Courting Darkness Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Sample Chapter from GRAVE MERCY

  Buy the Book

  Read More from the His Fair Assassin trilogy

  More Books from HMH Teen

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Copyright © 2019 by Robin LaFevers

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Cover art © 2019 by Billelis

  Cover design by Whitney Leader-Picone

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: LaFevers, Robin, author.

  Title: Courting darkness / by Robin LaFevers.

  Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019] | Summary: When Sybella discovers there is another trained assassin from St. Mortain’s convent deep undercover in the French court, she must use every skill in her arsenal to navigate the deadly royal politics and find her sister in arms before her time—and that of the newly crowned queen—runs out.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018021262 | ISBN 9780544991194 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Assassins—Fiction. | Courts and courtiers—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. | Brittany (France)—History—1341–1532—Fiction. | France—History—Charles VIII, 1483–1498—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.L14142 Co 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018021262

  eISBN 978-1-328-52791-2

  v1.0119

  To fierce, determined girls everywhere.

  Especially those still discovering how to be fierce.

  You are the true heroes.

  Dramatis Personae

  From the Convent of Saint Mortain, patron saint of death

  Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

  Ismae Rienne, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

  Annith, handmaiden to Death

  Lady Margot, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême

  Lady Genevieve, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême

  The Breton Court

  Anne, duchess of Brittany, countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont

  Gavriel Duval, a Breton noble, half brother to the duchess

  Isabeau, Anne’s sister (deceased)

  Duke Francis II, Anne’s father (deceased)

  The Privy Council

  Benebic de Waroch, “Beast,” knight of the realm, captain of the queen’s guard

  Jean de Châlons, prince of Orange

  Captain Dunois, captain of the Breton army

  Phillipe Montauban, chancellor of Brittany

  Jean de Rieux, former marshal of Brittany

  Bishop of Rennes

  Father Effram

  The d’Albret Family

  Alain d’Albret, lord of Albret, viscount of Tartas, 2nd count of Graves (deceased)

  Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

  Pierre d’Albret, second son of Alain d’Albret, viscount of Périgord and Limoges

  Julian d’Albret, third son of Alain d’Albret (deceased)

  Charlotte, daughter of Alain d’Albret

  Louise, youngest daughter of Alain d’Albret

  Tephanie Blaine, lady in waiting to Sybella

  Breton Nobility

  Viscount Maurice Crunard, former chancellor of Brittany

  Anton Crunard, last surviving son of the former

  Jean de Rohan, viscount of Rohan, lord of Léon and count of Porhoët, uncle to the duchess

  Followers of Saint Arduinna

  Aeva, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

  Tola, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

  Breton Men-at-Arms

  Sir Lannion, second in command of the queen’s guard

  Yannic, squire to Benebic de Waroch

  Lazare, charbonnerie, member of the queen’s guard

  Graelon, charbonnerie

  The French Court and Nobility

  Charles VIII, king of France

  Anne de Beaujeu, sister to the king, regent of France

  Philip de Beaujeu, duke of Burgundy, husband to Anne

  Maximilian of Austria, the Holy Roman emperor

  Princess Marguerite, former dauphine of France, daughter of Maximilian of Austria

  Louis, Duke of Orléans

  Simon de Fremin, a lawyer

  Seguin de Cassel, general in the king’s army

  The Cognac Court

  Count Charles Angoulême

  Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême

  Jeanne de Polignac, mistress to Count Angoul�
�me, lady in waiting to Louise

  In France

  Jasper, a mercenary

  Valine, a mercenary

  Andry, a mercenary

  Tassin, a mercenary

  Richard of Shrewsbury, claimant to the throne of England

  The Nine

  Mortain, god of death

  Dea Matrona, mother goddess

  Arduinna, goddess of love’s sharp bite, daughter of Matrona, twin sister of Amourna

  Amourna, goddess of love’s first blush, daughter of Matrona, twin sister of Arduinna

  Brigantia, goddess of knowledge and wisdom

  Camulos, god of battle and war

  Mer, goddess of the sea

  Salonius, god of mistakes

  Cissonius, god of travel and crossroads

   Prologue

  Sybella

  Rennes, Brittany

  November 1489

  s I stand on the battlements of the besieged city, looking out at the disarray before me, it is clear the god of Death has taken to the field. While this could be said of any battle—death and war are old friends, after all—today He rides a black horse, a pale-haired rider hunkered down in front of Him.

