Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  “I will have to set her straight on that, but will wait until the babe has come so as not to risk anything happening to it. However, I can at least rid myself of you now.”

  “Shall I be executed as well?”

  “I have no stomach for killing women. You shall be permanently banished from court. I am returning you to your family and will let them deal with you.”

  My family. He means—

  “Your brother Pierre will be here by nightfall. You will be given into his custody, and I will wash my hands of you.”

  No. I have not gone through so much, come so very far only to end up back where I started. “Your Majesty, one of the things we discovered while here was that Pierre was also involved in the rebellion. His troops fought alongside Rohan’s. He is not loyal to you. He cares only for his own interests.”

  The king gives me a withering look. “You will say anything, grasp at any straws to save yourself, won’t you, demoiselle?”

  I give Fortune’s wheel one last spin. “The guard that was killed—what did you do with his body?”

  “I don’t know. Gave it to his family.”

  “Send someone to contact that family and retrieve whatever personal belongings were on him, Your Majesty. In them you will find a gold brooch that will tell you precisely who killed the man. It was not Beast, who was locked behind a thick wooden door.”

  “You, then?”

  “No. General Cassel.”

  He stares at me a long moment, his face unreadable. “Farewell, Demoiselle d’Albret. I sincerely hope our paths never cross again.”

  Needing to move, I cross once more to the window and look out. I am still five floors up, the stone is still too smooth to climb. There are no ledges or molding or even crumbling mortar I could use as a foothold.

  Even worse, they have posted a half dozen armed guards at the base of the old tower. Even if I were to get out, I could not get Beast free.

  With no path for escape, the king’s words finally sink in. If I had thought returning to Nantes was difficult, how much worse will it be to reside in a d’Albret household again?

  And if I am not here, who will free Beast before he is executed?

  Each realization is like a stone being laid upon my chest until it is nearly impossible to breathe. Old remembered pain comes hurtling out of its hiding place, infecting me like a plague, causing my hands to shake and my knees to weaken. It is like having gnawed one’s arm off to escape a trap, only to find oneself back in the very same trap.

  The ghosts come then, not just my own, but the castle’s as well. Their cold presence seeps out of the stone into my very soul, chilling me to the bone, and saps my spirits even more. I thrust them aside, feeling them scatter like pigeons who have spied a cat, then begin to pace the small room, wishing a servant would come and light the fire in the hearth.

  Then I laugh. As if I do not know how to light my own fire.

  I cross to the fireplace, take wood from the stand, and lay it upon the hearth. I search for the tinderbox, my hands fumbling with cold—or fear—as I strike the flint. A spark catches. I set it to the kindling and watch the flame come to life. The faint heat eases something inside me.

  It is the Dark Mother to whom I have prayed these last months. It is she who brings hope out of darkness. And though this moment feels hopeless, that doesn’t mean I must give in to despair. Hope need not shine brightly. It need only be a dogged refusal to give up.

  The king—and his be-damned advisors—may be playing a game of chess, but I do not have to agree to be their pawn. I can turn this game into one of my own making. I need only figure out what that might be.

  * * *

  The king does not wish to make a public spectacle of my brother dragging me off in front of the entire court, so they wait until dusk. When Pierre arrives, it is clear he is taking no chances.

  Even though we are accompanied by nearly forty men, every one of them cut from the same rough cloth as Maldon and le Poisson, he ties my wrists and my ankles. But not before he searches me, looking for weapons, quickly removing my five knives and my anlace. He did not find, or mayhap did not recognize, my rondelles or my garrote bracelet. To my great relief, he did not linger or tarry at the task, but executed it with quick efficiency.

  Panic tries to beat its hot, fluttering wings against the inside of my chest, but I refuse to acknowledge it. It would have been easy enough to flee, that moment when the king announced my fate, but I did not. Nor did I flee when I was escorted from the palace, still within the king’s view, and had not yet been bound.

  If I had I known I was going to be bound, I might have. But now I focus on the questions that plague me: How did the regent know that the English were in Morlaix? They landed but a week ago. If she had spies in place, then surely they would also have reported how valiantly we fought?

  Unless . . . I remember the look the regent and Pierre exchanged, as if a debt had been settled. I know that Rohan and Pierre were allies in the rebellion, and had hoped that once I was at Pierre’s holding, I could find proof of that. But now I wonder if I might catch a much larger prize.

   Chapter 95

  Genevieve

  Watching Maraud say goodbye to his father has put me in mind of my own family. How are they faring? Are they all still alive? It seems as if I would know if they weren’t. Surely someone would have sent word to the convent—but with what Sybella told me about the former abbess, who is to say the news would have reached me?

  That is why, as we draw closer to Nantes—and the village where I grew up—I decide I must see them. Besides, I know all about Maraud’s family, including its secrets. It is only fair that he know about mine. I want honesty between us, and if he cannot accept the nature of my family, then I must know.

  My village has grown since I left ten years ago. And even while it is different—six more houses, a larger smithy, a market square we did not have before—it feels the same as well.

