Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

Genevieve

My heart races in my chest as I calmly stroll back through the halls. My head is full of all I have seen—not only the realities of dealing with a dead body and the wonder of its soul—but the skills Sybella commands. I had never imagined powers that great, and questions crowd my head like a hungry flock of doves.

But I have no time for them now. I have not delayed the king’s summons that long—surely no more than a quarter of an hour—but he will wonder why. Tonight more than ever, all must appear ordinary.

When I reach the king’s rooms, the guard bows, opens the door, and motions me in. I am relieved to find the king staring into the fire and not at the rutting painting his father gave him. That always portends an ill humor.

At my entrance he looks up. “Ah. There you are.” He swirls the wine in his goblet. “I thought I would have to send out a search party.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” I sink into an extra-low curtsy. “Something came up on the way here.” I allow some of the breathlessness to escape.

His eyes widen, not in surprise so much as challenge. “I am all aflutter to hear what warranted you ignoring your king.”

I do not rise, but simply lift my head. “I wasn’t ignoring you, sire, but serving you.”

Some of the mocking gleam leaves his eyes. “Now I must know,” he murmurs into his cup before taking a drink. “Rise and tell me, dear Genevieve.”

I stand and hold myself as demurely as possible. “On my way here, I passed by one of the corridors and heard voices. Voices that made no sense to me.”

All the derision is gone from his face now. “Whose voices were they?”

“The regent’s and the Bishop of Albi’s.”

I need say nothing more, his own suspicious nature does the rest. “What were they talking about?”

“About the queen. And the Nine. And the holding the regent would sign over to the bishop if he continued to raise questions about the queen’s faith and pursue them with the pope.”

There is a brief moment of outraged silence, followed by a crash as the king hurls his goblet into the fire, the wine hissing as it hits the hot embers. “I have not indicated I wish to pursue that course of action yet.”

I dip a respectful curtsy. “That is why I thought it worth mentioning.”

“Did you hear any more?”

“No, after that their voices started moving in my direction, and it seemed wise to be discreet. I came directly here.”

“You have done well. Thank you.” Agitated, he puts his hands behind his back and begins pacing in front of the fire. “I am sick unto death of my wishes being overruled or argued with. Not just by the regent, but by the entire council. I am king, dammit, not some weak fop.” His gaze slides to the painting on the wall behind me.

“My lord, perhaps they challenge you not because they see you as weak, but out of their own self-interest. Perhaps it is not even challenge so much as manipulation. Surely if the regent’s meeting with the bishop tells us anything, it is that.”

“And that makes it better?”

“No, but it makes their motives different.”

He falls quiet, thinking. “What you say makes sense. Especially with regards to my sister. She is ever trying to steer me to her wishes. The queen, as well.”

As hard as it is to let the latter one go, I do.

“But what earthly reason would the bishops have for such manipulation?”

“I have found that bishops are as fond of wealth and power as any man.”

He pours a fresh glass of wine. “I do not believe that is the case with General Cassel. He has served my father well and loyally since he came to the throne. Longer! He not only has the crown’s interest at heart, he has shown his loyalty honorably throughout the years.”

“Your Majesty, was your valet not your father’s also?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Does he dress you in the same chamber robes and somber colors that your father preferred?”

“No!”

“And yet he continues to serve you nonetheless, loyally and faithfully. But he does not insist you adopt your father’s fashions. He allows you to have your own. I think General Cassel is of similar intent, although poorer execution. While he has served the crown well, his temperament, his tactics, and his approach are more suited to the France of twenty years ago when it was beset by rebellious dukes on all sides. They have gotten fewer and fewer, my lord, with the vast majority of them now falling to the crown’s rule through death or marriage.”

“Brittany rebelled,” he points out, watching me closely.

“They did. Nearly the last of the independent duchies. And it was gracefully handled. When you hold all the power, there is rarely any reason to exercise it. The threat is often enough.”

“General Cassel would say that the threat is empty without the will to see it through. He thinks I was wrong to offer marriage. Thinks I should have simply continued the siege and invasion.”

“Of course he thinks that. He is old and set in his ways. Unwilling to learn new tactics and strategies that the exciting new France presents. What purpose would it have served to conquer Brittany in such a way? To acquire a broken, defeated holding whose population had been decimated by war and hunger? Who would always see you as the conqueror and never as a beloved or admired king? Who gains by that, Your Majesty?”

He stares into the fire.

“I’ll tell you who gains—men who like to make war. Who thrive on battles and conflict and conquest. Men who have no other skills or talents or values. General Cassel is a man with one weapon and one weapon only. He does not understand the man who has an array from which to choose. And you, Your Majesty, have precisely such an array.”

He glances at my empty hands. “Here, let us get you some wine.”

That is when I know that I have not only lightened his mood, but have given him good counsel as well. Now all I must do is manage to get him to invite me to spend the night without warming his bed, and this evening will be a rousing success.

Chapter 23

Sybella

As I lie on a thin pallet on the floor of the queen’s chambers, I am not flooded with shame and regret at what I had to do. Relief, yes, for it took naught but a glimpse of Fremin’s soul to leave no doubt in my mind as to what he deserved, but I am also filled with wonder. Unable to resist, I rub the tender cut on my littlest finger.

Have I always possessed such powers, precisely as Father Effram has claimed? Or is it a byproduct of Mortain’s death? As if by leaving the world, he has left an empty space or void that pulls such power from me, much as the sun pulls the plant from the seed.

To waste such a miraculous gift on someone like Fremin sours my stomach. But it could not be helped. The risk of his soul never passing on was too great, the queen and her unborn child were too vulnerable.

Thoughts of the queen’s unborn child have my hand drifting to my belly and my heart yearning for Beast. For the comfort he always gives me, for his easy acceptance of who and what I am and all the scars that accompany that.

I take out the memory of him offering to marry me, handling it like a fragile sculpture of spun sugar. I was lying to him—and myself—when I said I could not bear the idea of ever belonging to any man. Beast would never think to own me. He considers his horse as a creature entrusted to his care rather than a possession.

The idea of being joined to him for the rest of our lives—for eternity—is nearly irresistible. To love openly and freely, and not care who sees or knows. To be at each other’s side, always.

But it is complicated, too. Not only i

n the obvious ways—my brother must give his permission for us to legally wed, which he would never do—but in subtler ones. The hand on my belly is one of those. I do not know that I can bring myself to ever have another child. This wound and scar run so deep, I cannot even hear of another woman’s pregnancy without suffering all over again. But if ever a man should be a father, Beast is that man. There should be legions of hulking young babes swaggering around on their toddling legs with laughing blue eyes and small lumpy noses.

I do not think I can do that. My heart is not strong enough to travel that road again.

* * *

In the morning, the servants arrive at the queen’s apartments and light the fires. I rise to my feet and slip out of the room. When my door comes into view, I take a deep breath. The next five minutes will determine whether or not I can wrestle Fortune’s wheel in my favor.

Are the two guards standing lazily on duty the ones who did not bother to announce Fremin’s visit before letting him inside? Did he bribe them?

At my approach, one of them looks up, his mouth falling open at the sight of me. He nudges the other guard to attention. “My lady.” He frowns. “How did you get out here?”

“I walked. I believe that is how most people move about from room to room.”

“I mean”—his voice grows more gruff—“we did not see you come out.”

I study them more closely, then shake my head. “I don’t believe you are the guards who were on duty when I left.”

“When was that?”

“Midday yesterday. I have been attending the queen ever since.”

“No one mentioned you weren’t inside.”