Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  When he does not answer, I continue. “Sybella is well aware of the suspicions you harbor against her, and would never hand you a rope with which to hang her.”

  “Then why are you?”

  Because I am the only person he seems willing to protect. But will he for something this serious? “I made sure it looked like an accident, and Sybella was nowhere nearby when it occurred. I did not realize your dislike of her would blind you to the evidence.”

  “You just told me that shadows are an assassin’s friend—why would that not apply to her as well?”

  “It would, and does. But your own guards saw her arrive and discover the body alongside them. Why do you not believe their account?”

  “Perhaps she bewitched them. I don’t know what assassins who serve the god of death are capable of.”

  That is when I get my first full taste of the fear that lurks behind his feelings for Sybella. It is not merely that she is an assassin, but that she feels otherworldly to him.

  “If she had bewitched them, would they have allowed him into her chambers, unescorted and unchaperoned? I think you should ask them what their motives were.”

  His eyes widen at the implications of my words, and for the first time since I stepped over this cliff’s edge, I feel that I have forced a crack into his thick, closed skull. Now if only some light can get through it.

  He glances at the painting on the far wall. “Who else knows that you have been in contact with Sybella?”

  “The regent saw me coming out of her room yesterday. I told her I was concerned about her health, as way of explanation.”

  “She demanded an explanation of you? What business is it of hers?”

  Ah, she is rubbing him raw with her interference. Good. I will toss a little salt into that wound. “Madame Regent believes that all matters that affect the crown of France are her business.”

  His mouth tightens. “So you’ve told no one? What of the queen?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve told only you.”

  He stares into the fire for a moment, thinking, then barks for the guard. When the man hurriedly appears, the king gives him an order. “Fetch General Cassel from the Lady Sybella’s chambers. At once.”

   Chapter 30

  Sybella

  Cassel sweeps the trunklet up, cradling it against his chest with one arm while he uses the other to flip open the lid. The force of the movement nearly breaks the small brass hinges.

  The fury inside me coils tighter as his meaty hand rifles through the contents, this violation of my things reminding me of every other violation I have suffered. But I fold my arms and wait patiently.

  He lifts my golden bracelet, then tosses it to the floor, dismissing it as a woman’s bauble. When he finds the handkerchief that Tephanie embroidered for me, I must bite back a stream of curses. I hold my breath, hoping he will ignore the rest of what is in there. None of it is even remotely weaponlike—he simply enjoys the violation.

  When he plucks the twig of holly from the bottom of the casket, my heart clenches, but I force my face into a bored expression. He gives a snort of contempt, then flings the holly sprig onto the ground. I must give myself away somehow, for he pauses, glances at me, then grinds it under the heel of his boot. The act causes all the air to flee from my lungs. It takes every ounce of will I possess to refrain from snatching up the holly and cradling it in my hands.

  “Feel better now?” I ask, making certain the faint mocking tone hides my distress.

  He tosses the trunklet to the ground and comes to stand before me, closer, closer, until our chests are nearly touching and I must tip my head back to meet his eyes. “We should search you, as well.”

  Hot fury writhes inside me, but my voice is colder than the deepest crypt. “If you lay so much as a finger on me, I will kill you. I don’t care whose father you are.”

  His face shifts, going from hard anger to something closer to bewilderment. “What did you say?”

  Merde. Before I can answer, one of the soldiers returns and sticks his head in the door. “Sir! The king wishes to see you at once.”

  Cassel does not look away. “I’ll be right—”

  “The king said to come at once, sir,” the man says unhappily.

  Reluctantly, Cassel pulls his gaze from mine. “This is not over,” he says under his breath.

  “Oh, but it is,” I say just as softly to his retreating back.

  * * *

  When I am alone at last, I grab my skirts to give my hands something to do besides tremble. It is not fear that has me shaking, but rage. I make myself draw a deep breath, then another, using the air to cool my anger.

  As my mind clears, my gaze falls on the trampled holly twig, the broken leaves and smashed berries as bruised as my heart. I kneel down, and fury explodes inside me again, although this time it is accompanied by a hollow sense of desolation. It is just a twig, I remind myself. Just a stupid piece of a branch that fools liked to call miraculous.

  It was also my last remaining piece of Mortain. The desolation that fills me is so complete that I cannot breathe. I fumble for my pocket, my fingers closing around the pebble, welcoming the bite of pain as it presses against my palm. I stare down at the ruined remains of Mortain’s last miracle, the heat of unshed tears searing my eyes. But one escapes, landing on the holly. I stare at it, the last mingling of his essence and mine.

  I blink, trying to clear my vision. The crushed edges of the leaves are not torn, merely sharply bent. And the berries are not crushed, but simply misshapen. As I watch, the holly shifts, so slowly my eye cannot truly see it, but within a hand span of minutes, it is whole again. Not quite new—there are creases where it was torn and scars along the berries’ surfaces. But it is whole and remade. A miracle, for all that it is a small one. I gently scoop up the sprig and cradle it to my breast.

