Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

“I will have to set her straight on that, but will wait until the babe has come so as not to risk anything happening to it. However, I can at least rid myself of you now.”

“Shall I be executed as well?”

“I have no stomach for killing women. You shall be permanently banished from court. I am returning you to your family and will let them deal with you.”

My family. He means—

“Your brother Pierre will be here by nightfall. You will be given into his custody, and I will wash my hands of you.”

No. I have not gone through so much, come so very far only to end up back where I started. “Your Majesty, one of the things we discovered while here was that Pierre was also involved in the rebellion. His troops fought alongside Rohan’s. He is not loyal to you. He cares only for his own interests.”

The king gives me a withering look. “You will say anything, grasp at any straws to save yourself, won’t you, demoiselle?”

I give Fortune’s wheel one last spin. “The guard that was killed—what did you do with his body?”

“I don’t know. Gave it to his family.”

“Send someone to contact that family and retrieve whatever personal belongings were on him, Your Majesty. In them you will find a gold brooch that will tell you precisely who killed the man. It was not Beast, who was locked behind a thick wooden door.”

“You, then?”

“No. General Cassel.”

He stares at me a long moment, his face unreadable. “Farewell, Demoiselle d’Albret. I sincerely hope our paths never cross again.”

Needing to move, I cross once more to the window and look out. I am still five floors up, the stone is still too smooth to climb. There are no ledges or molding or even crumbling mortar I could use as a foothold.

Even worse, they have posted a half dozen armed guards at the base of the old tower. Even if I were to get out, I could not get Beast free.

With no path for escape, the king’s words finally sink in. If I had thought returning to Nantes was difficult, how much worse will it be to reside in a d’Albret household again?

And if I am not here, who will free Beast before he is executed?

Each realization is like a stone being laid upon my chest until it is nearly impossible to breathe. Old remembered pain comes hurtling out of its hiding place, infecting me like a plague, causing my hands to shake and my knees to weaken. It is like having gnawed one’s arm off to escape a trap, only to find oneself back in the very same trap.

The ghosts come then, not just my own, but the castle’s as well. Their cold presence seeps out of the stone into my very soul, chilling me to the bone, and saps my spirits even more. I thrust them aside, feeling them scatter like pigeons who have spied a cat, then begin to pace the small room, wishing a servant would come and light the fire in the hearth.

Then I laugh. As if I do not know how to light my own fire.

I cross to the fireplace, take wood from the stand, and lay it upon the hearth. I search for the tinderbox, my hands fumbling with cold—or fear—as I strike the flint. A spark catches. I set it to the kindling and watch the flame come to life. The faint heat eases something inside me.

It is the Dark Mother to whom I have prayed these last months. It is she who brings hope out of darkness. And though this moment feels hopeless, that doesn’t mean I must give in to despair. Hope need not shine brightly. It need only be a dogged refusal to give up.

The king—and his be-damned advisors—may be playing a game of chess, but I do not have to agree to be their pawn. I can turn this game into one of my own making. I need only figure out what that might be.

* * *

The king does not wish to make a public spectacle of my brother dragging me off in front of the entire court, so they wait until dusk. When Pierre arrives, it is clear he is taking no chances.

Even though we are accompanied by nearly forty men, every one of them cut from the same rough cloth as Maldon and le Poisson, he ties my wrists and my ankles. But not before he searches me, looking for weapons, quickly removing my five knives and my anlace. He did not find, or mayhap did not recognize, my rondelles or my garrote bracelet. To my great relief, he did not linger or tarry at the task, but executed it with quick efficiency.

Panic tries to beat its hot, fluttering wings against the inside of my chest, but I refuse to acknowledge it. It would have been easy enough to flee, that moment when the king announced my fate, but I did not. Nor did I flee when I was escorted from the palace, still within the king’s view, and had not yet been bound.

If I had I known I was going to be bound, I might have. But now I focus on the questions that plague me: How did the regent know that the English were in Morlaix? They landed but a week ago. If she had spies in place, then surely they would also have reported how valiantly we fought?

Unless . . . I remember the look the regent and Pierre exchanged, as if a debt had been settled. I know that Rohan and Pierre were allies in the rebellion, and had hoped that once I was at Pierre’s holding, I could find proof of that. But now I wonder if I might catch a much larger prize.

Chapter 95

Genevieve

Watching Maraud say goodbye to his father has put me in mind of my own family. How are they faring? Are they all still alive? It seems as if I would know if they weren’t. Surely someone would have sent word to the convent—but with what Sybella told me about the former abbess, who is to say the news would have reached me?

That is why, as we draw closer to Nantes—and the village where I grew up—I decide I must see them. Besides, I know all about Maraud’s family, including its secrets. It is only fair that he know about mine. I want honesty between us, and if he cannot accept the nature of my family, then I must know.

My village has grown since I left ten years ago. And even while it is different—six more houses, a larger smithy, a market square we did not have before—it feels the same as well.

My family’s inn has not changed. The roof still needs fresh thatch, although the walls have been recently washed with lime, and smoke chugs from the square chimney. My palms grow damp with anticipation. What if they hoped to never see me again?

And what shall I tell them when they ask what great things I have done with the life they so selflessly guided me to?

The pit of my stomach feels hollow as I realize this was a most poorly thought out idea. I glance over at Maraud, who is watching me. “Let me go in first, lest we shock them all.” I wipe my hands on my skirts and step inside.

After the bright light of midday, the inside of the tavern is so dark I must let my eyes adjust. The low, dark-beamed ceiling seems to suck up whatever light gets in through the wooden shutters and door. Once I can see more clearly, the first thing that greets my eyes is the thick, sturdy figure of Sanson, standing behind the counter, his meaty arms wielding a knife with precision as he prepares two chickens for the soup pot. Is that gray hair peppering his beard?

He lifts his head. “May I help you?”

Panic runs along my spine. He does not recognize me. “That depends,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Do you have any stray cats that need feeding?”

He looks at me again—really looks—the knife growing still in his hand. “Genevieve?” My name is uncertain on his tongue.

“In the flesh!” I intend the words to sound saucy, as my aunts might say such a thing, but it comes out in a wobble. Then he is wiping his hands and coming out from behind the counter, his beefy arms opening wide just before he clasps me in a massive hug that is like being swallowed by a tree trunk.

“We thought never to see you again.” He turns away from me and bellows, “Bertine! Come see what the cat’s dragged in!”

And then she is there, my mother. The woman who invited Death to her bed on a dare. She is the same, but different. Softer in some places, harder in others. Her warm brown eyes have more wrinkles at the corner, but from laughter rather than hardship.

She knows me instantly, clapping

a hand over her mouth in surprise before running to me and gathering me in her arms—even though I am now nearly half a head taller than she is. Her arms feel the same as they always have, warm and welcoming. The most accepting place in all the world.

“I was not sure you would ever return to us,” she says at last.

“I have not had a chance to before now. My work has had me in France for the last five years.” By this time, my aunts have gathered round, every one of them needing to hug me and pat me with their own hands.

“Come.” My mother pulls me to one of the tables. “Tell us of your adventures.”

“I will, Maman, but first I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

* * *

Hours later, my mother finds me sitting outside in the back of the tavern, leaving Maraud to fend for himself among my adoring aunts. As she sits down next to me, she nudges my shoulder with her own. “Don’t leave him alone with them too long. You never know what they might try.”

I smile down at the twig I am playing with. “I am glad they like him. He is honorable and has a most generous spirit.”