Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

“I told you I had.”

“True, but you also told me things that made me feel I needed to verify your claim for myself.” Before I can warn him that his remark flirts with forbidden subjects, he raises his sword and executes a series of blows, shifting so that he comes at me from alternating sides. For a moment, it is all I can do to meet his attack.

“Why are you still alive if you are only a mercenary?” I am finally able to ask. The dull thunk of wood hitting metal accompanies my words.

A corner of his mouth lifts in a humorless hint of a smile. “Can you truly say I was ‘alive’ when you first came across me?” The moment the words are out of his mouth, he realizes his mistake.

I ignore the transgression as I block one of his blows. “That does not explain why you are here. Surely even a mercenary deserves a cleaner death than this.”

“You would have to ask my jailor.” He lunges forward, and I step back, my foot slipping on the loose straw that litters the floor. He pauses to allow me to regain my footing. “Speaking of my jailors, how are you getting past them?”

It seems an innocent question. Unless he is trying to learn more about the castle’s security. “My relationship with your guards is none of your concern.”

“I ask because I have not seen any for weeks.” He swings his sword in an overhand, but I grab the lower end of my blade and use it like a stick to block his blow. He gives a surprised nod of approval.

I press my advantage and increase the strength and speed of my blows, trying to force him onto his heels. It takes all of his concentration to keep me from succeeding, and it is his turn to stumble. When he does, I step in under his guard and slap his chest with the flat of my blade.

Instead of anger or annoyance, his eyes glow with pride. “Well done, Lucinda!”

I use the back of my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow. “Lucinda?”

“Bringer of light.” He smiles, a quick, unexpected flash of white in the darkness.

I cannot decide if the name annoys me or if I like it. Or it if annoys me because I like it. “I suppose you have a name I should call you.”

“Maraud.”

I scowl at him. “That is not a name.”

He shrugs. “It is what my fellow mercenaries call me.” He tests the weight of the sword in his hand again. “Where did you get this?”

“From the armory in the garrison. What did your family call you?”

He looks up with a reckless grin. “Jackanapes. Ne’er-do-well. Knave. Take your pick.”

Which supports his assertion that he is naught but a mercenary. “Would your company not pay your ransom? Is that why are you being held here?”

“Where is here, if I may ask?”

“You do not know where you are being held?”

“My jailors were not a talkative lot.”

I consider his question, but can see no harm in telling him where he is. “You are in Cognac.”

His blade whips up, but not as fast as his first blows. “The count of Angoulême’s holding?”

We begin a series of slower strokes and parries. “Does that mean something to you?”

“No, but it surprises me. He has always been an ally of Brittany’s.”

I must tread carefully here. While I do not want to give away too much, my best chance of coaxing information from him will be to allow him to think I am telling the truth. “Ever since the Mad War, the regent has kept him on a short leash.” I fall silent as his strokes press me back toward the wall again. I successfully avoid being pinned into place, my parries causing him to grow ghostly pale and beads of sweat to appear along his brow.

“Enough.” I put the tip of my sword to the ground. That he has lasted this long says much about both his fortitude and his character. “I’ve no wish to tire you until you collapse.”

“You dream it is so,” he says between gasps of breath.

The denial of his obvious exhaustion nearly makes me smile.

“What was that?” He gestures toward my face.

Thinking of all the vile, nasty things that lurk in this pit, I swipe furiously at my cheek. “What?”

“Ah, ’tis gone, and the room is dark once more.” He grins, a swift, sudden thing like a bird darting across one’s path on a wintry day.

That is when I realize he was referring to my smile. “Jackanapes is right,” I mutter. “Give me the sword.”

He hands me his weapon, and I shove the sack of food at him. His hunger rises up like a physical thing—?his nostrils flare and his jaw clenches. It is even more human than the smile.

I abruptly turn and secure the swords to my back. Even though it is our mutually agreed upon bargain, I feel as if I have just found a worm in my apple. For a moment, I am seven years old and have been walking for what surely seemed like weeks. I am tired and hungry—?so hungry—?but there is no money for food. I sit on the bank of a small stream, poking at it with a branch and calling it fishing, while my mother lies with a carter in the haystack in the fields behind me. When she returns, her skirts are askew and there are strands of hay poking out of her hair, but she bears a loaf of stale bread and half a wheel of cheese. It is a feast, and I dive into it with abandon, never pausing to think of it as payment.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Your face says otherwise.” It is the same voice he used in the dark, the voice I first knew him by. For a moment, one brief, regretful moment, I think back to that time.

Abruptly, I turn away from him and begin to climb the rope. Although I have received only half answers from him, I have learned what I truly needed to know. He will be useful to me.

Who are you? he first asked me nearly a month ago. The more time I spend in the darkness, the more I know the answer to that question. Down here I am exactly who I was raised to be. I do not need to hide who I am or what I think, nor watch my words nor keep my strength in check.

It is the most alive I have felt in five long years.

Chapter 32

Sybella

e are a quiet, heartbroken party when we arrive at Angers, bearing Captain Dunois’s body on a stretcher fashioned out of spears and a spare cloak, along with the rest of our wounded and dead. A rider was sent ahead to alert our host to our misfortune. Upon our

arrival, we are greeted by the Duke of Bourbon himself. I am relieved to learn that the regent is not in residence. I do not think I could contain myself around her right now. Why did she choose not to accompany us? Did she know that nearly every one of the men she left us would die? Plan it, even?

The duke, however, is all solicitousness and sorrow. He knew Captain Dunois from his many years in France and thought highly of him. His grief is comforting, as if, for all our differences, Frenchmen and Bretons alike can agree on what a tragedy it is to lose this great man.

We are shown to our rooms to refresh ourselves. As soon as the seneschal has excused himself and closed the door, the duchess whirls around. “Go,” she tells me. “Go to the chapel and use your god’s skills to find out what happened to Captain Dunois. I would see those who killed him punished.” Her eyes glint with a temper and vengefulness I have not seen before. But beneath the fury is a deep, bruising grief that has left her skin ashen and purple smudges beneath her eyes.

“But of course, Your Grace. I would love to do precisely that.”

“Do you need Heloise to help you?”

I blink a moment, then turn to look at the Brigantian nun who is also one of the duchess’s attendants. “Thank you, but my work is best done alone.” I pause, thinking to check first on Louise and Charlotte, but Tephanie has already anticipated that and is waving me away.

* * *

None of the castle servants pays any attention to my passing, which leads me to believe we have been granted every courtesy by the duke. I ask directions twice, but it does not attract any notice.

There are no attendants at the chapel door when I arrive. Upon entering, I find only Beast standing vigil over the body. Hearing my footsteps, he lifts his head, his face set in hard, grim lines. It is a face filled with anger at what has transpired, but with anguish as well. When I reach him, I place my hand on his cheek to let him know I am aware how big a hole this loss has created. “Where are the rest of the dead?” I ask softly.