Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

When he does not answer, I continue. “Sybella is well aware of the suspicions you harbor against her, and would never hand you a rope with which to hang her.”

“Then why are you?”

Because I am the only person he seems willing to protect. But will he for something this serious? “I made sure it looked like an accident, and Sybella was nowhere nearby when it occurred. I did not realize your dislike of her would blind you to the evidence.”

“You just told me that shadows are an assassin’s friend—why would that not apply to her as well?”

“It would, and does. But your own guards saw her arrive and discover the body alongside them. Why do you not believe their account?”

“Perhaps she bewitched them. I don’t know what assassins who serve the god of death are capable of.”

That is when I get my first full taste of the fear that lurks behind his feelings for Sybella. It is not merely that she is an assassin, but that she feels otherworldly to him.

“If she had bewitched them, would they have allowed him into her chambers, unescorted and unchaperoned? I think you should ask them what their motives were.”

His eyes widen at the implications of my words, and for the first time since I stepped over this cliff’s edge, I feel that I have forced a crack into his thick, closed skull. Now if only some light can get through it.

He glances at the painting on the far wall. “Who else knows that you have been in contact with Sybella?”

“The regent saw me coming out of her room yesterday. I told her I was concerned about her health, as way of explanation.”

“She demanded an explanation of you? What business is it of hers?”

Ah, she is rubbing him raw with her interference. Good. I will toss a little salt into that wound. “Madame Regent believes that all matters that affect the crown of France are her business.”

His mouth tightens. “So you’ve told no one? What of the queen?”

I shake my head. “I’ve told only you.”

He stares into the fire for a moment, thinking, then barks for the guard. When the man hurriedly appears, the king gives him an order. “Fetch General Cassel from the Lady Sybella’s chambers. At once.”

Chapter 30

Sybella

Cassel sweeps the trunklet up, cradling it against his chest with one arm while he uses the other to flip open the lid. The force of the movement nearly breaks the small brass hinges.

The fury inside me coils tighter as his meaty hand rifles through the contents, this violation of my things reminding me of every other violation I have suffered. But I fold my arms and wait patiently.

He lifts my golden bracelet, then tosses it to the floor, dismissing it as a woman’s bauble. When he finds the handkerchief that Tephanie embroidered for me, I must bite back a stream of curses. I hold my breath, hoping he will ignore the rest of what is in there. None of it is even remotely weaponlike—he simply enjoys the violation.

When he plucks the twig of holly from the bottom of the casket, my heart clenches, but I force my face into a bored expression. He gives a snort of contempt, then flings the holly sprig onto the ground. I must give myself away somehow, for he pauses, glances at me, then grinds it under the heel of his boot. The act causes all the air to flee from my lungs. It takes every ounce of will I possess to refrain from snatching up the holly and cradling it in my hands.

“Feel better now?” I ask, making certain the faint mocking tone hides my distress.

He tosses the trunklet to the ground and comes to stand before me, closer, closer, until our chests are nearly touching and I must tip my head back to meet his eyes. “We should search you, as well.”

Hot fury writhes inside me, but my voice is colder than the deepest crypt. “If you lay so much as a finger on me, I will kill you. I don’t care whose father you are.”

His face shifts, going from hard anger to something closer to bewilderment. “What did you say?”

Merde. Before I can answer, one of the soldiers returns and sticks his head in the door. “Sir! The king wishes to see you at once.”

Cassel does not look away. “I’ll be right—”

“The king said to come at once, sir,” the man says unhappily.

Reluctantly, Cassel pulls his gaze from mine. “This is not over,” he says under his breath.

“Oh, but it is,” I say just as softly to his retreating back.

* * *

When I am alone at last, I grab my skirts to give my hands something to do besides tremble. It is not fear that has me shaking, but rage. I make myself draw a deep breath, then another, using the air to cool my anger.

As my mind clears, my gaze falls on the trampled holly twig, the broken leaves and smashed berries as bruised as my heart. I kneel down, and fury explodes inside me again, although this time it is accompanied by a hollow sense of desolation. It is just a twig, I remind myself. Just a stupid piece of a branch that fools liked to call miraculous.

It was also my last remaining piece of Mortain. The desolation that fills me is so complete that I cannot breathe. I fumble for my pocket, my fingers closing around the pebble, welcoming the bite of pain as it presses against my palm. I stare down at the ruined remains of Mortain’s last miracle, the heat of unshed tears searing my eyes. But one escapes, landing on the holly. I stare at it, the last mingling of his essence and mine.

I blink, trying to clear my vision. The crushed edges of the leaves are not torn, merely sharply bent. And the berries are not crushed, but simply misshapen. As I watch, the holly shifts, so slowly my eye cannot truly see it, but within a hand span of minutes, it is whole again. Not quite new—there are creases where it was torn and scars along the berries’ surfaces. But it is whole and remade. A miracle, for all that it is a small one. I gently scoop up the sprig and cradle it to my breast.

Chapter 31

Genevieve

The next day, when it has grown dark, the door to the king’s chambers finally opens. It is not the king, but two young boys—apprentices, I realize—jostling a large wooden trunk between them. On their heels comes an older man of middle years. He is not a servant, and certainly not a courtier. His clothes are of good quality, but serviceable. He does not so much as glance at me. “Careful with that, you despicable turnips! Set it down in the far corner near the fire. Carefully!”

The boys hurry to do what he asks. With quick, practiced movements, they open the top of the traveling case, which folds out to create a table.

The man crosses to the fire and stokes it, motioning at one of the boys to add fresh logs until it is burning hotly.

When he is satisfied with the fire, he tells the boys, “Enough! If that table is not set up by now, then I’ve wasted these last seven years on you.” There is no malice in his words, and the boys ignore his scolding as a tree ignores the wind. “Now begone. And stay out of everyone’s way. I’ll send for you when I’m done.”

As they clamber to the door, one of them shoots a curious look my way—the first one of them to make eye contact. I smile, but he ducks his head and scurries out. A faint swell of understanding begins forming in my chest. The king was very happy to remind me that he had a variety of punishments at his disposal. Clearly he has put some thought and planning into this one.

The man has tied on a leather apron and is muttering over a set of tools—a hammer, pliers, tongs. I think of Maraud, nearly broken in the dungeon at Cognac: the iron chains, the manacles, the oubliette.

The king would not have me tortured, would he? I square my shoulders. Just because that is what they have in mind does not mean I must submit to it. I run my hand down my skirts—a seemingly nervous gesture—to assure myself of my knife’s solid presence.

The man begins hammering. Before I can investigate, the door opens and the king strides in, moving with confidence and purpose, the dregs of last night’s anger still lurking in his eyes. He does not look at me as he crosses the room to the worktable. “How is it coming?”

The man drops his tools and bows deeply. “It is almost done, Your Majesty. I must simply take a measurement before adding the final link.”

The king waves his hand in my direction. “But of course.”

The man approaches me like a horse that might bolt, and with dawning recognition, I understand what is happening.

He holds an elegant necklace of finely worked silver. It is long, longer than I am tall. Almost as long as a . . . chain.

I jerk my head around to stare at the king. He is pouring a generous glass of wine. I think he means it to be a careless gesture, but I can feel his attention on me. The man—a silversmith, I now realize—grunts. “This way, if you please.” His words are brusque and impersonal.

Before I can ask a question or register a protest, his arm snakes out and the cool silver is around my neck. He loops the chain once around the base of my throat, a second time so that it rests just below my collarbone, then a third time so that it spans across my chest, like a livery collar.