Igniting Darkness Page 8

  “My power. You wanted to whittle away a slice of my power. In that way, you are just like all the rest.”

  I blink in surprise. “Power? I never wanted power, Your Majesty.”

  “No. Just a sweeping pardon of your fellow assassins.”

  “Few are truly assassins. Most simply serve the patron saint of death in some way.”

  “Nevertheless, to do what you asked was to impose your will—a woman’s will!—over mine on matters of church and state.”

  “No, I thought only to ask for mercy for a group of women who raised me. Besides, you said you had never even heard of the convent.”

  He takes a step toward me. “That is the entire reason you came to my bed, isn’t it?”

  “No! I have always liked and admired you.” At least until you began behaving like a maddened bull.

  “Were you attracted to me?” He stares so intently into my eyes that I fear he will see the truth there—that my heart and my body long only for Maraud.

  No. “Yes.”

  “Then come. Let us make love again. If you are attracted to me, surely you will come to my bed.”

  I meet his gaze steadily. “Not willingly, Your Majesty, no.”

  His hand snakes up and grabs my chin, forcing my head back. “Are you refusing me?”

  “Not refusing, no. But I will not come willingly.” Every time he speaks, memories of Maraud flood my mind—his easy confidence, his honor, his kindness—and the contrast could not be more stark. Or favor the king less. “Surely your chivalry would not demand such a thing.”

  He scoffs, but lets go of my chin, nonetheless. “Have you not heard? One cannot possess chivalry and honor and run a kingdom. And if ever you forget it, there will be plenty to remind you.” The look he casts at the painting is so full of hatred that I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flame.

  “That is not so, even though some would have you believe it. Nor, I believe, is it what you truly want.”

  “Do not tell me what I want,” he snarls. “I am sick unto death of hearing what others think I should want.”

  I glance briefly back at the painting. Of course he is. Once his father died, his sister effortlessly took up that mantle and now undermines him at every opportunity.

  I think back to the audience chamber and General Cassel, so quick to voice his brutal opinions. To the Church advisors, equally quick to cluck and offer up their views and judgments. So few—if any—of them ever affirming his own.

  He draws close again. “What I want is you. Why is that?” A note of confusion seeps out through his anger. “And why will you not come to my bed?”

  “I see no signs of the man I liked and admired. I was drawn to his honor and his chivalry, and see neither of those things in this room right now.”

  Not caring for my honesty, his lips grow thin. “How do you dare defy me?”

  “Because I have nothing to lose.”

  “Your life?”

  I smile, amused for the first time since I entered the room. This amusement unnerves him more than anything else I have done. “One who serves death does not fear it.”

  He abruptly steps away to pour himself a glass of wine. “My bishops say you and your convent reek of heresy. My general says I should execute you all for treason.”

  I can only pray that my own behavior has given him a taste for defiance. “I have said that I will swear on the Holy Bible or any other relics of the Church that I have never acted against you or the French crown.” He does not need to know it was because I was never given the opportunity.

  He falls quiet while he sips his wine. “Tell me, what do you know about the Lady Sybella?”

  Not sure where this is leading, I answer cautiously. “As I told you, I left the convent before she arrived and only met her for the first time four days ago.”

  Even so, I have learned much about her. Things he would be most interested in knowing.

  “It is too bad,” he says, “because if you could shed some light on her character, it would do much to soothe my anger with you.”

  “In order to do that, I would need to know her character, and I do not. If I were to tell you anything, it would all be speculation.”

  “And what would you speculate?”

  I stall for time in order to assemble my thoughts. “She is the one whose case you just decided on, no?” He inclines his head, watching me closely. “Well, I would speculate that she is a very good sister. Caring, protective—”

  He seizes on that. “How would an assassin protect those she cares about?”

  “In the same ways we all do. By anticipating and seeing to their needs, by placing herself between those and any who wished them harm. Much like she does for the queen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Small truths, I remind myself. Small truths will help us all. “I have only been here a handful of days, sire, and have already heard the gossip about the queen and the regent. That the more Madame tries to draw the queen under her influence—”

  He opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, then motions for me to continue. But the seed is planted. He is now wondering in what ways the regent is trying to manipulate his queen just as much as she tries to manipulate him.

  “—​the more Sybella offers herself as a target, using distraction and redirection to shift the regent’s attention away from the queen to herself.”

  “And thus draw her ire,” the king muses.

  “Yes,” I say with more encouragement than warranted, but I am relieved to have pulled his attention from Sybella to the machinations of his sister. “That is a large reason the regent dislikes her so.”

  There is a knock on the door, and the chamberlain appears. “My lord, the Privy Council is assembled and awaiting.” He gestures toward the large set of double doors at the far end of the king’s salon.

  “Thank you. I will be right there.” To me he says, “You must leave. I have business matters to attend to.”

  “But of course, Your Majesty.” I curtsy my farewell, but he is already headed toward the council chamber.

  At the door, he stops. “And, Gen, I will remind you: Do not say anything of your true role here. While I am most displeased with you, I do not wish you to get swept up in the repercussions that may come.”

