Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  My mouth drops open, and every word I know leaves my head.

  “We were victorious, else we would not be here with the duchess, now the queen, but our losses were great. Including Mortain.”

  “But he is a god. Surely he cannot die.”

  “He can if he inserts himself into the affairs of man. And so he did. While he did it because it was what was best for his people, I think it was also because of Annith.”

  “He did it for one of his daughters?”

  She cuts me a sideways glance. “That is one of the things about Annith you do not know. She is not one of Death’s daughters. That was a subterfuge her mother pulled in order to find a safe home for her.”

  So many questions crowd onto my tongue that I do not know where to begin. “How did they not find out? Surely the nuns would know. The abbess?”

  “Ah, well, you see. That was the clever part. Her mother was the abbess.”

  My head is well and truly spinning now. I sit down on the bed.

  “But that is not the point of what I am telling you. The point is that Mortain died on the battlefield that day. The god Mortain,” she corrects herself. “For as we learned then, the gods’ first death results in them becoming human, their second is when they truly die.”

  My head cannot contain the enormity of what she has just said. I close my eyes, willing the world to make sense again.

  “So you see, your mistake was just one in a long line of mistakes and random turns of events. If the abbess had been a true abbess and not someone focused on keeping her own daughter safe, she would likely have not let you and Margot slip from her memory. If the Arduinnites had not offered up their last arrow to avert war, you would not have been surprised by a marriage you believed would never take place. If Mortain had not altered the very warp of his existence, he might have better answered your prayers.”

  My body is so full—full of surprise and anger and disappointment. I’ve been trying to honor a convent whose god no longer even exists. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I had to know if I could trust you first. Besides, it wasn’t a scrap of news I could just toss in your lap and be done with. If you are at all like me, the news will shift your entire world and there needed to be the time and space for that sort of telling.”

  My sense of despair, of utter futility, must show on my face, for she suddenly leans close. “None of that, now. You believed in yourself long before the convent came along.”

  “That was easier when I thought I was special, sired by Mortain.”

  “You still are. Because he has changed, does not mean that we have. As Father Effram pointed out to me, the blood of gods still flows in our veins.”

  “Is that why you were able to do that with Fremin’s body? Make his soul disappear like that?”

  She tilts her head, thinking. “I don’t know. I don’t know if that is a power I’ve always had or something new now that he is gone from this world. But no matter the king’s opinion or the regent’s or that of the other lickspittles of the court, you are the daughter of a god, and no one can take that away from you.

  “Remember that when you feel close to despair. It is what I am trying to do.”

  Those are not words I expected to hear from her. She is so skilled, so artful, so coolly competent. “Does it work?”

  She slides me a glance. “I’ll let you know.”

   Chapter 36

  Maraud

  They’d been in Flanders for three days and had spent every waking hour tramping through the mud-clogged streets—some with water still running up over their boots. At first they’d thought they would simply follow the flow of French soldiers, but that proved harder than expected. The constant rain didn’t help, but neither did the overall confusion and lack of organization. French soldiers mingled with Flemish soldiers, along with a heap of Germans. The Flemish claimed the Germans were in charge—often with a snicker—and the Germans were distrustful of anything even remotely French, no matter how many times they explained they were simply mercenaries.

  It took three days to find out where the frontline was. They’d had to stop in every tavern. Ply untold soldiers with gallons of wine, and eavesdrop until their ears shriveled. They’d finally found a sergeant who was so thoroughly disgusted by everyone that he no longer took sides. And now this.

  Maraud shook his head, trying to dislodge some of the rain from his ears. “What did you say?”

  “I said he ain’t ’ere. Was called back to court by ’is king.”

  Before he knew what he was doing, Maraud’s hand snaked out and grabbed the sergeant by the throat. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Heard Jaspar’s voice. “Steady there, Your Lordship.”

  Slowly, Maraud let go of the man, but the mud was slippery. The man windmilled his arms to try to keep his balance, but the mud won.

  They all watched as he scrambled back to his feet, then retreated, tossing insults at them over his shoulder. Realizing that was the only satisfaction he was going to get, Maraud turned on his heel and walked away.

  “That’ll cost us,” Andry muttered.

  “How many of his friends d’you think he’ll come back with?”

  “Half dozen at least. Maybe twice that.”

  “They’ll still end up on their asses in the mud.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll have to go to a lot of work to get them there.”

  “Since when are you afraid of a little work?”

  “Unpaid work always terrifies me.”

  Maraud ignored Andry and Tassin’s bickering. Frustration seethed through him, lengthening his stride and making his fists clench. So close! Only to have it snatched away. Jaspar fell into place beside him. “It’s not like you—to not have a plan. To not have a plan within a plan within yet another plan.”

  “Saints,” Valine said from his other side, giving this the distinct feel of an ambush. “Maraud’s plans have plans, who then go off and have little plan babes, until before you know it, we’re knee-deep in plans. Your judgment is clouded.”

