Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  I close my eyes, and the impossibility of my situation hits me. I was a fool to come here. A fool to think I could reach for such a gift and not have to pay in some way. “I do,” I whisper.

  “I do not know what your assignment is, but with what you have told me, things are clearly getting dangerous at court.” It takes great effort, but I watch as he pulls his mind back from all the possibilities it is constructing, all the dark scenarios he can imagine, all the disasters I might find myself in. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, they are clear and unshadowed. He reaches for my shoulders, the heat of his hands warming something that has grown cold inside me. “I will admit that I do not like this, but I trust that you are doing what you need to do and that you will do it well.”

  It feels as if all my life I’ve been pushing on a heavy door, trying to get it to open. With his words, it has suddenly given way, and I am thrown off balance.

  “You do?” But I do not have to ask. Not really, for that trust shines in his eyes.

  “However”—those eyes darken slightly—“I am also trusting that if you need help, or things go awry, you will tell me.”

  Trust for trust, that is the trade he demands of me.

  “I want to meet again. Tomorrow,” he says.

  The reasons I should not agree have increased tenfold, but agree I do. “Not here. The smithy will be open then, and we could be seen. We need to find someplace else.”

  “The fletcher’s hut, near the armory,” he says at once.

  “Very well. The fletcher’s hut, then. And during the council meeting will be the safest time.”

  I start to move away, but he grabs my hand, pulls me close. “You are not alone in this, Gen. And if the danger becomes too great, you can find refuge with us.” Then he presses one last kiss upon my lips and lets me go.

  * * *

  This is harder than I had imagined—although what I had imagined I cannot say. Bouncing between the king and Maraud like one of those little leather balls against the wall? If I continue to see Maraud, my resolve will crumble faster than a sandy cliff before a winter storm—and my work here is not finished. The catastrophe I set in motion not resolved. The regent’s plans are unraveling. The king is beginning to see her—and her allies—more closely than he has before. Sybella has been removed from the king’s wrath, now I must simply find a way to remove her from her brother’s. Maraud is a gift I have given myself, but one I have not yet earned.

  Should I kill Pierre? Sybella said the lines of Mortain’s grace are blurred now with his death. Do any of the rules of the convent still apply?

  And surely Pierre presents as great a threat to her and her sisters as Monsieur Fremin did? More.

  Why would she not have done this already? Is it some sense of obligation because she once thought him her brother? Or is she unable to get close enough to him to do the deed?

  He doesn’t know me. Would not recognize me. Especially if I came to him at night. I could get close enough to strike. I even have my poisoned needles left. If I used all of them, it would be enough to kill him. And Sybella and her sisters would be free. It is not saving the entire convent, but it is a start. It will save the ones I have come to care the most for.

  This new plan puts purpose back in my steps as I climb the staircase to my chambers. It will be easy enough to discern which rooms Pierre uses. The hardest part will be ensuring suspicion does not fall once again on Sybella.

  Or myself. Because of course the king will suspect me. I have already confessed to Fremin’s murder, and told the king the ugly truths about the d’Albret family. He will think I am merely carrying out the next logical step. I will have to find a way to arrange this so that both Sybella and I are far away when the poison takes effect. The needles are small enough that no one will notice their puncture wounds on his skin.

  When I reach the hallway that leads to my room, I see Gilbert and Roland standing rigidly at attention. They have not guarded my room since the day we arrived. My heart skips a beat. Has the king guessed where I’ve been? Had me followed?

  Painting a cheerful smile upon my face and a ready excuse upon my tongue, I greet them. In response, they give me nothing but stiff nods. Gilbert steps forward to open my door for me. Before I can thank him, the regent pulls away from the window where she’s been waiting.

  “There you are.”

   Chapter 53

  I have not been face-to-face with the regent since we last spoke at Plessis. Have not seen for myself how she’s grown bitter-looking, like a too-thin blade before it is broken. While she stands composed, arrogant even, a faint desperation taints her features. Perhaps she senses her carefully spun web beginning to unravel. Desperate people begin to make mistakes, as I should know, and their mistakes might grant us further leverage.

  “Madame Regent.” I sink into a curtsy.

  Her gaze scans me from head to toe, and for a moment, I fear she will sense traces of Maraud clinging to me. “The king has set you up well. Where were you?”

  “This morning I was attending upon the queen. This afternoon, I met with the king. He is quite good at jeu de paume.”

  Her brows arch in surprise. “You serve the queen now?”

  “She is my queen, and she sent for me. I answered her summons.”

  The regent crosses the room to examine the blue brocade of my bed curtains. “We have not seen each other since Plessis,” she says pleasantly.

  “I did not think it wise to seek you out.”

  She twists her lips in a pale imitation of a smile. “There is that notable wit of yours. Tell me, do you remember the last time we spoke?”

  “But of course.” My heart begins to beat faster. I could hardly forget—Sybella and I were arguing over this necklace when the regent came upon us.

  She lets go of the curtain to face me. “You are from the convent.” It is not a question. She takes a step toward me. “I trusted you.” Her voice is like the thinnest of whips, lashing across the room, meant to draw blood.

