Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)

by Robin LaFevers

  Even as I speak the words, I can see in her eyes that she already knows this. That is when it hits me: all I have ever been to her is a tool, a tool so damaged that she does not mind if it gets utterly destroyed.

  “We are all asked to make sacrifices in our service to Mortain. And you in particular have wished for death ever since you first arrived at the convent. Perhaps this is Mortain’s way of answering your prayers.”

  Her words pierce my heart like sharp black thorns, and the familiar darkness and despair threatens to overwhelm me. Has she ever been so willing to sacrifice any other novitiate for Mortain’s cause? No, for her cause, for this is about bringing glory and recognition to the convent—to her.

  But, I realize, there is a freedom in having so many of my secrets exposed—it gives her far less power over me. “Perhaps I am no longer fit for Mortain’s service, Reverend Mother, for I will not go back.”

  Her head rears as if I have slapped her. Odd that as little as she thinks of me, she did not see this defiance coming. Her pulse beats angrily in her neck, and she turns again to stare out the window. Already I am feeling lighter, wondering just where I will go and who I will be once I am free of both the convent and d’Albret.

  She draws a deep breath, then turns back to face me. I do not understand the faint gloat of victory I see in her eyes. Until she speaks. “Very well. Then I will send Ismae.”

  Sweet Jésu, not Ismae! D’Albret’s anger that Ismae thwarted his attack on the duchess in the hallway at Guérande still burns hot and bright.

  D’Albret does not know of my hand in that or I would not still be alive. “You cannot send Ismae.” I keep my voice calm and unconcerned, as if I am merely pointing out a flaw in her plan rather than trying to save the life of my best friend. “For one, d’Albret has seen her. Her face is permanently etched in his mind after she foiled his plans in Guérande. The man is unearthly in his ability to see through disguises and subterfuge.”

  The abbess is not fooled by my calm demeanor. She has well and truly snared me in her trap and knows it. “We have many ways of creating a disguise. We can cut her hair, change its color, stain her skin. We can have her looking old and haggard in a matter of hours.”

  “D’Albret would never allow anyone into his presence, even a servant, who offended his eye so greatly.”

  Even if they did not recognize her and kill her outright, they would use her most poorly, simply for the sport of it. “I still think he would recognize her. And do not forget, many of his retainers have seen her at Duval’s side. If by some small chance d’Albret himself were to miss her, one of his retainers would be all too eager to point her out to him, to gain favor.”

  The abbess folds her hands and rests her chin upon her fingers. “Ah, that is too bad, for it would be a most excellent solution.” Her words chill me, for I do not expect a capitulation so soon. However, her next words turn the blood in my veins to ice. “Perhaps it is time to send Annith on her first mission. D’Albret has never seen her; no one outside the convent has ever seen her, and she is our most highly skilled novitiate ever.”

  She may as well send a lamb into a wolves’ den, for while Annith’s skill is great, she is also wholly good and could not even begin to guess what tricks and deceit they would use upon her. Is the abbess so ruthless that she would consign Ismae or Annith to certain death? She must be bluffing.

  She must.

  But am I certain enough to stake my friends’ lives on it?

  A cool calmness settles over me, and I meet the abbess’s impersonal gaze. “That will not be necessary, Reverend Mother. I will go.”

  Her face relaxes slightly. “Excellent. I am pleased to see you know where your duty lies.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Within the next day or two. I will know more after this afternoon’s council meeting.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  DIZZY AND NUMB, I STUMBLE toward my chamber, desperate for solitude.

  It appears all roads lead to d’Albret in the end. Whether I run at him in anger or run away from him in fear, the road will always curve back to him.

  Why did I think I could escape? When I first realized I would need to travel with Beast, I knew there was no escape, merely a postponement of the inevitable. But then, once here, I was stupid enough to let hope slip in, even knowing it was merely the gods mocking me.

