Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  Cassel raises his sword. “Fight or have the world know you as a coward.”

  Beast leaves his own weapon lowered. “This is not a war, and I do not care enough about you to commit patricide.” I hear in his voice that it is true. Whatever horrors this day has brought, it has also brought him that peace. “Besides, there are other men with more claim to your life than I have.” His gaze shifts to Maraud, who has come down the stairs into the room while the two men were talking. “Sir Crunard, with the king’s permission, I leave him to you.”

  Surprise flashes across Cassel’s face, and he swings his body around to find Maraud’s sword raised in readiness, his easygoing manner replaced by something dangerous and lethal. Gen’s eyes widen in alarm, her hand flying to her chest. She has heard one of the hearts in the room begin to beat. Understands that one of them will die. She looks at me, lifting her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. She does not know which one.

  Beast walks away from his father.

  With a roar of outrage, Cassel pivots from Maraud, raises his sword, and rushes toward Beast.

  Trying to recapture Cassel’s attention, Maraud bellows, “Face me, you coward!” But the general’s world has narrowed to Beast.

  Determined resignation settles over Beast at the choice being forced on him. He stops walking, turns around, and simply stands there, as immovable as a mountain. I can only wonder what thoughts are going through his head as he lifts his sword. The general does not check his momentum—surely a man as battle seasoned as he is recognizes that Beast’s blade is longer than his. Or mayhap he thinks Beast will give in and spar with him.

  But Beast does not. He would not willingly make this choice, but he will not run from it either. He does not flinch and only grunts a little from the effort of holding his ground as Cassel skewers himself on the sword.

  Silence spreads across the room like the blood spreading across the general’s chest. Beast shoves his sword—and the general—from him, his father’s body sliding to the floor and taking the sword with him. Beast looks up at Maraud. “That should have been your kill.”

  “He’s not dead yet,” I tell them, for while his heart is slow and feeble, it still beats.

  Maraud nudges Cassel’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “Dead enough.”

  The fallen general tries to speak. After a moment’s hesitation, Beast kneels down to hear, even as my mind screams, Trap!

  “Honor is a fool’s game,” the general mutters.

  “And yet it is you on the floor dying, with your past glorious deeds congealing around you like old blood.”

  “Honor is a fool’s game,” Cassel mutters again. “And yet you played it well.” His fingers grasp Beast’s knee, but Beast stands, causing the general’s hand to fall back to the floor.

  I scramble down the stairs, nimbly avoiding the stunned and grumbling remains of Cassel’s garrison. Beast is battered, bruised, bleeding, and that is not even counting the damage to his heart this day. Not caring who sees, I throw myself at him, forcing him to hold on to me lest we both tumble to the ground.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs against my hair, his arms forming a protective shield around me.

  “You did not even need our help,” I say, dangerously close to weeping in front of all these vile men. I now understand precisely how Genevieve felt, standing outside Givrand.

  “Now who has straw for brains?” He takes my face in his hands, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “Just seeing you—knowing you were here and not locked away in Pierre’s holding—heartened me. If not for the sound of your voice calling me back, I would have lost myself, and he would have won.” He places his forehead against mine. Then he sniffs. “You smell like the inside of a chimney.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk.” I close my eyes and wallow in relief like a hog in mud. I want to roll my entire body in it and splash it all around, but instead, I thank every one of the saints who had a hand in bringing us through this.

  In the next moment, General Cassel ceases his struggle against the inevitability of his wound and passes into death, his soul erupting from his body, a hurtling projectile of force and velocity looking for a target.

  It seizes on me. I have only a moment to reinforce my mental shields before I feel its impact. Beast grips my hands, as if he can physically protect me from Cassel’s avenging soul.

  After a moment of withstanding the battering, I realize it is not anger that propels the soul, but vigor. As he was in life, so he is in death. Once he has swirled around me with fierce curiosity, the soul shifts its attention to Beast, and its entire manner changes.

  “What is happening?” Beast’s voice is naught but a rumble that I feel in my chest.

  “Your father’s soul,” I whisper. “It . . . he . . .” I cannot keep the amazement from my voice. “Was proud of you.”

  Beast looks at me as if I’ve offered Cassel’s liver to him for supper.

  I shake my head—in wonder, in disbelief, in order to keep Beast from pulling away. “In his own brutally twisted way, he was. You were everything he refused to believe in, but in the end you proved him wrong.” I pause, trying to understand the rest of the sensations coming from the soul as they nearly overwhelm me. It is as if every feeling he denied himself in life has been let loose upon his death.

  “He was glad,” I say at last. “Glad that honor existed. And that you wielded it more gloriously than most.”

  The general is filled with pride that his son has more honor than any man he has ever met, feels that it exonerates him in some way. I do not share that with Beast. I will save it for some less fraught day. Say, when he is nearing his dotage.

   Chapter 118

  Genevieve

  I watch Maraud staring down at the general’s body. He looks like one of the statues the Church is so fond of, both beautiful and terrible in the same moment. The righteousness of his anger, the pain of his loss, the depth of his grief, the solemnity of what he has just witnessed all writ plainly on his face. In truth, he and Beast could not have given the king a better showing of honor.

