Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  I stare at her a moment, the fullness of her words not penetrating.

  “A most tragic one,” I finally say.

  “Indeed.”

  * * *

  I head directly for Gen’s chambers. Around me, everyone is busy readying the household to make the great trek to Paris for the coronation. I am glad that it appears to be proceeding as planned and wonder how the regent lost that battle.

  When I reach Genevieve’s room, I knock, but there is no answer. There is no heartbeat, either. Puzzled, I open the door and slip inside. Her room is empty, the bed not slept in. I frown, remembering my last words to her to distract the king. Merde. I told her not to do anything other than distract him. But that was naïve of me. I have seen the guilt and remorse she drags behind her like a millstone. She would have done whatever it took. If she is not here, nor in the ladies’ solar, then there is only one place she could be.

  And fortunately for me, the king is outside with the queen.

  Using the small servants’ corridor, I count the doors until I reach the one that leads to the king’s private apartments. I put my ear to the door and hear only one heartbeat—too steady, strong, and familiar to be the king’s elderly valet. I silently lift the latch and peek into the room.

  In the dim light I see a slim figure lying on the couch, covered in a blanket. While I do not like that the curtains have not been drawn back from the windows, I am glad she is at least on the couch and not in the king’s bed.

  As I step fully into the room, Gen stirs and sits up, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say cheerfully.

  “Sybella?” She quickly grabs the corner of the blanket and pulls it close.

  “ ’Tis I. Come to thank you for distracting the king long enough that reason could prevail and”—my voice gentles—“to be certain you did not force yourself to cross any lines you did not wish to.”

  “Of course not,” she says, appearing discomfited by my words.

  “Well and good, then. He has declared Fremin’s death an accident, and the queen is back in his favor. If that was all thanks to you, it is no wonder you are still abed.”

  Genevieve smiles, but it does not quite reach her eyes. “I am glad.” While there is no doubting the sincerity of her words, something is off. Something I cannot yet put my finger on.

  I glance around at the sitting room that, for all of its opulence, feels dim and dour. “Why is he keeping you shut up in here?”

  “He is the king. Does he need a reason?” Her answer furthers my unease. It was meant to be a jest.

  “Is it because of your association with me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  She sighs heavily, as if annoyed. Since it is a ploy I am well familiar with, I ignore it. “Because it suits him. He is . . . less than happy with me at the moment and finds it amusing to keep me under his thumb.”

  I come farther into the room, examining her face closely, trying to discern what her words are hiding. “What did you do that has him so wroth with you?” And yet so at peace with the rest of the court. Including me.

  She looks down to fiddle with the corner of the blanket. “It is a private matter. There is no need to discuss it. Now I have a question for you,” she says in a rush, blocking any attempt I might make at arguing. “How—what—did you do with your blood? What trick was that—to make souls disappear in such a way? Is that another of your gifts from Mortain?” Her voice holds a faint note of bitterness.

  “That is a fair question—with a complicated answer.” I sigh. “In truth, we must have a long conversation about the convent and Mortain himself. But not here, where any approaching servant can hear us. And not until you have told me what is going on.”

  “What if it is not any of your business?”

  “Would you rather I ask the king?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I smile grimly. “You have no idea the things I would do. Shall we fight for it? Test our skills against each other? I win, you tell me. You win, you don’t.”

  The look she sends me is so full of exasperation that it reminds me of Charlotte and nearly makes me laugh. “We both know that you would win any contest between the two of us.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  She shakes her head. “You will not like it any better than the king.”

  My uneasiness returns, but I keep my voice light. “At least I cannot order you confined to my chambers.”

  She looks to the window, then the fireplace, anywhere but at me before she finally speaks. “It’s about Monsieur Fremin. I . . . I may have confessed to killing him.”

   Chapter 34

  Her words are so unexpected that it feels as if she is speaking some strange language I have never heard. Except that with these inconceivable words, everything falls into place. Guilt and anger wash over me. “I asked you to distract the king, not confess to a crime you didn’t commit! That was not your sin to bear. You had nothing to do with it.” Indeed, my mind is still struggling to grasp the enormity her—of anyone—taking the blame and punishment for something I did.

  “It was a sin I contributed to, no matter how unknowingly.” She tightens the blanket around her shoulders and leans forward. “It feels good to be able to do this.”

  I feel my mouth snap shut. “Good to take the blame for someone else’s killing?”

  “No.” She huffs in frustration, then looks over at the sideboard. “Do you remember the jars of toad livers Sister Serafina kept in the poisons room?”

  I blink at this change of subject. “The ones that stank like rotten feet? How could I forget.”

  “When I was finally allowed to begin helping at the convent, I was sent to her workroom. But on my third day there, I accidentally dropped the crock full of toad livers.” Her gaze shifts from the crystal goblets on the sideboard back to me. “She did not yell or get mad. Nor even punish me with quiet satisfaction like some of the other nuns did. She simply told me to collect the broken pieces of crockery and bring them to the table. When I had, she plunked down a pot of glue and a brush, then told me to take whatever time I needed to put it back together.

