Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

“But why? Why would they not hang on to those with both hands?”

He shrugs, a most human gesture. “I cannot say. Annith wants to search back through the records and see if she can find more information on what they were.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Each of my daughters is unique, my powers manifesting in each of you in different ways. I cannot guess all the possibilities and how they might reveal themselves.” After a moment, he bends down to pick up another one of the green seedlings in his basket. With his attention still on the seedlings, I reach into my pocket, my fingers closing around the sprig of holly I still carry there. I take it out and gently plant it in the rich earth at the base of the wall. I do not know if it will take root, but feel it belongs here now.

“And you, Sybella?” Balthazaar asks. “Are you happy?”

He has never called me by my name before. I reach for the bucket and carefully pour some of the water on the holly, then sit back on my heels. I had intended to tell him of the hole he left in my life and the struggle I have had to fill it, but that no longer feels as important as it once did.

“Beast has asked for your hand,” he continues.

“What did you say?”

“That it was your decision, not mine. He is a good man. One of the best I have met in this form or my other, but it must be your choice.”

“Yes, I love him.”

He stares at me then, his gaze nearly as penetrating and all-seeing as when he was Death. “I am glad you have found love.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, happy to return to our work. It is enjoyable, this quiet companionship. Certainly not something I could have done with Death. When we have finished with all the seedlings—and watered them—he says, “Annith will want to know where you would like to get married. In the church or the—”

“Here,” I say, looking out at the endless sea, the salt-kissed grass, the ancient standing stones, and the row of seedlings we have just planted together. “I wish to marry here.”

It is the perfect place to start anew.

Author’s Note

So often, stories end with the wedding, or the promise of a wedding, but history tells us that such events are more commonly the beginning of a new chapter. So it was with Anne of Brittany. In truth, she is hard to discern through history—her story having been written by countless men with political agendas, conflicting alliances, stilted views of women, or simply an ax to grind.

To some, she was a schemer. To others, a proud symbol of Breton independence. Some saw her as a hapless pawn, while still others saw her as exerting her influence behind the scenes, as was so often the case with women of her time. From amongst all these accounts, a sense of Anne herself began to come through for me: a fully dimensional person who possessed a bit of all those attributes and motivations ascribed to her. But what I mostly saw was a young girl thrust into an impossible situation who used every resource she possessed to do the best she could for the country she was responsible for.

There is not much written about her after her marriage to Charles, other than to record various pregnancies and financial extravagances. But there were enough tantalizing bits that a picture of what life would have been like for Anne of Brittany in those first days of marriage began to take shape.

By all historical accounts, the regent, Anne of France, was a most formidable young woman as well, not especially willing to concede her power to the young queen. It was hard for me to keep in mind that she was only twenty-eight years old when the events in this book took place. In truth, she deserves to be the hero of her own story: having taken on the regency for her young brother at the tender age of twenty-two, she managed to fend off numerous revolts and attempts to usurp her power, as well as expand the holdings and power of the crown of France.

However, there was so much plotting and conspiring in those first days of Anne’s queenship that the king did indeed have the regent swear to an alliance of mutual aid and agree to desist from agitating unnecessary intrigue within the kingdom.

As for the Breton uprising, I found approximately six lines in three separate sources about an attempted revolt led by Viscount Rohan, which was quickly put down. In that revolt, he invited England to assist him, which provided them the foothold they’d long been seeking. King Henry VII did invade French soil, landing at Boulogne in the autumn of 1492. King Charles of France quickly repelled the advance, resulting in the signing of the Treaty of Étaples. Those few lines were all my imagination needed to construct the bones of the story and thus be able to get to the part I love best—the human drama that lies at the heart of it all.

Once again, I have taken the greatest liberties with the timing of events and the d’Albret family, shamelessly manipulating both to serve the needs of the narrative.

Throughout the centuries, religious orders and houses sanctioned by the Catholic Church have come and gone, some lost to indifference or dying out, and others actively persecuted by the Church itself. It has also been a longstanding prerogative of kings and queens to establish military or religious orders to defend their interests and maintain the standards of chivalry within their kingdom. I like to believe that, over time, the Nine managed to weave their way into the larger tapestry of the Church’s hagiography and remain with us today under different names that are, if we squint back through the lens of time, faintly recognizable.

It is often said that history is written by the victor and it is clear that for centuries women’s stories have been excluded from the annals of history—their contributions diminished, overlooked, or erased altogether. That is one of the joys of writing historical fantasy—getting to reimagine the past with women at the center of their own stories. After being forced to be silent for so long, I feel certain that some of them would, indeed, like to burn it all.

Acknowledgments

Once again, I find myself reaching the end of a book only by the grace and support of dozens of patron saints along the way. First among these is my editor, Kate O’Sullivan, the perennial shepherdess, guiding me ever closer to a book I’ll be proud of.

My agent, Erin Murphy, has been unwavering in her support, not just for this book, but for all my books.

I hold deep gratitude for the entire team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, who continue to amaze me with their skill, professionalism, and passion. I am incredibly lucky to be the recipient of the talents of Mary Magrisso, Ana Deboo, Erika West, Mary Hurley, Margaret Rosewitz, Emily Andrukaitis, and Ellen Fast.

Special thanks to Whitney Leader-Picone and Billelis, who have outdone themselves again, encompassing the theme of this book with yet another stunning visual.

And, of course, no one would even know about the book if not for the talent and support of John Sellers, Nadia Almahdi, Lisa DiSarro, Amanda Acevedo, Matt Schweitzer, Colleen Murphy, Ed Spade, and their entire sales team.

Thank you also to my poor, long-suffering family, who, once again, were understanding and cheerfully supportive as I disappeared into an alternate world that consumed me wholly until I hit “The End.”

Since this book ended up having a lot to do with fathers, a special thank-you goes out to my own—for being there for his family in so many ways and for loving me unconditionally, even when I shocked him by writing about assassin nuns.

But, most of all, I owe the biggest thanks to you, dear readers, those who have embraced my assassin nuns and their world and let me know it in so very many ways. I appreciate all that you have done: reading, handselling, putting the books into the hands of your students, emailing, DMing, tweeting, Bookstagramming, blogging, reviewing, rating, and YouTubing. Thank you so much for allowing my books into your life for a short while. My hope is that they have made it richer in some small way. I know you have made my life richer by far.

Chapter One

Brittany 1485

I bear a deep red stain that runs from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a trail left by the herbwitch’s poison that my mother used to try

to expel me from her womb. That I survived, according to the herbwitch, is no miracle but a sign I have been sired by the god of death himself.

I am told my father flew into a rage and raised his hand to my mother even as she lay weak and bleeding on the birthing bed. Until the herbwitch pointed out to him that if my mother had lain with the god of death, surely He would not stand idly by while my father beat her.