   Chapter 31

  Genevieve

  The next day, when it has grown dark, the door to the king’s chambers finally opens. It is not the king, but two young boys—apprentices, I realize—jostling a large wooden trunk between them. On their heels comes an older man of middle years. He is not a servant, and certainly not a courtier. His clothes are of good quality, but serviceable. He does not so much as glance at me. “Careful with that, you despicable turnips! Set it down in the far corner near the fire. Carefully!”

  The boys hurry to do what he asks. With quick, practiced movements, they open the top of the traveling case, which folds out to create a table.

  The man crosses to the fire and stokes it, motioning at one of the boys to add fresh logs until it is burning hotly.

  When he is satisfied with the fire, he tells the boys, “Enough! If that table is not set up by now, then I’ve wasted these last seven years on you.” There is no malice in his words, and the boys ignore his scolding as a tree ignores the wind. “Now begone. And stay out of everyone’s way. I’ll send for you when I’m done.”

  As they clamber to the door, one of them shoots a curious look my way—the first one of them to make eye contact. I smile, but he ducks his head and scurries out. A faint swell of understanding begins forming in my chest. The king was very happy to remind me that he had a variety of punishments at his disposal. Clearly he has put some thought and planning into this one.

  The man has tied on a leather apron and is muttering over a set of tools—a hammer, pliers, tongs. I think of Maraud, nearly broken in the dungeon at Cognac: the iron chains, the manacles, the oubliette.

  The king would not have me tortured, would he? I square my shoulders. Just because that is what they have in mind does not mean I must submit to it. I run my hand down my skirts—a seemingly nervous gesture—to assure myself of my knife’s solid presence.

  The man begins hammering. Before I can investigate, the door opens and the king strides in, moving with confidence and purpose, the dregs of last night’s anger still lurking in his eyes. He does not look at me as he crosses the room to the worktable. “How is it coming?”


  The man drops his tools and bows deeply. “It is almost done, Your Majesty. I must simply take a measurement before adding the final link.”

  The king waves his hand in my direction. “But of course.”

  The man approaches me like a horse that might bolt, and with dawning recognition, I understand what is happening.

  He holds an elegant necklace of finely worked silver. It is long, longer than I am tall. Almost as long as a . . . chain.

  I jerk my head around to stare at the king. He is pouring a generous glass of wine. I think he means it to be a careless gesture, but I can feel his attention on me. The man—a silversmith, I now realize—grunts. “This way, if you please.” His words are brusque and impersonal.

  Before I can ask a question or register a protest, his arm snakes out and the cool silver is around my neck. He loops the chain once around the base of my throat, a second time so that it rests just below my collarbone, then a third time so that it spans across my chest, like a livery collar.

  “Like this?” the silversmith asks the king.

  He studies me from across the room, head tilted, eyes narrowed. “Yes. Although a little longer, I think, to trail halfway down her back.”

  The silversmith adjusts the length, then glances once more to the king, who nods in approval.

  A part of me wishes to yank the rutting thing from my neck, throw it in the smith’s face, then ask the king to explain what he thinks he is doing. But the other part, the part that chose to protect Sybella from the king’s version of justice, is genuinely curious as to what game is being played here.

  Besides, penance is not meant to be easy. I am lucky his idea of punishment does not extend to scourges or hair shirts, as many in the Church prefer.

  Behind me there is a tug and a twist, followed by the sound of a tool snipping, then the entire thing comes to rest against my neck. It is surprisingly heavy. Carcanets are the height of fashion, the sheer weight of the precious metal involved adding to their prestige.

  I slip my hand behind me to grasp the loose end of the necklace, smiling at how sturdy it is. It is truly a chain, which means it is also a weapon if I so wish.

  At the look in my eye, the silversmith steps away and packs up his tools, not bothering to call for his assistants. When he has quit the room, the king comes over to study me appraisingly. It is so plainly a move to gain control and make me squirm that it loses any power to do so. But there is more than one way to play with power, so I remain silent, forcing him to speak first. Truthfully, serving in Angoulême’s home has trained me well for these stupid games.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I am admiring your gift. It is remarkably generous and an undeserved sign of your favor.”

  “It is not a gift,” he snaps, “but a punishment.”

  “You have given me a necklace a third of my weight in silver as a punishment?”

  He grits his teeth. “It is a chain. A chain to keep you in your place.” He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I told you to avoid Sybella, and you didn’t listen. Three times you snuck to her room, and during the last of those visits, you killed someone.” He folds his hands behind his back and nods his head in a grave manner. “I can no longer trust you, Gen. I cannot let you run free anymore.” The words please him more than they ought.

  “You should feel grateful,” he continues. “I thought about branding you—we do that to some criminals, you know.”

  “I do know, Your Majesty.” My words work to calm his ruffled feathers, and his features relax somewhat. I move to stand in front of the mirror. “It will show.”

  The king drinks heavily from his goblet before answering. Another move intended to intimidate. “Not if you keep the back of it underneath your gown. To everyone else it will simply appear as if I have given you a most generous gift.”

  My eyes meet his in the mirror. “So what am I to be chained to, Your Majesty?”

