Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  At last she lifts one shoulder. “I have heard worse.” Although her words are begrudging, they feel like a rousing approval.

  I return my attention to the coverlet. “What are we looking for?”

  “Any signs that Monsieur Fremin’s men were in here.”

  “You think that they were?”

  A chilling smile plays about her lips. “I know they were. This is where I killed them.”

  I do not think she means the explanation to be a threat, but it feels like one, all the same.

   Chapter 4

  I leave Sybella’s room and begin walking. I have no idea where to go, wishing only to ward off the howling blizzard of regret and recrimination that threaten to engulf me. I had not expected the king to act so swiftly on the information I had given him, or that he would so easily identify Sybella. He would not have if she had not come to my room this morning. Had not tried to reach out to me. More than ever, I am beginning to fear there is truly no way to fix this disaster, or even lessen its impact.

  I am halfway to the servants’ chapel before I realize that is where I’m headed. I need the world to stand still for a moment. To quit shifting and changing so rapidly that I cannot catch my breath. Once, when I was but five years old, the tavernkeeper Sanson took me and my mother to visit the sea. It was a warm day, and they let me play in the water. Until a giant wave sucked the sand from beneath my feet and cast me backwards, end over end, so that I could no longer tell where the water ended and the sky began.

  That is how I feel now, only Sanson’s strong, sturdy arm is not there to lift me from the current that threatens to sweep me away.

  Fortunately, the chapel is empty, its simple stone walls and small votives far more comforting than the grandeur of the palace’s main chapel. My backside has barely settled onto the plain wooden bench when a voice behind me says, “So you are our missing assassin.”

  I leap up, my hand moving toward the knife hidden amongst my skirts. An old priest with fluffy white hair stands there, and while he looks kind enough, I cannot help but remember the vitriol in the eyes of the priests in the council room this morning. “Forgive me, Father, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He shrugs. “I have seen you pray.”

  My lip curls in derision. “And that makes you think I’m an assassin?”

  He tilts his head, his eyes considering. “There is something about the way you daughters of Mortain bow your heads. Not as lowly penitents, but as a dedicant ready to serve a beloved lord.”

  For all his fluffy hair and pink cheeks, he is no fool.

  “What is a hedge priest doing at the court of France?”

  “No mere hedge priest, my child, but a follower of Saint Salonius.”

  “The patron saint of mistakes?” My laugh echoes harshly in the small chapel. “Then I have certainly come to the right place.”

  “If you have made a mistake, then perhaps you have.”

  “What I have made is to a mistake as a mountain is to an anthill.” The desolation rises up once more.

  “You have spoken with Lady Sybella, I presume?”

  “Oh, we’ve spoken.”

  “She has been looking for you for some time. I know she will be glad for your presence.”

  While his words are meant as comfort, they cut like broken glass. “I do not think she would agree with you,” I mutter.

  He cocks his head to the side, watching me like some little bird patiently waiting for a plump worm to emerge from the ground.

  I do not know if his kind regard coaxes the next words from me or if my own self-loathing forces them out. “Let us just say my arrival did not go as planned.”

  “Or perhaps”—he spreads his hands in a beneficent gesture—“you are tasked with a different plan. One the gods have not seen fit to share with you.”

  His words are so close to the misguided reasoning that got me into this mess that I nearly snap his head off. “I do not want to hear of the gods or saints or any of their rutting plans.”

  My outburst does not deter him in the least. “Then what would you like to talk about?”

  I am quiet for a moment, thinking. “The sisters Sybella mentioned. Who are they?”

  “They are not of Mortain, but born into the family that raised Sybella. She has taken them under her wing in an effort to keep them from the wickedness of their own family.”

  “The d’Albrets?”

  His nod is a simple gesture, but conveys a deep regret. “Yes.”

  This time, I truly fear I will retch. I had thought I understood the nature of the disaster I have wrought, but in this moment realize my valiant plan to save the convent has put two innocent girls in immediate danger. Not to mention all of those at the convent once the ripples of my revelations begin to reach them.

  “My child, are you well?” The priest lays his hand on my arm, his touch as light as a moth’s wing.

  “No.” The bleak word escapes before I can catch it, as if the old priest has some power to call such weaknesses from me. I have destroyed the convent’s trust in me and am so far out of the king’s favor I may as well be in the Low Countries. Even if I see him again, he will not listen to any explanations or exhortations I can make. “I have ruined everything,” I whisper.

  “You’d be surprised at how resilient the world—and yourself—can be.”

  Again, he is offering comfort. Comfort that is not warranted. “It is not simply my own life I have ruined, but others.” So many others.

  He is quiet a long moment. “Then perhaps you have come to make your confession.”

  I open my mouth to correct him, then stop. I am desperate to thrust some of this dark, hot misery from me. To find some way to divest myself of this guilt and shame. Perhaps this kind stranger whose eyes seem to hold three lifetimes of wisdom is the one to hear of it. “Mayhap I have, Father.”

   Chapter 5

  Sybella

  Once Genevieve is gone, I lean against my door, grateful for the solid wood at my back as I fight down the sour taste of panic.