  I had forgotten a lifetime of hard-won lessons in a matter of days.

  Clearly I am fated to meet my death at d’Albret’s hands. The real question is, will he meet his at mine?

  For that is all that is left to me: to strike quick and sure and true and make utterly certain he dies before me.

  Or is it? What would happen if I simply walked away? Surely Duval could protect Ismae. My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the chamber door. Afraid Ismae has heard of my meeting with the abbess, I hurry to open it, dismayed to find Beast glowering in the hall, arm still raised to knock.

  Every word I have ever known flees my head and I stare open-mouthed. He is no longer tinged with gray or green, and his hair has been trimmed. He leans on a cane, but other than that, he appears to have gotten here under his own power.

  He lowers his arm. “So you are here. I thought you might be hiding from me.”

  Even though I have been doing precisely that for the past week, I scoff. “Why should I hide from you?”

  His eyebrows lower ominously, and the look he gives me nearly singes the hair from my head. “I have sent Yannic every night to fetch you so that we may talk. Why have you avoided him?”

  That is why he had the little gargoyle following me? I shrug. “I thought you didn’t trust me to identify d’Albret’s men and sent him to check up on me. You made your objections clear enough in the council meeting.”

  With visible effort, he unclenches his teeth. “I was objecting because it was too dangerous.”

  “Oh? Then you are not angry with me for being d’Albret’s daughter?” I do not know what madness compels me to toss salt in the wounds I have made, but I cannot stop myself.

  “I thought you established that you were Mortain’s daughter?”

  “Yes, well, that is a mere technicality, as the abbess made clear in that same meeting.”

  He shakes his great head. “I do not trust that woman, not wholly. Nor should you.”

  That he is right does nothing to warm me to him.

  His face softens then, and his eyes lose their angry light. “Sybella, we must talk.”

  It is the softness that has me catching my breath, for not in any of my dreams did I imagine I would see him look that way at me. But merde, I cannot afford his sympathy or understanding. Not now, for it will crumble all my resolve faster than I can muster it. “What is there to say? I am the daughter of the man who killed your sister, and, what’s worse, I lied to you about it again and again.”

  “Stop it,” he growls. “There is far more to it than that.”

  His seeing that fills me with great joy, which I ruthlessly tamp down. “What I know is that I was supposed to stay and kill d’Albret that night, and you stopped me. You ruined the plans I had made and forced me to leave the city with my task undone, and now I must return to finish it.” Saying the words aloud causes my throat to constrict so that I must pause a moment before continuing. “It would have been so much easier then, before I knew—” I stop again, unsure what I mean to say.

  The fierce glower is back on his face and he takes a step into the room. “What do you mean, you are returning? On whose orders?”

  “The convent’s, for, like you, I am sworn to serve my god, and that is where He wishes me to go.” But even as I say this, I know it is the abbess who wishes me to face d’Albret. I do not know if Mortain is in agreement with her or not. Perhaps this is my punishment for turning my back on Him and the teachings of the convent.

  Before we can argue further, a page approaches. He glances from Beast to me, then back to Beast again, unsure as to what is going on. “Do you
have a message for one of us?” I prompt.

  He clears his throat. “Yes, my lady. Both you and Sir Waroch are requested to attend the council meeting in the duchess’s chambers. I am to escort you there now.”

  “But of course,” I say, for this interruption suits me perfectly. I do not wish to be having this conversation at all. “Lead the way.” I step out of my room, forcing Beast to back up so that I do not shut his nose in the door, then I turn and let the page lead me down the hall. I hear the thump of Beast’s cane as he follows.

  We are the last to arrive in the council chambers. Seeing us enter the room, the abbess narrows her eyes in disapproval, and I do not know if it is for me alone or because Beast and I are together. Duval motions us to take seats as he continues speaking.

