Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Sample Chapter from GRAVE MERCY
Buy the Book
Read More from the His Fair Assassin trilogy
More Books from HMH Teen
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Copyright © 2019 by Robin LaFevers
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhbooks.com
Cover art © 2019 by Billelis
Cover design by Whitney Leader-Picone
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: LaFevers, Robin, author.
Title: Courting darkness / by Robin LaFevers.
Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019] | Summary: When Sybella discovers there is another trained assassin from St. Mortain’s convent deep undercover in the French court, she must use every skill in her arsenal to navigate the deadly royal politics and find her sister in arms before her time—and that of the newly crowned queen—runs out.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018021262 | ISBN 9780544991194 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Assassins—Fiction. | Courts and courtiers—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. | Brittany (France)—History—1341–1532—Fiction. | France—History—Charles VIII, 1483–1498—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.L14142 Co 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018021262
eISBN 978-1-328-52791-2
v1.0119
To fierce, determined girls everywhere.
Especially those still discovering how to be fierce.
You are the true heroes.
Dramatis Personae
From the Convent of Saint Mortain, patron saint of death
Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany
Ismae Rienne, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany
Annith, handmaiden to Death
Lady Margot, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême
Lady Genevieve, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême
The Breton Court
Anne, duchess of Brittany, countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont
Gavriel Duval, a Breton noble, half brother to the duchess
Isabeau, Anne’s sister (deceased)
Duke Francis II, Anne’s father (deceased)
The Privy Council
Benebic de Waroch, “Beast,” knight of the realm, captain of the queen’s guard
Jean de Châlons, prince of Orange
Captain Dunois, captain of the Breton army
Phillipe Montauban, chancellor of Brittany
Jean de Rieux, former marshal of Brittany
Bishop of Rennes
Father Effram
The d’Albret Family
Alain d’Albret, lord of Albret, viscount of Tartas, 2nd count of Graves (deceased)
Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany
Pierre d’Albret, second son of Alain d’Albret, viscount of Périgord and Limoges
Julian d’Albret, third son of Alain d’Albret (deceased)
Charlotte, daughter of Alain d’Albret
Louise, youngest daughter of Alain d’Albret
Tephanie Blaine, lady in waiting to Sybella
Breton Nobility
Viscount Maurice Crunard, former chancellor of Brittany
Anton Crunard, last surviving son of the former
Jean de Rohan, viscount of Rohan, lord of Léon and count of Porhoët, uncle to the duchess
Followers of Saint Arduinna
Aeva, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany
Tola, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany
Breton Men-at-Arms
Sir Lannion, second in command of the queen’s guard
Yannic, squire to Benebic de Waroch
Lazare, charbonnerie, member of the queen’s guard
Graelon, charbonnerie
The French Court and Nobility
Charles VIII, king of France
Anne de Beaujeu, sister to the king, regent of France
Philip de Beaujeu, duke of Burgundy, husband to Anne
Maximilian of Austria, the Holy Roman emperor
Princess Marguerite, former dauphine of France, daughter of Maximilian of Austria
Louis, Duke of Orléans
Simon de Fremin, a lawyer
Seguin de Cassel, general in the king’s army
The Cognac Court
Count Charles Angoulême
Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême
Jeanne de Polignac, mistress to Count Angoul�
�me, lady in waiting to Louise
In France
Jasper, a mercenary
Valine, a mercenary
Andry, a mercenary
Tassin, a mercenary
Richard of Shrewsbury, claimant to the throne of England
The Nine
Mortain, god of death
Dea Matrona, mother goddess
Arduinna, goddess of love’s sharp bite, daughter of Matrona, twin sister of Amourna
Amourna, goddess of love’s first blush, daughter of Matrona, twin sister of Arduinna
Brigantia, goddess of knowledge and wisdom
Camulos, god of battle and war
Mer, goddess of the sea
Salonius, god of mistakes
Cissonius, god of travel and crossroads
Prologue
Sybella
Rennes, Brittany
November 1489
s I stand on the battlements of the besieged city, looking out at the disarray before me, it is clear the god of Death has taken to the field. While this could be said of any battle—death and war are old friends, after all—today He rides a black horse, a pale-haired rider hunkered down in front of Him.