  Would that the king could have a painting of that to hang on his wall to guide him.

  It seems to even have impressed the souls of the dead, who have been hovering and pulsing along the upper reaches of the room. Seeing Sybella in Beast’s arms, jealousy courses through me. I long to run to Maraud. Throw myself in his arms, laughing and weeping with relief that his long nightmare is over. But I am not willing to trust the limits of the king’s newfound tolerance. His face is a pale mask of horrified revulsion, and so I must stand here like a lump, my own paltry gifts of no help at all.

  When the general’s men begin to move, making ominous rumbling noises, I brighten. Mayhap I will get to skewer one of them.

  The king finally bestirs himself. “I have seen all I need to see.” He clears his eyes of the horror he has just witnessed, lifts his chin to a royal angle, and squares his shoulders. “Hold,” he calls out as he steps to the edge of the gallery.

  The men freeze. All of them have had occasion to see the king before and easily recognize him. “Although General Cassel is dead, he is being charged with treason. You may lay down your weapons and come peacefully, or I will send in the three hundred troops I have waiting just outside the holding.”

  After a moment’s hesitation and a look around the room at Beast, Maraud, Andry, Tassin, Jaspar, and the others, Cassel’s men do as commanded.

  I shoot the king a sideways glance. “That was quite a gamble,” I murmur. “You don’t have three hundred troops.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts in the faintest hint of a smile. “I’d like to think that I’ve learned a thing or two from you.”

  I nearly laugh then, for surely I have brought the greatest weapon in our arsenal—the king’s justice.

   Chapter 119

  Five days later, we arrive in Nantes to the shocked stares of the people of the city, as well as the palace guard, who had not realized the king was not within
the palace.

  Once we are ushered inside, the king calls his council to him and disappears while the rest of us are treated with utmost respect and given every courtesy. Most of that honor is lost on us, for we are all so exhausted from our travels that we sleep for the next four days. Well, I do. Sybella spends much of that time tending to Beast’s wounds while Maraud watches and teases the stoic Beast about making such a fuss.

  On the fifth day, I am summoned to the king’s privy chamber. I arrive at the same time as Sybella. “Do you have any idea what this is about?” she asks.

  “None.”

  Then we are ushered inside. The king is alone except for—I hear Sybella gasp—“Your Majesties!” She drops into a curtsy. I do the same, peering up through my lashes at the queen.

  “You may rise,” the king says.

  “Since I can see you nearly choking on all the questions you are dying to ask,” the queen says, “let me assure you I am fine. My health is good, and no, I did not risk it traveling to Nantes, as I came by boat, which was a most restful way to travel.”

  “I am relieved to hear it, Your Majesty.”

  The king silently drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You have both shown me the rot in my kingdom, as well as in your families and in my own. You have saved France, you have saved yourselves, you prevented war—and put down a rebellion!” He pauses a moment, as if overcome. “You managed to sneak a bear into my dungeon and exchange it for one of my prisoners. A bear!”

  The queen bites her cheeks to keep from smiling.

  Heartened by that, Sybella dares to speak. “Your Majesty, if I could be so bold as to ask, what became of the bear?”

  The king gapes at her, then shakes his head. “The master of the hounds took a liking to him. He is now housed in the Louvre’s menagerie and treated like a royal pet.”

  My heart lifts, for both the bear and also the further sign of the king’s true nature.

  “You are forces of nature,” he continues. “Like a—a storm raging through the sky. Or—or waves, churning upon the sea.” He waves his hand, as if agitated. “You are like the demigods of Rome, when the gods walked among mortals and fathered children with them.”

  I glance at Sybella, for that is exactly what we are, and though I have told him time and again, he cannot quite accept that I am speaking truth.

  “You are outside every convention of society, and I have no idea what to do with you.”

  As he falls silent, the queen leans forward. “Use them,” she says. “They serve us now. They have skills and talents that no one else in the kingdom possesses. Let them use those talents on our behalf.”

  * * *

  A week later, Sybella and I are told that our presence is required in a formal audience with the king in his throne room.

  The first thing I notice when I enter is that the king—and queen—are in full court dress. A most formal occasion, indeed. The second thing I notice is that we are not the only ones who have been summoned. Standing off to the side, as if waiting for us, are Beast, Maraud, Aeva, Father Effram, Lazare, and an older man I have never seen before. The air of solemnity is thick enough to cut with a knife and serve on a slab of bread.

  When we are before the dais, both Sybella and I sink into deep curtsies.

  “I have invited you all to this private meeting for reasons that shall soon become clear. All that I am about to explain has been written down, ratified by my seal, and witnessed by four members of my council. It is,” he continues, “real and enduring. It shall outlast even me.”

  Unease begins to work its way inside me, for if a law or proclamation has been fashioned to live beyond the king who signed it, it is near impossible to have undone.