  But her trust is not what I am worried about. I do not like the faint gleam of victory in her eyes. Whatever this is about, it is not injured trust. “We are even, then, for you broke my trust first.” The moment the words are out, the truth of them punches me low in the belly.

  She scowls. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I trusted you to act as a mentor, and instead you acted as the procuress for your brother to feed your own political hunger.”

  “You were no innocent, but an assassin.”

  “But you did not know that!” We are silent, staring at each other, the weight of tangled betrayals filling the room.

  “This only proves how correct I was to try to place someone in the king’s confidence. His relationship with you, his handling of this entire matter, only proves he cannot be trusted to rule on his own. His judgment is flawed and lacking.”

  And there it is. The thing that will ultimately destroy her relationship with the king. Whether it will happen in time to do me any good is the question. “The king has now reached his majority. The crown is his, Madame, not yours.”

  Her head rears back as if I have slapped her. There is nothing I could have said that she less wished to hear. “You know nothing.” Her pale face is now white with rage. “I have ruled this country for eight years. I have expanded our borders, put down rebellions, negotiated treaties so complex that your feeble brain could not fathom them.” She takes a step toward me, but I give no ground. “I was charged by my father to act as steward to the crown, and I will not abandon that responsibility. Unlike my brother, I have a distinct talent for politics. My father even declared me the least foolish woman in France.”

  I want to shout at her that that is no compliment, but bite my tongue.

  “He charged me with a sacred duty to continue to consolidate power to France, and I will allow no one, no one, to interfere with that duty.” She recovers her equilibrium somewhat, and an oily smile shimmers across her face. “While trus
ting you was clearly a mistake—one I will not make again—you have served some purpose. You have provided me with a new weapon.” Her eyes burn bright. “The time has once again come for you to remember who you truly serve. I have a task for you. One of utmost importance. You must ensure that the king grants Pierre full custody of Sybella in these hearings. I do not care what else happens, I do not care what else you hear. But Sybella will be in Pierre’s custody within a week’s time, or I will expose your secrets.” My heart begins hammering against my ribs like a rabbit caught in a snare.

  She takes a step closer. “And I do not mean that I will simply expose your secrets, Genevieve. I mean I will tell the entire council that the king has knowingly harbored an assassin and a murderer under his wing. How far do you think the king will go to protect you from that truth getting out? What would his Privy Council and bishops have to say about that revelation? Once they hear that, once they see how badly his judgment has gone, they will be inclined to look to me for leadership once more. Do you understand?”

  “Madame Regent, I understand, but what you ask is—”

  “I am not asking, I am ordering you. If that is too difficult for you to manage, there is one other option.”

  I wait, knowing I will not like what she is about to say.

  “If you cannot convince the king to hand Sybella over to Pierre, then you may kill her yourself. Either way, I wish her removed for good.”

  Why? Why does she harbor such hatred for Sybella? It is one thing that they cross political swords, but to arrange her murder? “Madame, you must understand it takes time to arrange to kill someone.”

  “I do. That is why you have a week. No more talk. Simply nod if you understand me.”

  It feels as if this woman has just grabbed a spoon and scooped out my heart. She has taken one of the most selfless things I have ever done and turned it into a weapon to be used against the king. With no other choice before me, I nod. She sends me one last scornful glance and disappears through the door.

  I force my body to breathe. My head grows light, and I stumble over to sit on the bed. My carefully crafted and painstakingly built progress toward fixing this catastrophe has been hacked from under my feet.

  Of course, there is no decision to be made. I will not hurt Sybella, not for any price, and certainly not for the king’s power struggle. But, oh, the innocents who will be caught up in this wake!

  The queen, who has so graciously opened her doors to me, in spite of everything. The king’s budding confidence, which could allow him to grow into a decent ruler. All for want of the regent’s rutting schemes. I want to explode into action to begin escaping this carefully laid trap, yet I remain motionless, fearing what I may step into next.

  If I choose to stay or warn the king, he will likely think he can simply overcome the regent’s claims, bargain it out, no matter that the Bishop of Albi is already in her pocket, his confessor is likely shocked, and General Cassel will sneer at his weaknesses.

  What little remnants of his decency that remain will shrivel before that onslaught.

  And his advisors? The majority of them will not trust his judgment again, allowing the regent to create a power vacuum into which she can readily slip once more. She will have robbed him of the one thing that mattered most to him—their respect. As well as robbing me of any chance I had of righting the scales.

  A new horror occurs to me. If I stay, if the king resists, the regent could easily claim that I was working for her, gaining his trust in service of her ambitions rather than for my own reasons. And he will, of course, believe her.

  The thought has me leaping to my feet and rushing over to the basin, where I retch into it, trying not to make a sound. Even worse, Sybella might feel as if she needs to come forward and confess to Fremin’s murder in order to neutralize this weapon the regent now holds. It will all come crumbling down on her undeserving shoulders. I retch again.

