Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  I am alone with the babe.

  I look down in the cradle, for the first time laying my eyes on Margot’s daughter.

  The infant is asleep, her long lashes lying against a round cheek that looks impossibly soft and pink. On her head is a smattering of fuzzy down, the same dark red as Margot’s.

  A sharp pain lances through my chest. For so long, I’ve felt nothing but a hollow, aching emptiness where she used to be. But seeing this small creature who already has so much of Margot to her is like lifting the heavy iron grate to the oubliette and letting all the pain come flooding out.

  Breathless with the ferocity of it, I kneel on the floor, careful not to jostle the cradle and wake the sleeping babe. But I must gasp, or sob, or perhaps it is something inside the babe herself that causes her to open her eyes just then.

  Margot’s eyes.

  For a moment—​an all too brief and dizzying moment—​Margot and I are twelve again and snuggled up in bed, the thrill of our new adventure keeping us from sleep. Indeed, we are so giddy with it, it is all we can do not to giggle and wake the others.

  The babe blinks her big solemn eyes, and it is clear she is not Margot at all, but her own self. Her mouth starts to pucker, and her small hand flails. Without thinking, I reach down and hold my finger out. She grabs it with a grip that is surprisingly strong for a three-week-old babe. “Good girl,” I whisper fiercely. “Take what you want.” I know she has been christened and baptized in the Christian faith, but Mortain’s blood also flows in her veins.

  Would Margot want her to know Mortain? For all that she turned her back on Him, she was desperate for the blessings of the Nine near the end.

  Yes.

  The answer comes up from deep in my gut, as swift and sure as an arrow. I open my mouth to promise to come back for her, then stop. I do not know if that is a promise I can keep.

  But it is all the more reason to ensure the convent is still there when she is ready to learn about those parts of herself.

  I squeeze her fingers. “I will come back for you. Someday. At least long enough to tell you who you truly are.”

  I surprise myself—​and the babe—​by leaning down to place a tender kiss upon her brow. “For all the ones your mother would have placed there—​had she lived. For I’ve no doubt she would have showered you with them.”

  And with that, I shove to my feet and hurry from the room.

  * * *

  It takes no time at all to arrange my own death. The Charente River runs just outside the palace gates. Making sure the sentries see me leave, I follow the wall to the first bend, which is just out of view of the guard tower. It is a small strip of bank, not nearly large enough to launch an attack from, but just the right size for sitting morosely and staring into the dark water as it rushes by.

  I bring an old cloak, a nearly empty jug of wine, and a large, flat stone. When I am out of sight of the guards, I use the stone to flatten a spot along the mushy bank so that it looks like something—​a body—​slid down into the water. Next I lay the jug on its side and leave the cloak in a heap, anchoring it in place with the stone so it will not get washed away before it is found.

  There. I step back and admire my handiwork. They will wonder if it was an accident or choice. A shiver dances across my shoulders, and I say a short prayer for the Genevieve who has fallen in the river. The Genevieve who, despondent over the death of her best friend—​her only friend—​has allowed herself to be swept away.

  That is when I realize yet another way Maraud can be of use to me. The regent gave Angoulême clear instructions to keep the prisoner hidden. She implied she would place all the blame for his treatment squarely on the count’s head. Angoulême could end up in a great deal of trouble. Well and good. If he wishes to meddle in my life, then I have found a way to meddle in his. And he will not like it. Not one bit.

  But it is the least he deserves for leading Margot to her fate.

   Chapter 54

  Sybella

  he queen takes great care with her appearance for her outing with the king. She tries not to let her excitement show—​mostly so as not to give the regent’s attendants any fodder to carry back to their mistress. When the king calls upon her, they walk toward the palace doors trailed by a small flock of her ladies and his retainers.

  We have no sooner reached the garden than the regent emerges from a door in the south wing of the palace, followed by two of her own ladies. Merde. She is as relentless as the tide. “Oh, look.” My voice is both welcoming and loud enough to reach the king and queen. “The regent is joining us as well.” One cannot let a serpent slip silently into a garden.

  The queen’s face falls slightly, and even the king looks annoyed. The regent sends me a cutting glance, but continues to the royal couple’s side. When she reaches them, the king inquires coolly, “Is there something that requires my attention?”

  I nearly crow with delight. She has overplayed her hand. What man paying court to his new wife wishes his older sister to trail along? The regent quickly hides her disconcertment. “I thought only to enjoy this welcome bit of sunshine, like everyone else.”

  The king sighs, his expression somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “Dear sister, do you truly not trust me to walk with my wife on my own?”

  I must bite my lips to keep any trace of triumph from my face. The regent tries to laugh off his rebuke. “Do not be silly. It is simply rare enough for us to have sunshine in the dead of winter, and I thought to enjoy it. However, if you are forbidding me to do so . . .”

  “You are welcome to enjoy all the sunshine you like, I only question that you must do so here. I wish to spend some time with my queen.”

  “But of course. I will walk somewhere else.”

  It is all I can do not to cheer as she picks up her skirts and heads in the opposite direction, her two ladies trailing uncertainly behind her. She takes but three turns of the lawn before returning inside, her purpose snatched from her.

