Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  There are ten—​no, fifteen men crawling up the sides of the bridge. Their absolute silence sends prickles down my spine.

  I use Lannion’s last bolts to take out the two closest to the bridge. Aeva draws up alongside me and fires her bow at the next two. “I am out of arrows,” I tell her.

  “It is a good thing we have knives.” The grin she gives me is nearly as feral as any of Beast’s. Together we charge toward the blockade.

  However, if we are to use knives, we will need to get closer. When we reach the bridge, we quickly dismount.

  My knife greets the first man over the railing. As Aeva’s long curved blade meets the second, an arrow flies out of the litter, catching the third man in the chest and knocking him off the bridge.

  Thunderous hooves clatter along the stone shore of the river, followed by a furious splash as Beast plunges into the water. The attackers are strung along the bridge railing like so many rats climbing a wall. Rising up in his stirrups, Beast begins hacking with his ax. Within seconds, the water is churning with blood and bodies.

  Six have gained the bridge, safe from Beast’s attack. But not safe from me. I smile. As I’d hoped, it unnerves them. Then I stop thinking and simply launch forward, giving myself over to the dark instincts that flow through my limbs as strong and sure as the river below. Every move is swift and sure, not requiring conscious thought but simply doing what I was fashioned by my god to do. That I can still feel his grace in this fills me with joy.

  When the cool darkness finally pulls back, I become aware that it is quiet now, except for the rushing sound of the water beneath the bridge and the beating of hearts. I blink. All the attackers are dead, strewn about like broken dolls. Beast stands nearby, breathing hard, ax still in his hand. The river has washed away most of the blood that covered him.

  Around us, burghers and courtiers, soldiers and baggage handlers, stare, their eyes wide, mouths agape. One man crosses himself, and another. Some fall to their knees, hands clasped before them, heads bowed.

  Uncomfortable with their thanks, I turn my attention to Beast. “How badly are you hurt?” It is all I can do not to go to him and begin tending his wounds.

  He frowns at the arrow protruding from his thigh before plucking it out and tossing it into the river. “Naught but a pinprick.” He grins, then sobers. “And you?”

  I hold out my arms from my sides so he may see. “I am fine.”

  “Good. I must check on my men to see to the wounded and claim my dead.”

  “Do we know who they were?”

  He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  As he heads toward the main group, I wipe my face with the hem of my underskirt, then pick my way among the fallen to the litter.

  Inside, Charlotte and Louise are on the floor with Tephanie lying on top of them like a shield. Tola holds her bow, cocked and ready to fire, scanning the horizon for any stragglers. The duchess’s attendant, Heloise, grimly faces the other window, a knife in each hand. When she sees it is only me, she lowers her weapons. “Is it over?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “The attack has been repelled and the last of the stragglers rounded up.”

  She nods. “If you don’t mind, I would like to go see if I can help with our wounded.”

  It takes me a moment to remember she serves Brigantia. “I am certain they will be glad of your help.”

  When Tola hears my report, she lowers her bow and grins. “Well, that was a lot of excitement for one day.”

  For one brief moment, her fierce joy in the thrill of the fight causes me to forget the pain of Captain Dunois before it closes over me again like a wave over a drowning man.

  “Yes, it was. Tephanie?” I ask softly. “Are you all right?”

  She looks up, her face sagging in relief. “Is it over, my lady?”

  “Yes, sweet Tephanie. It is. You and the girls are safe.” When she still seems afraid to move, I continue, “And you may stop sitting on the girls as if they were eggs to be hatched.”

  That surprises a smile out of her. As she pulls herself up onto the seat, I reach out and grasp her in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear. “For protecting them with your life.”

  Blushing, she straightens her cap and skirts. “Louise? Charlotte?” My voice is gentle, coaxing. “It is all right. You may come out now.”

  Charlotte springs up quickly, straightening her gown and scowling at Tephanie. “You were squashing me.”

