Author: Robin LaFevers
I settle into my fighting stance.
The man spits out a mouthful of blood, then rushes forward with his short sword thrust out. Merde, but he is stupid. Does he truly think I will just stand here and wait to be skewered?
I duck under the outthrust blade and roll onto the ground, swiping at the man’s ankle as I pass. when I come up on my knees, there is a puzzled look upon his face. He stops moving and slowly sinks to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. There is a flutter of his passing soul, but it disappears quickly.
His companion’s eyes widen at this uncanny trick. If he is smart, he will run, but he is not. He panics and lunges forward. I leap back and get the misericorde between us. It connects with his bony knuckles, just a scratch, but he stiffens, and then looks from his cut to my face.
“You cannot win against Mortain’s own,” I whisper. Then he, too, settles to the ground, as if giving a deep curtsy. Another fluttering of soul, then nothing. I frown at my lack of connection with their souls and wonder if that is another gift of grace with the misericorde, that the victims’ dying thoughts remain private.
The sound of steel scraping on stone pulls my attention back to Duval. Three of his assailants are down; the fourth is backed against the wall. As I approach, the remaining bandit glances my way. It is the merest slip, but Duval uses the distraction to force his way inside the man’s guard and strike him on the head with the butt of his sword. The man’s eyes roll up in his sockets and he slides to the ground.
“I will save you for questioning,” Duval says, then turns his attention to me. “Are you hurt?”
I glance down and see that one of the blades has sliced through the fabric of my gown. A faint line of red wells up on the meaty part of my arm. “Just a scratch. And you?” I ask, because it seems polite.
“Fine,” he says curtly. His gaze moves beyond me to the three men I’ve dispatched. “Sweet Jesu!” He hurries over to where they lie and kneels to feel for their pulses. “All of them dead,” he announces.
“I know. ” I try to keep the pride from my voice. A sense of triumph races through me and I am nearly giddy with it. I have bested three men, and though the test was harder than any at the convent, I passed with flying colors. even better, I fought as well as Duval. I wonder how to compose my message informing the abbess of this without sounding as if I am bragging.
"What happened to your horse?”
My spirits crash back to earth at Duval’s question. I whirl around, shocked to see that Nocturne is lying on the ground, her sleek black side drenched in sweat and heaving like a bellows. “She was only scratched,” I tell him as I rush over to kneel beside her. The acrid tang of bitterroot fills my nose and there are flecks of bloody foam upon her lips.
“Poison. ” even as I say the word, I can feel the fevered heat coming off of her. “No mere bandits, then. They wanted us dead. ” I run my hand down Nocturne’s silky flank, trying to comfort her. “Do you have so very many enemies?” I ask Duval.
“It would appear that I do,” he says. “The better question is, Should I be flattered that they set seven upon me? Or does that mean someone knew I would be traveling with a skilled fighter?”
The full implication of what he has said hits me. “Are you suggesting the abbess sent them? Or Chancellor Crunard?” I am barely able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
He shrugs. “It seems whoever sent them knew that both of us could fight. ”
I am tempted to ask if he also suspects Beast or de Lornay, but then I would have to reveal that I overheard their conversation, and I am not willing to do that. Not yet.
Is it possible that Duval had sent them on ahead to arrange such a thing? would he have staged an attack in order to rid himself of me?
"We must put her out of her misery,” Duval says gently.
His words remind me of what I must do, and while I long to ease Nocturne’s suffering, I am saddened beyond reason that I must bid her farewell.
"Would you like me to do it?” Duval’s voice is nothing but kind. There is no hint of condescension in it, but I act as if there is. Getting angry is the only way I can bear this. “I am trained in death,” I remind him. “I need no help. ”
“None of us are trained to kill those who have served us well and faithfully,” he says. “It is a special agony all its own, and I would spare you if I could. ” There is a note of sorrow in his voice and I know — know— that he has had to do this very thing. His sympathy makes the pain of losing Nocturne worse, as if my feelings for her are not some childish affection I should have put aside long ago. “I am not weak. ” To prove my words, I reach down and grasp my knife handle.
“I never said that you were. ” His voice is still gentle, as if he sees how much this is hurting.
which only makes me resolved to prove that it is not. “If you will cease your endless prattle, I will do it. ” I feel rather than see him step back, and I am suddenly able to breathe now that he is no longer near. I turn my full attention to Nocturne, wanting to find some way to let her know how much I will miss her.
I place my cheek along her neck, breathe in her familiar horsy scent. “Thank you,” I murmur in her ear. “For carrying me so faithfully, and for being my friend. ” I whisper this last part so softly that I am afraid she will not hear. But her ear twitches, and I know that my words have reached her. She gives a faint whinny, as if to let me know she understands. “I hear there are many carrots where you are going,” I tell her. Then, before I can falter, I grasp the misericorde and put it to her throat.
Nocturne’s spirit leaves her body in a red-hot gush. A faint breeze rustles by, bearing the scent of sweet green grass and the sense of galloping into the wind. I lay my head down on her neck and pray I will not weep.
Then Duval grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. If I didn’t know he had nerves of iron, I would have said there was a faint glimmer of panic in his face.
"What are you doing?” I wrench my arm out of his grip.
He stares intently at the cut on my arm. “If one blade was poisoned, why not all of them?” As I look at him blankly, he gives me a little shake. “You might have been poisoned too. ”
Now that he has mentioned it, there is a faint burning sensation in my arm. I glance down at the cut. “I am fine,” I assure him.
“You cannot know that. Perhaps even now it is working its way to your vital organs. ” He takes my arm again and keeps a firm hold on it as he leads me to his horse.
He does not know I am immune to poison, and I am reluctant to share this. If he himself was behind our attack, better not to hand such secrets to him. when we reach his horse, he stops long enough to feel my brow. “No fever yet,” he mutters.
“I am fine, I told you. ”
He ignores my protestations and puts his hands around my waist. I barely have time to gasp before I am perched on the horse’s back, the imprint of his hands still burning against my skin. He springs up into the saddle, then takes the reins in hand. “Grab hold of me or else you’ll tumble off,” he instructs over his shoulder.
Gingerly, I place my hands along his sides.
“Hold on,” he repeats, then puts his heels to his horse. we fly forward, and I barely have time to grab the thick folds of his cloak to keep myself from spilling off.