Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  He shoots me a pained glance as he enters the room. “Do we have a schedule we must adhere to?”

  “Yes, actually. There is a troupe of mummers arriving to perform for the household. After tonight, they will move on to Jarnac, then to the city of Angoulême. We will be going with them.”

  “Wait, let me be sure I understand. We are going to parade in front of the very people you—​we—​are trying to escape from?”

  “No,” I scoff. “We will wait in the shadows and join them as they come out of the grand salon, slipping in among them as easily as smoke up a chimney. Two lone travelers, even under the guise of messengers, would be noted leaving the city—​especially if they were not seen delivering any messages. This way, we will hide in plain sight. The guards at the tower can see the road for nearly a mile, there is no way to get by them unnoticed. Believe me, I have spent much time thinking on this. And if I must tell you to hurry one more time, I will put you back into your hole.”

  This spurs him to action, and he hastily begins undressing. “Use the water for a quick wash. You may be dressed like a wolf, but there is no reason to smell like one. There is also a salve for your wrists, and linen strips to wrap around the iron so it won’t chafe.”

  He emerges a few minutes later, smelling faintly of the balsam soap and dressed in the simple clothes of a peasant, which fit well enough, considering they were part of a costume junk pile. Even though his wrists are now wrapped in linen, I am pleased that the sleeves are long enough to fully cover his manacles. “It will do. Your beard adds a nice touch.”

  He grimaces and reaches up to tug at it. “But will it be enough to disguise me?”

  “We will not be relying on that alone. Here is the rest of your costume.” I pull a great wolf skin from the open chest and shake it out.

  He stares at it, faint admiration mixed with equal parts horror. “I am to wear that?”

  I look at it, inordinately pleased with the thing. “It is perfect. We will be dressed as Saint Brigantia fighting off the wolves of war.” I glance up at him. “You know the story? How Brigantia tricked your god and averted a war that would have—”

  “Yes, I know the story. But . . .” He reaches for the wolf skin. “How am I to wear it?”

  “Look, it has been fashioned into a mask and will fit over the top of your head. You can see out of it.”

  He settles the snarling wolf’s head over his own, tugging and adjusting until I see his eyes behind the two holes. “It smells of old wolf.” His voice is hollow, distorted by the mask. That is also good, in case he has to speak.

  “It makes the disguise all the more believable. Now for the last part.” I hold up a heavy loop of chain.

  He rears back, looking for all the world like a hound resisting a leash. “You already gave me your poison.” Faint sparks of temper lurk in his voice.

  “It is part of the costume, and while you have given me your word, you have also betrayed me once. Bringing you with me is a big risk.”

  “Why?” he asks. “Why are you taking such a risk to help me?”

  “Mortain knows,” I mutter. “Now stop flapping your tongue else we will miss our chance.”

  He heaves a great sigh and lowers his head so I may slip the chain over it. After giving it a quick tug to make sure it is secure, I reach for the helmet that will complete my own costume. I settle it over my head, roll my shoulders, then grip the chain firmly in my hand. “Time to go.”

   Chapter 56

  ully disguised by our costumes, we cautiously make our way through the long winding corridors of the dungeon. When we reach the landing, I peek out to be certain the coast is clear before we hurry up the three flights of stairs to the main floor. Once there, we lurk in the shadows, waiting. Faint strains of quiet music drift out of the great hall. That isn’t right. The music should swoop and swirl and be accompanied by laughter and applause as well.

  I motion for Maraud to stay put and edge forward, drawing closer to the hall. There is still nothing but quiet voices and the plucking of lute strings.

  “Where are they?” Maraud’s voice at my ear nearly causes me to jump.

  “I told you to stay put.”

  “You also told me we’d be joining a parade of mummers, and yet—”

  Voices approach from the opposite side of the causeway. Maraud and I leap back toward the landing. By the smell that reaches us, it is a pair of servers bearing the fish course.