  “Sybella, she allowed me to fix it. To take the pieces of what I had broken and make them whole again.” The sheer wonder in her voice makes me realize how rare a thing that is—to be given such an opportunity. I can so clearly see the nine-year-old she must have been, bent over all the broken pieces, painstakingly working to fit them together. “Doing this feels as if I am being given that chance again. The king will not hurt or punish me. Not over this. And if he does—”

  “I will not let him.”

  She gives an emphatic shake of her head. “He won’t. Oh, he’s posturing and strutting and will bark at me for a while, but he is not a cruel man. Not like General Cassel or Pierre. He is—” She waves her hand as she searches for the right word, the blanket slipping down her shoulder.

  A glint of silver shines at her throat. I scowl. “Why has the king given you an expensive bauble if you just confessed to murder?”

  She pulls the blanket back into place, making sure to cover her neck. “I told you, he wouldn’t punish me as he would you.”

  “A generous gift is no one’s definition of punishment.”

  She looks away. “It is a power game he plays. Nothing more.”

  “If it is nothing more, then let me see it.”

  “No,” she says mulishly. “You will only grow jealous.”

  I laugh outright at that, then stride over to the couch and yank the blanket from her. She stares up at me, both startled and dismayed. Three coils of thick silver links are wrapped around her slender neck and drape gracefully down her chest. And while it is a necklace, one in the style favored by the Germans and the English, it also bears remarkable resemblance to—

  “A chain? I thought you said he was not cruel.”

  She shrugs the blanket back into place. “He’s not. But he is feeling threatened
—”

  “By you?”

  “By everyone. He feels harried on all sides. He is tired of having his authority questioned by the regent and of the pressure from his spiritual advisors, and afraid any kindnesses to the queen will be perceived as weaknesses by his council, especially Cassel. Every time the king learns something he didn’t know before, it is like rubbing salt into a festering wound.”

  I stare at her in silence, weighing her words. Remembering the carefully decorated reception at the wedding, the extreme kindness he shows occasionally. His belief in honor and chivalry. How hard the regent works to keep her hand unseen as she stirs the pot. It all fits exactly as Gen says.

  “Perhaps,” I concede grudgingly. “But forcing you to wear a chain comes dangerously close to cruel.”

  “It is as much to punish himself for being weak enough to want me, even though we have not shared a bed except that one time. But since then he has begun to talk to me in a way that he doesn’t let himself talk to others. Reveals to me, often without knowing it, parts of himself that he can’t share with anyone else.”

  “That is charming,” I say dryly, “but you are not his confessor, nor his prisoner, or even a willing favorite. You don’t owe him or the convent or even me this servitude you are performing for him.”

  “You are right. This is something I want to give, rather than what is owed. This chain around my neck makes him feel as if I have no power. It is not true, and I suspect even he knows it on some level. But it allows him to feel as if he has punished me and granted me mercy. Or as if in wearing it, I have agreed to the terms of the punishment. Which I have.” She grins at me. “For the time being.”

  That mollifies me somewhat. “Does he intend to chain you to something?”

  She shakes her head. “Only if I step out of line.” Her face creases. “Will you explain it to the queen? In case she notices the necklace. I don’t want her to think I am acting as his favorite for baubles.”

  “I will, but I do not like any of this, and I will be watching him carefully. If I feel he has gone too far, or you are in any danger, I will intervene.”

  She smiles at me, a jaunty curve of her lips. “Since when do I report to you?”

  “I am your older sister, and that grants me a certain authority over you, whether you like it or not.”

   Chapter 35

  Genevieve

  At a loss for words, I stare at Sybella, realizing she has just given me what I have been missing for the last five years—this sense of someone having my back. Of seeing to my safety when I am too caught up in the moment to care.

  Of being a sister. A true sister. Not one who undercuts me at every opportunity. Who sends sly, subtle barbs my way only to claim it was a jest later. Who laughs at my attempts to fix things or improve them or even adjust to them.

  It feels as precious as a newly formed pearl. Before I can find my tongue and say something—anything—Sybella glances around the room, cocking her ear.

  “Do you hear something?” I ask.

  “A heartbeat. The servants, most like. I must go. I should not be discovered here. But I will be watching the king. Know that.”

  As she heads for the servants’ passage, I call after her. “Do not forget that talk you promised me.”

  She tosses a nod of agreement over her shoulder, then opens the door. She does not gasp, but I feel her breath catch in her throat.

  It is not a serving maid, or even the valet that stands there, but the regent.

  A moment of utter silence captures us all. Sybella recovers first, inclining her head at the regent as if they have merely passed each other in the hallway, then slips out of the room.

  As the regent emerges from the narrow passageway into the king’s apartments, a shiver of deep apprehension racks my body. “Madame Regent?” I drop into a curtsy.

  Her gaze moves from my face to roam over my body, as if appraising a mare she has purchased only to find it is lacking. “You and Sybella know each other. You are from the convent as well.”

  My entire body grows cold. “I never met Sybella until ten days ago. That was not a lie.”

