Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  “Let me make myself clear. You will not associate with Lady Sybella. She has been accused of serious crimes. Crimes that can taint those around them. Crimes that may still lead to a most unpleasant punishment.” Her face softens unexpectedly. “I would not want that for you, Genevieve. Besides, you have a far more important task before you than Sybella’s poor health. The king needs you now more than ever, as there are heavy decisions weighing upon him. Tend to those needs as you have been instructed. As you have promised. Else I will make certain you wish that you had.”

   Chapter 18

  Sybella

  I wait a quarter hour after the regent leaves, then make my way to the queen. My two guards still follow, but from a greater distance than before. When I slip into the room, Heloise looks up from the posset she is preparing.

  I keep my voice low. “How is the queen doing?”

  Heloise glances over at the bed. “Not much better.” The cheerful note in her voice is at odds with her words as she takes a pinch of cloves and adds it to the cup.

  “Does her illness no longer concern you?” Or is she snubbing me for not doing a better job of fulfilling my duties?

  Heloise opens a second small jar and takes another pinch, this time of ginger. “I think I will let her tell you.” She drops the spices into the hot posset, shoves it into my hand with a smile, then shoos me toward the queen.

  Unable to make sense of her manner, I feel my hands grow damp, and foreboding settles in my belly. Elsibet is just securing a thick blue velvet shawl around the queen’s shoulders as I reach the bed. The queen’s face is still pale, but there is no clamminess or greenish tinge to it.

  With a final plump of the pillow, Elsibet retreats to the window next to Heloise and takes up her stitching.

  “Your Majesty.” I curtsy deeply.

  As I hand the queen her posset, she says, “Genevieve told me what has happened.”

  “About the regent and the Bishop of Albi working together?”

  “Yes.” She sips her posset. “But also about the accusation being made against you.”

  I grimace. “I am sor—”

  “I believe I have ordered you not to apologize for such things before, and you dare not disobey a direct order from your sovereign.”

  Her words fill me with both warmth and humor, removing some of the chill that had beset me. “But of course. I dare not.”

  She lowers her voice. “So did you kill him?”

  As I look into the queen’s sweet young face, I am filled with despair. No matter how hard I try to break free of this darkness, it always pulls me back. “Yes. Pierre sent him to kill me.”

  The queen settles back against her pillows. “I thought as much. That’s why I didn’t ask you before the trial—in case they called me to testify.”

  Clever queen! “You don’t seem perturbed by it at all.”

  “Perturbed? No! I am glad that you have the skills and the strength that allow you to survive. That allow us all to survive.”

  “The good news is the death has been ruled an accident. I am absolved.”

  “Oh, that is good news!”

  “Unfortunately, I do not think that means they will give up on their hope to position our worship as heresy.”

  The queen stares glumly into her posset. “If they succeed, then all who worship the Nine will be declared heretics.”

  To try a queen for heresy would be a shocking scandal—but one that might suit the regent’s aspirations perfectly. “I do not think they will go that far,” I tell her, but I no longer pretend to understand just how far these people will go.

  “Not only have the Nine been sanctioned by the Church,” she grumbles, “they have lent me their aid when I needed it most.” She sets her chin stubbornly. “I will not renounce them.” She looks up at me then, her eyes suddenly sparkling. “But I forget. You have not heard the news. We may yet have one more arrow in our quiver.” She smiles shyly. In truth, she appears to be blushing faintly.

  “What news?” For some inexplicable reason, I grow chilled.

  Her blush deepens, and she looks down at her fingers, playing with the rim of her goblet. “I am pregnant.”

  My body feels as if it has turned to stone, and my vision narrows until small black spots begin dancing before my eyes. “Pregnant?” My voice is steady. Normal, even. I clap my hands together to keep them from drifting to my belly. No matter how deeply the mind tries to hide it, no matter how thick the heart builds the walls, the body remembers. “You are certain?”

  She tilts her head, perplexed. “Is this not good news?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty! This is a most joyous and welcome event!”

  “Then why do you look as if you are attending a funeral?”

  “I am just stunned. I did not think enough time had passed.” It has just been over five weeks since the wedding.

  The queen wrinkles her nose. “It was too early to tell before now, but this is the second monthly course I have missed. The first one was right after the wedding, and we thought it was due to the travel and excitement. But now, with the second one . . .” She shrugs gracefully.

  “And there are other signs, as well.” Heloise appears beside me and takes the half-drunk posset from the queen. “Her breasts are tender. She cannot keep food down. And she is sleeping nearly all the time.”

  My own breasts tighten in painful remembrance. “Those are the signs. And may I just say again, Your Majesty, how happy I am for you. There is nothing that could tip the scales in our favor more than this news.” That is when the first glimmer of happiness finally gets through—not only because she will be having a child, but because the political implications are so far-reaching. She now holds an entire handful of cards she did not have before.

  She smiles, joy and relief writ plain on her face. In spite of the wretched trembling of my body, I am happy for her.

  “Surely our new position”—her hand waves awkwardly at her middle—“will make the king think twice before making any such decisions.”