Annith. The most skilled of all of Death’s handmaidens and the sister of my heart.
She has done her part to avert this war—taken her shot using the last of the arrows forged by the gods, which flew as straight and true as if guided by their own hand. But now the French have seen her. Understand that it was she who shot at their king. And even though he is unharmed—harming him was never the intent—they are on her like jackals on a rotting carcass.
“Reload!” calls out Aeva, one of the dozen followers of Saint Arduinna who stand beside me along the ramparts.
Death and Annith ride hard for the gate, Mortain covering her with His body—a body from which four arrows protrude—protecting her life with His own. No, not His own, for He is the god of Death, I remind myself. But Father Effram’s warning has taken root in my heart.
“My lord, you do know what will happen if you choose to involve yourself in mortal affairs, do you not?”
The French archers release a second volley of arrows. As one, the Arduinnites and I return fire. But our arrows are too late. Mortain is hit yet again, taking two more to His side. Annith twists in the saddle, trying to hold onto Him.
It does not work, and they plummet to the ground. Annith begins crawling toward Mortain under yet another shower of French arrows. By Fate or chance, one of them buries itself in Death’s chest, and I feel the pain of it as if it comes from my own. Ice-cold fingers of dread trail down my back before wrapping themselves around my heart.
As a lone hound brays in the distance, I shove away from the battlements and race down the stairway to the gate. More hounds join the first, raising their voices in an unholy lamentation. For a moment, the world hangs suspended, like a drop of sap oozing from a tree, and in that moment I know. The god of Death—my father—is gone. He has passed from this world.
By the time I reach the gate, the French have fallen back, as if even they sense the magnitude of this moment. Nuns from the convent of Saint Brigantia swarm toward the fallen Mortain as Annith throws herself on his body, weeping. As much as I am hurting, she will be even more so.
Before I can reach them, a laugh rings out—an incongruous, joyful sound in the solemn stillness.
Puzzled, Death reaches for his chest, his hand coming away red with blood. Although I am half a bowshot away, I hear him say, “I am alive.”
It feels as if the earth I am standing on gives a dizzying spin.
He is alive. But even as far away as I am, I can see that he is no longer Death.
A great chasm opens inside me, a dark yawning maw that threatens to swallow me whole. If Death no longer walks amongst us, then what purpose am I to serve? What use will there be for my dark talents and skills?
I fear the answer was writ long ago, when I was born into the family that raised me. The family that nearly killed me and drove my mother into Death’s arms.
And that answer terrifies me far more than death ever has.
Chapter 1
Genevieve
Cognac, France
November 1489
was born in the upstairs room of an ancient roadside tavern, a group of common whores acting as midwives. My mother, too, was a whore, although perhaps not so very common. Would an ordinary woman invite Death to her bed on a dare?
I emerged covered in slime and blood, my face—indeed, my entire body—as blue as a wild hyacinth. Hushed whispers and murmurs of sympathy followed the horrified silence my arrival caused, until Solange, the oldest among them, grabbed me from my mother’s slippery hands and swatted my backside.
Nothing. I did not cry or whimper or even draw breath. But old whores are as wise as old cats, and Solange did not give up. She bent down to place her wrinkled lips on mine, and blew.
According to my mother, my chin quivered, a fist curled.
Solange blew again, her determined breath somehow shoving away the cold hands of my father as He reached for me.
I drew a deep breath of my own after that, followed by a lusty cry. The women thought me a miracle, moved that one had been visited upon them just as if they were the Magdalena herself.