  “. . . can’t believe she wouldn’t let them perform.” It is a man talking.

  “She’s a somber one, she is,” grumbles the second voice.

  “But does she need to spoil it for the rest of us?” The voices disappear into the main hall.

  “Rutting figs!” I whisper. “Louise canceled the performance.” My mind is buzzing like a nest of frantic hornets, replaying all my options in my head. We will have to go with a second plan, then, which is not nearly as safe. As I open my mouth to explain just that, rapid footsteps, quick and light, come down the stairway.

  Before we can do so much as move, Lady Juliette appears in front of us, her haughty gaze widening in surprise before narrowing in suspicion. “Why are you skulking in here?”

  Lady Juliette with her sharp eyes and prickly disposition. But even she cannot see through an iron visor. Or so I pray.

  I look down at my feet, allowing my shoulders to slump. When I speak, my voice is pitched low so that my words are broad and flat. “We were told to meet in here, my lady, so we could perform for the count and his household.”

  She looks briefly to Maraud, her lip curling. “Not tonight. The count is away, and his countess does not like for the mice to play.” She smiles at her own jest, and I wonder how much wine she has had. “The countess does not approve of mummery. Now be off to the stables with the others, or I’ll have to assume you are here to steal the silver and have a footman throw you out.”

  “No need to do that, my lady! If you’d just show us the way . . .”

  She points to the staircase.

  We quickly bow our thanks and scramble toward the stairs. When we reach the door, the porter opens it for us, loudly complaining about stragglers as he shuts it firmly behind us.

  Maraud turns to me, his wolf jaw leering in the light of the torches. “That went well.”

  “Shut up, or I will rip off your mask and shove you back inside.”

  He pauses, his mouth open. “I do not think any of them would know who I was.” He smiles. “They’d still just think me a lost mummer trying to steal the silver.”

  “People hang for less than that.” I tug on his chain. “The stable is this way.”

  As we cross the courtyard, we keep close to the walls in an attempt to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible. I pause silently at the cluster of guards on the gate tower, then again at the sentries patrolling the battlements, wanting Maraud to see for himself why we could not just walk out of here.

  When we finally reach the stable, it is full of a colorful collection of fools, men dressed as maids, and two kings. Someone dressed in a black cloak with a crow mask tucked under his arm talks to a man wearing stag’s antlers.

  We fit right in. Someone—​the steward perhaps?—​has provided jugs of wine and rough bread and cheese—​appeasement, perhaps, for the canceled performance.

  Luckily, everyone is so busy either grumbling or swigging wine that we are able to slip in unnoticed.

  Or so I think.

  Two steps inside the door, a hand reaches out and grabs my arm. I freeze.

  It is Alips from the kitchen. A thick, solid woman, tonight she is dressed in the dark green and gold of Dea Matrona, a wreath sitting crookedly atop her head. “Don’t worry, dearie. All of our welcomes won’t be like this.” She leans in close, close enough that I can smell the wine on her breath. “No one saw you slip in among us. The others won’t even know you’re missing. We always lose a few this time of year. Just be sure and be back by the day after Epiphany, and no one will be an
y the wiser.”

  She thinks I am one of the castle servants who plan to join the mummers in their revelries. “Very well, ma’am.”

  She gives Maraud a long appraising look before winking at me in approval. Then she turns to a yellow-costumed fool who is arguing with one of the red-and-black-masked hellequin. We are forgotten.

  Even though others have begun to remove their cumbersome masks and the bulkier parts of their costumes, Maraud and I leave ours on until we reach a remote corner of the stable. The stall is as far away from the door—​and inquiring eyes—​as possible. “We’ll sleep here.” I hold up a finger. “And not one word. Not one. We are out of the chateau, and that is what matters.”

  He says nothing.

  I shrug. “You can take off your mask, if you wish.”

  He tilts his wolfish head at me, then reaches out and jiggles the chain.

