Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  He stares back, and I realize he possesses a fair amount of iron of his own. He looks up at the grate, then back down at his small prison, scanning the whole of it before returning his gaze to me. The faint light from the torch does not reach his eyes.

  “If you cannot tell truth from fantasy, there is no point in talking,” I say.

  “But of course. You are correct. Forgive my mistake.”

  “I am glad we understand each other. Now tell me why you are in here.” My fingers tighten around the handle of my knife. Before we go any further, I must know how dangerous he is.

  “Because I fought for the losing side.”

  “Which side was that?”

  “Brittany’s.”

  “That cannot be the whole of it. Not everyone who fought on Brittany’s side has been thrown down a hole to rot away in oblivion.”

  “No,” he agrees. “Some were slain on the battlefield.”

  “You mean killed in battle?”

  He adjusts his sleeves. “Yes, that is what I mean.”

  “Why are you here? Did you commit some atrocity?”

  His entire face hardens. “There were many atrocities on the battlefield, but none were committed by me.”

  “Would you tell me if you had?”

  He does not move, but it feels as if he takes a step toward me. “If I were given to atrocities, I would already have overpowered you, strangled you with your rope, and be halfway to . . . Where did you say we are?”

  “I didn’t.” I pull the knife from the folds of my skirt so it is visible.

  His eyes shift to my blade. “But, since I am not given to atrocities, I have done none of those things. Besides, I would never cause harm to one who has brought me more comfort and kindness—” He shuts his mouth abruptly, remembering my condition. “Forgive my blabbering, demoiselle.”

  He learns quickly. I nod in approval. “Now that we are clear, I have a proposition for you.” Even though he does not move, I can feel his interest deepen. “I need a sparring partner.”

  A single harsh croak emerges from his throat. At first I think he is laughing at me, until I recognize he is coughing. To be certain, I point my knife directly at him for the first time. “I will not be laughed at, and certainly not by a sack of bones that is little more than rat bait.”

  “I was not laughing. It is wretchedly damp in here, and my lungs do not like it. Even so, you must admit it is not every day that a prisoner in an oubliette receives such an offer.”

  “You are mocking me.”

  “I am mocking the circumstances in which I find myself. It is certainly the most novel proposition I have ever received from a woman.” He folds his arms, studying me in earnest now, taking in my height and the breadth of my shoulders. “So you wish me to teach you swordplay?”

  Figs! Are all men truly so lack-witted? “No.” In one fluid motion, I retrieve the short sword strapped to my back, whip it forward in a figure eight so that the point of it nicks the back of his right hand, then his left, before coming to rest in the hollow of his throat. “I need someone to spar with.”

  He eyes the sword. “Clearly, I misunderstood.” His manner sharpens with intrigue and . . . mayhap even admiration. “If I do as you ask, will you help me escape?”

  Finally he is ready to negotiate. “No, that is not part of the proposition.”

  He shrugs and begins to turn away, but I know a bargaining tactic when I see it. “You assume that I have the power to give you what you want. I do not.”

  He tilts his head, studying me. “Who are you that you are allowed access to swords and freedom to roam the dungeons at whim, yet do not have the means to help me escape?”

  I smile without humor. “I have a unique position within the household.”

  He turns his gaze back to my sword, appraising, coveting.

  “You will not be given a true sword.” I am not so stupid as to hand a battle-scarred prisoner, even one so weakened as he, a real sword and pray that he will not skewer me with it. “But a wooden practice one from the garrison.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  I shrug. “I will leave and not come back. You will have had a bath and some food for your trouble and may return to your slow and tedious dying.” My words are harsh and bleak, but they are also the truth. I have nothing else to offer him. Giving him his freedom would put me at even greater risk and gain me nothing. Besides, I have no true knowledge of who he is or whether he is even safe to let loose upon the countryside. This is the limit of my trade. “What have you to lose? You have been thrown down here to rot, forgotten by all except those who are just cruel enough to taunt you with the promise of life.”

