Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

“That does not excuse any of it.”

Crunard’s jaw tightens. “I think you forget that I am the one holding the hostage.”

“I think you forget that the bishop and I do not care for each other in the least. I am more interested in your motives than his safety.”

“I want out of this prison.”

“To what end? So you can betray the duchess a second time? And why today?” As I speak, I move carefully, so slowly that to the untrained eye it will look as if I am holding still.

“So I can find my son.”

The son he claims is being held hostage by the French regent. “The duchess already promised she will inquire after his whereabouts when she arrives in France.” I am closer now to the armed guard standing over the bishop—?almost within striking range.

Crunard’s free hand clenches into a fist. “I do not trust that the duchess will do it. I wish to search for him myself.” His eyes are as clear and guileless as a babe’s, but his gaze shifts ever so slightly. He is lying. Of that I am certain.

I raise my knife. Properly applied, the tip would do very little damage, but might yield up the truth behind his lies. The thought unnerves me. Mortain has only been gone a handful of days, and already my mind turns back to the dark instincts of my past.

I smile, but I do not think it is reassuring. “You can trust the duchess. She is not doing it for you, but for Annith, who would like to meet this brother she so recently learned of.” I tilt my head. “How will she feel about this newest trick of yours? Killing innocent guards, threatening the bishop, further dragging her family name through the mud.”

His face grows white with fury. He takes a step toward me, the tip of his sword lowering ever so slightly. It is the smallest of openings, but I take it. “Father! The door!”

When the guard glances toward the door, I lunge at him. Before he has time to react, I grab him by the hair, jerk his head back, and slit his throat.

Blood spurts out in a crimson rain, staining the floor as well as the cowering bishop. I do not stop long enough to comfort him, but launch myself at Crunard, bracing for the impact of his sword against my dagger—?hoping my blade will be long enough.

Instead of resistance, I find Crunard standing with his sword stuck in the closed door, Father Effram sprawled at his feet. I check my momentum as Crunard pulls his gaze from the dead guard to my oncoming rush, then shift my weight to my back leg and swing my front leg up to kick the hand still holding the sword.

There is a loud snap as the contact breaks his wrist. He bellows, and his grip goes slack. Before he can do more than that, I step in close and point the long knife at his throat.

His face is pale, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. His pulse beats rapidly against the blade’s edge.

I glance at Father Effram on the floor. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. I am fine.” He tries to leap up, but finds himself yanked back down. “If somewhat stuck.” He tugs helplessly at the hem of his robe caught in the door. “If you could be so kind, my lady?”

My lips twitch as I reach out with one hand to open the door long enough for him to retrieve his robe. The priest springs to his feet. “I do serve the patron saint of mistakes,” he mutters, dusting off his robe.

The sword embedded in the door is at the exact height of Father Effram’s heart. “It is just as well that you do. That mistake saved your life.”

Father Effram glances over his shoulder, the blood draining from his face. To give him something to think about besides how close he came to death, I tell him to go see what the bishop is whining about.

As he hurries off to that corner of the room, I step away from Crunard to peer around the desk to the man on the floor. His heartbeat is weak and irregular.

“Who is he?”

“The sentry on duty when my friends arrived. His injury was an accident.”

The man’s shirt is stained red with blood. “Since when is a chest wound an accident?”

“I had a sword pointed at him, but he wasn’t supposed to throw himself on it. He was outnumbered, after all.”

“He was supposed to ignore his duties and see to his own safety?” I snort. “Not everyone is as cowardly as you and takes the easy way out.”

“Please,” he says, “tell me. What was easy about my sons dying one by one as they fought for their country? Or having my last surviving son taken captive in a futile battle for Brittany’s independence?"

Cupping his useless hand, he takes a step closer. “Tell me, what was easy about learning that son was held hostage by the regent of France? And that the only way I could save him was to turn my back on everything I had fought for my entire life? I have been forced to sit here for a year, unable to do anything to find him. Please, do tell me how easy that was.”