  He watches me closely—​too closely—​as I detach the chain from around his neck. When I am finished, I quickly step back.

  He lifts the mask from his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “Sweet Jesu, it’s hot in that thing.”

  When I go to remove my own helmet, he is still watching me, so I turn my back to him and lift it from my head, grateful for the cool air on my hot cheeks and scalp.

  “Is your ability to alter yourself so completely one of Mortain’s arts?” he asks.

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “When we stepped out of the stairwell tonight, you lowered your head, your shoulders drew in, your whole body shifted. It was like watching someone bank a fire. But when you are sparring, or fighting, or yelling at me, your shoulders are straight, your head and chin are up, daring the world to be so foolish as to overlook you.” He tilts his head, studying my face. “Even your eyes. I do not know how you do it, but the vividness of them recedes when you choose it.”

  I nearly laugh. It is not Mortain’s art at all, but the survival skills of a whore’s daughter who must move in a sea of nobles without being detected. “Hush your prattle.” I dump my helmet on the floor. “We have a long walk to Jarnac tomorrow, and you will need all your strength to keep up.”

  I kick the straw on the floor into a lumpy pile, then lie down, stretching out my full length. A moment later, Maraud does the same, although to my great annoyance, it is closer to me than I would like. His very existence is demanding small intimacies I’ve no wish to share.

  There is a rustling in the straw a few stalls over as a furtive coupling takes place. A whispered argument between two voices slurred with drink. There are even, when the other noises are quiet, the sounds of horses, stomping an occasional foot or whinnying softly at all the unfamiliar activity.

  “How much longer until I need the antidote?” His question comes out of the darkness, as offhand and casual as if asking how long until the planting season might begin.

  “Not until late morning. You are fine.”

  “Must I take it forever?”

  “No. Only for a month. After that, the poison will have worked its way out of your body.”

  “I gave you my word,” he grumbles as he pokes at the straw to soften the prickliest parts.

  “And we both know precisely how much that is worth.”

  “I never promised you I would not try to escape.”

  Is that true? I fold my hands under my head and cast my mind back over all our conversations. “I did not ask you to say the words out loud, no, but I explained escaping was not part of our bargain, and you agreed to that. Therefore, your word is tarnished in my eyes.”

  When he says nothing, I remove my hands and turn to my side, pillowing my head with my arm as I make myself comfortable.

  It’s hard not to question my decision to bring him along. He has betrayed my trust, proved that he is ruthless, and taken me for a fool. I owe him nothing. I made clear that his freedom was never part of the bargain. He is an extra assurance, much like the poisoned needles I wear inside my sleeves. That is all. That is the only reason I have brought him.

  It is not because I have grown fond of him like one does a cat. Or because of all the times he could easily have overpowered me but chose not to. It is not because he wished to rescue me as well as claim his own freedom.

  He is a valuable negotiating tool. Nothing more.

  Something hot and sharp stabs at me. The hay, which had seemed so comfortable only moments ago, now feels prickly and pokes roughly through my tunic.

  “What are you worried about?” Maraud asks.

  “You should be sleeping. It is more than ten miles to the next town. If you cannot make it, I will not be able to carry you.”

  He shrugs. “If I have to drag myself by my arms, crawl on my hands and knees, or tie myself to a passing cart, I will keep up. I will not go back into that hole.” He says this so simply that it would be easy to miss the underlying note of ferocity that runs through it. He turns to look at me again. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

  It is all I can do not to flinch under his gratitude. “We shall see.”

   Chapter 57

  hen I open my eyes in the morning, the first thing I see is Maraud. While I am pleased he did not try to escape during the night, I am not pleased that his head is propped on his elbow and he is watching me.

  I squint against the morning light spilling into the stable and scrub my face with my hands, using the movement to check that I was not drooling. “What are you staring at?”

  “Until the sun rose this morning, I had never truly seen your face.”