  He glared at her. “Like hell it is.” Though maybe he should have spent a little less time thinking about Lucinda on the way here. “I told you I was going to get justice for my family. I also told you that you didn’t need to come.”

  “It’s not your need for justice or vengeance that’s causing your judgment to be off. Or at least, it’s not the only thing clouding your judgment.” Valine’s voice grew gentle, and a gentle Valine unnerved him. Maraud hunched his shoulders and kept walking.

  “It’s your grief.”

  He stopped walking so suddenly that Andry and Tassin bumped into him. “My what?”

  “You heard me.”

  He shook his head and resumed walking. “You’re daft. I’m not feeling grief, just a hunger for vengeance.”

  “You’re still mourning your brother.”

  Saints take her! Why did she have to go and say it? Because now the pain was back, throbbing as if his arm had been hacked off. Only worse. Deeper. “Ives has been dead over a year,” he said woodenly.

  “It’s not just your brother, but your father as well.”

  Maraud kept his gaze determinedly forward, anger sizzling deep in his belly. “Why would I grieve that traitorous bastard?”

  Valine’s voice was soft with understanding. “You’re mourning the man you thought he was.”

  Sometimes the death of those we hate is harder to bear than that of those we love.

  His own words, spoken to someone whose grief was fresh and raw came rushing back at him. “You’re daft,” he said again, but the words lacked conviction.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, Jaspar said, “So, where to now?”

  “To the French court,” Maraud replied without hesitation.

  “Court,” Tassin grunted. “Isn’t that where Lucinda said she was going?”

  Maraud tried to make his shrug as indifferent as possible. “She’s probably long gone by now.” But if not, he could kill two birds with o
ne stone. Because once he was done with Cassel, he was going to find Lucinda. The two of them weren’t done. Not even close.

   Chapter 37

  Genevieve

  During our travels toward Paris, my mind is consumed with what Sybella has told me—both about the convent and Mortain. Some days it feels as if the knowledge of the abbess’s betrayal and Mortain’s abdication have lifted a veil from my eyes, making the world both brighter and more stark, but clearer at least.

  On other days, like today, the knowledge presses down on me, making it difficult to not slouch in the saddle during the long day’s slow ride to the next village. So much of how I saw myself, so much of what gave me value and strength, purpose and conviction, no longer applies. And while Sybella claims that the blood of a god still flows in our veins, what does that mean—or matter—if the god no longer exists?

  When not even the clear joy of the villagers who greet our processional at every village we pass manages to lift my spirits, my two guards begin casting me worried glances. Whether they have been assigned to ensure that I do not run away or that I am not attacked and robbed of my expensive necklace, I do not know. It could feed three villages for a year, I’ve no doubt.

  Fortunately it is winter and the days are short. Darkness comes quickly, and we are all parceled off to whatever accommodations can be found. Tonight, we are in luck. There is a castle nearby. Other nights we must make do with whatever inn, tavern, townhouse, or stable is available.

  Although this castle is large, the royal traveling party is larger still, and the lord of the keep is hard-pressed to find places for us all. Many of the lower servants and all but a handful of our guards are lodged in the stables and cow byre.

  I, however, have been given the luxury of my own room. Of course, it is a small, cramped storeroom just off the kitchen, and my two guards are posted outside. But it is warm and private, which is a great luxury.

  When a dark, stooped figure appears in the doorway, my hand reaches for the hem of my skirt and the knife that hides there. The king had not thought to have me searched for weapons. Truly, he is bad at this. The figure stops—it is a woman—and raises her slim fingers to her lips. The hood slips back enough for me to recognize Sybella. She carries something in her left hand, something round and heavy.

  “What did you do to the guards?” I whisper.

  She raises an eyebrow, and even in the dim light, I can see the wicked gleam in her eye. “You mean those two boys with their fresh-scrubbed faces and newly sprouted whiskers, who look as if they should have gone into the clergy rather than soldiering?”

  “Yes. What did you do?”

  “A bit of sleep draft mixed in with their dinners. Only enough to make them mortified when they wake in the morning and realize they fell asleep while on duty.”

  She weaves a path between sacks of wheaten flour and barrels of oats toward me. After nudging two sacks of dried peas out of the way, she settles onto the floor. The small pop of a cork is followed by the sharp scent of wine. She lifts the jug that she has been carrying and takes a healthy swig, then holds it out to me.

  “Well, sit down,” she says. “I don’t want to get a crick in my neck. Or are you mad at me for not telling you about Mortain sooner?”

  The question surprises me. “No.” Of course she would have to ensure both my trust and loyalty before sharing something of that magnitude. Besides, it’s not as if I’ve told her all of my secrets yet, either. I do as she orders.

  That settled, she takes another drink. “I was afraid I was going to stab someone if I had to endure another moment of pompous speeches, ceremonial presentations, or unctuous praying on behalf of our beloved queen, as if they hadn’t all been trying to bring her down for the last two months. How the queen can bear it, I’ve no idea.” She stretches her legs out so that one of them presses against mine.

