I want you to be with me for the right reasons. Not because you feel you must or because you fear we will die, but because you want it with your heart and your body.”