  “She was shielding you with her own body to keep you safe.” I motion toward one of the many arrows embedded in the side of the litter. “You owe her your life and your thanks.”

  Charlotte stares at me a moment, before sighing. “Thank you, Lady Tephanie, for protecting me. Although next time, perhaps you could avoid having stones for breakfast so you will not be so heavy.”

  My hand itches to slap her. Instead, I pull the arrow from the wall of the litter and hand it to her. “Here. Keep this in remembrance of the woman who loved you enough to save your life, even when you gave her so little reason to do so.” I am pleased to see her cheeks redden with shame. Pleased to know she can still feel it. “Now, if you will have a seat over there, I would like to see to Louise.”

  The younger girl is still hugging the floor, her eyes tightly closed. “Louise, sweeting. I am here. Everything is all right now.”

  She says nothing but rocks harder and hums louder.

  “Louise, come here.” I reach into the awkward space and try to pull her up.

  “Are you certain they are gone?” Her words, directed at the floor of the litter, come out high-pitched and wobbly.

  “Yes, dearest. I am sure.” I manage to get a solid enough hold on her that I can pull her up into my lap. Once there, she wraps her arms around my neck and presses her face against me. I rock her back and forth, murmuring comforting words in her ear. After a long while, she finally pulls back and looks at me. “Tola is very good with her bow,” she says.

  “She is.”

  Louise is quiet for another long moment. “And Tephanie was very brave.”

  “I knew she would be.”

  “Even so,” Louise continues, “I think I should like to learn how to use a bow too.”

  “I think that would be a most excellent idea.” I laugh and hug her tight. “Now that I know you all are safe, I have duties I must see to. Not all were as fortunate as us, and I must see what I can do to help.”

  As is often the way with children, they recover their equanimity quickly, due in large part to Tephanie and Tola’s staunch presence.

  With another round of hugs and kisses from Louise, and a grudging allowance of a hug from Charlotte, I clamber out of the litter and return to my horse. Our men have lowered the barricade blocking the bridge, and one of them hands me my reins.

  With souls lingering in the air like a swarm of drunken butterflies, I decide I might as well see if I can use them to learn who was behind the ambush. I plant my feet firmly in the ground, then open the floodgate.

  It is like being ambushed all over again. I am assailed by dozens upon dozens of images and sensations. Pain. So much pain. And anger. And surprise that they have fallen. The next wave is of memories, final thoughts, and regrets. All the small sad stories these men carried with them into battle. A brief remembered pleasure of last night’s tupping. Regret over an argument with a friend. A lost dicing game. A wine jug not finished. Some fleeting image catches my attention and I turn my head, trying to better focus on it. A gloved hand holding out a thin sack of coins. A brief flash of the gold and blue of the house d’Albret, and then it is gone.

  My eyes jerk open, and I stare out at the field, wondering which fallen soldier these memories come from. But there are dozens of them. The sun is dipping low in the sky, and there is not time to comb through every soul that still lingers. Further, how can I be certain it is a recent memory rather than one from a year ago, when most of these men were likely being paid by Brittany and her allies to fend off the French? It could well
be a coincidence—​for even Pierre would not risk incurring the wrath of the king of France.

  Even so, my hands are shaking and I feel sick inside as I carefully re-erect my mental shields once more.

   Chapter 31

  Genevieve

  hen I arrive for our first sparring session, I do not call out a greeting, but let the glow of the torch and the sliding of the bolt announce my presence. With a sack over one shoulder and my knife within my reach, I begin lowering myself down the rope. I descend more cautiously than the first time, mindful of how glibly the prisoner discussed overpowering me, not wanting to give him any such openings.

  In the dim light thrown down by the burning torch, I see him waiting a respectful distance away, hands easy at his sides. Good. He is aware of the trust I am placing in him and wants me to know he respects it. “I have brought food and practice weapons.” My voice is gruff. “Which would you prefer first?”