  No, but he will gladly feed Sybella to those same wolves.

  As he enters the council room, I catch a brief glimpse of two of the bishops and the regent, then hear the deep voice of General Cassel before the door closes. I stand there, aswirl in the dregs of the king’s tumultuous emotions. He still wants me but has accepted my boundaries.

  He does not plan to expose my identity to the others. His father’s scorn is a festering wound, one poked at constantly by his sister. A wound is a weakness, and a weakness an opportunity.

  There is a way forward here. The path is narrow and twisted and surrounded by thorns, but it is a path. With that in mind, I glance over my shoulder to see if the chamberlain is still about, but he is gone. The king’s suite contains four rooms altogether—a sitting room, his bedchamber, an oratory, and a private council room. I quickly dismiss the bedchamber that sits to the left of the Privy Council, as there is a good chance the king’s valet awaits him in the small adjacent dressing room.

  Which leaves the room on the right. I hurry over and place my ear to the door. Silence. Cautiously, I open it. When I reassure myself that it is truly empty—no minor secretaries or scribes diligently tending to the king’s business—I slip inside. I head straight for the wall between this room and the council room. The outer walls of the palace are thick, but less so between rooms.

  “. . . spoken at length with the other bishops,” the king’s confessor is saying. “And while it is true that the Nine were originally recognized as saints, that was hundreds of years ago. Much has changed since then, including a number of ecclesiastical positions and reforms.”

  “In short,” someone—I think it is the Bishop of Albi—says, “it is an archaic an
d heathenish practice, and surely no longer orthodox.”

  A murmur of voices talking over each other. A lone one finally rising above the others. “Sire,” the regent says, “how did you come to learn of the convent?” I hold my breath.

  “A king has many spies and sources, Madame.” He uses her formal title, a move I can only assume is meant to put her in her place, remind her that she does not have to know everything that he does.

  But she is an expert at both deflection and manipulation. She has had years of practice, learning just where to poke and prod to elicit the behavior she wishes, and is quick to direct his attention back to the matter at hand. “Of course, Your Majesty. But this morning’s meeting gives me another thought. I believe that God has placed an opportunity squarely before you.”

  The entire room falls silent, and I would give anything to see both the king’s face and his bishops’ as the regent decides to add the role of spiritual advisor to her duties.

  “Continue.” The king’s voice is colder than iron in winter.

  “You have long been troubled by your need to break the betrothal vow with the Princess Marguerite.” I suck in my breath—that she would be so bold as to speak of such private matters before the entire council. “Perhaps ridding the Church of this unorthodoxy would allow you to atone for that stain on your mortal soul.”

  The silence in the room is nearly thicker than the wall at my ear. Again, I would give anything to know how the king is reacting to this. After a few more minutes of ominous silence, the regent speaks again. “If that does not appeal, then perhaps it would be wise to hold off on the queen’s coronation.”

  Surprised silence fills the room. “But to what end?”

  “Besides, the marriage has already been consummated,” someone else points out.

  The Bishop of Albi, ever political, speculates, “Won’t that create more problems than it solves?”

  “Only if we let it go on indefinitely. I am merely suggesting we use it as leverage to get the queen to renounce her irregular religious practices. The French crown cannot be tainted with such things.”

  “And if she renounces the Nine, the convent of assassins will not be a tool in her arsenal, one that could be used against you.” Cassel’s deep voice is easy to recognize.

  I wait for one of them to point out that the queen—that we—would never do that—but no one does.

   Chapter 13

  Aeva

  The sun is low in the sky by the time we finally reach the cave. Less than an hour until nightfall. Beast leaves me to scout out our shelter and wheels his horse around to ride back to see how close the search party is. Despite my earlier teasing, he is quick for one who is the size of a standing stone. And quiet.

  “What is wrong?” The young wasp rides in front of me, her eyes nearly as sharp as her tongue. Even when alarmed, she manages to keep her voice low.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are we stopping?”

  “So that we and the horses may rest.”

  “You don’t need a rest,” she points out.

  “No, but I am not the only one here.”

  “It is because of Louise, isn’t it?” She glares at her younger sister, who rides comfortably nestled in the arms of the little gray dove, Tephanie, and blinks in surprise at the attack.

  “Quit grumbling at Louise.” My voice is clipped. “Else I will tell her that you were complaining that the saddle was making your bottom sore mere minutes ago.”

  The wasp’s mouth snaps shut, and she glowers at me. “You just told her.”

  “Ah, so I did. Next time you’d best keep your grumbling to yourself so I do not slip again.” I dismount, leaving her to glare at me from atop Divona, and go investigate the cave.

  It is perfect for our purposes—large enough that four men can ride in abreast and deep enough that all of us—plus our mounts—can sleep in comfort. Those of us who will be getting some sleep, that is. We will need to post a watch.

  I motion to Tola. “Get the others into the cave,” I tell her quietly. “Far in the back. There is an opening there. Too small for horses to pass through, but large enough for us to get out with the girls if we need to.”