  My family’s inn has not changed. The roof still needs fresh thatch, although the walls have been recently washed with lime, and smoke chugs from the square chimney. My palms grow damp with anticipation. What if they hoped to never see me again?

  And what shall I tell them when they ask what great things I have done with the life they so selflessly guided me to?

  The pit of my stomach feels hollow as I realize this was a most poorly thought out idea. I glance over at Maraud, who is watching me. “Let me go in first, lest we shock them all.” I wipe my hands on my skirts and step inside.

  After the bright light of midday, the inside of the tavern is so dark I must let my eyes adjust. The low, dark-beamed ceiling seems to suck up whatever light gets in through the wooden shutters and door. Once I can see more clearly, the first thing that greets my eyes is the thick, sturdy figure of Sanson, standing behind the counter, his meaty arms wielding a knife with precision as he prepares two chickens for the soup pot. Is that gray hair peppering his beard?

  He lifts his head. “May I help you?”

  Panic runs along my spine. He does not recognize me. “That depends,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Do you have any stray cats that need feeding?”

  He looks at me again—really looks—the knife growing still in his hand. “Genevieve?” My name is uncertain on his tongue.

  “In the flesh!” I intend the words to sound saucy, as my aunts might say such a thing, but it comes out in a wobble. Then he is wiping his hands and coming out from behind the counter, his beefy arms opening wide just before he clasps me in a massive hug that is like being swallowed by a tree trunk.

  “We thought never to see you again.” He turns away from me and bellows, “Bertine! Come see what the cat’s dragged in!”

  And then she is there, my mother. The woman who invited Death to her bed on a dare. She is the same, but different. Softer in some places, harder in others. Her warm brown eyes have more wrinkles at the corner, but from laughter rather than hardship.

  She knows me instantly, clapping
a hand over her mouth in surprise before running to me and gathering me in her arms—even though I am now nearly half a head taller than she is. Her arms feel the same as they always have, warm and welcoming. The most accepting place in all the world.

  “I was not sure you would ever return to us,” she says at last.

  “I have not had a chance to before now. My work has had me in France for the last five years.” By this time, my aunts have gathered round, every one of them needing to hug me and pat me with their own hands.

  “Come.” My mother pulls me to one of the tables. “Tell us of your adventures.”

  “I will, Maman, but first I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

  * * *

  Hours later, my mother finds me sitting outside in the back of the tavern, leaving Maraud to fend for himself among my adoring aunts. As she sits down next to me, she nudges my shoulder with her own. “Don’t leave him alone with them too long. You never know what they might try.”

  I smile down at the twig I am playing with. “I am glad they like him. He is honorable and has a most generous spirit.”

  She nudges me again. “It does not hurt that he is well-built and strong, and looks as if he knows how to please a wom—”

  “Maman.” I smile and shake my head.

  “Do you like your life, Genevieve?”

  The question catches me off-guard, her gaze intense as it tries to peer into my very soul. “It has many advantages,” I say. “Although there have been periods that were harder than I imagined they would be.”

  She gives a little shrug of her shoulders. “That is true of all lives.” Then she reaches for my hand, tugs it. “Come.” She rises, pulling me along with her toward the back corner of the garden, where she plants the turnips and carrots and onions every year. She glances around, as if to ensure there is no one to see.

  She counts off twelve paces from the east corner of the hen house, then takes the stick I still carry in my hand. She kneels on the ground and counts out four hand lengths and begins to dig. When she is done, she looks around once more, then pulls something from the ground. As I kneel down beside her, she brushes it off, and thrusts it into my hand. “Here.”

  Dirt still clings to the small cloth bag, the leather cord nearly eaten away by worms and the damp. My hand shakes a little as I open it. Shiny gold coins wink out at me.

  “What is this?” My voice trembles.

  “It is for you,” she says, pleased with herself. “I have always told you I wanted you to have choices. I have kept this so if you did not like the life you were living, you would have something to start over with.”

  She did not take the coins for herself. She took them for me. Even then, determined that I should have not just one more choice than she did, but several.

  “Maman, you and Sanson could use this. The tavern still needs a new roof.”

  My mother waves her hand. “The tavern will always need a new roof, the beds new mattresses, and the pot more mending. But you, you are my only daughter, and I have always wanted more for you.”

  “The day you left me at the convent, why did you not turn back to bid me goodbye?”

  She cups one hand, still gritty with dirt, around my cheek. “You were having a hard enough time parting ways. I did not want you to see me weeping.”

  I throw my arms around her and allow myself, allow us, to have the hug we denied ourselves that day. And just like that, the entire world shifts, casting itself in a new light. Her words have removed the bandages from a wound I never had, but carefully guarded and protected nonetheless.

  I wipe the dampness from my face and give the bag back to her. “Keep it for me. I’ll come back when I have need.” And I mean it. That small bag has opened up yet another road on my horizon, and it will be there should I need to take it.