  Once she has left, the king and queen stroll away, and his men wander off in small groups. Uncertain what we are supposed to do, I observe the French ladies in waiting. They take a seat on benches and begin talking amongst themselves.

  I glance at Aeva. “I do not feel like sitting, do you?”

  “Saints, no!” Keeping a surreptitious eye on the royal couple, we begin strolling among the carefully cultivated bushes and trees. For the most part, they chat politely, the queen smiling often, and the king as well. At one point, he plucks a winter rose from its branch and hands it to her, which can only be a good sign.

  “What wouldn’t I give to be a little bird right now,” I mutter.

  Aeva raises a questioning brow. “You wish to hear their conversation?”

  “But of course I wish to hear their conversation. How else can I parse what is going on between them? The king’s affections run hot and then appear to cool. He welcomes the queen with great spectacle and fanfare, but spends very little time alone with her. He is polite, attentive, even charming on occasion, and yet I can see his eyes often wandering.”

  “And you think he is confessing his reasons for that by that bush?”

  I nearly punch her. “No, you goose. But what he says, how he says it, what he doesn’t say—​are all clues that can be used to help better understand him.”

  Her face clears in understanding. “All you needed to do was say so.” She takes one, two, three steps back until she is standing among the trees that encircle the garden. Even as I watch her, the next minute, she is gone. I blink, my mouth hanging open. No. Not gone. There. I see a faint movement in the shadows. But she makes no sound, and even the leaves do not so much as twitch with her passing. I quickly lose sight of her as she moves silently toward to the king and queen.

  I turn my back to the trees and stare out at the garden, acting for all the world as if I am here alone. After a few moments, I see that Aeva’s disappearing trick has not attracted any notice, and I allow myself to breathe somewh
at easier.

  While Aeva is masquerading as a tree and eavesdropping on the king and queen, I return my attention to the ladies in waiting. Katerine is watching the royal couple nearly as intently as I am. She has also chosen to separate herself from the other attendants somewhat, which provides a window of opportunity. Perhaps she has even planned it that way.

  That possibility propels me across the lawn. When I reach her, I smile in greeting. “Are you enjoying the gardens, Lady Katerine?”

  She hesitates a moment before answering. “It is a pleasant change from the solar. And once winter is here, it is rare enough to have a chance to enjoy them.”

  Does she put extra emphasis on the word winter? It is often referred to as Mortain’s own season. Her face gives nothing away as she watches the king and queen. I curse myself for not having brought a crow feather with me, but I did not know this opportunity would present itself. “Have you been to Brittany?” It is an innocent enough question—​preamble for further discussing gardens or winter weather. But it also provides an opening if she needs one.

  “Brittany!” She laughs. “Why would I go to Brittany?”

  Her laughter sours my budding hopes. “Many French noble families have holdings there,” I reply sharply. “I thought perhaps yours might as well. It would explain your interest in the queen.”

  Her gaze snaps round to meet mine. “I’m sure you are mistaken, Lady Sybella. I have no interest in the queen. Good day.” And with that, she rises and returns to the others. The taste of my disappointment is so bitter that I must clasp my hands tightly together to keep from making a rude gesture at her departing back.

  I try to take comfort that the queen’s outing is going better than mine, but as I watch her, something shifts. She is talking earnestly, but the king’s gaze is impassive. She grows more impassioned. His gaze remains on hers for a moment before he looks away, turning his shoulder slightly to her.

  Her face creases in concern, and she places a hand on his arm.

  He ignores it and points to a flowering shrub. After a long moment, she acknowledges the bush. He offers her his arm again, but it is stiffer this time, held farther away from his body than it was when they first started walking.

  I glance frantically around for Aeva to see if she has returned—​and can explain what has happened—​but she is still hidden somewhere in the trees.

  Instead of completing their circuit around the park, the king walks the queen back the way they have come, the winter rose she had been holding now dangling listlessly from her fingers. My heart dips at the wooden expression on the king’s face, and the poorly hidden distress on the queen’s. When the king reaches us, he bows. “My ladies, I hope you enjoy your time in the garden. I am afraid I have pressing matters I must attend to now.” And with that, he takes his leave, the queen doing her best to blink back tears.

  Fortunately, the other attendants are so absorbed in their own gossip and enjoyment of the day that I am able to quickly step to the queen’s side, take her arm, and begin walking in a direction away from the king. “What happened? It seemed that everything was going so nicely.”

  She stares straight ahead, a pleasant expression pasted on her face. “It was. It was going so well that I felt comfortable with him. As if we were truly a husband and wife come together to talk of our mutual interests. He mentioned something about Brittany, which I said reminded me that I had been meaning to ask him about his appointment of Lord Rohan as chancellor, as Chancellor Montauban was doing a fine job in that role.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  She looks down at her hand, her face bleak. “That matters of government were his prerogative and he did not wish to discuss them. And then he left.”

  It is her worst fear made real. He has no intention—​if ever he had—​of relinquishing any power to her or even allowing her to govern Brittany. I feel sick, both for her and my sisters.

