Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  It takes four trips from the armory back to the castle to carry the iron pots and set them in place. I spend the next couple of hours painstakingly laying out the fuse I will need, doing my best to estimate the time it will take to ignite the cannon and ribauldequins. As Lazare so often told us, it is an inexact art, even more so in my hands than his.

  When everything is in place, I do not light the fuse, but return to the castle and make my way to Charlotte’s room.

  I stare down at her, noting how young her face looks, the brittle, annoyed edges smoothed away by sleep. She is the most difficult part of this entire undertaking. I do not know how much she will fight my attempts to get her away from the danger, or how hard she will fight to warn Pierre. Nevertheless, she is at the heart of this, and I will not leave her to the fate she thinks she has chosen.

  I gently place my hand on her arm. “Charlotte,” I whisper. “Wake up. We must go.”

  She comes awake in an instant, her eyes clear as she sits up. When she sees it is me, her face relaxes. “What are you doing here?”

  “We do not have much time. You must get dressed.”

  I pull the covers from her and begin helping her into her gown. “Where are we going?” she asks. “Where is Pierre?”

  “The castle will soon be under attack,” I tell her. “Pierre and I both want you safe.” While it is not a lie, it is a roughly patched bit of truth, but it seems to appease her. Once she is dressed, I help her into her shoes, settle her cloak around her shoulders, and draw her toward the door.

  I peer out into the hallway. All is clear. As we step outside her room, she looks up at me, a question in her eyes. I hold a finger to my lips and draw her as close as possible so the shadows will hide her as well.

  When we reach the chapel, she finally asks the question that has been gnawing at her. “If Pierre wants me to be safe, why are we sneaking around?”

  I kneel down to face her. “Because not all in the castle are as concerned with your safety as Pierre and I are. Charlotte, this will be hard, but you must wait here until I return. Or”—as much as I hope it does not happen—“if you see smoke, not just from a kitchen or hearth fire, but thick, roiling smoke or flames, you must go as fast as you can to the gate. There will be confusion, but the guards should not prevent you from passing through.”

  “Will I not be walking into the enemy?”

  I stare at her a long moment. “No. The enemy has already breached the castle. They are inside. Promise you will do as I ask.”

  After another long moment, she finally nods. And with that, I steer her to the confessional booth, plant a quick kiss on the top of her head, then shove her in and shut the door. As I pass by the cross hanging over the altar, I pray to God and every saint in His army to watch over her until this is over.

  Now it is time to light the fuse.

   Chapter 112

  As I return from my final trip to the armory, I can almost hear the hiss and sputter of the flame as it travels the length of the thin line of powder I have left, leading it to the first cannon. While the fuse is long, it leaves me barely enough time to do what I must.

  I race up to the fourth floor, light the equally long fuses on the hidden iron pots, then grab the two hidden culverins. They are heavy and cumbersome, but I do not have far to go.

  When I reach the third floor, I place the culverins in one of the niches behind a rusted suit of armor, then head for Pierre’s chamber. The guards do not catch me by surprise this time. I step briefly into their line of view, but before they can ask my business, I bring my hand up and blow the last of the night whispers into their faces. Just as the first guard’s sneer of disdain has twisted his lips, they both hit the ground. My muscles are already screaming in fatigue from all the hauling I have done, but with a sigh of resignation, I reach down and drag the guards down the hall and into Charlotte’s room so they will not be discovered.

  I race back to the niche, grab the culverins, then slowly lift the latch and ease myself into Pierre’s apartments. I cross hurriedly to the door that leads to his bedchamber and listen. He is still asleep, his heart beating slowly and rhythmically. I draw a much-needed deep breath, then stash the weapons over by the main door.

  I did not have enough night whispers for both Pierre’s guards and Pierre himself, so I will have to do this another way. I crouch down to hide behind his desk and wait.

  It does not take long. The first iron pot explodes in the distance, shortly followed by shouts of alarm. I count to fifty before the second one goes off. Dammit. It was supposed to be a count of thirty. But the second explosion is louder, the shouts more frantic. A guard bursts into the room and heads for Pierre’s bedchamber. Before he can reach it, Pierre flings open the door, pulling his dressing gown around him and calling for the guards. “What is going on?”

  “We don’t know, my lord. Explosions from the fourth floor.”

  He swears, grabs his sword, then races out of the room with the guards.

  I wait until I can no longer hear their heartbeats, then spring up, my attention on the large trunk that sits behind the enormous wooden desk.

  With no time for subtlety, I grab the small kindling ax propped against the hearth, then head for the trunk.

  As I raise the ax, the third pot explodes, the noise of it covering the sound of my blow. The lock shatters. I toss the ax aside and yank open the lid. So many papers! I do not have room to carry them all. The last of the iron pots goes off, and I pick up a handful of papers—I am running out of time.

  Scanning the words on the pages for anything that could be from the regent or Viscount Rohan, I mutter, “Got you,” when I find a letter asking Pierre to join Rohan in his Breton campaign. It is dated one week after the duchess was betrothed to the king. Victory surges against my ribs. Now to find proof of the regent’s involvement.