   Chapter 96

  Sybella

  Chateau Givrand sits on a small finger of land that thrusts aggressively into the sea, the waves lapping at the base of the west wall of the castle. It is made of thick, rough gray stone with narrow arrow slits for windows. One wall of the main tower is still reddened and blackened by a centuries-old fire. It is old, and the chateau is of little strategic value now that silt has reduced the usefulness of the nearby port. Everyone will assume that Pierre has returned to his stronghold in Limoges. Few—if any—even know of my family’s holding south of Givrand. It is the last place anyone will think to look—if they even remember it at all.

  There is only one approach, a long narrow road that leads to the square courtyard built upon the rock. When we are safely inside the keep, they remove my shackles and Pierre leads me to the wide spiral stairway that leads from the castle yard to the main hall.

  The first floor of the keep is used for storage, the second is the guards’ room, and the two upper floors have been given over to the family apartments.

  Pierre leads me to the fourth floor. As he escorts me down the dark cramped gallery, one of the doors opens and a woman steps out carrying a cloth-covered bowl. She is tall and thin, and was once elegant, but no longer. When she sees us, she grows motionless, waiting for us to pass. Our eyes meet, and with a shock, I recognize Madame Dinan. Her face is pale, not fashionably so, but drawn with it. Hatred shines bright in her eyes, animating an otherwise lifeless face.

  “What is she doing here?” Her harsh words thrust into the silence of the hallway.

  “The king has finally given me custody of her,” Pierre calls over his shoulder. “This was the closest holding.”

  “She cannot stay,” she calls after his retreating back.

  He stops walking so suddenly that I nearly plow into him, stepping nimbly aside just in time. Ignoring me, he slowly strides back toward Madame Dinan. “What did you say?” His words are couched in polite tones that do nothing to hide the threat lurking there.

  Madame raises her head, gaze flitting briefly to his before fluttering away again. “I said she cannot stay.”

  He takes a step closer, crowding her. “You do not give the orders here.”

  She does not look at him, but at me, taking her strength from the hatred she harbors. “It is not your holding,” she says, and I cannot help but admire her foolish bravery. “It is still your father’s. Until he is dead, it is his, and he would not want her here.”

  “But as he cannot tell me that, I shall be the one to decide, and I say she stays.”

  Madame Dinan’s mouth works, twisting and pursing with all the words she wishes to say, but dares not. I think of all the sharp, witty, biting responses I have heard over the years, unsurprised that my family has finally driven them from her tongue.

  “Now get rid of that slop,” he says, and stalks back down the hall to where I wait in silence. He sends one malevolent gaze my way, then resumes walking. My mind can hardly wrap itself around Madame. Her sharp, brittle elegance worn down to naught but a drudge.

  Pierre stops again, this time opening a door. “Here is your room. There will be two guards posted outside. Be wise, sister dearest, and do not make this any harder than it has to be.”

  I smile prettily at him. “I am certain I shall enjoy your generous hospitality, my lord.” He grabs my shoulder and shoves me into the room. As he steps outside, he motions the two guards forward and closes the door behind him.

  I do not move, but stand perfectly still, willing my heart and my lungs to calm themselves. Force myself to feel my feet still anchored to the floor. My body that is not—yet—in any pain or danger. Finally, when I can draw a full breath and my hands do not shake, I allow myself to take stock of my room.

  It is small and dark, dank and damp from the ocean outside. There is but one window, too high and narrow to climb out of. Nevertheless, I cross over to it and peer out, straight down to the sea hurling itself at the rocks below. Perhaps a mouse could scale that wall, but he would have to become a fish once he reached the bottom.

  There is an unlit fireplace, and a bed with faded green curtains, and two thick, dusty tapestries.
I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. I am not a prisoner, I remind myself. I am here by choice. I am hoping that Pierre has something that will prove Rohan’s—and the regent’s—involvement in the rebellion. Once I have that, I shall leave. I glance back at the window. Somehow.

  As I am considering yanking one of the curtains from the bed to use as an extra cloak, the door opens and two servants come in bearing my trunk, a woman close on their heels. As they set my trunk down, she tells them, “Light the fire, and find some candles.”

  The familiarity of that voice has me reeling. “Jamette?” I ask, half fearing my mind has given in to panic in spite of my resolve.

  The fire catches, casting a glow into the room. Moments later, three candles flare to life, and I see that it is, indeed, Jamette and that she is watching me.

  “You may leave,” she tells the servants, who hastily do as instructed.

  Once they have gone, I take a step toward her. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to leave when you had the chance!” While I have never borne her any love, it was her love for Julian that ultimately allowed me to live, and I would not wish my worst enemy a place in this household.

  Her pretty pink lip curls. “Where was I to go? You killed my father. I had no one else.”

  “There are other places you could have gone. Nantes alone has scores of convents that would have granted you sanctuary—”

  “A nunnery!” she scoffs.

  “Or the Arduinnites!”

  “A pack of wild women who live in the forest? Surely you jest.”

  I want to shake her shoulders till her teeth rattle. “Surely anyplace would be better than here. Julian would not want you to—”

  “Do not dare speak his name! I gave you that knife to save him. Not you. You were supposed to offer yourself up on your father’s sword so he could live.”

  “I tried.” My voice is as bleak as the memory. Oh, how I tried. “But Julian would have none of it.”