  Annith. The most skilled of all of Death’s handmaidens and the sister of my heart.

  She has done her part to avert this war—taken her shot using the last of the arrows forged by the gods, which flew as straight and true as if guided by their own hand. But now the French have seen her. Understand that it was she who shot at their king. And even though he is unharmed—harming him was never the intent—they are on her like jackals on a rotting carcass.

  “Reload!” calls out Aeva, one of the dozen followers of Saint Arduinna who stand beside me along the ramparts.

  Death and Annith ride hard for the gate, Mortain covering her with His body—a body from which four arrows protrude—protecting her life with His own. No, not His own, for He is the god of Death, I remind myself. But Father Effram’s warning has taken root in my heart.

  “My lord, you do know what will happen if you choose to involve yourself in mortal affairs, do you not?”

  The French archers release a second volley of arrows. As one, the Arduinnites and I return fire. But our arrows are too late. Mortain is hit yet again, taking two more to His side. Annith twists in the saddle, trying to hold onto Him.

  It does not work, and they plummet to the ground. Annith begins crawling toward Mortain under yet another shower of French arrows. By Fate or chance, one of them buries itself in Death’s chest, and I feel the pain of it as if it comes from my own. Ice-cold fingers of dread trail down my back before wrapping themselves around my heart.

  As a lone hound brays in the distance, I shove away from the battlements and race down the stairway to the gate. More hounds join the first, raising their voices in an unholy lamentation. For a moment, the world hangs suspended, like a drop of sap oozing from a tree, and in that moment I know. The god of Death—my father—is gone. He has passed from this world.

  By the time I reach the gate, the French have fallen back, as if even they sense the magnitude of this moment. Nuns from the convent of Saint Brigantia swarm toward the fallen Mortain as Annith throws herself on his body, weeping. As much as I am hurting, she will be even more so.

  Before I can reach them, a laugh rings out—an incongruous, joyful sound in the solemn stillness.

  Puzzled, Death reaches for his chest, his hand coming away red with blood. Although I am half a bowshot away, I hear him say, “I am alive.”

  It feels as if the earth I am standing on gives a dizzying spin.

  He is alive. But even as far away as I am, I can see that he is no longer Death.

  A great chasm opens inside me, a dark yawning maw that threatens to swallow me whole. If Death no longer walks amongst us, then what purpose am I to serve? What use will there be for my dark talents and skills?

  I fear the answer was writ long ago, when I was born into the family that raised me. The family that nearly killed me and drove my mother into Death’s arms.

  And that answer terrifies me far more than death ever has.

   Chapter 1

  Genevieve

  Cognac, France

  November 1489

  was born in the upstairs room of an ancient roadside tavern, a group of common whores acting as midwives. My mother, too, was a whore, although perhaps not so very common. Would an ordinary woman invite Death to her bed on a dare?

  I emerged covered in slime and blood, my face—​indeed, my entire body—​as blue as a wild hyacinth. Hushed whispers and murmurs of sympathy followed the horrified silence my arrival caused, until Solange, the oldest among them, grabbed me from my mother’s slippery hands and swatted my backside.

  Nothing. I did not cry or whimper or even draw breath. But old whores are as wise as old cats, and Solange did not give up. She bent down to place her wrinkled lips on mine, and blew.

  According to my mother, my chin quivered, a fist curled.

  Solange blew again, her determined breath somehow shoving away the cold hands of my father as He reached for me.

  I drew a deep breath of my own after that, followed by a lusty cry. The women thought me a miracle, moved that one had been visited upon them just as if they were the Magdalena herself.