  She shoves the flower at me as if she can no longer bear to hold it. But it is too delicate to withstand yet another human touch. As I take it from her, the petals separate and the winter rose comes apart in my hand.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, with my heart heavy in my chest, I slowly climb the five flights of stairs to my room. When I reach the landing, I see that the door to our chamber stands open. Concern prickling along my scalp, I pick up my skirts and hurry the rest of the way.

  Drawing closer, I hear voices coming from inside. When I reach the door, the sight that greets me brings me to a stop.

  The regent sits in a chair by the fire. Louise is on the floor at her feet, looking up at her. Charlotte sits perched on a second chair, wearing her most polite and attentive expression.

  “Lady Sybella!” The regent’s voice is warm and welcoming.

  “Madame Regent.” I dip into a deep curtsy.

  “I was just getting to know your sisters.”

  Her words are friendly, but my heart begins to thud hollowly in my chest. “So I see, Madame.”

  She smiles down at Louise as she rises. When she is standing, she lifts her gaze to mine. “They are charming girls.” There is no malice in her words or on her face, nor even the hint of a threat, but I can feel it all the same.

  “Be well,” she says, and takes her leave.

  It is all I can do not to slam the door and bolt it shut. I try to reassure myself that she would never harm two young girls. Then I think of the queen, and know that is a lie. There are infinite ways to hurt someone, and the regent is more resourceful than most.

   Chapter 55

  Genevieve

  hen I reach the oubliette, I throw back the bolt on the latch, not caring how loudly it echoes through the stone corridor, then heave the grill up so hard that I nearly wrench my shoulder.

  Not bothering with a greeting, I toss the rope down into the hole. “Hurry,” I call down to Maraud.

  His head appears in the opening. He eyes me warily, taking in the metal breastplate I wear, the vambraces and chausses. “I thought you were leaving?”

  I ignore his question. “You once said the gods would not roll the dice in your favor again. What if I told you they were?”

  “You would have my complete attention.”

  “Are you of a mind to bet on them today?”

  His gaze latches on to mine with the force of a lance blow. “Yes.”

  Good. He knows it is only a chance I offer him, and that there is risk involved. “Then you are coming with me. And we are leaving now.”

  There is risk for me as well. By bringing him along, there will be no turning back. I could lie my way out of the faked death (I wondered where I had left my cloak!) or even claim to have been overtaken by a fit of melancholy. But by freeing a prisoner I should not even know about—​who should by rights be dead by now—​I have not only shut the door behind me but burned the bridge that leads to it as well. “You have until the count of ten. One . . .”

  He scrambles out of the hole that has been his home for months. When he reaches the landing, he regards me quizzically. “I thought I had lost your trust.”

  “You have.”

  “But something caused you to change your mind.”

  “For the moment at least. You must do exactly as I say. No questions asked. Will you swear it?”

  Our gazes clash as he tries to peer past my face into my very head and untangle the convoluted web he knows I have woven. “If it is one step closer to freedom than where I currently sit, I will swear it.”

  But of course, that is not enough.

  I have thought long and hard about how to ensure his cooperation on our travels. While his honor once proved impressive, I am not sure how well it will hold up once true freedom is within his grasp. “Good. But just to be sure, I need you to drink this.” I hand him a small vial.

  He stares at it. “What’s in it?”

  “Poison. If you wish to be free of this place, you must drink it.” It is his first test. If he cannot obey, he cannot come.
<
br />   Maraud gapes at me, an unreadable expression on his face. “You already poisoned me.”

  “That was something else altogether. This poison is different. It is slow acting and has an antidote. An antidote that I will feed to you each morning. As long as you take that, the poison will not harm you.”

  “But I gave you my word.” His voice is accusing, almost hurt.

  “And we all know how well that turned out,” I say dryly. “I can leave nothing to chance. This is the way it must be.”

  He lifts the small glass bottle to his nose and sniffs. “Of all the ways I dreamed of my release from this place, it never came with a dose of poison.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Before I drink, will you at least tell me who you are? If I am to place this much trust in you, I have a right to know.”

  If he places that much trust in me, he is a fool. But it is as good a time to tell him as any, and may help ensure his continued cooperation. “I am an initiate of Saint Mortain. I was sired by Him, taken to His convent, and trained in His arts.”

  The reaction dawns slowly, and if I were not in such a hurry to be gone from this place, nor so conflicted about bringing him with me, the emotions that flit across his face would be amusing. “You are one of Death’s daughters?” His voice is filled with caution and reverence and a tiny bit of disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “But what are you doing here in Cogn—”

  “We do not have time to discuss this. You wished to know who I am and I told you. Quit bleating like a nervous sheep and drink the poison. Or not. But I am leaving either way.”

  He tosses the contents into his mouth. “Now what?” he asks.

  “Now we get you ready.” He returns the vial, and I tuck it into the pouch at my waist as I motion for him to go in front of me. “Take the fifth door on the right.”

  He pauses in the doorway. “This is a storage room.”

  “Your wit is as sharp as ever. It holds the clothes you will need. But if you continue to drag your feet, I will toss you back in your cell and leave without you.”