Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

“It would never happen,” he says stubbornly, picking at the blanket the nuns have placed over him. “Although,” he concedes, “it would be most ignoble.”

“Besides”—I settle myself next to him on the narrow bed—“think of me. I need a day or two to rest. I have been lighting fires, arguing with Lazare, and worrying about you. It is a wonder my hair is not full gray by now.”

“Ah. When you put it like that, how can I say no?” He removes his hand from the blanket and begins playing with my fingers instead. “Why did you change your mind?” he asks softly.

I do not pretend not to know what he is talking about. “Things have changed. I have changed.”

He is quiet, hoping I will say more. I prop my head in my hand so I may better see his face: the pockmarks, the lump of a nose, the scar that graces one cheek—he will have a matching one on his forehead now—and among all that cheerful ugliness, two eyes of nearly unnaturally light blue framed with spiky lashes.

“I have decided,” I say, lightly tracing the scar on his cheek, “that you want me only for my body and thus will be easily managed.”

Humor shines in his eyes, but also regret that I will not be serious. “But mostly,” I continue, “I have learned how to wrestle with my own fears so they do not destroy my future chances at happiness. Being with you will make me very happy.”

Those eyes of his—how they glow! Not with feral light, but with joy and love and all the things I once thought I would never experience. I lean down and press my lips on his. “Besides,” I murmur, “if you become too demanding, I can always slit your throat while you sleep.”

“Then at least I will die happy,” he says, pulling me back down.

* * *

When Beast awakes the next morning and is told he still may not use his arm or strain his torso, he decides we should leave for Amboise. “If I am forced to do nothing,” he grumbles, “I may as well do it on a horse.” It is as inactive as he can be, so I agree to it. “Besides, we must get word to the king and queen. We do not know if the English will try to return now that Rohan has given them an invitation. The king will need to meet force with force.” His face brightens. “And, since we have rid him of this pesky rebellion, perhaps he will grant us permission to marry.”

That is the difference between Beast and me—he is a dogged optimist, while I am a dyed-in-the-wool cynic and cannot accept that it will be so easy.

Chapter 92

Genevieve

In the morning, Beast and Sybella come to check on us. “How is he?” Beast asks.

“He is still alive,” Maraud says. “But will not be for long.”

“I am sorry.”

“He said he agreed to d’Albret’s plan in order to make amends.”

“He succeeded.”

As Beast and Maraud continue talking softly, Sybella pulls me aside. “Beast and I need to return to court,” she says. “We need to get news of the English attack to the king and queen. It has gone far beyond a squabble among French nobles.”

“Will he believe you?”

“I have to hope so, especially now that we have won and the queen has nothing to gain from the situation.”

“As if she ever did. Shall I come with you?” I do not wish to abandon Maraud, but convincing the king is too important to leave to chance.

Sybella’s eyes soften. She knows Crunard is not long for this world. “No. Your place is here. You can follow in a couple of days.”

* * *

Even though Maraud’s father does not waken again, we stay with him through the night. Maraud slumps against the wall, and I curl up on a spare blanket, giving him some room to come to grips with the shift in the nature of his father.

He lifts his head and stares up at the ceiling. “If not for my anger with him, I am not sure I would’ve survived my time in the oubliette.”

“Sometimes anger is all there is to live for,” I tell him.

He falls silent, unable to reconcile himself to his father’s attempt at atonement.

“What price would you have paid when you thought Pierre d’Albret had me?” I ask softly.

“Any price. Although I would like to think I would not have betrayed my country.” I can see him think back to that moment, the terror that gripped him. “But I do not know that. Not for certain.”

I rise from my own spot and go sit next to him, pressing my shoulder against his. I cannot help but think of my mother and her small bag of gold. “Our parents are merely human, for all they would have us believe otherwise.”

“But his actions hurt so many.”

“And his recent actions saved many. It seems to me, the scales have been tipped toward justice.”

He pulls me closer and buries his head in the crook of my neck. I say nothing, but offer what little comfort I can.

* * *

After two more days and nights of his father’s worsening condition, I tell Maraud, “If he is ready to die, and you wish it, I can ease his suffering.”

Maraud stares at me in amazement. “How?”

“It is something Sybella showed me.” Each day has brought more fever and putrefaction. “He is rarely conscious for more than a handful of minutes at a time, and I think he has suffered enough.”

“He has,” Maraud says bleakly. “If you could do that for him, I would be grateful.”

His answer pleases me, his willingness to grant his father mercy indicating he is on his way to forgiveness.

I have never done this on a living mortal, but his soul has already been in agony for three days—surely that is enough penance. And as Sybella has said, we are moving in uncharted waters and are allowed to make some of these decisions for ourselves.

Ignoring the stench of his father’s wounds, I cross to the bed and gently place my hand upon Crunard’s chest, right over his heart. To my surprise, I can feel its thready beating, thin and tenuous. As I close my eyes, I feel his soul detach itself from the body, as the wheat separates itself from the chaff when it is ripened, almost as if it knows what I intend to do. Come, I tell the soul. It is time for you to go. You have done your work here.

Like some timid creature emerging from the underbrush, the soul slowly eases from Crunard’s body. It is cloaked in regret and remorse so thick I can almost see it with my physical eyes. It is also filled with love and cannot resist drifting to Maraud and wrapping itself around him. He shivers, as if chilled.

“Is that him?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I say around the lump in my throat. “He is telling you goodbye.”

Maraud closes his eyes and opens himself, I think, to the soul—allowing some final understanding to pass between them. It is a moment of not only divine grace, but human as well.

Chapter 93

Sybella

As the great spires of the city of Nantes come into view, the sudden onslaught of sordid memories takes me by surprise. Unwelcome images—Count d’Albret slaying innocent servants, pressing his lips to mine when he learned I was not his true daughter, Julian lying in a pool of blood—fill my vision, causing the late spring day to darken. I am overcome with a deep reluctance to continue. “Will Lord Montauban meet us out here, or must we enter the city?”

“We do not have to enter the palace.” Beast’s softly spoken words are laced with understanding.

“Did you already arrange a place to meet?”

“No. I was to send word once we returned.” He watches me quietly as I sort through our options.

Marshal Rieux had said he would send letters to Nantes from the other noble houses in Brittany for us to deliver to the king. Their confirmation of the rebellion—and the news that it has successfully been contained—will carry the most weight.

The main gate and its two round towers come into view, the light-colored stone nearly blinding in the bright sun. Beast holds up his hand and raises his voice so those behind us can hear. “We’ll rest the horses here before entering the city,” he tells the rest of our party, giving me

more time to think.

Aeva sends him a look of disbelief that disappears when she sees my face. This is beyond idiotic, I berate myself. I am not some child to be haunted by nightmares. Nevertheless, she, Lazare, Yannic, and the others fall back into the shade of the nearby trees.

After a short silence, Beast says, “It is natural to grieve. And be afraid.”

“You are never afraid,” I point out.

“Of course I am. All the time.” He squirms faintly in his saddle. “Well, mayhap not all the time.”

“When?”

“Whenever your safety or the girls’ is in question, I am terrified.”

Our gazes hold for a long moment before I take a deep breath. My old enemies cannot hurt me now. The disloyal Jamette, the brutal Captain de Lur, the duplicitous Madame Dinan, even Lord d’Albret have been vanquished. Only Pierre remains, and he is far away from here. I take a second breath, letting this one force the ghosts of the past from my mind. “We shall enter the city, although I would prefer we stay at an inn. You can arrange for the letters to be sent there.”