“A blight, am I? We shall see.” He reaches for a strand of my hair and then rubs it between two of his fingers. “I find I am quite taken with the idea of mixing my bloodline with Death’s own. Then, surely, nothing could withstand my will.”
The mere thought of d’Albret’s touch sickens me, and the idea of the abomination that would result fills me with unspeakable terror. I struggle against the rope at my wrists, but it does not so much as budge. I curse myself for throwing my true parentage in his face, for I should have remembered just how shrewd he is at finding the thing one values most and using it as a weapon.
D’Albret smiles, and his hand leaves my hair to trail down my face, like a caress. I cannot help it: I shudder at his touch, at what I see in his eyes. “Since you are not my daughter, I could even make you my seventh wife, hmm?”
I glance at Madame Dinan, but her face is a brittle mask.
D’Albret winks at me, then pats my cheek. “She will not mind. She is barren and understands I must have sons to secure my holdings.” Then he grabs my chin, locking me in place, and presses his mouth on mine in a brutal, crushing kiss. Bile rises in my throat as his teeth grind against my swollen lip. When he licks the cut on my lip, I shudder violently, every nerve in my body screaming at the wrongness of it, the sheer horror of it. With no other way to fight back, I bite him.
He jerks away, fury darkening his eyes. He raises his hand to strike me again—
“No!” Julian’s voice rings throughout the hall.
D’Albret turns his cold, flat eyes to Julian. “I will take my vengeance as I please.”
“No, my lord,” Julian says again.
D’Albret tilts his head and studies his son. “You cannot bear for others to touch her, can you?”
“It is not that.”
“Do you wish her for yourself? If you will breed me heirs with Death’s own blood in their veins, I would forgive you much.”
I hold my breath and wonder if Julian will take what is being offered. “No,” he says, looking not at d’Albret but at me. As our eyes meet across the distance, I know that he has made his choice—he has chosen to be my brother rather than my lover, and I am filled with a quiet joy. We were always strongest when we faced our tormentors with one mind. But in the next moment, my happiness trickles away, as I see what that choice will cost him. A marque has begun to form on his brow.
“Wait, Julian.” I start to go to him, but de Lur yanks me back.
Julian steps away from d’Albret and comes to stand before me until we are but a handbreadth apart. “Do you remember when we were children and you were afraid of the dark? Do you remember what I promised you?”
“Yes.” My throat is so constricted with grief that the word comes out in a whisper. He promised that when he grew up, he would slay all the monsters.
“I meant it. I am only sorry I did not do it sooner.”
“If you do this, you will die.”
His mouth wrenches into a wistful smile that nearly breaks my heart in two. “I fear a part of me—the best part—has been dead for years.” He presses a quick kiss upon my brow—that of an older brother—then steps back and turns toward d’Albret.
“Are you truly willing to die for her, boy?”
In answer, Julian draws his sword. He is an excellent swordsman, but he does not have the ruthless skill nor the cruelty that d’Albret possesses. I cannot believe that I must stand here helplessly and watch the one person who loved me the longest, now die for that love. That could even have been d’Albret’s intention all along, for surely he knows that watching Julian die trying to defend me is the most crushing punishment he could devise.
There is a ring of steel as d’Albret draws his sword, and Captain de Lur pulls me out of the circle the other men have formed. The entire room grows silent. Then Julian advances with a rapid succession of blows, but d’Albret counters with a brutal thrust that causes Julian to leap back to avoid being impaled.
As they eye each other warily, I strain my wrists trying to bring my fingers within reach of the knot, but I am unable to reach it. I turn my gaze to the room, at all the hard and unsympathetic faces.
Beast will come.
But he will be too late.
The crowd murmurs in approval, and I look back to the fighting men in time to see d’Albret deliver two quick blows, one on either side of Julian’s head. That is when I suspect d’Albret is only toying with Julian and does not wish to kill him. Or at least, does not wish to kill him yet.
Julian is disoriented just long enough for d’Albret to step inside his guard and deliver a vicious hack to his ribs. I bite down on my swollen lip to keep from crying out, fearing it will only distract Julian more. He doubles over, grimacing with the pain, breathing hard, as blood begins to seep through the cut and onto his doublet.
Pleased by this drawing of first blood, the men break into grim smiles. As they shift on their feet, I feel a hand on my bound wrists. I pull away, fearing one of the soldiers has decided to act on his own, then realize these are a woman’s hands that have touched me. A moment later, something hard and sharp is slipped into my fingers.
A knife.
I glance over my shoulder and see Jamette silently slipping back among the crowd. While she does not love me, she does love Julian. But what can I do with one puny knife? Does she wish that I put him out of his misery? Or hope that I will use it on myself and stop the fight?
Keeping my eyes on the men in front of me, I slip the knife up so that it is hidden between my hands, then maneuver it until I feel its tip meet the resistance of the rope. Then I begin sawing at the bindings.
D’Albret is openly toying with Julian now; a quick blow here, a nick there, a sudden cut to the arm. Frustrated, Julian sidesteps and swings his blade upward, coming inside d’Albret’s guard and almost—almost—plunging his sword into the other man’s gut, but d’Albret sidesteps at the last possible moment. The mood of the watching men shifts again, their displeasure palpable, for they bear Julian no love. He has never been one of them like Pierre has.
Julian is growing tired now and is no longer quick on his feet. I saw frantically at the ropes, my fingers cramping and slick with blood where I have nicked myself.
Pressing his advantage, D’Albret takes a mighty swing. Julian ducks so that the blade whistles through empty air, then uses d’Albret’s brief moment of surprise to deliver a stroke that crunches so loudly I am sure he has broken at least one of d’Albret’s ribs. Although I feel like cheering, I keep silent, for it would only draw attention my way.
