Igniting Darkness Page 9

  He bows at her politely, but does not answer the question. I carefully set the mortar and pestle down. “Heloise? Would you mind finishing this? It is almost ready to steep.” Then I step out from behind the table. “By all means, please take me to the king.”

  To my surprise, we do not head for the king’s audience chamber but back toward the kitchen and a small room that stands off to the side. The first thing I notice is the mud-splattered soldiers standing at attention. The second thing I notice is the stink of death that permeates everything, explaining why the king and his advisors have not entered, but stand cramped in the hallway.

  Upon my arrival, the king turns to me. “My search party has found something, Lady Sybella. Or has found someone, I should say.”

  Every fiber of my being grows as taut as a bowstring. I arrange my face in what I hope is mild confusion. “I am glad of it, Your Majesty.”

  The king gestures to the mud-splattered captain, giving me a moment to compose myself. Do not let it be Beast. Do not let it be Beast. “Report, Sir Reynaud.”

  “We found a man’s body southeast of here, washed up on the banks of the river.”

  I am so relieved it is not Beast that I hardly hear the rest of his report.

  “Is it one of my men?” Monsieur Fremin has arrived, only he is not under armed guard.

  “I don’t know, sir. He had nothing to identify him.”

  General Cassel steps out from behind the king, his eyes boring into mine. “We have reason to believe it was you who killed him.”

  The hallway grows as silent as a crypt. “And what reason would that be?” I ask.

  The Bishop of Albi answers. “What more reason do we need than the fact that he is dead and you are a known assassin?”

  “Even an assassin needs a motive,” I point out.

  “Do they?” The king’s confessor’s eyes are alight with something both gleeful and terrifying. “When they serve the god of death, do they truly need a motive?”

  “Yes. For political expediency, to protect others under their charge, in self-protection. The list is long. But those of us at the convent not only need a motive, but Mortain’s blessing, and I have neither.”

  “That is not proof that you didn’t kill him,” the Bishop of Albi says.

  Are they truly this stupid? This blinded by their own prejudgment?

  “Does your list of motives include strange and unholy rites?” I jerk my head around to stare at the regent. The self-satisfied look on her face warns me I will not like what comes next. “There have been many reports of your tending to Captain Dunois when he fell from his horse. I am not convinced that it wasn’t you who killed him.”

  “Those were not unholy rites,” I say tightly, “but earthly ones. Checking for wounds I might stanch, an arrow I might pluck from his chest, a puncture where poison might have entered so that I might draw it from him. That is all, my lords. That and praying.”

  “Praying to the god of death,” Albi mutters.

  “Praying to Saint Mortain, the patron saint of death,” I correct him sharply. “He is recognized by the Church.”

  “Lady Sybella is correct.” The Bishop of Narbonne’s voice rings as clear as a bell among all the muttering. “What she, what all of Brittany, practices is not heresy.”

  The look on the Bishop of Albi’s face all but screams, Not yet.

  General Cassel takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving my face. “Could this man have been sent to kill the queen, and you killed him instead?”

  “He could have, and I would most assuredly have stepped in to save the queen. But I’m afraid I was not given a chance to show off my skills, for that is not what happened here. Besides”—I tilt my head—“if I had, would I still be accused of murder? For daring to save our queen from an assassin?”

  There is a satisfying pause as they all realize just how deep a thicket their single-minded focus has led them into. The king recovers first. “Of course not. In such a case we would thank you for saving my lady wife. Although we would prefer that any such malfeasance be brought before the king’s justice for punishment.”

  “As would I. But as you no doubt know from your own experience on the battlefield, sometimes we are allowed only the briefest moment of time in which to save a life. Your Majesty, those very skills also allow me to identify the means of death. If I stand accused, I would ask to be allowed to examine the body.”

  As I expected, this generates another round of outraged muttering, but again, Bishop Narbonne comes to my aid. “Of all of us, she is the best trained to make these determinations. And whether you like it or not, her worship is not heresy. Let her examine the body so that we may all learn something.”

  “What if she lies?” General Cassel asks.

  “The king’s physician is with the body now. Surely he will know if she is lying.”

  * * *

  The smell is stronger inside the small room, where the body is laid out on a thick stone table used for butchering deer and boars. The king’s physician peers up at me as I draw closer, looking in perplexity from me to the king.

  “She has trained in the arts of death,” the king explains.

  The physician merely nods before resuming his work.

  The body is swollen and bluish white, bloated from river water. I glance up at the king. “He has been dead far longer than Monsieur Fremin’s men have been missing.” I step closer to the table, right next to the physician, who casts me one annoyed look before continuing to probe at the man’s throat. “What have you found there?” I ask as if it were not I who inflicted the wound.

  “A hole,” he says.

  “Like that of an arrow?” General Cassel asks.

  “No,” the physician says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “It is too ragged for that. The best I can piece together is that he fell from his horse, breaking his neck. He then had the misfortune to land on a small branch poking out of the bracken.”

  “Let me see.” Monsieur Fremin shoulders his way through the small gathering so he, too, can examine the body.