  “Is that not what you’re doing?”

  His words catch me off-guard. “No! I am giving you a chance, buying you some time. What you will be able to purchase with it, I cannot say.”

  He looks down at his hands, clenching them, then opening them again. I raise the tip of my sword in case he is considering trying to strangle me.

  When finally he looks up to meet my gaze, he gives a single nod. “When you return, bring the wooden sword as well.”

   Chapter 29

  Sybella

  wo days later, every one of my senses is still on alert, fully expecting the regent to slither out from under some nearby rock despite her claims that she would ride on ahead of us.

  But she does not.

  I still cannot decide if her actions were in retaliation for the abandoned plan between the Dukes of Brittany and Orléans to set aside her sister, or the opening salvo of a larger, broadscale attack. And is the attack directed at the duchess, or at a potential alliance between her and the Duke of Orléans?

  “What is gnawing at you this morning?” Aeva steers her horse alongside mine. While she appears casual enough, the depth of her scrutiny is unsettling.

  I glance about to make certain no one else can hear, then quietly tell her of the regent’s visit to the duchess’s chambers. When I have finished, she gives a disgusted toss of her head. “Women like her are worse than the men they serve. They cling hardest to the very rules that cage them, ruthlessly ensuring that all other women are equally trapped.”

  Her words ring true. D’Albret’s fifth wife was much the same way—​more vigilant than d’Albret himself in restricting the women of his household. Especially his daughters.

  “A pox on all of them,” I mutter.

  A shout rings out from the front of the line. The regent is my first thought, even though I know it unlikely. I crane my neck, trying to peer through the rows of horsemen to see what is happening.

  We are in a gently sloping valley where two riverlets run nearly side by side. Captain Dunois and the French guards in the vanguard have just reached the first bridge. The rest of our party is strung along the road like a trail of goslings: the mounted councilors, including the duchess, who rides pillion with Chancellor Montauban, followed by Beast and the queen’s guard, the litters, the priests on their mules, and the baggage train lagging behind.

  A copse of trees perches atop the ridge like a dark green crown. The riverlets are swollen with the recent rains, and the sound of their gentle rushing fills the valley, accompanied by the creak of leather harness, the jingle of tack, and the low hum of voices. Nothing appears out of place. Just as I wonder if one of the soldiers fell from the bridge into the river, there is a second shout. Captain Dunois pulls hard on his reins and stands up in his stirrups.

  My heart kicks into a gallop as I turn to scan the fields on either side of us, but there is no sign of attack. The trees on top of the slope are far enough away that no arrow could reach us.

  Even so, my muscles tense, readying for something I cannot yet see. I press my knees to my horse, urging him forward. Beast, too, has broken from the line and is riding around the others toward the first bridge.

  I kick my horse into a canter, trying to catch up to Beast when a third, louder, shout goes up. Captain Dunois places his right hand on his chest and plumm
ets from his horse.

  There is a brief moment of stillness, as if we are a tableau frozen by an unexpected winter frost.

  Beast wheels his horse around. “To the duchess!” he shouts.

  Riding hard for the bridge, I glance over my shoulder to see the queen’s guard draw into a tight, fortifying circle around Chancellor Montauban and the duchess. The Prince of Orange and Jean de Rieux draw their swords as well.

  My eyes scan the nearby trees again, but no arrows rain down on us, no horses or foot soldiers emerge.

  Then I am at the bridge. I leap off my horse, toss my reins to the nearest knight, and break into a run. My feet thud on the wooden planks, nearly drowning out the sound of Dunois’s heartbeat.

  It is slow, fluttering, erratic.

  No. No, no, no.

  When I finally reach him, I drop to my knees. His face is pallid, his skin leaden, but his heart—​his brave, determined heart—​still beats.

