Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

“What else were you to do? How were you to know the letter was a lie? That Angoulême had betrayed both you and the convent?” A deep frown creases her brow. “I still cannot guess what game he plays. After the Duke of Orléans, he is next in line for the throne. Could this be some way of trying to block the marriage or prevent it from producing an heir?”

“I have not been able to see how such a scheme would play out. Besides, as you say, the Duke of Orléans is next in line. Surely it is he and his heirs who would benefit. But either way, isn’t that what they trained us to look for? This sort of scheming and lying?”

She is quiet, considering. “Mayhap. But it is not a skill one can fully master by twelve years of age. Besides, were any of your decisions made out of malice?”

“No!”

“Revenge?”

“No.”

“Then it was not your fault. You did what any number of us would have done in your place. What you were trained to do. Used your judgment and Mortain’s guidance—if he bothered to offer any, which he did far too infrequently. The gods seem to amuse themselves by using us at their whim to achieve their own ends.”

As she speaks, it feels like an invisible bucket of warm water is being gently poured over my head, sending rivulets of gentle heat down my limbs, across my skin, seeping, somehow, into my very bones. My body feels heavy with relaxation, and I want to laugh with relief and cry from the sheer magnitude of it.

Grace. It is one of Father Effram’s words and reminds me of that moment when I first experienced the souls of the dead. First experienced the fullness of Mortain’s gifts.

Except the fullness of this moment is wholly human.

Unsettled by how quickly my body accepts the forgiveness she is giving, how hungry I am for it, I grumble, “Easy for you to say, when you’ve never made such a monstrous mistake.”

A gale of laughter bursts from her, so sudden that she slaps a hand across her mouth lest others should hear. As she laughs mirthlessly into her palm, I cannot help but feel I have just made yet another blunder. In trying to push away the comfort she offered, I have caused her pain, which has never been my intention. And yet, I realize glumly, it is what I do with everyone.

“If you only knew the sheer number and horror of the mistakes I have made,” she finally says, the shadows back in her eyes and darker than before. “The lives I have cost.” She looks bleakly at the wall above my head.

“Surely if my mistakes are not my fault, then neither were yours?” I offer.

Her gaze snaps back down to mine. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mayhap,” I concede. “It would not be the first time. But surely if I am absolved of my crimes for having made the best choice I could with limited knowledge, then that would also apply to you.”

She opens her mouth to argue, and I long to put my fingers to her lips to shush her. But am not quite that brave. I hold up my hand instead. “How old were you?”

“For which mistake?”

“Let’s start with the first one.”

She looks down at the jug in her hand “Ten.”

“So younger even than when I was sent from the convent. And, according to your earlier story, not even aware that you were one of Mortain’s daughters. Was your decision made out of malice?”

She blinks slowly, as if trying to orient her mind to what I am saying. “No.”

“Revenge?” I ask, more softly.

She glares at me, and I am struck again by her beauty. “No.”

“Were you trying to prove yourself?”

“Protection. I was looking for protection.”

The word reminds me of my mother and my aunts, so many of whom spent their early lives looking for that very thing. “Well,” I say crisply. “I cannot think of a single decision a ten-year-old could make while looking for safe harbor that would be anything other than innocent.”

“But—”

“While a child may be able to burn down a farm, if he has not learned the power of flames, how can it truly be his fault?”

“I was playing with fire,” she mutters, not to me, but to whatever ghosts lurk inside her. “But what of when I was old enough to understand its power?”

I stare at her, only barely able to imagine how many horrors she’s endured. “If no one showed you where the bucket was kept, or even how to use it to douse the flames, how can you be expected to simply know such things?”

“I was trying to use the bucket,” she whispers. “I wanted so badly to put out the fire that ravaged our lives.”

“What happened to . . . the bucket?”

“It was consumed by the flames.” Her words fall softly into the silence, but fill it almost beyond bearing.

“Not your fault,” I say firmly. “A tragedy that was simply playing itself out.”

She holds my gaze, before finally closing her eyes. For a moment, I imagine I hear her heart beating. Tha-bump, tha-bump. A tendril of panic tries to rise up, but she is so clearly not dead that I beat it back down. Then, just as quickly, the sound is gone, and I can see the rigidness of her body melt away. When she opens her eyes, the darkness is only shadows, the sort found in any darkened room, and her face is younger somehow, yet older as well. As if she has gained both wisdom as well as her lost innocence.

She sighs noisily. “Very well. You win. It is neither of our faults. It is both or nothing.”

Feeling as if I am holding something more fragile than a spider’s web, I whisper, “Agreed.”

Chapter 38

Sybella

After two long weeks of ambling through every village, town, and city between Plessis and Paris, we reach Saint-Denis, just outside Paris, where the coronation is to take place. At long last the day has come, and as I stand on the platform erected in the choir of the basilica, I study the twenty-two bishops in attendance, contemplating the ones I would like to kill. It is the most unholy of thoughts to have in such a place, but it is also the only thing I can do to keep myself from pointedly glaring at the regent.

She is holding the long satin train of the queen’s gown while the cardinal archbishop of Bordeaux says the coronation mass. It is supposed to be a gesture of honor and support, but that is not how the regent means it. Rather than a sign of her fealty, it is one meant to intimidate and crowd. It is the same tactic used by my father and Pierre when silent intimidation was called for. If I had possessed any doubt, it disappeared when Madame appeared beside the queen dressed in cloth of gold, an attempt to overshadow the queen’s modest white gown.

It does not work. The light pouring in from the high-arched beams of the cathedral cast the queen in a nearly ethereal light. She is dressed simply, although elegantly. Her long mink-colored hair falls in two braids at her shoulders, and her face shines with youthful beauty, deep devotion, and the solemnity of the occasion. Even the somewhat ugly crown of France that is too large for her does not mar the import of the moment. Indeed, it adds to it as the Duke of Orléans silently holds it in place for her, even going so far as to lower it when she kneels. It adds greatly to the charm of the child queen, and no amount of gold the regent wears will detract from that.

Even so, my body is tensed, and I keep expecting the regent to step forward and call a halt to the ceremony. The weight of my knives is heavy against my wrists as I wonder what I would do if that happened.

Since it is not wise to stare too long, I resume contemplating the murder of the Bishop of Albi and the king’s confessor. They continue to whisper poison in the king’s ear. We must find some way to neutralize their influence before any of their plans come to fruition. I long to look among the lesser court for Gen, but refrain. For all that I hate that be-damned chain she is wearing, she is our best access to the king. Even though the queen is back in his good graces, he greatly limits the scope of their interaction.

When at last the cardinal daubs the queen’s brow with oil, places the scepter of France in her right hand, and pronounces her the queen of Fr

ance, something deep inside me finally eases. The queen looks up just then, and our gazes meet. She is queen—in the eyes of the Church and France. It is a holy anointing of her rights and duties under the auspices of the Church, and therefore no longer something political, but an authority derived from God Himself. She will be far harder to cast aside now. If that is what the regent was planning.

When we finally step outside the basilica, every street, every corner, every doorway of the city is packed with people, and every one of them lifts their voice to cheer the new queen of France.

The regent looks as if she has just taken a bite from a wormy apple. That is when I indulge in my first smile of the day.