  An enormous explosion rockets through the holding just then. Merde! The first cannon! I have tarried too long. I shove the letters into my bodice as a second massive explosion goes off, and I curse the timing of the fuses. That one was too soon. But it is followed by a third, far louder explosion that rocks the very ground under my feet, and I hear the sound of screams. As the tower sways slightly, I realize the second cannonball must have reached the storeroom—with all the oil and wine and tallow.

  The entire keep is about to go up like a torch.

  I pick up the culverins and head for the door. When I reach it, I set them on the floor then snag a sturdy twig of kindling from the fireplace to use as a match. I return to the guns, leaving one leaning against my leg, and lift the second, touch the ember to the powder hole, then hang on as it belches flames at the curtains behind Pierre’s desk.

  The explosion causes my ears to ring, but the curtains catch fire immediately. I toss the empty culverin aside, and pick up the second one. As the noise from the explosion clears, I become aware of a heartbeat off to my left. I jerk my head in that direction to see Pierre blocking the path to the door, his face alight with the red and yellow glow of the flames.

  “What have you done?” he asks, stepping more fully into the room. He holds his sword in his right hand and a crossbow in his left.

  “I am ending this.”

  “This?”

  “Our family’s legacy. Your family’s legacy,” I correct myself. “You have ruined enough lives.”

  “You are mad! Killing a hundred innocent people to get your revenge on me?”

  “Not all of them are innocent,” I remind him sharply. “But that was what the first explosions were for—to give them time to get out. Even now they’re choking the halls and doorways, pouring out into the courtyard, heading for the gate tower. If worst comes to worst, they can heave themselves over the wall into the sea. The fire cannot reach them there.”

  The flames have consumed the curtain behind me. I am out of time. I raise the culverin. He stumbles backwards, eyes fixed on the weapon. “You cannot mean to kill me.”

  I laugh. “I have waited years to k
ill you.” Except, the driving hunger to kill him, to kill his father, has left me. I just want them out of my life and unable to ruin others’. Surely death is the only way to accomplish that.

  Even if I must die to do it? For Pierre’s crossbow is aimed at me, and he will have time to release his bolt before the culverin’s finds his black heart.

  As we stand at our impasse, I become aware of a small heartbeat behind Pierre. No. Please no, do not let it be Charlotte.

  “Surely you are not afraid to die,” I taunt, to distract him. “You who have meted out death as casually as an almoner hands out scraps?”

  But he is. Fear overshadows the hate and fury in his eyes as they shift between me and the flames. Finally, he drops his sword and grabs his crossbow with both hands. I touch the ember to the culverin just as a shout of pain escapes him and he drops the crossbow.

  “Down!” I bellow at Charlotte as the flames explode across the room. She throws herself to the ground, rolls out of Pierre’s reach, then springs back to her feet with her knife in her hand as the wall behind Pierre erupts into flame.

  True panic flares through him then, softening his face somehow, and in that moment, I remember a younger Pierre and the first time he felt such pain. He was not more than six, and it was the second time he had fallen on his father’s bad side.

  He panicked because he remembered the first time all too clearly, the scars only having just healed a fortnight before—the shame and the humiliation had not yet healed at all.

  How could he have grown up to be other than who he was? Who was to have served as his guide?

  The flames draw closer, and he screams, “Sybella!” It is the voice of the younger Pierre, the one terrified of our father, the one who used to hide with Julian and me before our father had taught them to hate one another. I am happy to let the current Pierre be destroyed in the flames of his own making, but I am not certain I can let that younger Pierre burn.

  And that is when I realize that I have truly become one of the Dark Mother’s own. That I am as enthralled with others’ potential for rebirth as I was my own, and that I will always give them that choice.

  “It is not too late!” I call to Pierre. “You have a choice.”

  He glances from the flames to me, eyes wide with terror. “What choice?”

  “You can die by flames, by leaping into the sea below, or you can walk through the flames and live, but only if you let them burn away the ugliness of who you’ve become.”

  “I cannot walk through flames!”

  “You can, though. They have not fully caught over here. But you must know this: I have the proof of your treason against the king. If you choose to live, you will start anew, without your father’s ghost to haunt or shape you. Without hate to warp you. It is your chance to shed that skin and be someone new. It is not a painless choice, but it is a choice.”

  He looks desperately from the wall of flames that nearly engulfs the room, then over his shoulder at the window that leads to the long drop to the shore below, then back at the quickly narrowing opening, where flames only lick along the floor.

  “Your window is closing. I would not tarry too long.”

  Behind me, Charlotte waits in silence, and I do not know how much she can hear over the roar of the fire. I must get her out of here. Now.

  A strangled sob stops me long enough to glance over my shoulder, my heart inexplicably lifting to see Pierre take a step toward the flames. “The faster you go, the less it will hurt,” I call out, then grab Charlotte’s hand.

  “I thought I told you to stay in the chapel!” I tell her as I drag her out the door.

  She looks up at me, vexed beyond belief.

  I give her hand a squeeze. “I am very glad you did not,” I say, and her face clears as I pull her toward the stairs. Seconds later, the floor above us comes crashing down in a rain of crimson and gold fire.