  What has she done?

  Even though I am furious with her, I must acknowledge the part my own hand played in this. If I had not evicted Lady Katerine from the king’s bed, he may not have resumed his interest in Genevieve. If I had approached her in the chapel or followed her once I guessed who she was . . . but I was consumed by my own worries and obsessions.

  And what part does Count Angoulême play in all this? In spite of my anger, my heart aches for Genevieve. For the journey she has set herself on. A journey that I can only pray will lead her through her own anger and bitterness. A journey I recognize all too clearly, having made a similar one myself. I do not envy her trying to put this aright.

  But the sympathy I should feel for Genevieve is overpowered by my fear of what may come of her actions. She has only the faintest inkling of what she has set in motion. Of whom she has endangered.

  My sisters are gone from here, I reassure myself. Beyond Fremin’s greedy grasp, beyond the king’s reach, and the regent’s machinations. Beast, Aeva, and the entire queen’s guard are with them and have sworn by the Nine to keep them safe.

  But it won’t be enough, not if the king decides to act on the information Genevieve has shared with him. There is a very good chance that all of them—Annith, Ismae, the older nuns, and the youngest novitiates—could be in harm’s way. I would pray for them all, but who, now, do I pray to?

  I shove away from the door, cross the room to my small trunklet, and open the lid. The holly berry still appears bright red, and the leaves a vibrant green—until I bring it closer. Then I see the edges have begun to brown. Why? Why now? Is it simply the miracle of Mortain fading, much like he himself eventually will? Or is it a reflection of my own wilting faith?

  Afraid I will break the sprig in its new fragile state, I place it carefully in the trunk. As I do, my fingers brush against the black pebble Yannic gave me. Bewildered, I touch it again. It is not my imagination. The p
ebble feels warm, as if it has been out in the sun.

  I had thought it blessed by Mortain, but Yannic had indicated I was wrong. Blessed by whom, then?

  It is as smooth as polished glass, and I close my fingers around it, letting the warmth comfort me. It speaks of mysteries that still exist in this world. The mysteries that have come to me before and may yet again.

  I move to put the pebble back in the trunk, then pause, deciding to slip it into the pocket at my waist, savoring its gentle heat against my leg through the silk of my skirts. I will need every bit of comfort I can muster for the conversation I must have with the queen.

  * * *

  It is too late to disturb the queen—she has already retired for the night. I am too restless to go back to my chamber. My thoughts keep circling back to Beast and the girls, even though I know he will get them safely to the convent. But saints, I miss him already—and it has only been three days. I told Beast the girls were my heart, but that was only partly true. He is my heart as well, and it feels as if I have carved off a piece and dared rabid wolves to feast upon it.

  He would be greatly insulted by my worrying. And in truth, it galls me somewhat, even though I can no more stop it than I can halt the blood flowing in my veins.

  I am not surprised when I find myself standing outside the servants’ chapel. There is only one person with whom I can share this disaster. Only one sworn to silence by virtue of his priest’s robes.

  Father Effram looks up from the brace of fresh candles he is lighting, smiling as if he’s been expecting me. I head directly for the confessional booth. He slips into the other side.

  “Have you heard?” I murmur as soon as his door is shut.

  “The palace does seem to be in a mild uproar this afternoon.”

  I quickly fill him in on Genevieve’s arrival and subsequent actions. “Yes,” he says when I have finished. “She paid me a visit earlier. You just missed her.”

  Just missed her. The words poke at my memory. “You were the one who led me to the chapel that day. I had no intention of praying. You knew who she was, didn’t you?”

  I hear the faint whisper of fabric as he shrugs. “Let us say suspected.”

  So he, too, played a part in all this. “Do you think she is telling the truth?”

  “I do. She has asked to meet with the queen, is eager to make her apology and offer whatever aid she can to set things right.”

  “Or she wishes to get close enough to harm her,” I mutter.

  “You don’t truly believe that.”

  His calmness scrapes on my nerves like a rasp. “She’s not simply made some little mistake that is easily fixed. Monsieur Fremin has reported his missing henchmen to the king and has accused me of being responsible for it. With Genevieve’s confession, he has made a shrewd guess about me and is now inclined to give serious weight to Monsieur Fremin’s claims. And if anything happens to my sisters, she will pay for it with her—”

  “It is not her fault.” Father Effram’s voice is no longer gentle, but a bracing slap.

  “Of course it is her fault. It no longer matters that she meant well—she has set in motion the ruin of everything, including the lives of those I care deeply about.”

  “You think she is more powerful than the gods and saints?”

  “No, but since you speak of them, shouldn’t Mortain have foreseen this before he gave up his godhood?”

  “How do you know that he didn’t?”

  I feel like a rabbit stunned by a hunter’s club. “Are you saying he knew?”

  “I’m saying that what the gods set in motion is not knowable to mere mortals. We are simply caught up in the movement of their dance and there are still eight gods, each of them more than willing to meddle in the affairs of mortals for their own purposes.” The thought is terrifying. My fingers drift to the small weight resting against my leg and the faint warmth it gives off. “Does the Dark Mother meddle in the affairs of mortals?” The words bring not a chill, but a faint wash of heat along my skin. “Is she behind this?” There is a rustle of woolen cloth as he shrugs. “I would not say she meddles so much as when one thing dies and gives way to the new, it is she who guides that process. If we let her.”

