Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

She thrusts out her pointed chin. “I am a lady, and ladies do not do such things for themselves.”

I laugh outright. “And that is something you are proud of?” I squat down so that I am eye to eye with her. “You have it wrong, waspling. There is no pride in not knowing how to do things, in having to be waited on like a small child.”

“Why should I want to do servants’ work?” The scorn in her voice could peel the bark off a tree.

“Why would you want to be dependent on others? Why would you—who are so filled with pride—not relish doing things for yourself? Being competent. Having skills.”

She scoffs. “There is no skill in making a camp bed.”

“Oho!” I lift a brow. “You think not? Perhaps we should wager on that.”

“There is nothing that you have that I want.” Her mouth twists into an irritated little bow.

“And here I thought you enjoyed our knife lessons.”

At last—a reaction! She gapes at me. “That’s not fair! You’re already doing that.”

“True, but it is something you want from me.”

She considers another minute, then rolls her eyes. “Very well.”

I must work to keep the smile off my face. “We have a deal,” I agree solemnly.

We collect the bedding from the packs and move closer to the fire that one of the men has started. She looks around at the ground. “Where do we place it?”

“Now, see? That is the art of bed making—knowing where to put it. If I were to tell you, you wouldn’t be doing it by yourself.” From across the fire, I can feel the dove’s eyes on me, observing.

The wasp sighs and flounces six arrow lengths away. “Well, I don’t have to sleep beside you, do I?”

“No, just within the circle, like we do every night.”

While she busies herself kicking the largest stones out of the way, the dove rises and comes to stand beside me, her eyes on Charlotte. “She likes you, you know.”

I blink at her in surprise. “I would not wager my life on that.”

Her eyes are still on the younger girl. “Oh, she would never show such a thing, but she does. You are the only one who treats her as if she is your equal.” Her gaze is warm and soft, and reflects her nature.

“It is how we raise young girls when they find their way to us. When they come to us from a world that sucks the very marrow from their bones, rebuilding from the ground up helps them reclaim their own selves.”

“I think it is the right approach. She needs things to do, to occupy her hands and especially her mind, else it goes to places it’s better she not visit.”

Chapter 20

Sybella

I do not know how much time passes before I claw my way out of the past back into my body. Perhaps it is the growing heat from the black pebble I still carry, or perhaps it is the voice I hear outside my door that pulls me from my grief.

Fremin’s voice.

He has come. And sooner than I would have thought. Too soon for me to have a plan in place. Guided by sheer instinct, I surge to my feet and reach for my trunklet to retrieve le Poisson’s knife. It is an instinct forged in the same d’Albret household that sent Fremin to Plessis, but honed far more sharply through the convent’s training.

I have just finished tucking the knife into my belt when the door opens. I leap back against the long curtain to shield myself from view. It is not the guards, come to announce Fremin’s arrival, but Fremin himself.

He looks around the room as he shuts the door behind him, his heart beating rapidly, as if he’s been running. Or was poised to fight.

He takes three steps toward the bed, then pauses to glance around the room. He frowns in annoyance, a question forms on his lips. Before he can give voice to that question, I step up behind him and place the sharp edge of le Poisson’s knife at his throat. “To what do I owe this most delightful surprise?”

Beneath the blade, his pulse begins to race. “The king may have exonerated you, but we both know you are guilty of this murder.”

“Oh, not just this murder, but a few others besides. Remove your weapon.”

He swallows once, his throat working against the edge of my blade, then slowly draws a knife from his sleeve and drops it onto the floor. I kick it out of the way. “That still does not explain why you are here. I assumed you would report your suspicions to the king.”

“I am here to encourage your cooperation should you have qualms.”

I laugh. “I have many qualms, Monsieur Fremin, but you are not on that list.” At least, not any longer. By coming to my room, unannounced, with a knife, he has reignited that white flame of anger and seared any doubt from my mind.

“You realize if you harm me, it will only support my assertion that you are behind the disappearance of my men as well as your sisters.”

“Will it? To me it supports that this was your plan all along. Once you’d gained possession of my sisters, you had no intention of remaining behind to face the consequences. And surely no one can question my need for self-defense. Turn around. Slowly.”

If I am to step so fully out of whatever of Mortain’s grace still exists in this world, I will not hide from it. I will look into the eyes of the man who has brought me to this crossroads. For assuredly, it is a crossroads. I will not hide from that either.

Against my leg, the pebble burns like a brand.

Fremin does what I order, the tip of my knife staying in contact with his neck the entire time. This does not feel like a choice rooted in love. Or fear. With the full, visceral memory of the depravity of the d’Albret family still pulsing though my limbs, it feels more like a burning need for justice.

For vengeance. For righting a scale that has been tipped too long in darkness’s favor.

“Why?” I whisper when I can see his face. “Why did you not take the chance to claim your men acted without your knowledge when I gave it to you? We could both have walked away then.”

He barks out a harsh laugh. “Walking away was never an option for me.” His heart beats fast with fear, his pupils are wide with it. “Why could you and your sisters not just have come with me when I asked? Returned to your brother’s side, where you belong?”

There it is. The reason he deserves to die. He would trade innocents’ safety for his own. I press my knife closer. “For the same reason you are too afraid to return to him empty-handed.”

“He will send others.”

“And I will kill

them, too.”

“Then he will come himself, with an army at his back.”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “He would stand his army against the crown of France? I think not.”

“You assume the crown will still support you after I tell them you are responsible for the corpse they found.”

I lean in closer. “What makes you think that you will be allowed to have that conversation?”

He looks down at me and smirks. “I am bigger and stronger than you, even with that knife.”

“That may well be true, but I am more ruthless.” I silently place one foot behind his, then shove hard against his chest, knocking him backwards. Unbalanced, he falls. A grunt escapes him as he catches his head on the hearthstone.

His eyes flutter once, but he does not move. It is done. The line crossed. The decision made. Although it never truly felt like a decision. More like the satisfaction of pulling a thorn out of one’s heart.

I consider—briefly—offering a prayer to Mortain. Of thanks? Of forgiveness? But instead, my mind goes to the Dark Mother. While Mortain’s divinity may still flow in my veins, it is through the Dark Mother’s grace that I have been reborn through the ashes of my own pain and heartache. Mayhap I should pray to her instead.

I wait a moment longer to be certain he will not move, then shove my knife into my belt, bend over to grab the edge of the rug, and drag him to the window. Praise the Nine he is not bleeding.

He is heavy, but the rug moves smoothly across the stone floor. At the window, I pause. How best to disguise what I’ve done? The guards saw him come in, but they did not see me. I peer down into the empty courtyard, which is as deserted as it ever is. I go to my trunklet and retrieve the Marquis’s rope, then hoist and tug and shove until he is braced on the ledge. After confirming the courtyard is still empty, I give a final push.

A second later, there is a heavy thud, then a silent pop as his soul bursts from his body like the flesh from an overripe plum. As I stare down, I feel the ashes of my faith in Mortain scatter with the wind, and a new, tentative faith is born. I have not only ended a life, but created a space, a pocket of safety, for two young lives to come to fruition. Fremin’s death creates security for my sisters.