Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

Genevieve

During our travels toward Paris, my mind is consumed with what Sybella has told me—both about the convent and Mortain. Some days it feels as if the knowledge of the abbess’s betrayal and Mortain’s abdication have lifted a veil from my eyes, making the world both brighter and more stark, but clearer at least.

On other days, like today, the knowledge presses down on me, making it difficult to not slouch in the saddle during the long day’s slow ride to the next village. So much of how I saw myself, so much of what gave me value and strength, purpose and conviction, no longer applies. And while Sybella claims that the blood of a god still flows in our veins, what does that mean—or matter—if the god no longer exists?

When not even the clear joy of the villagers who greet our processional at every village we pass manages to lift my spirits, my two guards begin casting me worried glances. Whether they have been assigned to ensure that I do not run away or that I am not attacked and robbed of my expensive necklace, I do not know. It could feed three villages for a year, I’ve no doubt.

Fortunately it is winter and the days are short. Darkness comes quickly, and we are all parceled off to whatever accommodations can be found. Tonight, we are in luck. There is a castle nearby. Other nights we must make do with whatever inn, tavern, townhouse, or stable is available.

Although this castle is large, the royal traveling party is larger still, and the lord of the keep is hard-pressed to find places for us all. Many of the lower servants and all but a handful of our guards are lodged in the stables and cow byre.

I, however, have been given the luxury of my own room. Of course, it is a small, cramped storeroom just off the kitchen, and my two guards are posted outside. But it is warm and private, which is a great luxury.

When a dark, stooped figure appears in the doorway, my hand reaches for the hem of my skirt and the knife that hides there. The king had not thought to have me searched for weapons. Truly, he is bad at this. The figure stops—it is a woman—and raises her slim fingers to her lips. The hood slips back enough for me to recognize Sybella. She carries something in her left hand, something round and heavy.

“What did you do to the guards?” I whisper.

She raises an eyebrow, and even in the dim light, I can see the wicked gleam in her eye. “You mean those two boys with their fresh-scrubbed faces and newly sprouted whiskers, who look as if they should have gone into the clergy rather than soldiering?”

“Yes. What did you do?”

“A bit of sleep draft mixed in with their dinners. Only enough to make them mortified when they wake in the morning and realize they fell asleep while on duty.”

She weaves a path between sacks of wheaten flour and barrels of oats toward me. After nudging two sacks of dried peas out of the way, she settles onto the floor. The small pop of a cork is followed by the sharp scent of wine. She lifts the jug that she has been carrying and takes a healthy swig, then holds it out to me.

“Well, sit down,” she says. “I don’t want to get a crick in my neck. Or are you mad at me for not telling you about Mortain sooner?”

The question surprises me. “No.” Of course she would have to ensure both my trust and loyalty before sharing something of that magnitude. Besides, it’s not as if I’ve told her all of my secrets yet, either. I do as she orders.

That settled, she takes another drink. “I was afraid I was going to stab someone if I had to endure another moment of pompous speeches, ceremonial presentations, or unctuous praying on behalf of our beloved queen, as if they hadn’t all been trying to bring her down for the last two months. How the queen can bear it, I’ve no idea.” She stretches her legs out so that one of them presses against mine.

“I’d wager she’s used to it by now. Maybe not the hypocrisy, but she’s no doubt had an entourage like that since birth.” I take a gulp of wine, welcoming the pleasant warmth of it against my throat. It isn’t watered.

Sybella leans her head back against the wall. “True enough. Although that would have sent me running years ago.”

“It is a good thing you are not the duchess, then.”

She smirks and holds her hand out for the jug. “I think we can all agree on that.”

It is such a small thing, I realize, to share a feeble joke, but it warms me more deeply than the wine. “How is the queen?” I ask.

“Away from the palace, surrounded by ceremony and celebration rather than intrigue and backstabbing, she blossoms—her cheeks have taken on a healthier color, her eyes are less shadowed and tinged more with, if not happiness, a relief of sorts.”

“That is good news. I was also worried about traveling in her condition. Especially since it is still a secret.”