  His smile is filled with pride. “That is where I have chosen to show you mercy. I will not chain you to anything yet. But if you cross me again, I will do it—and gladly.” His voice holds a note of eagerness that is faintly unsettling. Then, so quick that I do not see it coming, he hurls his goblet into the fire, where it shatters loudly, the wine hissing as it is consumed by the flames. “Do not look at me like that.” His cheeks are flushed, the true depths of his anger rising to the surface at last. “Not when I have had to stand before my council and declare Fremin’s death an accident even as they howled for Sybella’s head. Not when I have hidden your crimes from my closest advisors. Spared you from a trial that would cost you your life. Do not dare to look disappointed in me.” As he speaks, I realize that some small part of his own self—the hidden part I had been reaching—is also disappointed in him. That is all the spark of hope I need.

  “I wasn’t disappointed in you, Your Majesty, but that I have ruined the trust between us.”

  “Trust can be rebuilt,” he says, sounding like a priest beginning a Sunday mass. “But it takes time, and much effort on the part of the one who has broken it. Because I care for you, I am giving you that chance.” With that pompous proclamation, he nods once, then leaves the room.

  Because I care for you, I am not strangling you with this rutting chain, I want to say to his retreating back, but of course I do not. The entire point of willingly submitting to this farce is to make him feel powerful and less threatened by me. The less threatened he is, the greater the chance he will continue to confide in me so that I may in turn try to sway him from the influence of his late father and General Cassel.

  I grip the silver chain and tug on it in disgust, wincing at the memory of how I forced Maraud to wear a chain of his own, only his was made of thick iron and held no pretense of fashion or favor. And yet he bore it good-naturedly, and I can as well. Besides, I am a far better target for the king’s wrath than Sybella. Not only is he willing to indulge me more than her, I am fairly certain she would have killed him by now, and that would only complicate everything.

   Chapter 32

  Maraud

  Saints, Maraud hated the mud. Slimy, gritty, soul-sucking sludge that threatened to pull them down to the very gates of the Underworld itself. It was so deep in some places, they’d had to dismount and squelch alongside their horses, their boots disappearing into the foul stuff.

  And it was everywhere: In his hair, his eyes. Even in his damn teeth.

  The others were no doubt regretting their decision to come with him.

  They finally managed to slog their way to the crest of a small hillock—more of a pile of mud, really—the only one they’d passed in the last four days. Below them, like a child’s wooden blocks cast down in a fit of temper, lay Flanders.

  “It’s probably nicer than it looks,” Jaspar said.

  Tassin grunted. “Probably worse.”

  Andry reached up and scratched his beard. “You know they’re going to overcharge us.”

  Jaspar’s voice was glum as he pointed out, “That’s if we’re lucky enough to find a room.”

  In spite of the drizzle, in spite of his friend’s melancholy, Maraud felt a sense of triumph deep in his chest, his heart nearly swelling with it. He’d waited for this moment for over a year now. Dreamed of it, plotted it, fed off of it. The idea of confronting Cassel had sustained him through those first awful days after Ives was killed. It kept his resolve firm during his initial captivity and imprisonment. It had fed him during the long, bleak months in the oubliette—the sustenance provided by this need for vengeance filled him even when his hunger was gnawing its way out of his belly.

  Lucinda had been right about one thing. It was long past time he saw to justice for his family.

   Chapter 33

  Sybella

  It has taken three days, but finally the castle feels quiet once more, as if things have returned to normal. I dress with care, wearing a somber, modest gown. I kneel down to lift the corner of the feather mattress, then huff in annoyance as
I remember. I loved those knives. We were old friends. I will have to see about retrieving them somehow.

  I head for the thick tapestry against the wall and pull it back, revealing a half dozen other knives, hastily stitched into the backside of the fabric. I slip them into the sheaths hidden under my gown. Since they did not search me bodily that night, I will have to hope that they will not today either. If they do, the fact that Cassel missed these will make him look foolish before the king.

  And I would very much like to make Cassel look foolish. I would very much like to hold one of these knives at his throat and press—slowly—until his eyes bulge with fear, blood trickling down his neck and piss down his leg.

  That thought puts a faint smile on my lips so that I will not have to fake the pleasant greeting I intend to give my guards.

  Except there are no guards in sight. Surprised, I step all the way into the hall, expecting to hear them call out to me to stop, but they do not. The guards at the queen’s apartment do not make any move to stop me either. They simply nod a greeting, then step aside to open the door.

  But the queen is not in her room. Instead, I find Heloise, overseeing the airing of the queen’s mattress. “Where is she?” I ask.

  Heloise glances over her shoulder. “Since the sun decided to come out today, the king invited her for a short stroll in the garden. We all thought the fresh air would do her and the babe some good.”

  “That is pleasant news.”

  Heloise nods. “The king has visited every day and is most solicitous.”

  “Have they announced the pregnancy yet?”

  “Not yet. They have decided to announce it at the coronation.” Heloise tilts her head. “You have not heard, have you?”

  Startled birds take flight in my stomach. “Heard what?”

  “The king has decided Fremin’s death was an accident.”