  She studies me with the intensity of a mason looking for a flaw in his stone. “What did she want with you?”

  The faintest scrap of hope moves inside my chest. She did not hear us talking. “She was only asking if I would put in a good word for her with the king. She knows he does not care for her.”

  She looks at the painting behind me and smiles, then gives me another appraising look. “While your good fortune seems high at the moment, you’d best hope he doesn’t tire of you any time soon, my dear, for who will protect you then?”

  * * *

  The night before we leave for Paris, the king allows me to return to my own chambers. He has many demands on his time before we leave in the morning, and I have a few things I must do to get ready as well.

  Sybella finds me there, packing up my few possessions. One eyebrow arches, in mockery or amusement, I can never be certain with her. “The king has allowed you out of your cage?”

  I throw one of the old riding boots I am holding at her, then shove the other one into my pack. “He is convinced that I mean to accede to his punishment.”

  “And what of you? Are you convinced this charade still has merit?”

  “Yes.”

  She nods, then hands me my boot and peers down at my small pile of possessions. I shove the boot into the pack and reach for my jerkin.

  She picks up a small leather packet—it is all I can do not to grab it from her—and asks, “What is this?”

  “My sewing needles.”

  The eyebrow quirks again. “You plan to have time to stitch on our way to Paris?”

  I grab the case from her hands. “Spoken like someone who has never had to mend her own clothes.”

  A faintly startled look crosses her face. “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  “But surely now . . .” She waves her hand at the gaudy chain around my neck. “You no longer need to do such things.”

  I look down at the soft leather case I hold in my hand, feeling both proud and shy. “These are not ordinary needles,” I say. “But ones I made for myself.”

  At her inquiring look, I continue. “The convent gave us very little to work with when they sent us out. When I felt vulnerable, I would fashion something for my needs.”

  “Let me see.”

  I hesitate briefly before opening the case and showing her.

  “Why do some have red thread and others white?”

  “The red have been dipped in poison. Probably not enough to kill a man, but enough to put him down for a while.”

  She whistles appreciatively, and I am embarrassed at the warm glow of pride her approval brings. “That is ingenious. Truly.”

  “Thank you.” I only just resist pulling out the leather cuff I made to conceal them in and showing it to her as well. Instead, I tuck the needles into my pack. “What?” I ask as she continues to stare at me.

  “You said the other night that your gift from Mortain was that you are able to sense heartbeats when someone dies. That is the only time?”

  I shrug. “For the most part. As I told you, it is a useless gift.”

  “For the most part?”

  I pause in my packing. “Once I heard a heartbeat. It was the one that led me to the dungeons in Cognac when I first discovered the prisoner. It was the strongest I had ever felt.” I pause, remembering the way the heartbeat reverberated through my body, up through the very ground itself. “But the prisoner wasn’t dead, and I never learned the source of the heartbeat.” I shrug again. “Other than that one time—”

  “Wait!” Sybella’s eyes are narrowed. “When was that?”

  “Around Saint Martin’s day.”

  “No, when precisely?”

  I stop packing and count back in my head. “It was four days after Saint Martin’s day.”

  Sybella’s intrigue becomes awe. “You felt it. You felt him.”


  “What are you talking about?”

  She picks up one of my shifts from the bed and smooths it. “Remember when you offered to help me with Monsieur Fremin, I told you that the nature of Mortain’s marques had changed?”

  “Yes. Then we were interrupted, and you never did explain to me how.”

  “Well, what I did not get the chance to tell you was that the nature of Mortain himself has changed.”

  I frown, not understanding.

  “You said you were so surprised to learn of the marriage agreement between the duchess and the king. You were not alone. That was not expected by anyone, least of all the king.”

  “But the duchess knew to expect it?”

  Sybella shrugs. “She did not know to expect it so much as hope. It was a final, desperate effort to prevent Brittany from being engulfed by yet another war. It was an opportunity born of the Nine.”

  “The Nine?”

  She looks at me then, spearing me with the intensity of her gaze. “It was Arduinna’s last arrow. Hidden away at the convent of Saint Mortain for centuries. Guaranteed to ensure the love of whomever it struck. And the duchess had one shot. Or rather, one person who could make such a shot.”

  “You?” My voice sounds breathless to my ears.

  “No. Our convent sister Annith.”

  “Annith. The perfect one. Of course.”

  “Don’t say that!” Sybella snaps. “There is far more to her story than you can even guess at.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “It is not my story to tell. But on this day—four days after Saint Martin’s day, with the armies of France encamped before Rennes, the Nine came to the duchess’s aid. The Arduinnites, the convent, the hellequin—”

  “They are real?”

  “Even the trickster god Salonius had a hand in that day.” Her voice grows distant with remembering. “But in order for Annith to take that shot, the king had to be lured onto the battlefield where she could reach him. That is where the others came in.”

  She sets my carefully folded shift back on the bed. “And so, with the Arduinnites on the battlements to cover them with their arrows, they rode out of the gates of Rennes, the hellequin and the Breton armies, led by Mortain himself.”