  “Something is wrong,” the wasp says, looking smug with victory.

  “I wouldn’t look so pleased about it if I were you.” Tola lifts the younger girl off the horse. As she lowers her to the ground, she says softly, “And be mindful of your words lest you frighten Louise unnecessarily.”

  “But if something is wrong, it wouldn’t be unnecessary.”

  Boar’s tits! Could this girl child be any more mulish? “Charlotte.” My use of her given name catches her full attention, and I hand her Divona’s reins. “I am putting you in charge of Divona, but I need to know you will give her your full attention. She does not like dark, enclosed spaces and will need your firm and guiding hand. Can you do that?”

  With her eyes wide and her mouth shut for once, she nods and reverently takes the reins. She longs to ask me what I am going to do—but I look pointedly at the horse, and the question fades.

  “This way,” Tola says.

  Long before I expect him to, Beast comes galloping back. As he swings off his horse, the wind shifts and I catch the scent of horses, sweat, and iron. They are closer.

  “A quarter hour out,” he mutters tersely. “Where are the girls?”

  “Already in the cave, with Tephanie and Tola.” I tell him about the back opening I found, in case we need to get away. I take in his considerable bulk. “I do not think you will fit through it. The other men, maybe. But not you.”

  He bares his teeth in what he thinks is a grin but is more like a rictus of death. “I do not plan to. If it comes to that, the men and I will make a stand here at the entrance while you and the others slip out. Our posted rear scouts can pick off any who try to follow you.” The weight of his resolve is as unmovable as the cave beside us.

  “What should I do with them?”

  “Get them to the convent.” I barely recognize the note of bleakness in his voice before he swings around and begins issuing orders to the men.

  That bleakness has me kissing my fingers and pressing them against the wall of the cave, begging Dea Matrona and Arduinna to hold us in their protection.

  By the time I reach Tola and the others, the coil of tension that permeates the air is unmistakable. The little one huddles in the dove’s lap. The dove’s hand trembles as she calmly strokes the child’s back, murmuring words of comfort.

  The wasp is gripping Divona’s reins in her left hand, so tightly that her knuckles are white. In her right she holds the knife that Sybella gave her. It is pointless to tell them everything will be fine when we can hear the search party’s hooves thudding on the forest floor, shaking the very ground beneath our feet. I give the wasp a nod of approval instead.

  One of the men near the front of the cave spits, another coughs, and the hooves grow louder, closer, accompanied now by the squeak of leather and the jingle of tack.

  A voice, sounding far away because of the thickness of the cave walls, calls out, “Over there! A cave!”

  Another voice calls back. “This will be the last one for the day. We’re almost out of light.”

  The direction of the horses shifts so that they head directly for us, then come to a stop. The cave rings with the silence that follows, broken by a creak of leather as someone hoists himself out of a saddle.

  Tola looks at me. I point at her, then the opening, then hold my palm out flat. She is to go first, but not until I give the signal.

  My heart beats faster in both anticipation and excitement. If not for the girls and Tephanie, I would relish this skirmish. After weeks cooped up at the French court, I am hungry for a fight.

  In the fading light that just reaches the cave, Beast looks at me over his shoulder and nods.

  I lift my bow and draw an arrow, calculating a path that will allow me to pick off the first men in without hitting Beast or the queen’s guar
d. Before I can give Tola the signal, a hunting horn sounds, and a new rider comes galloping into the clearing, eliciting curses and mutters from the French.

  “Where’s your captain?” a voice shouts over the others.

  “I am here,” a deep voice answers.

  “The search has been called off,” the messenger calls out. “They’ve found something.”

  The men whoop, and the captain says, “You heard him! Mount up and ride out.”

  It is not until I hear the last of them ride away that I finally lower my bow.

   Chapter 14

  Sybella

  As I prepare the queen’s morning tonic, I try to decide how much I should share with her from yesterday’s audience with the king. If they are truly considering appealing to the Church to have the Nine declared heretical, she will need to be informed. And while she should know their claims that following the Nine divides her loyalty, I’m not sure that would do more than make her angry.

  “Well, are you going to ask me?”

  I glance up from the pestle I’m using to grind the cardamom to find her watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Ask you what?”

  “How my meeting with Genevieve went.”

  Merde. News of the search party had driven all of that from my mind. “Of course I am curious, Your Majesty, but it also struck me as a somewhat personal conversation.”

  She waves her hand. “I have no privacy. You know that.”

  As if to prove her point, there is a sharp pounding on the door before it is thrust open and Captain Stuart strides in, followed by a half dozen soldiers.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the queen demands.

  Captain Stuart bows. “I beseech Your Majesty’s forgiveness, but I am here on orders of the king.” The queen stares at him, disbelief writ plain on her face. Ignoring her, he motions his men forward. “Lady Sybella, you are to come with us.”

  My heart sinks. I do not know what this means, but surely something dire. Have they found Beast and the girls?

  “All seven of you are needed to escort her?” the queen asks waspishly.