  “I’d wager she’s used to it by now. Maybe not the hypocrisy, but she’s no doubt had an entourage like that since birth.” I take a gulp of wine, welcoming the pleasant warmth of it against my throat. It isn’t watered.

  Sybella leans her head back against the wall. “True enough. Although that would have sent me running years ago.”

  “It is a good thing you are not the duchess, then.”

  She smirks and holds her hand out for the jug. “I think we can all agree on that.”

  It is such a small thing, I realize, to share a feeble joke, but it warms me more deeply than the wine. “How is the queen?” I ask.

  “Away from the palace, surrounded by ceremony and celebration rather than intrigue and backstabbing, she blossoms—her cheeks have taken on a healthier color, her eyes are less shadowed and tinged more with, if not happiness, a relief of sorts.”

  “That is good news. I was also worried about traveling in her condition. Especially since it is still a secret.”

  “We travel so slowly and for such short distances that it won’t be an issue. In truth, I find it hard to believe we’ll reach Paris before August at this rate.”

  “It is still only January,” I point out.

  Her mouth quirks. “Precisely.” She shoves the cask at me. “Here. Maybe this will help you better appreciate my jests.”

  I roll my eyes and take it from her. Mayhap I will drink it all and then we can talk about jests.

  “How are you doing?”

  Her question causes me to choke on the mouthful of wine I’ve just swallowed. No, not her question—the genuine concern and compassion it holds. “I am fine. The king has not visited me since we left Plessis, although he has set others to watching me. They are not very good at being subtle.”

  “In addition to the two men currently napping?”

  When I nod, her lips curl in amusement. “You will have a parade at your back before you know it.” Then she sobers, her glance drifting to my neck. The weight of the silver collar feels heavier under her gaze. “I still cannot believe you are letting him force you to wear that.”

  I blush at the faint scorn in her eyes, but she leans forward and catches my chin gently between her fingers. “My scorn is not for you, but for the pompous kingling.” She gives my chin a squeeze—one could almost call it affectionate—before letting go to lean back against the wall.

  “There is no harm in it for me—I can remove the chain whenever I choose. But it allows him to feel in control of something right now, and I think that aids us all, in the long run.”

  “How did you get so wise?” The faint mocking tone of her voice does not hide the admiration it holds.

  I look down at the jug, as if contemplating my next sip. “My mother and aunts were knowledgeable in the ways of men and their foibles. They shared that knowledge with me.”

  She cocks her head, curious. “Tell me of this family of yours.”

  I lift the wine to my mouth, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. There is no reason not to tell her the truth of my upbringing—except she is noble and lovely and has such scorn for men and their appetites that I fear those feelings will carry over to my family, and they do not deserve her scorn. “They—we—are not nobly born like you. My father ran a tavern, my mother helped him in his work. My aunts all lived in the same . . . village . . . and they too would lend a hand.”

  “And how did your father take to being surrounded by so many helpful women?”

  Her question surprises me. “He welcomed their help and helped them in turn. Everyone benefitted.”

  “And where did you fit in?”

  I smile in memory. “I was the lone child, always underfoot, asking questions, trying my hand at any little kitchen or garden task they would entrust me with.”

  Her lips curve upward. “They sound charming.” There is no hint of mockery in her voice. “I would think it hard to leave a family like that. For me the convent was a refuge, but I imagine for you it was something else.”

  The memory of that loss is as sudden as a fist to my gut. I look down at the earthenware jug in my hands. “It was.”

&nb
sp; “How old were you?”

  “Seven.” I take a generous swig of the wine, then shove the jug at her. “And you?”

  She looks out the window. “Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen! Why did they wait so long to send you?”

  She barks out a bitter laugh. “They did not send me at all.” Her finger drifts up to caress the base of her neck. “My old nurse did. When she feared I was at the end of my rope. Ha!” She nudges me with her knee. “That’s a good one.”

  I tilt my head. The jest escapes me, and I furtively weigh the cask in my hand, wondering how much she had before she came to fetch me.

  She lets her head fall back against the wall and closes her eyes with a sigh.

  I do not know what she is thinking, but it is like watching someone be pulled down into dark, murky depths. I search for something to say that will call her back. “Do you want to hear what the regent had to say when she caught us together?” There. Talking about the regent ought to cheer her right up.

  Her eyes fly open. “Go on,” she says.

  I tell her of the regent’s disturbing visit and my concern as to how much she might have heard. When I have finished, Sybella swears and holds her hand out for the jug. We fall silent, thinking of all the ways this could have gone horribly wrong.

  As if discerning the direction of my thoughts, Sybella nudges me with her foot again. “This is not solely your fault.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but she reaches across our legs and puts a finger on my lips, its warm firmness startling me into silence.

  “Even your decision to trade favors with the king to gain mercy for the convent does not rest solely on your shoulders.”

  Hearing my foolish actions fall from her lips causes my body to grow warm with embarrassment. “Of course it was! It was my idea, my plan, my lips that shared with him the convent secrets.”