Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin 1)

Author: Robin LaFevers

Sensing the presence of life, Nemours’s soul moves toward me. I gently reach past the cloud of grief and misery that surrounds him, searching for more of his last thoughts in this world, looking for something that will help us. There: The solid feel of a hand against his back, a sharp push, the sense of falling. The force of his landing sends me reeling. I do not realize that I have almost fallen myself until I feel Duval’s hand on my shoulder pulling me back into life and breaking the connection with Nemours. A gasp escapes me and I open my eyes.

Duval stands over me, his warm, solid hand grounding me in this world, his face full of concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, my lord. I am fine,” I say.

Duval’s free hand touches my cheek. It feels far warmer than Death’s caress but is just as gentle. “Then why are you so pale?” he asks softly.

“I am not. ” I shove his hand away and cast my eyes down to avoid meeting his. “Nemours was pushed. From behind. He does not know whose hand it was, for he never saw it. ” we are both silent as we digest the full implications of this news.

Someone on Anne’s Privy Council is a murderer.

Chapter Thirty

Duval stays late at the palace so he can inform the duchess of the events and see to the necessary letters and arrangements required by Nemours’s death. I sleep not a whit. I am furious that this chance at happiness has been snatched from the duchess, that such an honorable man has died by such a dishonorable hand. I want to fix it, to put things right, but it is beyond even the skills of Mortain.

But perhaps I can grant the Duke of Nemours a small mercy. At daybreak, Louyse bustles in with a full pitcher of water and a cheery “good morning,” shutting the door behind her with her ample hip. “After I lay out your clothes, I will bring a tray to your room to break your fast. Also, my lord Duval left you a note. ”

“A note? Is he not here?”

“No, demoiselle. He and the other lords have gone off on a hunt to stock the castle larders. ”

She hands me the note and turns to my garderobe. I am torn between opening it at once and using the moment to slip into my fresh chemise. Shame wins over curiosity, and my scar is securely hidden by fine linen by the time she returns. Once she has helped me into a gown, she excuses herself to fetch my tray. I tear open the note, cracking the seal and spilling small bits of red wax to the floor.

Ismae,

I have decided that we will be moving into the palace to be nearer the duchess. If last night’s activities are a sign of things to come, I would be close at hand when she needs me.

Also, after much discussion, the council has decided to go on with the planned hunt — indeed, all court activities — as if nothing has happened. There is no reason the death of an unannounced stranger would alter our behavior, and thus are we bound and trapped by our own deception. It is better that as few as possible know the extent of this disaster.

Be well,

Gavriel

He is right. No one but the Privy Council and he knew Nemours’s identity, so it would not make sense to accord Nemours any particular honors. But in denying him those, surely we are adding to our grievous insult against the man.

I move toward the bed and fetch the sacred bone dagger from under my mattress. The reverend mother has given it to me for some purpose. Perhaps easing Nemours’s death is precisely what the misericorde is to be used for. I do not know if it is some whim of my own or some higher purpose of the god, but I am filled with an urgency to grant Nemours a small act of mercy.

Even as I secure the misericorde at its customary place at my waist, a plan begins to form in my mind. I go to my small trunk, unlock it, and withdraw a long, thin dagger. I place it in a supple leather sheath and then strap it to my left ankle. I slip the plainest garrote bracelet on my wrist, and last, I remove the small crossbow and attach three of the quarrels. The bow is designed to be carried by a thin chain at my waist, under my overskirt. If someone were to press close against me, they would feel it, but other than that, it is undetectable.

I do not expect to be questioned at the palace, but I have an excuse prepared just in case. I carry a small offering to leave on Saint Arduinna’s altar in the chapel in the hope that she will smile on today’s hunt.

The castle is nearly empty since all the nobles are off chasing stag or boar or whatever it is that has caught their fancy today. The servants and attendants are busy at their tasks, relieved, no doubt, to be spared from dancing attendance on so many nobles and courtiers.

I pause for a moment, wondering where Nemours’s body might be. Remembering the strange, unerring way I found Martel’s grave, I cast out my senses, searching for Death.

It is harder here, with so many sparks of life flickering about their duties, but even so, I am drawn to Death like a moth to a flame. As I follow the trail, I quickly realize the path leads to the small chapel where Anne and Nemours first met.

The chapel is empty and I make my way to the bier, the soul’s despair guiding my steps more surely than the small, sputtering candles in the nave. when I reach the body, the soul seems to recognize me and rushes toward the familiarity and life that I offer.

I open myself to it, let it warm itself against me, surprised when it curls up and settles into me like a despondent hound with nowhere else to go.

We sit together for a while, this soul and I. when I am certain no stray mourners or triumphant gloaters will appear to pray over this mystery corpse, I allow myself to turn my mind fully inward to Nemours’s soul.

I have brought with me the means to unite you with your god at once, if you wish it.

when the soul stirs hopefully at my words, I rise to my feet and step closer to the bower. The poor twisted body has been straightened, but the grimace of shock is still on his face. I slip my hand through the slit of my gown, and my fingers close on the handle of my misericorde. My hope, my small plea to Mortain, is that by my setting this dagger on Nemours’s flesh, his soul will be able to depart immediately.

Before I can draw the dagger from its hiding place, a scrape on the stone behind me stays my hand. "What an interesting surprise. ” Count d’Albret’s deep, grating voice destroys the sanctity of the chapel. “I had not thought to find Duval’s cousin grieving next to a lowly wool merchant from Castile. ”

Stiffly, I turn and face the count. I have not seen him since my attempt to examine him for a marque and I brace myself, unsure whether to expect mockery or anger. I find neither. Instead, his dark eyes glitter with unholy mischief. I cannot help but wonder if it was his hand that pushed Nemours. “Surely not a surprise. ” I keep my head bent low, as if reluctant to cease my prayers. “I was convent raised and have been taught to honor the dead and pray for their mercy. ” I blink innocently. “Have you come to pray too?” I know full well he has not. whatever he has come for, it is not prayer.

“I am afraid I have come out of morbid curiosity, demoiselle,” d’Albret admits without a hint of shame. “I confess to being fascinated by this poor merchant who met his death in our fair city. Besides,” d’Albret continues, “I have little belief in accidents. ” He looks pointedly at me. “Or coincidence. ”

“Ah,” I say. “Then you and my lord Duval have something in common. ”

There is a movement back by the door of the chapel, and the duchess and her governess enter. I drop into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace. ”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see d’Albret sketch a perfunctory bow. “My dear duchess,” he says. “Have you come to pray for a lowly wool merchant as well? Surely he is blessed beyond his station. ”