“We travel so slowly and for such short distances that it won’t be an issue. In truth, I find it hard to believe we’ll reach Paris before August at this rate.”

“It is still only January,” I point out.

Her mouth quirks. “Precisely.” She shoves the cask at me. “Here. Maybe this will help you better appreciate my jests.”

I roll my eyes and take it from her. Mayhap I will drink it all and then we can talk about jests.

“How are you doing?”

Her question causes me to choke on the mouthful of wine I’ve just swallowed. No, not her question—the genuine concern and compassion it holds. “I am fine. The king has not visited me since we left Plessis, although he has set others to watching me. They are not very good at being subtle.”

“In addition to the two men currently napping?”

When I nod, her lips curl in amusement. “You will have a parade at your back before you know it.” Then she sobers, her glance drifting to my neck. The weight of the silver collar feels heavier under her gaze. “I still cannot believe you are letting him force you to wear that.”

I blush at the faint scorn in her eyes, but she leans forward and catches my chin gently between her fingers. “My scorn is not for you, but for the pompous kingling.” She gives my chin a squeeze—one could almost call it affectionate—before letting go to lean back against the wall.

“There is no harm in it for me—I can remove the chain whenever I choose. But it allows him to feel in control of something right now, and I think that aids us all, in the long run.”

“How did you get so wise?” The faint mocking tone of her voice does not hide the admiration it holds.

I look down at the jug, as if contemplating my next sip. “My mother and aunts were knowledgeable in the ways of men and their foibles. They shared that knowledge with me.”

She cocks her head, curious. “Tell me of this family of yours.”

I lift the wine to my mouth, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. There is no reason not to tell her the truth of my upbringing—except she is noble and lovely and has such scorn for men and their appetites that I fear those feelings will carry over to my family, and they do not deserve her scorn. “They—we—are not nobly born like you. My father ran a tavern, my mother helped him in his work. My aunts all lived in the same . . . village . . . and they too would lend a hand.”

“And how did your father take to being surrounded by so many helpful women?”

Her question surprises me. “He welcomed their help and helped them in turn. Everyone benefitted.”

“And where did you fit in?”

I smile in memory. “I was the lone child, always underfoot, asking questions, trying my hand at any little kitchen or garden task they would entrust me with.”

Her lips curve upward. “They sound charming.” There is no hint of mockery in her voice. “I would think it hard to leave a family like that. For me the convent was a refuge, but I imagine for you it was something else.”

The memory of that loss is as sudden as a fist to my gut. I look down at the earthenware jug in my hands. “It was.”

&nb

sp; “How old were you?”

“Seven.” I take a generous swig of the wine, then shove the jug at her. “And you?”

She looks out the window. “Fourteen.”

“Fourteen! Why did they wait so long to send you?”

She barks out a bitter laugh. “They did not send me at all.” Her finger drifts up to caress the base of her neck. “My old nurse did. When she feared I was at the end of my rope. Ha!” She nudges me with her knee. “That’s a good one.”

I tilt my head. The jest escapes me, and I furtively weigh the cask in my hand, wondering how much she had before she came to fetch me.

She lets her head fall back against the wall and closes her eyes with a sigh.

I do not know what she is thinking, but it is like watching someone be pulled down into dark, murky depths. I search for something to say that will call her back. “Do you want to hear what the regent had to say when she caught us together?” There. Talking about the regent ought to cheer her right up.

Her eyes fly open. “Go on,” she says.

I tell her of the regent’s disturbing visit and my concern as to how much she might have heard. When I have finished, Sybella swears and holds her hand out for the jug. We fall silent, thinking of all the ways this could have gone horribly wrong.

As if discerning the direction of my thoughts, Sybella nudges me with her foot again. “This is not solely your fault.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she reaches across our legs and puts a finger on my lips, its warm firmness startling me into silence.

“Even your decision to trade favors with the king to gain mercy for the convent does not rest solely on your shoulders.”

Hearing my foolish actions fall from her lips causes my body to grow warm with embarrassment. “Of course it was! It was my idea, my plan, my lips that shared with him the convent secrets.”