  Her words are a vicious reminder of how unfair the world is. That only her potential to produce a dauphin can assure her of the king’s favor. “Surely he will, for he won’t wish so much as a whiff of illegitimacy on the dauphin. Even so, I think it best to wait for the right moment to share this news with him.” What I do not say is that between the regent and the bishop, there is a chance things could get even worse, and we do not want to use up all our arrows before the true fight has even begun.

  * * *

  The walk through the palace halls back to my own room lasts a lifetime. Nay, a thousand lifetimes if counting my baby’s lifespan. She is long grown cold now, but I held her tiny, warm body for a handful of minutes, each one of them more precious than any jewel. The wound should be long healed, but my body—my stubborn, obstinate body—will not forget.

  Nor my heart. Both tremble and flutter as if it were still holding that small bundle in my arms.

  When at last I reach my door, I thrust it open and stumble inside. Desperately in need of air, I rush to the window and throw it open, lifting my face to the cold bite of winter that pours in, welcoming its bracing slap. When my lungs no longer feel as if they are bound in iron, I lean against the stone wall next to the window. Of all the locked doors in my heart, this one has the most chains wrapped around it. More than any of the others, it has the power to rob me of what little peace I’ve managed to eke out.

  I do not begrudge the queen her growing babe. Indeed, I am happy for her. I only wish her happiness did not feel as if it were ripping my own heart wide open.

  I press myself more firmly against the hard stone at my back and pretend it is Beast’s solid presence that holds me until the wave of pain and desolation has passed.

   Chapter 19

  Aeva

  After our near miss with the search party, the rest of our trip is uneventful. The cities and larger holdings are crawling with soldiers, but we evade them easily. Tonight, there are barely two ho
urs of daylight left when we decide to halt for the day. Once I have seen to our horses, I make my way toward the camp Tola and Tephanie are setting up for the girls. Tola looks up as I approach the campfire. “There you are.” She stands up and brushes off her hands. “It’s your turn to help set up, and I have promised to show one of the queen’s guards the secret of how we shoot a bow so accurately.”

  I scowl at her. “You’re going to tell him our sacred secrets?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “No, cranky goose. I’m going to pretend I am, then use the opportunity to teach him how to shoot better.” As she brushes past me, she says in a lower voice, “Besides, I think it is high time you put the girls to bed for a change. I have had my fill of Charlotte for today.”

  “Liar,” I mutter. She laughs and disappears toward the other end of camp.

  When I look down at the others, the little wasp is watching me, her eyes unreadable in the deepening shadows. Sometimes when a mare throws a foal, even though we begin training it in its earliest days, it will never accept a saddle or rider. I wonder if the wasp is like one of those wilding foals that cannot be tamed no matter what, or if she has just not found the right trainer yet.

  I reach out and ruffle her hair. She ducks away in annoyance. “If you’re waiting for us to make your bed, you will be stuck sleeping on the bare ground,” I tell her.

  Her head snaps up. “Tephanie and Tola always make our beds for us.”

  “For Louise, yes. But you are of an age where you can do things for yourself.”

  She thrusts out her pointed chin. “I am a lady, and ladies do not do such things for themselves.”

  I laugh outright. “And that is something you are proud of?” I squat down so that I am eye to eye with her. “You have it wrong, waspling. There is no pride in not knowing how to do things, in having to be waited on like a small child.”

  “Why should I want to do servants’ work?” The scorn in her voice could peel the bark off a tree.

  “Why would you want to be dependent on others? Why would you—who are so filled with pride—not relish doing things for yourself? Being competent. Having skills.”

  She scoffs. “There is no skill in making a camp bed.”

  “Oho!” I lift a brow. “You think not? Perhaps we should wager on that.”

  “There is nothing that you have that I want.” Her mouth twists into an irritated little bow.

  “And here I thought you enjoyed our knife lessons.”

  At last—a reaction! She gapes at me. “That’s not fair! You’re already doing that.”

  “True, but it is something you want from me.”

  She considers another minute, then rolls her eyes. “Very well.”

  I must work to keep the smile off my face. “We have a deal,” I agree solemnly.

  We collect the bedding from the packs and move closer to the fire that one of the men has started. She looks around at the ground. “Where do we place it?”

  “Now, see? That is the art of bed making—knowing where to put it. If I were to tell you, you wouldn’t be doing it by yourself.” From across the fire, I can feel the dove’s eyes on me, observing.

  The wasp sighs and flounces six arrow lengths away. “Well, I don’t have to sleep beside you, do I?”

  “No, just within the circle, like we do every night.”

  While she busies herself kicking the largest stones out of the way, the dove rises and comes to stand beside me, her eyes on Charlotte. “She likes you, you know.”

  I blink at her in surprise. “I would not wager my life on that.”

  Her eyes are still on the younger girl. “Oh, she would never show such a thing, but she does. You are the only one who treats her as if she is your equal.” Her gaze is warm and soft, and reflects her nature.

  “It is how we raise young girls when they find their way to us. When they come to us from a world that sucks the very marrow from their bones, rebuilding from the ground up helps them reclaim their own selves.”

  “I think it is the right approach. She needs things to do, to occupy her hands and especially her mind, else it goes to places it’s better she not visit.”