  As I rest my head on the small table, waiting for my stomach to stop roiling, my eyes fall on the pitcher of fresh water. I’d almost been able to fix things—but the glue was too thin.

  But, I slowly realize, even thin glue requires a hammer in order to break it. And the regent can only make use of a weapon if she holds it. Without me, there is no leverage over the king. No one Sybella or the queen will feel they need to protect.

   Chapter 54

  Your Majesty,

  If you are reading this, then I have had to make a most difficult decision, and you will not like the news I am about to share with you.

  Back in Plessis, the night of Monsieur Fremin’s death, Madame Regent overheard our conversation. She has recently confronted me with what she learned that night and is planning to use it to force you to bend to her political will. I cannot allow that to happen. As I have always told you, my first duty is to serve, and I cannot do that if I am to be used as a weapon against you.

  The only way forward is for me to leave and, after I am gone, for you to announce that you have discovered my role in the matter and have banished me as punishment. That way, the information she holds cannot be used against you in any way.

  Your Most Humble Servant,

  G

  I carefully place the letter on my pillow. Either the maidservant or one of the guards will take it directly to the king. I leave a second letter for Sybella, but this one under my mattress, knowing she will search to see if there are any signs of why I have left.

  I fetch the maid’s gown that I carried all the way from Plessis, and begin to undress. When I have stripped down to naught but my shift, I reach around to the back of my neck and fumble with the clasp of the necklace until it releases. As I remove it, I marvel at the heaviness of the silver links that spill though my fingers.

  Setting it on the foot of the bed, I am reminded of the tales my mother told of the followers of Saint Mer. How they could slip out of the skin that allowed them to move so freely in the ocean in order to walk among men unremarked. But woe to the one whose skin was found by humans, for once it was taken from her, she would never have the same freedom of movement in the sea again. With luck, everyone who has seen me has noticed only the necklace and will not recognize me without it.

  The king will never forgive me. In spite of my note and my careful explanation, he will never forget that I did not trust him to protect us against the regent’s schemes. He will believe I thought him too weak. But this is not about me, it’s about his standing with his advisors, and his continued ability to rule. The more that is undermined, the greater the threat to the queen, the convent—and Sybella.

  How does one even shield oneself against a creature like the regent? I wonder as I step into the humble servant’s gown. Mayhap I will find answers to that question out there. Something is going on in Brittany, according to the Beast of Waroch. Surely Maraud and his crew—including me—could help there. We could even send reports back to Sybella and the queen.

  If I can convince Maraud that is where we should go next. And, oh, how Andry and Tassin will like that—the woman who poisoned their friend returning to tell them what to do and where to go. Oddly, I relish the prospect of arguing with them about it.

  I have little enough left to call my own—I take even less. My few weapons, the poisoned needles, my handful of possessions I’ve carried with me since Cognac. They hardly fill a small sack, but still, they are the pieces of my life that I have not—yet—had to leave behind.

  Fortunately, no one looks at servants, especially not those hurrying by with chamber pots or pails of dirty water. It is easy enough to find the scullery, then slip through the servants’ door into the palace yard. Once outside, I keep walking, half afraid someone will call me back, but no one does.

  I hurry from the main area of the courtyard toward the outbuildings, where I will not be so visible from the palace windows. Once I am well hidden among the scores of other bodies going about their palace business, I begin making my way to the fletcher’s hut.

  With hindsight, I can only wond
er why his original offer of help terrified me so very much.

  No, not his offer, my reaction to it. That was what scared me so.

  My mind—my pride—wants to shy away from this truth. Pretend I have not seen it, but pride is how I ended up on this path, and I do not wish to learn the same lesson twice.

  So I take out that moment between us, that memory of when he looked at me with those laughing brown eyes of his, so solemn and sincere. “Let us help you.”

  That he would set aside his plans for vengeance to help still stuns me.

  Before that, no one in all my life had offered to stand by my side. Not Margot, not Angoulême, not the convent. Not even my mother, who left me to face the convent alone. He was the first, and it was so foreign to me, I did not know what to do with it.

  And in that moment, his offer made me realize how hungry I was for that. How starved, just as he was starving when we first met. Only I was starving for . . . what? I cannot even put a name to it. Companionship is too weak. Support does not do it justice.

  That deep hunger that terrified me. Like a starving man who will do anything to fill his belly, I feared what I would do to fill that hole in my heart. I feared I would turn my back on the convent, on everything I’d worked toward. On those I’d sworn to help.

  I feared that I was weaker than I had ever imagined. And since I could not pull that weakness from me, could not yank it from my breast and cast it aside like the weed it was, I struck out at him instead.

  * * *

  The fletcher’s hut sits nestled between the armory and the artillery buildings. No one lingers outside. Inside is a lone fletcher seated at a table, carefully attaching gray feathers to an arrow shaft.

  When I reach the far side of the hut, I pause. My pulse, already erratic, grows even more so. Was his invitation to join him sincere? He could easily have made it in the heat of the moment, with our kisses still warm upon our lips and the unexpected discovery of the chain.