  I keep my face focused on what the physician is doing, but my gaze follows the lawyer closely, watching to see if there is any spark of recognition. There! His pupils dilate, and his eyes start to widen before he catches himself, pulling the collar of his shirt up to cover the movement.

  “Is he one of your men, Monsieur Fremin?” the king asks.

  “No,” he tells the king, but it is a lie. I don’t know if he recognizes the horribly distorted face or the man’s clothing or his boots. But recognize him he does. Fremin looks from the body to me and smiles, like a man who has unexpectedly caught a hare in an old, forgotten trap.

   Chapter 15

  Fremin knows. The look he sent me fair trumpeted his awareness clear across the room.

  Thank the saints everybody else was too busy looking at the body to notice.

  But that will not last long. I’ve no doubt Fremin will find some way to use this knowledge to his advantage. Except, then he would have to admit he knew the man—which would raise new questions, and the king has not cleared him of all suspicion.

  Well, not yet. But after this newest revelation, it is hard to say if that will hold. Clearly Fremin’s best hope is that I will be found guilty of this crime, but if not, he will no doubt take matters into his own hands.

  A knock sounds on my door, and I scowl, wondering what new catastrophe waits on the other side. I consider not answering, but everyone saw me escorted back to my rooms. Besides, only a coward hides. I check the knives at my wrists, school my features, then head for the door, stopping as it opens and Genevieve slips in.

  At the sight of her, the ugly tangle of fear that fills my belly coalesces into something hotter and far more satisfying. “What are you doing here?” I spit out. If not for her . . . I do not even let myself finish the thought lest I do something I regret. “I see that you are not confined to your chambers.”

  It is hard to tell, but I think she winces slightly bef
ore her face resumes its normal impassive mask. “I have not been accused of killing four men,” she points out as she closes the door behind her.

  My arm is raised, fingers curled, before I catch myself and wrap my hands around my arms instead of punching her. I storm over to the window and stare the long way down into the courtyard. The room is quiet except for the shifting of the dying embers in the grate.

  “Is this newest body one of yours?”

  I shoot her a scornful glance. “I am not so foolish as to hand you my secrets so you may take them back to the king.”

  This time it is her fists that clench as she takes a step farther into the room. “I would not do that.”

  The anger burbling through my veins does not want to believe her, but all my training and instincts fair shout at me that she is telling the truth. Even so, I owe her nothing. “You betrayed us once before.”

  Her soft mouth grows hard. “I was wrong—but that does not make my actions a betrayal. Knowing the king’s own ambitions and devotion to the Church, it made complete sense that he would shut down the worship of the Nine.”

  I cannot argue, because that seems to be precisely what he is doing now that he has learned of it.

  “So yes, I believed it. And I wanted to fix it. I could not accept that I had been sired by Mortain for no other reason than to molder in an obscure castle under the leering eye of a debauched lord.”

  Although her face is carefully arranged, it is clear how very young she is, for all that I am only a year older than she. And like me, from twelve on, she lived in a hostile household, where she needed to conceal her every thought and true action from everyone around her.

  She begins to pace. “I only hoped to gain clemency for the convent. Instead”—her voice grows rough with emotion—“I exposed everyone and put you all in even more danger.” She falls quiet a moment, then stops pacing to face me, chin held high. “However, I am not here so you can throw my past sins in my face.”

  Impressed in spite of myself, I lean against the window. “Then why are you here?”

  “I heard the king talking with his advisors.”

  “When?” I ask sharply.

  She glances away for the briefest of seconds. “Last night in the king’s privy chamber.”

  “Why were you there?”

  She shrugs. “The king enjoys railing at me at the moment. It is easy enough to endure, and I can learn much. Things we may be able to use to our advantage. Or at least protect ourselves against. The king had dismissed me to attend the meeting. But I did not leave.”

  She takes a step closer. “Sybella—” The urgency in her voice shoves aside my anger. “His council—with the regent leading the charge—is urging him to petition the Church to have worship of the Nine declared unorthodox. They are trying to convince him that the queen cannot honor both the Nine and her marriage vows. I do not think any of them, with the possible exception of General Cassel, believe such a thing, only that it provides a political advantage.”

  “What did Cassel say?”

  “He wants the convent eliminated because it is a weapon the king does not control. But it is the regent who is more dangerous. She is urging him to do this as penance for breaking his betrothal vow.”

  “A vow she encouraged him to break!”

  She plucks at her skirt in frustration. “It doesn’t matter. She is happy to jerk her brother around like a dog on a leash as long as it allows her to do what she thinks best for France. She is also proposing to hold off on the coronation until the queen has agreed.”

  Merde. The regent’s brain has more twists than a labyrinth. “You must tell the queen.”

  “What? No! She is not fond of me. It is better if you tell her. She does not need to be reminded that I have private access to her husband.”

  It is a considerate gesture. “Normally, I would agree with you, but with guards at my door, I don’t know when I will be allowed to see her.”