  “The weapons.” His hunger is no small thing, and I cannot help but be impressed by his discipline.

  “Very well.” I set the bag of food on the floor against the wall behind me, remove the two swords strapped to my back, and hand the wooden one to him. “I have chosen short swords, given the confines of our practice area.”

  The prisoner balances the wooden sword on his palm, testing the weight and heft of it. Without warning, he grabs the hilt and thrusts it at me, a sharp, quick lunge that I only barely block in time. But block it I do. In spite of my irritation, my heart sings. He has not been imprisoned for so long that he will not be of any use to me. “That was unfair.”

  He tugs his sleeves down. “But a good way to test your reflexes. You have used a sword before.”

  “I told you I had.”

  “True, but you also told me things that made me feel I needed to verify your claim for myself.” Before I can warn him that his remark flirts with forbidden subjects, he raises his sword and executes a series of blows, shifting so that he comes at me from alternating sides. For a moment, it is all I can do to meet his attack.

  “Why are you still alive if you are only a mercenary?” I am finally able to ask. The dull thunk of wood hitting metal accompanies my words.

  A corner of his mouth lifts in a humorless hint of a smile. “Can you truly say I was ‘alive’ when you first came across me?” The moment the words are out of his mouth, he realizes his mistake.

  I ignore the transgression as I block one of his blows. “That does not explain why you are here. Surely even a mercenary deserves a cleaner death than this.”

  “You would have to ask my jailor.” He lunges forward, and I step back, my foot slipping on the loose straw that litters the floor. He pauses to allow me to regain my footing. “Speaking of my jailors, how are you getting past them?”

  It seems an innocent question. Unless he is trying to learn more about the castle’s security. “My relationship with your guards is none of your concern.”

  “I ask because I have not seen any for weeks.” He swings his sword in an overhand, but I grab the lower end of my blade and use it like a stick to block his blow. He gives a surprised nod of approval.

  I press my advantage and increase the strength and speed of my blows, trying to force him onto his heels. It takes all of his concentration to keep me from succeeding, and it is his turn to stumble. When he does, I step in under his guard and slap his chest with the flat of my blade.

  Instead of anger or annoyance, his eyes glow with pride. “Well done, Lucinda!”

  I use the back of my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow. “Lucinda?”

  “Bringer of light.” He smiles, a quick, unexpected flash of white in the darkness.

  I cannot decide if the name annoys me or if I like it. Or it if annoys me because I like it. “I suppose you have a name I should call you.”

  “Maraud.”

  I scowl at him. “That is not a name.”

  He shrugs. “It is what my fellow mercenaries call me.” He tests the weight of the sword in his hand again. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the armory in the garrison. What did your family call you?”

  He looks up with a reckless grin. “Jackanapes. Ne’er-do-well. Knave. Take your pick.”

  Which supports his assertion that he is naught but a mercenary. “Would your company not pay your ransom? Is that why are you being held here?”

  “Where is here, if I may ask?”

  “You do not know where you are being held?”

  “My jailors were not a talkative lot.”

  I consider his question, but can see no harm in telling him where he is. “You are in Cognac.”

  His blade whips up, but not as fast as his first blows. “The count of Angoulême’s holding?”

  We begin a series of slower strokes and parries. “Does that mean something to you?”

  “No, but it surprises me. He has always been an ally of Brittany’s.”

  I must tread carefully here. While I do not want to give away too much, my best chance of coaxing information from him will be to allow him to think I am telling the truth. “Ever since the Mad War, the regent has kept him on a short leash.” I fall silent as his strokes press me back toward the wall again. I successfully avoid being pinned into place, my parries causing him to grow ghostly pale and beads of sweat to appear along his brow.

  “Enough.” I put the tip of my sword to the ground. That he has lasted this long says much about both his fortitude and his character. “I’ve no wish to tire you until you collapse.”