  “. . . have taken Lady Sybella’s counsel to heart and have moved up the marriage between Anne and the Holy Roman emperor. It will be taking place this afternoon, by proxy. Hopefully the marriage will afford the duchess some measure of protection, especially since I have received reports that d’Albret and his forces are preparing to leave Nantes and march on Rennes. They may even have left by now, as the last message was hours old.”

  Even though I have been expecting the announcement, it sends a spasm of fear down my spine. He will sniff me out just as he did when I was but eight years old and hiding one of the mongrel pups his favorite hunting bitch had given birth to.

  Except I will not be here. I will be heading straight for him. Under his own nose may be the one place he might not think to look for me.

  Captain Dunois is the next to speak. “Thanks to the Lady Sybella, we have rooted out what we hope to be the last of the saboteurs, so d’Albret will receive no aid once he arrives.”

  How can he be so certain? I wonder. We have found seventeen men, but what if there are more? What if I missed some?

  “What of the Spanish troops?” the duchess asks, her face drawn and shadowed. “Will they be here before d’Albret?”

  “They arrived early this morning, Your Grace,” Captain Dunois says. “My second in command is seeing to their quartering.”

  While that is good news, we all know that the one thousand Spanish troops is nearly insignificant against d’Albret’s numbers.

  “And the free companies?”

  “They have been contracted, Your Grace,” the chancellor tells her. “They should be here in a fortnight.”

  Not soon enough.

  The duchess turns back to Captain Dunois. “Has the weather cleared enough to let the British troops land?” Those six thousand troops are our one hope of breaking d’Albret’s siege of the city.

  Dunois and Duval exchange a grim look. “We have just received word, Your Grace,” he says gently. “The French have taken Morlaix.” A gasp of distress goes up around the room.

  “But the English troops!”

  “Precisely. They will have to fight their way through the French to reach us—”

  “Or be slaughtered where they stand,” Captain Dunois finishes.

  There is quiet while we all ponder this latest disaster. It is as if a noose is being tightened around our poor kingdom’s neck. Duval bites back an oath and stands to pace.

  Beast, who has been sitting like a simmering pot for the past few moments, finally speaks. “I will leave tomorrow and make all due haste to Morlaix, taking the charbonnerie with me.” He looks at each of the councilors in turn, as if daring any of them to object.

  Chancellor Montauban frowns. “You cannot take on a thousand French troops with a handful of charcoal-burners,” he says, and I cannot help but wonder if he truly knows Beast at all.

  “No, but we can provide a painful diversion that will allow the British a chance to land.”

  “It is possible,” Duval says, sounding hopeful for the first time in days.

  “As we travel, I will raise the countryside against these intruders who would pluck our very land out from under our noses. Perhaps some of them can join us in Morlaix.”

  “I still say we cannot put our trust in the charbonnerie,” Chancellor Montauban says. “They are too unpredictable, too rebellious. I fear they will run when we need them the most.”

  Beast’s eyes when they meet the chancellor’s are as frigid as ice on a pond. “They have given their word, Chancellor. And I, for one, am inclined to believe it.”

  “But they are not well versed in the art of warfare,” Chalon points out. “We do not have time to train them for battle.”

  Beast leans forward. “That is the beauty of the charbonnerie. They do not fight with conventional tactics. Rather, they use stealth, cunning, and surprise. Deception and ambush are their most effective weapons.”

  “But there is no honor in that,” Chalon protests.

  “There is no honor in defeat either,” Duval points out. “I cannot help but wonder if d’Albret’s move is timed to coincide with this latest French attack. Did he know our aid from the English would be delayed, and is that why he marches now?”

  “We will know soon enough.” The abbess speaks into the quiet room. “The Lady Sybella will be returning to her post with d’Albret’s household, so we will have access to his plans, hopefully before he acts on them.”

  The duchess turns to me with stricken eyes, and Ismae’s face goes white as snow. “But it is no longer safe for her there! He must know—or at least suspect—that she aided Beast in his escape.”