  After a moment, Gen nods her head, then takes a step toward the door. “The body they found?” I say.

  She stops. “Yes?”

  “He was an assassin my brother sent to kill me at Christmas.”

  * * *

  When Father Effram looks up from putting away the altar cloth and sees my face, he immediately heads for the confessional booth. Fortunately, my two guards do not invade the sanctuary of the chapel and linger outside in the hall.

  As soon as he slides the grill open, I tell him, “There has been a new development.”

  “By your voice, it is not a happy one.”

  “The search party has found a body. The body of the assassin Pierre sent.”

  “That is a shame it didn’t stay put, but surely they cannot connect it to you?”

  “Fremin suspects I killed him. He might tell the king.”

  “Would that not also implicate him and your brother, since they are the ones who sent the assassin?”

  “They would not say the man was an assassin. They would claim he was a messenger.”

  There is silence as Father Effram digests this. “What will you do?”

  “I have considered how I might neutralize Fremin without killing him. Now that the king knows I am an assassin, any death will immediately call his attention to me.”

  “That is true.”

  “I could cut out Fremin’s tongue, then he could not speak, but he has hands and knows how to write. I could cut off his hands as well, but would it not be kinder to kill him outright? In Pierre’s world, a man with no voice and no hands will not last long.” A silent burble of laughter threatens to crawl its way up my throat. “In truth, Father, I killed him the moment I removed my sisters from his reach. My brother does not tolerate failure.”

  “What do you wish to do?” Father Effram’s voice is gentle and coaxing.

  The dark ribbon of rage unfurls inside me. “I want to kill him,” I whisper, the longing in my heart causing my voice to tremble. “I want to slip my hands around his throat and squeeze the life from him. I want to squelch any threat he may now—or ever—present to those I love.” As the wave of fury subsides, an icy fear replaces it. “But surely it is one thing to kill the henchmen as they came to our room to kidnap my sisters, or to throw a knife at Pierre and the men who think to grab them from my arms. But to kill a man for something he might do in the future feels as if I am crossing a dangerous moral line. And yet no matter how I look at it, the only solution I can see is his death.”

  “What happens if you don’t kill him?”

  “He tells the king, or the regent. They believe him. I am tried and hanged for murder. My sisters will have no one to see to their safety. Worse, who is to say that Pierre won’t find them now that it is known I serve the convent? Eventually, he will look there, and he will find them.”

  “The convent would not hand them over.”

  “Not without a fight, no. But how can they withstand the thousands of troops Pierre commands? Must they all die, too, because of my blighted family?”

  In the silence that follows, I can hear the cogs of his mind turning. At last he says, “The solution is obvious, child. You are acting out of love, not embracing darkness for its own sake. You must follow your heart.”

  “Even if my heart says to kill him?”

  He is quiet so long, I wonder if he is going to leave me to answer my own question.

  “You—all his daughters—have only touched the surface of your power. You must stop being afraid to use it. Being small and hiding yourself does not serve anyone. It may have once, but no longer.”

  His words fill me with both trepidation and exhilaration. It is the exhilaration that scares me the most. “But then I become what I am trying to protect my sisters from.”

  “The Dark Mother takes life in order to make room for new life. But every time she does, she creates an opening for rebirth.”

  For some reason, his words create a flutter of panic deep within me. “I am not the Dark Mother,” I rush to point out.

 
“Perhaps not, but that does not mean we cannot learn from her. Even when death looks us in the face, we can still choose life. If we do, we are reborn into something new. If not, death claims us for eternity.”

  “Are you saying that if I threaten Fremin with death, he may change his ways?” I snort. “He is too afraid of Pierre to do that.”

  “Fear is a powerful thing,” Father Effram agrees. “And goes to the crux of what I am asking you. Is your fear of the darkness greater than your love of your sisters?”

  His words feel like a slap in the face, even as they pluck the chords of my own memory: Hate cannot be fought with hate. Evil cannot be conquered by darkness. Only love has the power to conquer them both.

  And as soon as I remember those words, I realize there is no choice but to kill Fremin.

   Chapter 16

  Genevieve

  While not pleased with the news I carried, the queen was most grateful to have it. Indeed, she treated me with every courtesy and did not make me grovel. She is one of the rare nobles who dip into the well of power only to do what must be done rather than to feed her own gnawing hunger.

  However, I am not allowed to bask for long in the queen’s beneficence. One of the understewards appears in the hall before me with a summons from the king.

  He is not in his apartments when I arrive. Uncertain what to do, I perch on the velvet-covered bench and wait. Moments later, I hear his voice and that of his valet from inside his bedchamber. As he draws nearer the door, he calls back, “And burn the clothes. You will never be able to remove the stink of death from them.”

  His words capture my attention as surely as a hook snags a fish.

  When he enters the salon, his cheeks are flushed and his hair still faintly damp, as if he has just come from a bath. Giving no greeting, he goes to stand directly in front of the fire. Still not looking at me, he asks, “From your training at the convent, is it possible to hasten the putrefaction of a body?”

  “What, Your Majesty?”