Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  “Do you really wish to have this conversation here, Your Majesty?”

  “Answer.” If I thought him hard and impassive when he learned of my participation in quelling the rebellion, it is nothing compared to the sense of deep, personal betrayal lurking in his eyes right now.

  I look over at Maraud. His face is devoid of expression, as if bracing for what he already knows I must say. If I wish to keep the king’s favor, I must deny him again. But I have already denied him three times and caused him to doubt his own sanity with my lies.

  I am done with lies. “Yes, Your Majesty. Sir Crunard and I were lovers.” I stare at the king, willing him to understand there is more to the story than that. That I knew Maraud before I knew him. I want to explain to him the hundreds of nuances to the entire situation, but his mind—and his heart—are closed to me.

  Breathy whispers race around the room, and General Cassel looks as victorious as if he’d just reconquered the Holy Land. While I expect to see anger writ raw upon the king’s face, instead I see disinterest, almost boredom. “Take her away,” he orders.

  “And if they would lie about that, Your Majesty, it surely proves that they would also lie about what he claims he saw on the battlefield.”

  “While I have no proof of what happened on the battlefield that day,” Maraud’s voice rings out, “I do have proof of who was behind the rebellion.” He takes a pouch from his belt and withdraws a piece of red and yellow fabric from it. He unrolls the banner Andry stole from Rohan, then tosses the grisly contents onto the floor before the regent’s feet. Everyone pauses, even the guards escorting me from the room.

  “These are the signet rings of the two English barons leading the troops Rohan invited to join him.”

  The king’s gaze remains fixed on the two fingers. “How many troops?”

  “Four thousand.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Dead.”

  The regent gasps, drawing the king’s attention.

  “And Rohan was not the one who killed them,” Maraud adds.

  Then the guards remember their duty, and I am led away.

   Chapter 102

  Sybella

  Once I am finally alone in my chamber, all the pain and horror I have been feeling comes over me in a wave. Too late, too late, too late.

  No. I shove the panic away. This disaster will not break me, although disaster seems far too tame a word. Surely it is a tragedy. A tragedy that the d’Albret family insists on eating its young. How many more will be destroyed by its foul legacy? So far, only Louise has escaped.

  Unless Charlotte has told Pierre where Louise is. I clutch at my stomach. No, if she had, he would have crowed about that as well.

  Unless he is waiting to spring it on me as yet another surprise. Sweet Jesu.

  Too late, too late, too late.

  The words gnaw on my heart, wearing it ragged.

  Cold. I am so cold. I cross over to the fire and place my hands before the flames, rubbing them over the heat, using the sensation to find a way back into my body and away from my turbulent thoughts.

  The heat of the flames licks my skin, and I close my eyes to pray. As the warmth begins coursing through me, I realize I am not too late. I was farther gone than Charlotte when I came to the convent, and they did not give up on me. They did not leave me to my fate, no matter how much I, in my panicked unreason, kept trying to escape.

  They did not give up on me, and I will not give up on Charlotte. I will drag her away, again and again and again, until she finds herself ready to be reborn. Not through the same flames I endured, but there are other ways to begin anew.

  My panic falls away from me, and I clench my hands and stare into the fire. I will find the proof I need to clear the queen’s name, collect my sister, and destroy Pierre.

  But how? Especially without getting Charlotte or myself killed in the process?

  With flame, the fire whispers. Or mayhap it is the memory of Lazare’s voice when he told us fire was the best way for a few to take down many. Either way, once the idea has formed, I know it is the right one. It is the instrument of the Dark Mother herself, after all. Now I must simply find the means to apply it.

  * * *

  The next night at supper, I spend most of my meal looking out over the hall full of men gorging themselves on food and wine. I can feel Charlotte watching me, feel Pierre watching us both, but I ignore them and act as if I am considering which stud to add to my stable.

  When the food is cleared away, the men move to other entertainments—dicing, arm wrestling, and loud arguments over nothing. I sip my wine, my face a mask of ennui.

  Charlotte’s eyes are still on me, and the desire to go to her, to shake her small shoulders then whisk her from the room is so overpowering that I must stand up and move lest I give in. I saunter toward the towering fireplace to watch the dice game, boredom and indifference dripping from every pore, which only makes the men compete harder to capture my interest.

  Under the guise of allowing one of my servants to refill my wine, I glance up at the high table, relieved to see that both Madame Dinan and Charlotte have left. Good. Now I may set my plan into motion.

  On the next bet placed, I raise my eyebrow and murmur into my cup, “Such an unadventurous bet, Sir Knight.” His face flushes at my words, but it is too late to change it, for the other man rolls. He wins, then doubles his bet for the next roll. As does his opponent. In no time at all, the mood around the game grows heated. The stakes have been raised. They are not just playing for coin, but for their pride.

  And, they think, my attention. Possibly even my favor. It takes less than a half an hour for a fight to break out, one men bellowing “Cheater!” before launching himself at another. Around them, the crowd cheers and urges them on as they crash into one of the tables. Before they have finished, two of Pierre’s burliest guards wade in and pull them apart.