   Chapter 113

  Once we are free of the flames, I stop running and pause, turning to face her, my hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?” I examine her, frantically looking for any signs of burns or singe marks, but her face is unblemished. “Pierre did not hurt you?”

  Her eyes study me with equal intensity. “No. Not the way he hurt you.”

  Her words are like a blow, setting me back on my heels. “Why did you do that?” she asks.

  “Do what?”

  “Give him a choice?”

  I want to tell her because of the same reason I gave her one. Instead I ask, “Why did you give me a choice? Why did you come back?”

  She gives me a ferocious scowl. “I didn’t give you a choice. I didn’t want him to come after us and needed to protect Louise.”

  “But you did. When you came back and stabbed him. While it may have been due to your feelings for Louise, it also gave me a choice—a space in which to save myself.”

  She is quiet then. I glance down at the knife. “Where did you get that?”

  She glances at me in scorn. “It is the knife you gave me.”

  The words cause my throat to thicken. I gave her the knife.

  I taught her to fight, then set Aeva to teaching her when I couldn’t.

  I placed her with women who are warriors at heart.

  I showed her the path and, like a flame set to kindling, she took it. She has already begun her rebirth, and I want to weep for the joy of it.

  * * *

  Outside, the courtyard is like a vision from hell. Red flames cast their glow, reaching up to the dark sky. People are running, horses fleeing, cows mooing in alarm. I hold Charlotte’s hand tightly and look to the stables, but the entire household has turned out to grab a mount for themselves and flee. The main gate is choked with people, backed up toward the armory, which blazes like a torch against the night sky.

  I do not know if they will all make it out in time.

  I do not know if we will make it out in time. I had not planned on lingering so long in Pierre’s study. Even if we can fight our way to the stables and there are any horses left, it will be impossible to wrest them from the panicked grip of others.

  “The wall,” I mutter to Charlotte.

  She gives me a look of disbelief. “How are we to get through a wall?”

  “Not through it, over it. I have a rope.”

  But no sooner do I have the grappling hook out and over the wall than we are spotted by frantic servants, who come running our way. Big and burly, they shove and push, and I must let go of the rope else risk being separated from Charlotte or trampled.

  Merde. I have not come this far to be trampled to death by the very people I was so intent should not be harmed.

  I pause in the shadows to think—the heat of the flames pressing against my back—trying to remember how far away the drainpipe that leads to the ocean is, and if Charlotte can swim. Before I can ask her, there is a small explosion off to the left. It is the opposite end of the courtyard from the armory, and I did not set any bombs there. As the bright flash recedes from my eyes, I see someone, no, two someones, pushing their way through a hole they have blasted through the wall. The first figure clears the rubble, sword raised, long braid whipping back and forth as she scans the chaos.

  “Genevieve!” Relief gushes through me, making me giddy.

  Her head swivels in our direction, and she motions us toward her. Beside her another head pokes through, and I nearly laugh as I recognize Lazare. They have come! Beast has come! I dared not hope, and yet here they are.

  I tighten my hold on Charlotte’s hand, and we sprint the short distance toward the others. When I reach them, much to my surprise, Genevieve throws her arms around me in a fierce hug.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nod, ignoring the lump in my throat.

  “If you two have finished your lovemaking,” Lazare drawls, “we’d best get out of here before the entire thing’s engulfed.”

  I elbow him in the ribs. “Watch your language. There’s a young lady present.”

  Genevieve g
rabs my arm, my other still attached to Charlotte’s hand, and drags me toward the hole in the wall. “And who is this?”

  “My sister.”

  Her steps come to a sudden stop, and she gapes at me. “It is a long story.”

  “Which you will tell her some other time so as we don’t all catch on fire or get trampled,” Lazare says, then puts his hand to my back and shoves.

  As I step through the hole, I look for Beast but only see Aeva, Poulet, and a few men I do not recognize. I whirl around. “Did Beast go in there to find me? We must let him know I am out.”

  My words are met with silence. Genevieve and Lazare exchange a glance. “Beast is not here,” she says at last.

  “Where is he?”

  “General Cassel has him. Maraud has gone on ahead. We are to meet up with him as soon as we have you.”

  Before I can order everyone to mount up, I hear Charlotte ask, “Who are you?” When I turn to see who Charlotte’s question is addressed to, I gasp and drop into a deep curtsy, hissing at Charlotte to do the same.

  “I am the king, demoiselle.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He looks at me, then at her. “I have come to rescue you.”

  She meets his gaze steadily. “My sister already did that.”

  The king looks at me again with a smile that is both rueful and nonplussed. “So I see.”

  Nevertheless, he came. He himself rode out to see to our safety. The greatest man in all the kingdom has—finally—bestirred himself on our behalf.

  I let the gratitude and thanks that fill my heart show upon my face. He grows flustered, mayhap even blushes, before giving a quick nod.

  It is time to go find Beast.

   Chapter 114

  Maraud

  “Waroch is going to be battered to mincemeat before he even gets where they’re going,” Jaspar said.