  “This has been a year of learning for all of us.” The queen shoots him a brief but bemused glance. “And that includes me most of all.” He stops, takes a deep breath, and then says, “Let’s dispense with the formality, shall we? In essence, my lady wife was correct. The crown should use you—your skills and talents. The crown will use you. I have created an Order of the Nine, a select cadre of individuals who have been chosen due to their skill, cunning, bravery, courage in the face of obstacles, and anything else I find worthy of rewarding. But,” he continues, “these nine shall also honor the nine old saints of Brittany. I think they—and their duchess—have demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt their loyalty and commitment to the greater good of the people of the land. Because two of the nine are not able to serve, I have adjusted the numbers accordingly so that there will be nine of you—always nine.”

  He rises then and reaches for a black embossed box that lies on a small table between him and the queen. He carefully takes from it a simple gold chain with a nine-pointed star fashioned of three interlaced triangles. Each point of the star holds a different gemstone favored by one of the Nine. He crosses over to Maraud. “Sir Crunard, in thanks for your honor and loyalty, risks taken, and horrors endured. I am honored to offer you this seal of office.”

  Maraud bows his head and accepts the chain.

  The king moves to Beast next. “Sir Waroch, for being the embodiment of honor in a world that tried so hard to strip it from you, and for serving your queen no matter the cost.”

  Aeva is next, for her skill in battle and knowledge and power of the earth with which she lives so closely, as well as her loyalty to the crown.

  “And for you, charbonnerie, for using your most extraordinary knowledge on our behalf and for coming to the queen’s aid when few else would.” Lazare’s face when the king places the chain around his neck is such a mixture of surprise, disgust, and pleasure that it is all I can do not to laugh.

  When the king stops in front of Father Effram, a wry smile plays about his mouth. “Father Effram. You serve a trickster of a saint and always manage to be where you have not been invited, yet your advice is worth its weight in gold. Thank you for being the voice of reason when so many others could not find it in their hearts.”

  Next he comes to the older man I do not know, who turns out to be one of the mendicant priests who serve the patron saint of travelers. “As this is a crossroads, it is right that we have one who serves Saint Cissonius on this council, to advise us on all the crossroads to come.”

  When he removes the next chain, he crosses the room to the queen, who sits in her chair looking faintly surprised. “And who better to represent Saint Brigantia than my own queen, who was dedicated to her at birth and has shown that saint’s wisdom throughout the entirety of her life.”

  A knot forms in my throat then, for I can only imagine how much this means to the queen after how hard she has worked to get the king to consider her counsel. She quietly murmurs her thanks.

  The king moves to Sybella next, and the knot in my throat grows so large that I can hardly swallow. “Lady Sybella.” His voice is low and filled with sorrow and remorse. “No matter how ill you had been served, by this crown or others, you have consistently given your loyalty to your queen and gone far above your duty in all things, but especially in your most exemplary concern for your sisters. All children should be so lucky to have such an advocate on their behalf.”

  Sybella closes her eyes as she dips her head to receive the chain, but not before I see how brightly they shine.

  And then he is before me, his face filled with warmth and pride and a faint glimmer of regret. “And, Lady Genevieve. Your service has perhaps been the hardest of them all. To stay quiet and hidden in the shadows, patiently and inexorably exerting your will on those who should already know what you worked so hard to teach them. For your loyalty, and your friendship.”

  I blink rapidly, but do not fool anyone as I bow my head. The gold chain is cool about my neck, the king’s fingers warm as he allows them to brush against my skin. It is a touch that says goodbye to our past, but welcomes our future. Then he steps back and faces all of us. “As the founding members of the Order of the Nine, I charge you all with telling me—all of France’s kings—the truth. And”—he glance
s briefly at me—“finding ways to help us hear it when we cannot.” He sighs. “In short, you are to continue doing what you have done to keep our lands and people safe. There is a bit more to it than that, but I think that will suffice for now. I have had all of the ceremony I can stomach for one day. You are dismissed.”

  I am so stunned that it takes me a moment to find my feet, and when I do, my steps feel as if they do not touch the ground.

  “Lady Sybella,” the king’s voice calls out. “If you and Sir Waroch would be so kind as to remain for a moment, I would like to speak to you about your sisters.”

  “But of course, Your Majesty.”

  I allow myself to continue walking out of the room, knowing she will tell me what transpires.

   Chapter 120

  Sybella

  Gen is the last one out of the council room, leaving Beast and me alone with the king and queen.

  “Regarding the matter of your sisters, Lady Sybella,” he says without preamble. “I have come to a decision. Since Louise is Sir Waroch’s sister’s daughter, I felt he should hear what I have to say.”

  I glance at the queen, but if she has any notion what the king’s decision entails, it does not show on her face.

  “Given your brother’s multiple acts of treason and his careless disregard for the lives of both those who serve under him and his own family, I cannot in good conscience grant custody to him. Indeed, I have still not decided if I shall pardon him for his crimes, although I think it will ultimately be his future behavior that determines that.” Although we have heard nothing from him, Pierre’s body was not found in the rubble at Givrand.

  The king is generous with his pardons, having already granted one to Viscount Rohan in exchange for his sworn, true testimony to the events in Brittany as well as the exchange of some private holdings the crown has long wished for.