  I reach up and loosen the gorget at his neck in order to ease his breathing. His eyes are open, but unfocused, staring at the sky above him. “Captain?” My hands gently search for a dagger or dart, anything that might have struck him, but they find nothing.

  “My lord?”

  He blinks and turns his head toward me even as his eyes remain focused on the sky above him. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “What is wrong?” Panic seeps out around my words.

  He grunts, and I cannot tell if it is a word or simply an expression of pain. His mouth twists, trying to open, and I lean closer.

  “Look.” The word tumbles out with a labored breath.

  He tries again. “Look . . . to . . . cas . . . tle.”

  I tighten my hand on his shoulder. “We will get you to the castle right away. Their doctors will be able to take care of you.” I motion for the two nearest soldiers to come help. With an uncertain glance at each other, they begin to dismount.

  Captain Dunois grunts again, and I turn back to him. His eyes are closed, and he shakes his head in frustration. “Cas . . . sle.” The words are little more than a sigh. My own frustration mounting, I place my ear closer to his lips. “What?”

  But this time all that escapes is an exhalation of breath. Close on its heels comes a dizzying rush, a jumble of sensations and images—​his soul.

  A silent wail of despair rises up inside me, but before I can give voice to it, his soul latches on to mine, and I gasp. I am filled with pain. So much pain. His soul is confused by it, his thoughts fractured and incoherent. Like a ribbon being pulled through my fingers, his soul leaves his mortal body.

  Dunois’s pain is replaced by my own, as if a sharp blade has just scraped out the insides of my heart.

  That is when the attack comes.

   Chapter 30

  am still bowed over Captain Dunois when shouts erupt all around us and bodies begin clambering up the wooden rail.

  The bridge, I realize stupidly, rising to my feet. They were hiding under the bridge.

  They picked their moment well—​our train is strung out between the two bridges, and we are distracted by the death of one of our own. As scores of men continue to swarm over the side, the French soldiers assigned by the regent draw their weapons, moving to protect me.

  But I do not need their protection. I reach for Ismae’s crossbow, slap a bolt into place, and face our enemies.

  The crossbow takes out three in a row, surprising the French soldiers as much as the ambushers. “Look to yourself!” I shout, racing to the end of the bridge where my horse waits. Two more attackers come over the side of the bridge and block my path.

  With no time to reload, I snatch my knives from my wrists and charge. The first man is still blinking in surprise when I slit his throat. As I spin toward the second man, he is ready for me. Or thinks he is. When he brings his sword up to strike, I duck in low and slam my foot into his knee, snapping it. His leg crumples under him, and I shove my knife deep into his gut, thrusting upward to hasten his death before yanking my blade back out.

  I take a step toward the next attacker, stumbling when I must brace myself against the rush of dying souls. Like bright candle flames, they flare briefly, then dim. Some of them head for me, but I have many years hard practice and erect my barriers.

  The barriers hold. I can feel the souls, but with my mind shut tight and my heart closed, it is merely like riding through a flock of birds too dumb to fly out of the way.

  I run for my horse. She shies but does not bolt. Grabbing ahold of the saddle, I haul myself up, then wheel around to join Beast and the others.

  The attackers—​there must be fifty of them at least—​have raised a blockade, trapping the rear guard on the second bridge along with the litter, leaving only the queen’s guard, a score of noblemen, and myself with the duchess.

  From behind, more shouts go up, and I glance over my shoulder. Another fifty or so armed men emerge from the trees along the hilltop, swords, pikes, and lances drawn as they rush down the slope toward us.

  Merde. There are but thirty of us here to defend the duchess, fifty attackers from the under the bridge, and now this onslaught. My heart sinks.

  My gaze searches out Beast. He nods​—​in encouragement? farewell?—​and calls his men to him, the battle fever already filling his eyes with its strange unholy light. Fighting side by side has always felt like an exciting adventure, one that is eagerly greeted. But each time grows harder​—​especially with so many we care about at stake.