  Pierre comes to stand just behind me, seething. “What do you think you are doing?”

  I glance up at him with innocent eyes. “Watching the entertainment.”

  He grabs my elbow and hauls me away from the flying fists. “You started this.”

  “How? I wasn’t even playing.”

  He glares at me. “Would you be happier confined to your chamber?”

  “Of course not. I should go even more mad with boredom. You must know I am not the sort who can be cooped up for days and nights on end, stitching.”

  His eyes narrow. “What would you prefer?”

  “To go riding—”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Or hawking?”

  “How stupid do you think I am, to let you out of the keep for even a minute?”

  “You cannot expect me to sit here like an andiron. You said it yourself, I am not made to be a lapdog. I grow too restless, and it is not healthy for me. Besides, you don’t want me to grow soft and lazy before you even have a chance to use my skills, do you?”

  His hands are balled into fists as he glares at me. “You may walk the yard. As much as you’d like. But not alone.”

  “Yes, yes. My guards, I know.”

  “Not only them, for I can see how easily you can twist them around your finger. Jamette will go with you.” He leans in close, bringing his lips to my ear. “No one knows where you are. No one is coming to save you, and there is no way out of this holding. Best get that through your beautiful skull.”

  I reward him with an amused grin. “My, how you do go on about a demoiselle just wanting some fresh air.”

   Chapter 103

  Genevieve

  It takes three days, three days of pacing my small room, with no word or news of anyone—not so much as a pitcher of water to wash with—before the king decides to seek me out. Of course I have not been idle. I have spent the nights—when the hallways are thick with darkness—searching for Sybella’s room. To my immense frustration, it is not in one of the towers, which means the king has put her in the dungeon.

 
; When I hear the latch thrown back, I think it is the guard getting ready to toss the midday meal at me. Instead, the king strides in and closes the door behind him.

  His immaculate dress makes me immediately conscious of how grubby I am—it is all I can do not to fidget or tuck my unraveling braid behind my ear. Instead I square my shoulders and curtsy. He says nothing, drawing closer, his gaze roaming over me.

  “You may stand,” he says at last. “I do not wish to talk to the top of your head.”

  As I rise to my feet, a small sliver of hope also rises with me.

  “I will tell them to bring you a bath.”

  “That would be most appreciated.”

  He puts his hands behind his back and saunters to the window. “It has been an interesting three days. Sir Crunard has made some very serious claims against both General Cassel and my sister. Much of what he says lines up nicely with what you have told me. But then, it would if you were lovers, would it not?”

  I want to ask him about Maraud’s proof—if it was enough for him—but instead say, “I would not lie for a lover. Surely I have proved that to you at least.”

  My response provokes a wry twist of his mouth. “Touché.” His mouth twists again, only this time not with humor, but with sadness. “What I would like to know is why you took him for a lover when you refused me.”

  My heart drops. I knew it was inevitable that we should talk about this, but I do not relish the task. “Your Majesty, he and I were lovers before I ever came to your bed. Were lovers, and then parted, as lovers often do. I did not think I would see him again. When we came upon each other”—in Paris—“in Brittany, we realized we had unfinished business between us.”

  He fingers the tapestry that covers the wall. “I thought we meant something to each other.”

  “We do. We are friends.”

  He grimaces. “Is that what we’ve become over the last months?”

  “A friend is nothing to scoff at, Your Majesty. Indeed, our friendship is one of the truest things between us. You have had so very many lovers, and a veritable army of advisors and councilors and courtiers seeking something from you. Influence, favors, table scraps of your power. But I, ever since our first night together, have asked nothing of you, only listened and offered my insight where I thought it could help.”

  He turns from the tapestry to stare back out the window.

  “I like to think we understand each other better than most. We have seen each other at our most private, unguarded moments. Not of passion, but of temper and melancholy, uncertainty and remorse. And through all of that, we have maintained our connection, our mutual respect.” I pray that it is so, even as I utter the words. I still respect what I know him to be deep down, and will respect him even more when he finally embraces it. “Which is something no mere lover can provide. Surely you can see the truth in that?”

  His face holds equal measures of contemplation and sadness. “That is one thing you have always done, Genevieve—tell me the truth. At least such truth as is convenient for you to tell.”

  It is hard not to wince. “That is a personal failing, sire, and not something I reserve exclusively for you.”

  “And so I will call on the friendship you offer and ask you to tell me the truth once more. Do you know if General Cassel did what Sir Crunard accuses him of?”

  “I was not on the battlefield that day, so cannot give you an accounting of what transpired. What I can tell you is that when I first came across Sir Crunard, he was chained in an oubliette and left for dead. Even then, the one thing that shone brightest in his mind was the injustice visited upon his brother. It was his thirst for justice that kept him alive those long, dark months. It was one of the first things he spoke of to me, well before he knew who I was.”

  “And how did you come to know him?”

  I shrug. “I was bored. Lonely. Grieving for Margot.” I recognize now that I was grieving for her even before she was dead. Mourning the loss of our friendship, mourning that it was never what I thought it to be. “I came upon him—”

  “In the oubliette?”