  “You dream it is so,” he says between gasps of breath.

  The denial of his obvious exhaustion nearly makes me smile.

  “What was that?” He gestures toward my face.

  Thinking of all the vile, nasty things that lurk in this pit, I swipe furiously at my cheek. “What?”

  “Ah, ’tis gone, and the room is dark once more.” He grins, a swift, sudden thing like a bird darting across one’s path on a wintry day.

  That is when I realize he was referring to my smile. “Jackanapes is right,” I mutter. “Give me the sword.”

  He hands me his weapon, and I shove the sack of food at him. His hunger rises up like a physical thing—​his nostrils flare and his jaw clenches. It is even more human than the smile.

  I abruptly turn and secure the swords to my back. Even though it is our mutually agreed upon bargain, I feel as if I have just found a worm in my apple. For a moment, I am seven years old and have been walking for what surely seemed like weeks. I am tired and hungry—​so hungry—​but there is no money for food. I sit on the bank of a small stream, poking at it with a branch and calling it fishing, while my mother lies with a carter in the haystack in the fields behind me. When she returns, her skirts are askew and there are strands of hay poking out of her hair, but she bears a loaf of stale bread and half a wheel of cheese. It is a feast, and I dive into it with abandon, never pausing to think of it as payment.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Your face says otherwise.” It is the same voice he used in the dark, the voice I first knew him by. For a moment, one brief, regretful moment, I think back to that time.

  Abruptly, I turn away from him and begin to climb the rope. Although I have received only half answers from him, I have learned what I truly needed to know. He will be useful to me.

  Who are you? he first asked me nearly a month ago. The more time I spend in the darkness, the more I know the answer to that question. Down here I am exactly who I was raised to be. I do not need to hide who I am or what I think, nor watch my words nor keep my strength in check.

  It is the most alive I have felt in five long years.

   Chapter 32

  Sybella

  e are a quiet, heartbroken party when we arrive at Angers, bearing Captain Dunois’s body on a stretcher fashioned out of spears and a spare cloak, along with the rest of our wounded and dead. A rider was sent ahead to alert our host to our misfortune. Upon our
arrival, we are greeted by the Duke of Bourbon himself. I am relieved to learn that the regent is not in residence. I do not think I could contain myself around her right now. Why did she choose not to accompany us? Did she know that nearly every one of the men she left us would die? Plan it, even?

  The duke, however, is all solicitousness and sorrow. He knew Captain Dunois from his many years in France and thought highly of him. His grief is comforting, as if, for all our differences, Frenchmen and Bretons alike can agree on what a tragedy it is to lose this great man.

  We are shown to our rooms to refresh ourselves. As soon as the seneschal has excused himself and closed the door, the duchess whirls around. “Go,” she tells me. “Go to the chapel and use your god’s skills to find out what happened to Captain Dunois. I would see those who killed him punished.” Her eyes glint with a temper and vengefulness I have not seen before. But beneath the fury is a deep, bruising grief that has left her skin ashen and purple smudges beneath her eyes.

  “But of course, Your Grace. I would love to do precisely that.”

  “Do you need Heloise to help you?”

  I blink a moment, then turn to look at the Brigantian nun who is also one of the duchess’s attendants. “Thank you, but my work is best done alone.” I pause, thinking to check first on Louise and Charlotte, but Tephanie has already anticipated that and is waving me away.

  * * *

  None of the castle servants pays any attention to my passing, which leads me to believe we have been granted every courtesy by the duke. I ask directions twice, but it does not attract any notice.

  There are no attendants at the chapel door when I arrive. Upon entering, I find only Beast standing vigil over the body. Hearing my footsteps, he lifts his head, his face set in hard, grim lines. It is a face filled with anger at what has transpired, but with anguish as well. When I reach him, I place my hand on his cheek to let him know I am aware how big a hole this loss has created. “Where are the rest of the dead?” I ask softly.