Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

Was it simply a gift for all I had suffered? Or was there some purpose I had yet to serve? Or mayhap it was naught but a parent’s instinct to assure his child’s survival.

He saved me once before. When I was fourteen years old and in pain beyond bearing, I tried to take my own life. On that day, I was told by my old nurse that I was sired by Death and not Count d’Albret, my mother’s husband and the man who raised me. I was taken to the convent of Saint Mortain then, where I spent the next three years learning Death’s arts.

Even that was not my first brush with death. I very nearly did not survive my own birth, arriving with the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck, my mother’s body unable to let go of me, already regretting her decision to bring me into this world.

If not for the promise my true father had made to her, I would have gone with her into death. But promise he did, and the god of Death is not one to break such promises. Instead, I lived.

And he, he . . . did not.

Anger as bright and red as one of the holly berries flares in my belly. Anger that one so newly come into my life has left it far too soon. Why did my father save me, only to abandon me once more? Why did he bid me live if he would not be here to guide my hand? It was only through Mortain’s existence and grace that I found a place in this world. A purpose.

I reach out and grab a piece of holly, ripping it from the bush. Whether it is to hurt the bush or because I need some reminder of who I am, I cannot say. But the leaves are sharp with thorns, and I cut myself. A drop of blood wells up, as dark and red as one of the holly berries.

Is this blood still mingled with that of the gods or will I, too, become fully human?

Behind me, someone coughs. Shoving the holly into my pocket, I pull a dagger from my belt and whirl around. But it is only a wizened priest, sparse white hair fluttering slightly in the breeze, who stands there.

“Father Effram.” I hope he cannot hear the disappointment in my voice. “How am I able to feel everyone’s heart beating but yours?” In the days since Mortain fell, that is the one gift of his that I know still remains—?my ability to sense the heartbeats of the living.

Father Effram’s eyes dance with a mischievous light as he spreads his hands wide and lifts his shoulders. “It is a very old heart, Lady Sybella.” The twinkle in his eye reminds me of Annith’s claim that the ancient priest does not merely follow the patron saint of mistakes, but once walked the earth as Saint Salonius himself.

“What brings you outside the city gates, Father?”

“There is a . . . problem that requires your attention.”

“What sort of problem?” Anticipation stirs in my chest. I have been prowling the city since the battle, searching among the jubilant townspeople, relieved merchants, and dispersing mercenaries to see what other gifts might still remain. The right sort of problem could reveal those answers.

“I’m afraid one of the prisoners has overpowered his guard and taken a hostage.”

I turn and begin walking back to the city. “Which prisoner?”

“The former chancellor Crunard.”

I look sharply at Father Effram.

“What does he want?”

“Annith.”

“Does he not know that she has returned to the convent of Saint Mortain?”

“Apparently not.”

“And the hostage? Who is he?”

When the priest does not answer, I grow uneasy. “Father?” I prompt.

He sighs deeply, reaching up to tug at his ear. “The bishop.”

I stop walking. “Surely you jest.”

“No jest, my lady.”

While the bishop is a member of the duchess’s Privy Council and one of her spiritual advisors, he and I have only one thing in common—?our mutual dislike. Of all the members of the duchess’s inner circle, he is the one who insists on clinging to his prejudice and judgment of me.

Every deed I have done out of love, he ascribes to self-interest. Every action born of my loyalty, he has suspected of treachery. Even my devotion to Mortain is tainted in his eyes, due to my own dark past, my depraved family, and the nature of my god.

It is like looking into a mirror that reflects back all the worst fears I ever had about myself.

For seventeen years, my self-loathing had been honed to a razor-sharp edge. It was only Mortain’s grace that was able to dull it and cleanse me of despair. That I should be asked to save the bishop’s hide now, when those old wounds have opened, seeping even older doubts and fears, seems a cruel fate.

“Let him pray to his God. If he is worthy of being saved, then surely He will send someone.”

Father Effram’s gaze meets mine squarely. “He has.”

“Someone other than me.”

He scratches his nose. “God makes use of what tools He can find.”

I stare at him a long moment before huffing out a resigned breath. While this is not the answer I seek, I will not turn down a chance to pit my skills against a known traitor. Even if I cannot kill him, I am spoiling for a fight. Any fight will do.

Besides, it will pain the bishop greatly to be saved by the likes of me. That is reward enough.

Chapter 3

hen we reach the north wing where Crunard is being held, three guards stand in front of the closed door, weapons drawn. Good. Crunard will not be escaping with his hostage. When they see us, to my astonishment, they abandon the door and rush toward us, weapons drawn.

Fortunately, it is a long hallway.

I flip my knives so that I hold them by the tip. I wait one heartbeat, and a second, hoping beyond reason that Mortain can still marque those meant for death. The precepts of my faith have always insisted that to kill without his marque to guide our hand is to step outside his grace and risk becoming naught but a murderer.

But no marques appear, and the men are almost upon us. Fortunately, the precepts of Mortain also grant us the ability to kill in self-defense.

“Down!” I shout to Father Effram. I let one dagger fly, then the next.

The closest guard reels back, clutching his eye. Behind him, the second man checks his stride, dropping his sword as his hand claws at the knife embedded in his throat. The third guard steps around the others, sword raised.

He is a big man, thickset and heavy. Either it has not registered that I have just mortally wounded his two friends or he is stupid, so certain he has a killing blow that he moves slowly, like an executioner at a beheading.

In the time it takes for his sword to arc toward me, I retrieve the stiletto from my left sleeve. Ducking in low, I launch my entire body at him, aiming for his gullet.

The move brings me up against his chest, my blade sinking deeply into the hollow of his throat. For one crystalline moment, we are pressed together in an embrace, his sword flailing uselessly behind me. I twist the stiletto, shoving it in deeper.

Just as I leap back to avoid the blood, a great, dark, flapping thing rises from his body and tries to wrap itself around me. I do not know who is more shocked, the soul as it hovers in disbelief near his lifeless husk, or myself as I realize that the ability to experience the souls of the dying is a gift of Mortain's that is still left to me.

But there is no time to savor that. As I hurry to collect my knives, Father Effram pushes to his feet. His cheeks are pink, his eyes bright with . . . fear? Excitement? Admiration? I cannot tell.

As I approach Crunard’s chamber, I feel more alive than I have in days, my skin tingling with anticipation, my heart leaping at the challenge before me. There are three—?no, four—?pulses beating in the room. I tighten the grip on my long knife,???no longer caring that it is the be-damned bishop I am saving.

On my signal, Father Effram raps smartly on the door. “Monsieur Crunard? I have the woman you asked for.”

As the key turns in the lock, I utter a silent prayer for Mortain’s guidance. If some of his gifts are left to me, then perhaps a tenuous connection still exists between us as well. A connection th

at could allow me to know his will.

As soon as the door begins to open, I kick against it with all my might, forcing it back against the wall with a crash.

Crunard stands behind the door, his sword pointed at me, my long knife holding it at bay. A fallen guard lies on the floor behind him. Another stands with a sword pointed at the bishop, who cowers in the corner.

Crunard glares at Father Effram. “This is not Annith!”

“Annith is not coming.”

There is the briefest flicker of surprise and disappointment before Crunard gains control of his features. “She has already left?”

I cannot help it—?I laugh. “Did you truly think your daughter would bid you a fond farewell? Not only are you a traitor to our country, but you have treated her and her mother abysmally.”

My barb finds a home. “I did not even know she existed until mere months ago.”