  “Yes, and we began to talk.”

  “Of what?”

  “At first, he thought I was the ghost of his brother. Bringing him food cured him of that notion. The more we talked, the more I began to wonder if he had been unjustly imprisoned, as he asserted. When Count Angoulême was away, I went through his correspondence.”

  The king scowls.

  “It is what I was trained to do,” I remind him. “And in that correspondence was a note from the regent, ordering Angoulême to make him disappear.”

  “You are certain it was the regent?”

  “She was not so foolish as to sign it, but I have seen her writing many times and recognized it instantly.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she did not want you to know she had blackmailed the chancellor of Brittany into betraying the duchess. Because once she had, she did not want you to know that she reneged on her promise to return his only son. Whether that was to protect General Cassel from his crimes or for her own political gain, I do not know.”

  The king’s mouth flattens into a hard line. “It is near impossible to recognize the truth among all the lies.”

  “Who has lied to you the most in the past, Your Majesty?”

  He jerks his head up at that. “You know from your own experience with him that Viscount Rohan’s loyalties are more fleeting than the wind. General Cassel has been accused of acting dishonorably on more than one occasion, by knights who are held in high regard. And your sister lies to you as easily as she breathes.”

  He clenches his fist and returns to the window, his eyes staring unseeing at the courtyard below. “But my father trusted her. I cannot believe she would betray him.”

  “I’m sure she believes she is serving him.”

  He frowns in confusion.

  “She is fashioned from the same cloth as he is.”

  “And I am not.” The despondency in his voice cuts deeply at me.

  “Your Majesty. Parents, good parents, don’t want us to be miniature versions of themselves, but hope for us to have a better life—”

  “But I am a king!”

  “A better life isn’t just measured in the titles we hold, but in how we feel while living it. Your father may have been a great king, but he did you a disservice by constantly railing against the things you value.”

  His eyes shift to the wall, almost by instinct, and I am glad that rutting picture is hundreds of miles away. “Your ambitions, which were different than his, were still a way to keep the crown of France thriving,” I continue. “And while I’ve no love for the regent, for the last twelve years, she’s held the reins of power. If not for the misfortune of her sex, she would have been king.”

  He shoots me a glance. “And this is supposed to cheer me?”

  “She clearly has the sharp wits and bold cunning to be an efficient ruler, but would she have been a good one? Who is to say what horrors she might have wrought if not required by law and custom to twist and contort in order to hide the power she wielded. Or perhaps such open power would have allowed her to be less devious. But that was not the case.” My voice hardens with my own anger and bitterness. “She not only clung to power once it was rightfully yours, but has gone out of her way to undermine you and the rightful queen. She is like a pauper who, once starved, will never be full again. No matter how much she eats, that deep hunger will always haunt her.”

  “Are you saying my sister deserves mercy?”

  “No more than she has shown others.”

  His eyes glimmer with appreciation. “A neatly issued sentence.”

  I shrug. “She tried to use me as a weapon against you. Though I am not a sword, the cut would have been deep. I am not so generous a person as to be able to forgive that. Are you?”

   Chapter 104

  As instructed by the steward, I present myself outside the king’s audience chamber and await further instructio
ns. Moments later, the king approaches, deep in conversation with General Cassel.

  No, not conversation but an argument. I keep my attention focused on the audience chamber even as I strain to listen. “But your father—”

  “My father is no longer king. France is mine now to rule as I see fit.” It is all I can do not to cheer at the king’s words. Now if only he will rule as I hope he will. “The sooner both you and my sister come to accept that, the better.” When they reach the door where I wait, General Cassel gives the king a brusque bow and enters the chamber.

  “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. The queen should be here to witness this, but since she is still in Amboise, I thought you should do so on her behalf.”

  “Or mayhap Lady Sybella?” I suggest, frustrated by his continued disrespect for her.

  But he is in no mood to hear suggestions. “Do you wish to bear witness for your queen or not?”

  “Of course.” He nods once, then strides toward the front of the audience chamber. I hang back, close enough to hear but not so close as to draw unwelcome attention.

  In addition to his Privy Council, I am surprised to see both the Duke of Orléans and Madame Regent’s husband, the Duke of Bourbon. A door opens off to the side, and the regent herself is escorted in by Captain Stuart. He leads her, not to where the other council members are gathered, but to stand in front of the king. As if she is on trial. My pulse quickens.

  “Anne de Beaujeu,” the king intones.

  The regent’s nostrils flare, and she tilts her chin in defiance.

  “In the last two years, you have engaged in a number of activities without the approval of myself or the council at large. Many of these activities—in spite of your assurances otherwise—go directly against the wishes of the crown. In light of recent testimony, I believe that the queen was only involved in the rebellion in an effort to stop it. I will be releasing the prisoners, believing them innocent until I have demonstrable proof otherwise.” It is all I can do not to raise my arms in the air and cheer. “I have called Rohan back to court to question further.”