  For a moment, vanity rears its head, and I want to protest that sleeping on the floor of a stable does not work to my advantage. Instead, I force myself to shrug. “It is just a face.” Still not looking at him, I shove to my feet, push my hair out of my eyes, and adjust the belt at my waist so my chausses do not fall down.

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong.” He stands up, his movements smooth, quick, and graceful. “I have never seen the face of the daughter of a god before.”

  “Mind your tongue, wolf,” I growl. In the stalls around us there is the low rumble of voices and the sound of someone pissing.

  “They cannot hear us any better this morning than they could last night.”

  I do my best to ignore him and begin collecting my things, but he continues to study me—​much the same way the count’s illuminator did when contemplating who would sit for his paintings. “We need some charcoal or a bit of ash from last night’s fire.”

  I stare back at him stupidly. “What?”

  “You have a distinctive face. We don’t want any of the castle servants to recognize you. I’ll be right back.” And with that, he turns and strides from our stall. My heart slams against my ribs in alarm. He can’t think to simply walk out of here. “Don’t forget to return for your . . . physick!” I say in a loud whisper.

  He gives a wave of his hand to indicate he has heard before stepping out of sight. A brightly dressed fool emerges from a nearby stall just then, clutching his belled cap in one hand and his stomach in the other. I nip out of his way as he hurries past me to retch up the sour remnants of last night’s wine.

  Distinctive face? What is that supposed to mean? I snatch up my breastplate and try to peer at my own reflection, but the steel is not polished enough. Disgusted with myself, I shrug into the piece of armor and fasten the straps at my shoulder. Just as I am buckling the sides, Maraud strolls back in.

  “I was about to leave without you.”

  “But you didn’t. Hold still.” He gently grips my face, the warmth and weight of his fingers shocking me into momentary silence. When I open my mouth to tell him to remove his hand or risk losing it, he talks over me. “You cannot keep that helmet on the entire time.” His other hand also reaches toward my face.

  I flinch away. “What are you doing?”

  He laughs, enjoying this far too much. “It is only charcoal.”

  I glare at him, but hold myself still. “Look up,” he says, adjusting my chin.


  I jerk my head higher in an attempt to minimize his touch. The glance he gives me is unreadable. “Close your eyes so the dust won’t get in them.”

  I sigh heavily so he will know how tedious I find all this, but I am also willing to accept whatever can be done to alter my appearance.

  With quick, feather-light strokes, he brushes the charcoal along my eyebrows, darkening them and drawing them so they are closer together. Next he smudges a bit onto his finger and rubs it in a thin line from my nose down to my mouth. His final touch is a smudge under each eye. He steps back to survey his handiwork. “There. You look older, less fair, and much more tired.” Unsettled by the small intimacy of his ministrations, I scrunch my nose against the feel of the dirt on my face. “Now we can go,” he says.

  I hold up my hand. “Not so fast.” I remove the vial from the pouch at my waist.

  He eyes it with revulsion and relief. I pull the stopper and lift the bottle. He is taller than I, which makes administering the drops awkward. I am tempted to ask him to kneel, but the idea of making him kneel at my feet to receive an antidote he doesn’t deserve is too much like a mummer’s farce. Instead, I reach up and hold it out to him. Needing no instruction or encouragement, he bends his knees and opens his mouth.

  I allow three small drops to fall onto his tongue. “There,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “You are good until tomorrow.” I tuck the vial back into my pouch, feeling as if I have managed to regain control.

  * * *

  It is easy to attach ourselves to one of the small groups of mummers leaving the castle yard. Behind me it feels as if all the windows of the castle are watching. My shoulders itch, and I hope it is only the hay that I slept on.

  When we pass through the barbican, I draw my first easy breath of the morning. By the time we reach the main road, I allow myself to look up into the sky, to feel the fresh morning air on my face. The clouds have disappeared during the night, but the air has grown colder, leaving a light dusting of frost so that everything sparkles in the sunlight.