  He leaves half the men to guard the duchess and takes the rest with him to repel the second advance. As they gallop up the hill toward the enemy, he gives a bloodcurdling battle cry. The sound of it hangs in the air like a storm cloud before it bursts. Battle-ax in his left hand, sword in his right, he rides straight for the descending soldiers. Captain Lannion pauses long enough to toss me his crossbow before hurrying to catch up to the others.

  Once before I stood and watched as Beast took on an army with naught but a handful of men. I cannot do it again. Even those blessed by Saint Camulos are only so lucky.

  Besides, the first wave of assailants has cleared the bridge and is upon us. Our one advantage is that we are mounted, but the pikes and halberds will quickly neutralize even that small boon. There is a deafening clash of steel on the hill behind me. I turn from it and focus on the enemy in front of me.

  We form two circles around the duchess with the most skilled swordsmen closest to her to defend against any that breach the outer defense. Aeva and I are part of that, as our bows are more useful at that range.

  But Lannion’s crossbow has only a dozen bolts.

  Even so, I make good use of them.

  I shoot the foremost pikeman in the middle of his forehead, reload, and aim for the next. I catch him in the throat, but another man is just behind him. As I frantically reload, a black arrow pierces his chest. Aeva. The deafening clash of steel and soldiers’ shouts are joined by the twang of Aeva’s bows as she fires off a series of arrows in such quick succession that she takes out three men before I can reload my next bolt.

  The valley is awash with frantic racing heartbeats. So many of them! It is like being pelted by a hailstorm.

  I glance over at Beast, leading the charge up the hill, his ax and sword cutting through the descending infantry like the bow of a ship cuts through waves.

  Between Lannion’s crossbow and Aeva’s arrows, we are able to thin the number of men the guards must fight by hand. When I am nearly out of bolts, I reach for the rondelles tucked inside my belt. With a flick of my wrist, I send one sailing through the air. It strikes one of the pikesmen just under his jaw, the impact snapping his head back.

  The second rondelle goes wide, taking off the ear of its target. The man hesitates, lowering his halberd and giving Châlons enough time to run him through with his sword.

  I pause, breathing hard. Châlons is spattered with blood, but unhurt. He nods his thanks. “It helps that they want to take her alive,” he says before divi
ng back into the fray.

  The sounds of fighting on the hillside have dimmed somewhat. Bracing myself, I look over to see Beast standing in his stirrups, still swinging his ax. His sword is nowhere to be seen.

  Men lie all around him like red leaves from an autumn tree.

  The attackers—​the few that are left, gallop up the hill, Captain Lannion leading a half dozen men in pursuit. I hold my breath, waiting to see if they will ride them down or capture them for questioning.

  Just as the attackers crest the hilltop, a score of archers step into view, bows drawn. The pursued men slip in behind the archers just as they release their arrows.

  “No!” Beast’s bellow of agony echoes through the small valley as Captain Lannion and his men take the full brunt of the volley. Lannion takes three in the chest, the force of them knocking him from his horse.

  Instead of advancing farther, the archers withdraw behind the trees. Beast plucks one of the arrows from his arm and continues up the hill. Does he think to take them all on single-handed? Even a man in the throes of battle fever cannot hold against twenty archers.

  Alone on the hill, he is also an excellent target. I check to ensure the duchess is no longer in danger, then wheel my horse around so I can lend Beast some cover.

  That is when I see what is happening on the second bridge.

  Another group of assailants is climbing up the side. A second wave? No, I realize with foreboding. A small, select force. It is headed for the litter.

  Merde. Louise and Charlotte and Tephanie have only Tola to protect them.

  “Beast!” My bellow echoes throughout the valley, piercing through the din of the battle. He pauses, jerking his head in my direction. “The litter!” I point toward the bridge.

  He comprehends immediately. Wheeling his horse around, he races back down the hill. Not sure he will make it in time, I turn my mount toward the bridge and break into a gallop.