  I am quiet a moment before saying, “The holly branch is dying.”

  “What holly branch?”

  “The one I brought with me from Rennes. It stayed green this entire time, until this morning.” A thought floats by, and I grasp at it. “Could it be that it’s simply too far removed from its source? Where the remnants of Mortain’s power cannot reach? Or is it simply his power withdrawing from the world, just as he has done?”

  The question renews the familiar anger I have carried since that eventful battle. “Did Mortain know that by choosing life, he would leave his faith and followers to the jackals?”

  “Did he know it would fade? Yes. The passing of the Nine has been coming for a long time. We have all known it. Ever since we signed the original agreement with the Church.”

  Agreement? What agreement? But before I can voice the question, he continues.

  “Do not begrudge him love, child. That love provided him something to move toward rather than simply cease is a gift beyond measure. One I’ve no doubt the Dark Matrona herself had a hand in.”

  “So you are saying she is guiding this?”

  “No, it is but one among many possibilities. We have all been given a part to play, and play it we must. Only at the end, if then, will we know if we were hero or villain.”

  Anger spikes through my gut. I am sick of these riddles. “I refuse to accept that.”

  “You are not meant to accept it. To accept it would change the outcome of the dance.”

  “Then what am I to do?” I spit out.

  He is quiet so long that I fear I have finally gone too far and offended him. Just as I open my mouth to apologize, he speaks.

  “Remember,” he says simply, “you and Genevieve are not only mortal, but part god as well. It is not simply Mortain’s blood that flows in your veins, but his divinity, too.”

  Against my thigh, the small pebble burns like a brand.

   Chapter 6

  The news I must share with the queen fills me with dread. I’ve no desire to drag this fresh disaster to her door, nor the possible repercussions. But I made the mistake of not telling her in the past, which proved worse. And Genevieve’s actions will affect her most directly.

  I wait until Elsibet steps away from the bed, then curtsy. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” While the queen smiles in welcome, she is pale and her skin clammy. I snag Elsibet’s elbow. “I need to speak with the queen alone. Can you make the others disappear?”

  She shoots me one quick glance of concern. “But of course, my lady. Heloise? Could you assist me?”

  Heloise collects a covered basin from the bedside, then hurries after Elsibet, casting a curious look my way.

  When we are alone, the queen frowns. “Lady Sybella.” She lowers her voice. “Is everything all right?”

  I cannot help but wonder when she will ever be allowed to find the happiness—or even simply the peace—that she so deserves. “I’m afraid matters are developing faster than we would have wished.”

  She sits up a little higher against the pillows. “Which matters are those?”

  “The men who accompanied Monsieur Fremin have gone missing.” I keep my voice casual, as if merely discussing the latest gossip. “The lawyer is most overwrought and went at once to the king. He seems to think that I am behind their disappearance.”

  Her eyes never leave mine. “But that is ridiculous. How could a lady like yourself have had anything to do with men like that?”

  “That is precisely what I pointed out, Your Majesty. Indeed, when they went looking for me this morning, they found my room empty, not just of me, but of my sisters as well.”

  The queen says nothing, but a small satisfied smile plays about her lips. Truly, one could not ask for a better ally.

  “I told th
e king that it was obvious that Monsieur Fremin, not liking the king’s decision, sent his men to take the girls by force.”

  She smiles briefly. “I am certain you are correct. Let us hope the king will now put the matter to rest.”

  “Unfortunately, the king is inclined to give more weight to Monsieur Fremin’s words than mine.”

  She frowns in surprise. “Why?”

  Merde, this is hard. “Because he has learned of my involvement with the convent of Saint Mortain and the nature of my service.”

  Her already pale face grows even whiter. “Who would have told him such a thing?” she whispers.

  I close my eyes briefly. While news of my exposure alarms her, what I have to say next will hurt her. “That is the one piece of good news. It appears the convent’s hidden initiate returned to court.”

  Her eyes harden in anger. “And blabbed your identity to the king? Surely that is not something one with your sort of training would do.”

  “It was an attempt to help, Your Majesty. She had been told the king already knew of the convent, and had ordered it disbanded, the novitiates farmed out to the Church or suitable husbands.”

  There is a long beat of silence as the queen digests this. “And how did she think confirming such revelations about the convent would help?”

  “She thought she could persuade the king to reverse his decision.”

  Never the lackwit, the queen’s interest sharpens. “Persuade him how?”

  No amount of gentleness will soften the blow. “The king had expressed an interest in her once, long before you came to court. She thought to use that interest to extract a favor on behalf of the convent.”

  The queen’s face grows as cold as marble. “Are we certain the girl is working for us? Our enemies could not have done a better job of weakening what few advantages we hold.”

  “I believe she is, but I have only spoken with her twice. Father Effram believes she was sincerely trying to help.”