Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

I am touching a miracle, I realize, a shiver running through me.

As I come back into my body, the first thing I am aware of is the warmth on my cheeks. Puzzled, I put my hand up and am surprised to find Maraud’s hands cupping my face.

“There you are,” he murmurs, quickly removing his hands.

I am struck by two things at once—?the grave concern writ so plainly on his face, and that as soon as he knew I was no longer in danger, he stopped touching me. He not only hears the messages I have been sending him, but respects them. Except when my safety is at stake.

That brings a jumble of new emotions that threaten to sink my wits altogether. “I am fine,” I reassure him.

“You are not only fine, you are wondrous!” He takes my hand and, just as I fear I have reached the wrong assessment of him, pulls me over to the fire before letting go. “That was as impressive a rescue as anyone could ever hope for.”

I blink up at him, half my mind still consumed by the souls—?who now hover in the corners of the room. “You were hoping for a rescue?” I ask stupidly.

He snorts. “I didn’t spend all that time sparring with you so you could leave me to a band of rapacious bandits.”

His babble, for that is what it is, helps anchor me in my skin and tether me to my bones. I can once again feel where my own soul begins and ends, the boundaries firmly back in place.

“Here,” he says. “You are cold.” He throws his cloak over my shoulders and pulls me even closer to the fire.

“I am not cold,” I protest, and yet I am shivering slightly. But not with cold. Not even with fear. But with the enormity of what just happened.

I can see dead men’s souls. Indeed, they are drawn to me in their moment of death. By some strange gift, they are able to share pieces of themselves, their lives, with me. And for all that these three men wished us ill, it feels miraculous. I have—?finally!—?experienced the fullness of my gifts from Saint Mortain.

But those gifts are weighted with both responsibility and gravity. I have never, in all the five years I’ve been gone, more fervently wished for someone from the convent to speak to. To explain to me what just happened. To let me know what it means, what we are to do with it, if anything.

“Lucinda?” Maraud’s hand reaches out, his fingers lightly brushing my cheek. “Don’t go away again. I don’t know how to bring you back.”

I look up into his eyes, which seem nearly black in the shadowed light from the fire. Such concern shines there, such caring.

Perhaps it is my befuddledness at what just occurred, or perhaps it is simply basking in the gravity of my new gifts, but I don’t shrug from his touch nor slap his fingers away. “I am fine,” I tell him. “Truly.”

“But something just happened.” His deep voice is low and soothing.

“Yes.”

He runs a hand over his head. “I felt like I witnessed something.” His voice grows deeper still. “A miracle, I think.”

It is the respect and reverence in his voice that allows me to speak of it. “You did. I told you that I was an initiate of Mortain, but what I did not tell you was that I hadn’t yet killed a man.” I glance over at the bodies on the floor. “Until tonight.”

Without realizing he is doing it, he reaches out and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It is a hard thing, the first time. A shock, no matter how much one has trained.”

“You’re right,” I tell him slowly. “But it is more than that. There are gifts that Mortain bestows upon those of us sired by Him. And I”—?I take a deep breath—?“I have never experienced the fullness of those gifts before.”

“That is where you went? Into the realm of Mortain?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing that is precisely where I went. “In their moment of death, I am able to experience men’s souls as they leave their bodies. I am able to . . . speak with them, although not with words. I know that they are here on the orders of a dowager duchess. A Lady Margaret, perhaps? And that they also serve a younger fair-haired lord.”

Maraud stares at me. “That is quite a gift. All I was able to determine was that they were trained soldiers from Burgundy and wanted to kill me.”

I laugh, as he no doubt intended, and in that moment of laughter feel wholly myself once again.

Albeit with a wondrous new awareness and appreciation for who and what I am.

* * *

After the bodies have been removed and our dinner eaten, we stretch out before the dying fire. It is dark except for the faint glow of the embers. “What has Saint Camulos gifted you with?” I don’t know what prompts me to ask such a question—?the sense of awe that still fills me? The darkness? I remember his impressive fighting back in the city. “Are you possessed by battle fever?”

“Me? No. That is truly rare. I have only ever met one man who possessed it, and he would tell you it’s no gift.” Maraud puts his hands under his head and stares up at the timbered roof. “His name was Beast, and he could easily slay a dozen men—?twice that when the fever was upon him. But it was a great burden to him as well.”

“Is that the only gift Saint Camulos bestows upon his followers?”

He shrugs. “I can see men’s weaknesses. Like a mason sees fault lines in stone.”

I turn on my side and prop my head in my hand. “What of those who attacked us? Could you see their weaknesses?”

“One was arrogant, too certain his weapon gave him an advantage over me. The second preferred to act on orders rather than his own thinking, and the third was too cautious, giving himself too much time to calculate the risks before making his move.”

It all fits with what I saw with my own eyes and gleaned from their souls. “What of me?” My voice is almost a whisper—?I am desperate to know my weakness so I may pluck it from me, but afraid of the answer as well.

Maraud turns his head so that he is facing me. “Trust,” he says. “Your weakness is your inability to trust.”

And just like that, the spell is broken. “Trust,” I snort. “Trust is a fool’s game, and I stopped playing it long ago.”

There is a creak just outside the cottage door. Before I can react, the door bursts open. A half dozen armed men pour in, their weapons drawn and pointed straight at us.

Chapter 72

Sybella

t will be easy enough to verify that the regent was visiting Princess Marguerite. Indeed, I find myself with a number of questions I would like to ask the young princess. I think it is time to pay her a visit.

I do not tell Beast. He will only try to stop me. Instead, I tell Aeva in case something should happen and I don’t return. And while she does not try to prevent it, she does insist on coming with me. ?

??You will be traveling at night. It will be safer to travel together.”

“But I want you watching the girls.”

“They will be safe enough. It is you I am worried about.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I am not saying you aren’t, but there is no shame in having someone watch your back. Especially when venturing into unknown territory where someone may be conspiring with your enemy.”

She is right, dammit.

“Besides.” She tilts her head and smiles knowingly. “Have you given any thought to how you will get past the traps and snares placed in the surrounding woods? You will not be able to venture out on the road, which leaves only the forest.”

I sigh heavily, as if her suggestion greatly inconveniences me. “Very well. If you insist.”

* * *

Dressed as men, we sneak to the stables. As we saddle our horses, Aeva works some Arduinnite magic to keep the others from growing unsettled by our presence and giving us away to the grooms. When we are done, we also take the time to wrap our horses’ hooves with burlap sacks before leading them out onto the cobblestones in the courtyard. It is not until we reach the palace garden that we remove the cloth and mount.

We have not gone a hundred paces before Aeva puts out her hand. “Hold.” She backs up her horse in order to cut a wide swathe around a patch of bracken.

“What was that?” I whisper.

In answer, she reaches up, breaks a small branch off the closest tree, and throws it into the spot she has just avoided.

A loud, metal crunch ruptures the silence, and I find myself staring down into the closed jaws of a steel trap. “How did you know?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I can smell them.”

“A gift from Arduinna?”

She snorts. “No. A gift from living in the woods all my life and being able to recognize the stench of iron.”

At her words, a new realization comes to me. The assassin would have needed to avoid these traps as well. Which means he was either someone from the palace or someone shared that knowledge with him.