All except my mother, who knew precisely who she’d invited into her bed nine months earlier. It wasn’t until I was four years old and clutched at her hand as she headed up the stairs with her night’s customer that my parentage was confirmed. “His heart,” I whispered into her lowered ear as I rubbed my small chest. “It’s beating strangely.”
Less than an hour later, he was dead.
It is that same panicked beating that has brought me to the lowest levels of the castle today—a heartbeat as close and intimate as if it is beating against my own ribs.
I follow the deep ba-bump through the narrow, twisting corridors of the dungeons, stopping when a gaping black hole appears at my feet. The darkness that oozes up through the metal grate is as thick and solid as a coiled snake.
At first, I think it a hatch to the river that runs nearby. Or perhaps—wrinkling my nose—the sewer. Until the next heartbeat reverberates through me, one long, deep ba-bump. I never feel the heartbeats of others unless they are close to dying. That is when I finally understand the nature of this pit.
It is an oubliette.
A dungeon designed specifically for those who do not even warrant the mercy of a clean death.
Nameless dread that cannot be explained by the presence of death thrums through me. My hand clenches. I should turn and walk away. Return to the sumptuous, brightly lit rooms of the castle proper.
I am getting ready to do just that when the heartbeat stops. The pressure in my chest grows, stretching against my ribs, seeping into the very marrow of my bones. Trepidation and despair sweep through me, as if the world itself has just been torn in two.
And then the pressure stops. Is simply gone, like the passing of the wind.
“Who’s there?”
The croaked question shatters the absolute silence, causing me to leap back. The dead do not speak.
Oubliette. To forget.
If it were called by any other name, I could turn and walk away. If it were empty, it most assuredly would hold no interest for me. But someone is down there, someone else the world has forgotten. That he is dying—well, there is no way I can ignore it now. While I was sired by the god of Death and sent to His convent to train in His arts, I have had precious little opportunity to explore them since I have left.
“Who are you?” The voice is low and hoarse, but it is the commanding tone of it that startles an answer from me.
“No one. A shadow.” My words float down into the darkness on the barest exhalation of breath. Hopefully he will think them naught but a fevered dream as he lies at Death’s door.
There is movement below, as if someone is shifting position, straining to look up. A moment later, I hear him ris
ing to his feet. I scramble back from the hole, my footsteps quick and silent.
When I am well away from the oubliette, I allow myself to run, returning through the labyrinth of underground corridors to the main floor of the castle.
Who are you?
His question follows me like a ghost, as if the forgotten, dying man has looked into my very soul and seen the doubt and uncertainty that has plagued me for the last year.
Who, by the Nine, am I?
When I finally reach the main section of the palace, I pause to brush off my skirts and smooth my hair. I arrange my face into the bland, subservient mask I have worn for the past five years, then step into the warmth of the light.
Oddly, it is far colder against my skin than the living blackness of the dungeon.
Chapter 2
Sybella
Rennes, Brittany
One Week Later
he loss of my father, still sharp and raw, drives me to the city gates, as if I’m hoping that he will return. But of course, he does not. Even so, like one of the restless souls that still hover where their bodies fell, I hover in the shadows of the gate and stare out at the empty field beyond.
No. Not empty. A small holly bush appeared three days after Mortain fell, springing wholly formed from the earth soaked with his blood. Its leaves are dark green and glisten with bright red berries. Holly has always been sacred to Mortain.
Beneath the miraculous bush, humble offerings have sprung up like toadstools after a rain—a silver coin, loaves of coarse brown bread, a comb of honey, a bundle of willow twigs, a black ribbon. The branches are rumored to bring love to the forlorn, health to the sick, and peace to the dying. It is the last that I find most believable. He was the god of Death, after all.
I have often wondered why my god bid me live when I sank to the bottom of that river nearly six months ago. He did not just whisper encouragement in my ear, but put his cold hand upon mine and pulled me to the surface, into the waiting arms of one who loved me.
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