  “It is not a question of safety, Your Grace, but of how we can best serve you, and, through you, Mortain.”

  “Your loyal and dedicated service is duly noted, Reverend Mother.” The wry note in Duval’s voice reassures me that he does not wholly trust her either.

  There is a long moment of silence, then the duchess speaks again. “I fear I must agree with Beast and the chamberlain, my lords,” she says. “We have few options available to us. I believe we will give these charbonnerie a chance to prove themselves.”

  I will not be the only one riding to a likely death on the morrow—Beast will be as well.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  WHEN THE MEETING FINALLY BREAKS up, I rise to my feet and make my way to the door. I can feel Ismae watching me, begging me to turn and look at her, but I do not. I cannot. Not now. Beast, too, is boring holes in my back with the intensity of his stare, but I ignore him as well. What I need most right now is the privacy and sanctity of my bedchamber.

  I reach my room and bolt the door behind me, vowing to open it for no one.

  Think. I must think.

  This latest news makes walking away infinitely more possible.

  The reverend mother would not know for days. Weeks, even. And by then, d’Albret will either have won or been defeated, the direction of the war and our country determined. Duval would protect Ismae and keep her from being sent in my place when the abbess learns that I did not go. And at that point it will be too late for Annith to be of any use.

  It is a good plan. A solid plan. Just thinking about it causes the tightness in my chest to ease somewhat.

  I begin packing. I will take only those things that will make the reverend mother believe my deception, so only those items a camp follower would own. The laundress gown, and my weapons, of course. All my knives, but not the fancy garrote bracelets, as they are too fine for a mere camp follower to possess. Besides, I can strangle a man just as easily using his own belt.

  As I carefully pack the knives I will carry, I marvel at how my desire to kill d’Albret once shaped my life and gave it meaning. But that was before . . . before what? When did my heart turn away from its willingness to die if need be in order to kill d’Albret?

  Perhaps once I escaped, once I was no longer in his orbit or infected with the bleak despair that enveloped me while I was in his household. Or mayhap my short time away from him has reminded me that there are things worth living for. There are good people in this world, in this duchy. Those who mean to do all they can to stop d’Albret. Living inside his walls, it was all too easy to forget that.
<
br />   There is the thrill of a fast horse, and the sun and wind in your face. The rare—and all the more precious for it—moments of laughter to be had. The excitement of seeing Mortain’s marque and knowing the hunt is about to begin. The look in someone’s eye when he truly sees you—not just your face and hair, but the very essence of your soul.

  It is a raw and uncomfortable realization that Beast is partly behind this newfound will to live. Not for him, but because he reminded me of what life has to offer. He lives life so joyously—it is impossible not to want that joy for oneself.

  My fingers drift to the ring I wear on my right hand, my last resort should my situation ever become unbearable.

  Suddenly, my lungs cannot take in enough air and my head grows light. No matter how I wish it to be different, in spite of all our efforts, in spite of every saboteur I have rooted out, I still fear in my heart that d’Albret will win in the end. That he will seize the city and bring it to its knees.

  And everyone in it.

  Oh, they will fight. All of Anne’s nobles and advisors and men-at-arms will do their best to protect her. And they will die trying, for d’Albret’s ability to inflict death is unsurpassed.

  I can see it unfold so clearly in my mind’s eye.

  He will fight his way to Anne personally, his long sword slicing through her guard as if they were soft cheese. It is possible my brothers will be at his side, attempting once again to earn his favor.

  Ismae and Duval will guard the duchess with their lives—and that is precisely what it will cost them. Once they have paid with those, d’Albret will turn his vengeance upon Anne.

  He might not hurt her at first. He will most likely hold Isabeau as hostage, knowing only too well that is where Anne’s heart lies.

  I stare down at the small bundle on my bed. What if I were able to stop him, but didn’t? What will my freedom have cost in blood? Will not the very things I hope to live for be lost?