Merde. That cannot have been easy. “Maybe that was not the right word,” I concede. But then, ?nothing about our country’s fight to remain independent of France has been easy. Before he can say anything else, I point my knife at him. “Do not go anywhere.”

“I won’t.” Even though his eyes stay firmly on mine, the muscles in his body tense, gathering strength to make a break for the door.

I sigh in exasperation. “I tried to give you a chance,” I remind him, then kick his left knee. It is a gentle tap—?meant to deter, not destroy—?but he is old and not expecting it. He shouts as he crashes to the floor. Assured he will not go anywhere, I finally hurry over to the injured man and kneel beside him.

His eyelids flutter, and a groan of pain escapes his lips. “Must warn the duchess . . . Crunard—”

I place my hand on his shoulder. “Shhh. He did not escape, monsieur. Your brave deed gave us the time we needed.”

His breathing becomes easier. “And the bishop?”

I glance over at the bishop, whom Father Effram is helping to his feet. “He will live.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

The man gives a faint nod, before his eyes drift shut. The bishop and Father Effram approach us. “Will he make it?” Father Effram asks.

I shake my head. Father Effram kneels beside the dying man. “What is your name?”

“William.”

“Tell us what we can do for you, William.”

“So thirsty.”

Eager to do something to ease his agony, I rise to my feet and snag an ewer that sits on the desk, then return to William's side.

He is too weak to lift his head, so I rip off a corner of my underskirt, dip it into the water, and dribble it into his mouth. He is dying. I know it. But there is no marque on his forehead; no deathly shadows lurk upon his mortal wound.

A wave of despair washes over me at the finality of this moment, for both William and me. There truly are no more marques of Mortain to guide the living into death. To guide me. How am I to navigate such a world? What will keep me from straying too far into the shadows?

But I am not the only one of Mortain’s daughters serving here at court. “Where is Ismae?” I ask Father Effram.

He considers me a moment. “I believe she is with the duchess.”

“Go and fetch her, if you please. She is death’s mercy,” I murmur. “She will know what is to be done.”

His face softens. “But you too know what is to be done, Lady Sybella. And you are already here.”

“Just get her,” I snap.

He rises to his feet and heads for the door. “Best send for Duval as well,” I call after him. The duchess’s half brother and master strategist will need to know of Crunard’s newest betrayal. “And take the bishop with you. He is no doubt anxious to get out of his bloody robes.”

As the bishop passes me on the way to the door, he pauses to utter a short prayer for William. He does not so much as glance at me or utter a single word of thanks. I nearly laugh. Even now, after I have saved his sorry life, he cannot bear the sight of me. Whether it is because I am Mortain’s daughter or because of the more human aspects of my past, I do not know.

Dismissing him from my mind, I turn my attention back to the guard. Since there is nothing else I can do, I take his hand in mine.

Father Effram is wrong. I am useless in this situation. I am—?was—?death’s justice, never his mercy. It was Ismae who bestowed the mercy that death could deliver. Not I. I was only ever to serve as his vengeance.

William groans again, a heartbreaking whimper of pain. I grip his hand tighter, as if by doing so I can will him into death.

It is close now. I can feel his soul frantically beating against his body, wanting to be free. I do not know whether to be grateful that I can still feel such things or enraged that I must feel them with no way of knowing what I am supposed to do.

His heartbeat falters and stumbles, then struggles to keep going—?like a valiant horse that is pulling too heavy a load. It would be so easy to free him of that.

I reach up and run my hand gently along his brow, then down his cheek. “Be at peace, dear William.” I place my palm over his struggling heart. I close my eyes and breathe deep, growing still inside. How can I ease this man’s plight?

Slowly, an answer comes, filling both my heart and mind with a presence that is far wiser than I. And that . . . presence . . . knows the absolute rightness of what to do.