  All except my mother, who knew precisely who she’d invited into her bed nine months earlier. It wasn’t until I was four years old and clutched at her hand as she headed up the stairs with her night’s customer that my parentage was confirmed. “His heart,” I whispered into her lowered ear as I rubbed my small chest. “It’s beating strangely.”

  Less than an hour later, he was dead.

  It is that same panicked beating that has brought me to the lowest levels of the castle today—​a heartbeat as close and intimate as if it is beating against my own ribs.

  I follow the deep ba-bump through the narrow, twisting corridors of the dungeons, stopping when a gaping black hole appears at my feet. The darkness that oozes up through the metal grate is as thick and solid as a coiled snake.

  At first, I think it a hatch to the river that runs nearby. Or perhaps—​wrinkling my nose—​the sewer. Until the next heartbeat reverberates through me, one long, deep ba-bump. I never feel the heartbeats of others unless they are close to dying. That is when I finally understand the nature of this pit.

  It is an oubliette.

  A dungeon designed specifically for those who do not even warrant the mercy of a clean death.

  Nameless dread that cannot be explained by the presence of death thrums through me. My hand clenches. I should turn and walk away. Return to the sumptuous, brightly lit rooms of the castle proper.

  I am getting ready to do just that when the heartbeat stops. The pressure in my chest grows, stretching against my ribs, seeping into the very marrow of my bones. Trepidation and despair sweep through me, as if the world itself has just been torn in two.

  And then the pressure stops. Is simply gone, like the passing of the wind.

  “Who’s there?”

  The croaked question shatters the absolute silence, causing me to leap back. The dead do not speak.

  Oubliette. To forget.

  If it were called by any other name, I could turn and walk away. If it were empty, it most assuredly would hold no interest for me. But someone is down there, someone else the world has forgotten. That he is dying—​well, there is no way I can ignore it now. While I was sired by the god of Death and sent to His convent to train in His arts, I have had precious little opportunity to explore them since I have left.

  “Who are you?” The voice is low and hoarse, but it is the commanding tone of it that startles an answer from me.

  “No one. A shadow.” My words float down into the darkness on the barest exhalation of breath. Hopefully he will think them naught but a fevered dream as he lies at Death’s door.

  There is movement below, as if someone is shifting position, straining to look up. A moment later, I hear him ris
ing to his feet. I scramble back from the hole, my footsteps quick and silent.

  When I am well away from the oubliette, I allow myself to run, returning through the labyrinth of underground corridors to the main floor of the castle.

  Who are you?

  His question follows me like a ghost, as if the forgotten, dying man has looked into my very soul and seen the doubt and uncertainty that has plagued me for the last year.

  Who, by the Nine, am I?

  When I finally reach the main section of the palace, I pause to brush off my skirts and smooth my hair. I arrange my face into the bland, subservient mask I have worn for the past five years, then step into the warmth of the light.

  Oddly, it is far colder against my skin than the living blackness of the dungeon.

   Chapter 2

  Sybella

  Rennes, Brittany

  One Week Later

  he loss of my father, still sharp and raw, drives me to the city gates, as if I’m hoping that he will return. But of course, he does not. Even so, like one of the restless souls that still hover where their bodies fell, I hover in the shadows of the gate and stare out at the empty field beyond.

  No. Not empty. A small holly bush appeared three days after Mortain fell, springing wholly formed from the earth soaked with his blood. Its leaves are dark green and glisten with bright red berries. Holly has always been sacred to Mortain.

  Beneath the miraculous bush, humble offerings have sprung up like toadstools after a rain—a silver coin, loaves of coarse brown bread, a comb of honey, a bundle of willow twigs, a black ribbon. The branches are rumored to bring love to the forlorn, health to the sick, and peace to the dying. It is the last that I find most believable. He was the god of Death, after all.

  I have often wondered why my god bid me live when I sank to the bottom of that river nearly six months ago. He did not just whisper encouragement in my ear, but put his cold hand upon mine and pulled me to the surface, into the waiting arms of one who loved me.