   Chapter 20

  Sybella

  I do not know how much time passes before I claw my way out of the past back into my body. Perhaps it is the growing heat from the black pebble I still carry, or perhaps it is the voice I hear outside my door that pulls me from my grief.

  Fremin’s voice.

  He has come. And sooner than I would have thought. Too soon for me to have a plan in place. Guided by sheer instinct, I surge to my feet and reach for my trunklet to retrieve le Poisson’s knife. It is an instinct forged in the same d’Albret household that sent Fremin to Plessis, but honed far more sharply through the convent’s training.

  I have just finished tucking the knife into my belt when the door opens. I leap back against the long curtain to shield myself from view. It is not the guards, come to announce Fremin’s arrival, but Fremin himself.

  He looks around the room as he shuts the door behind him, his heart beating rapidly, as if he’s been running. Or was poised to fight.

  He takes three steps toward the bed, then pauses to glance around the room. He frowns in annoyance, a question forms on his lips. Before he can give voice to that question, I step up behind him and place the sharp edge of le Poisson’s knife at his throat. “To what do I owe this most delightful surprise?”

  Beneath the blade, his pulse begins to race. “The king may have exonerated you, but we both know you are guilty of this murder.”

  “Oh, not just this murder, but a few others besides. Remove your weapon.”

  He swallows once, his throat working against the edge of my blade, then slowly draws a knife from his sleeve and drops it onto the floor. I kick it out of the way. “That still does not explain why you are here. I assumed you would report your suspicions to the king.”

  “I am here to encourage your cooperation should you have qualms.”

  I laugh. “I have many qualms, Monsieur Fremin, but you are not on that list.” At least, not any longer. By coming to my room, unannounced, with a knife, he has reignited that white flame of anger and seared any doubt from my mind.

  “You realize if you harm me, it will only support my assertion that you are behind the disappearance of my men as well as your sisters.”

  “Will it? To me it supports that this was your plan all along. Once you’d gained possession of my sisters, you had no intention of remaining behind to face the consequences. And surely no one can question my need for self-defense. Turn around. Slowly.”

  If I am to step so fully out of whatever of Mortain’s grace still exists in this world, I will not hide from it. I will look into the eyes of the man who has brought me to this crossroads. For assuredly, it is a crossroads. I will not hide from that either.

  Against my leg, the pebble burns like a brand.

  Fremin does what I order, the tip of my knife staying in contact with his neck the entire time. This does not feel like a choice rooted in love. Or fear. With the full, visceral memory of the depravity of the d’Albret family still pulsing though my limbs, it feels more like a burning need for justice.

  For vengeance. For righting a scale that has been tipped too long in darkness’s favor.

  “Why?” I whisper when I can see his face. “Why did you not take the chance to claim your men acted without your knowledge when I gave it to you? We could both have walked away then.”

  He barks out a harsh laugh. “Walking away was never an option for me.” His heart beats fast with fear, his pupils are wide with it. “Why could you and your sisters not just have come with me when I asked? Returned to your brother’s side, where you belong?”

  There it is. The reason he deserves to die. He would trade innocents’ safety for his own. I press my knife closer. “For the same reason you are too afraid to return to him empty-handed.”

  “He will send others.”

  “And I will kill
them, too.”

  “Then he will come himself, with an army at his back.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “He would stand his army against the crown of France? I think not.”

  “You assume the crown will still support you after I tell them you are responsible for the corpse they found.”

  I lean in closer. “What makes you think that you will be allowed to have that conversation?”

  He looks down at me and smirks. “I am bigger and stronger than you, even with that knife.”

  “That may well be true, but I am more ruthless.” I silently place one foot behind his, then shove hard against his chest, knocking him backwards. Unbalanced, he falls. A grunt escapes him as he catches his head on the hearthstone.

  His eyes flutter once, but he does not move. It is done. The line crossed. The decision made. Although it never truly felt like a decision. More like the satisfaction of pulling a thorn out of one’s heart.

  I consider—briefly—offering a prayer to Mortain. Of thanks? Of forgiveness? But instead, my mind goes to the Dark Mother. While Mortain’s divinity may still flow in my veins, it is through the Dark Mother’s grace that I have been reborn through the ashes of my own pain and heartache. Mayhap I should pray to her instead.

  I wait a moment longer to be certain he will not move, then shove my knife into my belt, bend over to grab the edge of the rug, and drag him to the window. Praise the Nine he is not bleeding.

  He is heavy, but the rug moves smoothly across the stone floor. At the window, I pause. How best to disguise what I’ve done? The guards saw him come in, but they did not see me. I peer down into the empty courtyard, which is as deserted as it ever is. I go to my trunklet and retrieve the Marquis’s rope, then hoist and tug and shove until he is braced on the ledge. After confirming the courtyard is still empty, I give a final push.

  A second later, there is a heavy thud, then a silent pop as his soul bursts from his body like the flesh from an overripe plum. As I stare down, I feel the ashes of my faith in Mortain scatter with the wind, and a new, tentative faith is born. I have not only ended a life, but created a space, a pocket of safety, for two young lives to come to fruition. Fremin’s death creates security for my sisters.