Then Julian gives up all pretense of fighting fairly or with honor and rushes, lifting his sword so that it will catch d’Albret square in the face, but the older man steps back and stumbles as the crowd gives way, and the blow misses. Even if by some miracle Julian survives the fight, I am not sure the men will let him walk away.
And still I cannot cut through the be-damned rope.
Julian is bleeding from a dozen different cuts, and if he ever owed a debt for having loved me, he has surely paid it.
At the next flurry of blows, I must look away, for Julian’s fatigue is so great that I fear each blow will be his last. I pull against the rope once more, hoping I have frayed it enough that I can free my hands, but still it holds.
When the sound of clashing blades stops, I look up. Julian is breathing hard, and I can feel the labored beating of his heart as it tries to keep up with the strain of attacks and fuel his flagging body, and my own heart aches for him. Then d’Albret comes on hard and fast, but incredibly Julian is able to block each blow, until a savage swing that nearly decapitates him. He jerks back just in time, but the tip of the blade opens his right cheek to the bone. I long to run to them, to put myself in front of Julian and stop this game of d’Albret’s. I do not even realize I have taken a step forward until de Lur yanks me back. I glance at him and pray I live long enough to kill him after I kill d’Albret.
If I kill d’Albret. The fight is winding down. Julian is
staggering, his sword arm drooping, his blade dragging on the floor.
But d’Albret does not press his attack. Instead, he says, “By God, I will end this now.” Then he raises his sword high over his head. But instead of lunging toward Julian, he pivots, aiming the blow in my direction, and some small part of me is glad. Glad that he has chosen Julian over me and that I do not have to watch another loved one die.
But Julian, ever quick-witted Julian, sees what d’Albret’s intends. He leaps in front of me, and the sword plunges through his chest. His dark eyes widen with surprise—and pain. As I cry out, doubling over in anguish, the rope around my wrists finally gives way.
As Julian falls, the entire hall grows quiet and all the men step back. Not out of respect for Julian, but out of fear for their own skins, for it is hard to know how d’Albret will react to this.
In the ensuing silence, I drop to my knees beside Julian. The force of his leap wrenched the sword from d’Albret’s grip, and it is still impaled in his chest. He is soaked in crimson, his face is even whiter than Death’s own. His soul beats frantically against the trappings of his mortal body, desperate to be free of the pain that consumes him. He tries to speak, but his pale lips cannot form the words.
“Dearest brother, you were wrong. The best part of you still lives.” I lean down and place my lips upon his brow. In forgiveness, and in farewell.
No sooner have I done so than his soul bursts from his body, as if it needed only my permission to be free. And it is free. It is finally, finally free from the dark world it has inhabited for so long.
There is the sound of boots on the marble floor, then d’Albret stands over us. He nudges Julian’s body with his foot. “We must add the death of my son to your list of crimes.”
As I stare down at Julian’s poor, wounded body, true understanding dawns. In order to defeat d’Albret, I have only to love more than he hates.
And I do. My heart is filled with the love I bear, love that I was too terrified to give voice to for fear d’Albret would use it against others in order to hurt me. But they are all gone, far beyond his reach. Only I remain.
Julian’s sword is but inches from my hand. Now, I think. Now. Fueled by all the fierce love inside me, I reach out, grasp the sword hilt still slick with my brother’s blood, then surge upward, aiming to drive it deep into d’Albret’s belly.
D’Albret discerns my intent just in time. He kicks out with his foot, knocking the sword from my fingers, then his hand reaches out and closes around my throat.
I smile. I know d’Albret will not kill me this way, for I was born with the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck and did not die. And I still have the knife Jamette gave me—the very one I once gave her.
Still smiling, I lean in toward d’Albret as if welcoming his hands around my neck. I grip the knife handle firmly and, fueled by seventeen years of the despair I have felt on behalf of those I love, whip the knife out from behind my back and plunge it into his belly, driving it upward.
D’Albret’s eyes widen in surprise, and his hold around my neck loosens. He looks faintly puzzled, as if unable to believe what I have done. I shove upward again and twist, willing the knife to damage every organ it touches, just as he has damaged every life he has touched.
As my hand grows wet with his blood, and I watch his eyes dull, I want to throw my head back and howl with victory. Instead, I yank my knife out, and he starts to slump to the ground.
Even now, with his guts spilling out onto the fine white marble, Death does not claim him and no marque rests upon his brow. It never will. That is another thing I learned from my true father that night: d’Albret is not welcome in Death’s realm. That is the promise Mortain made to all d’Albret’s victims, that d’Albret will be barred from the Underworld, his flesh fated to linger until it rots, his soul to wander restlessly until the end of time.
Madame Dinan rushes to his side and tries to shove his guts back into his belly, staining her slender white hands with blood and gore. As she calls for the surgeons, I have a vision of her new life as it spreads before her, tending to d’Albret and his unnatural wound for all the rest of her days.
I glance again at the fallen Julian’s face, as white and still as marble. That is when I understand that it was Julian’s love that was the key to this victory. His love for me, Beast’s love for Alyse, my own love for my sisters—even Jamette’s love for Julian—has driven all of us to this moment in time, each strand wrapped around the next like links in a chain.
And now d’Albret is as good as dead. And I am finally free.
Dinan looks up to glare at me. “Seize her!”
Ah, but I am not free yet. There are still over fifty men in here, and all of them are staring at me with eyes bright with the promise of violence and their own brutal nature. What did I hope? That with d’Albret’s death, they would be released from their own dark impulses and rejoice in their freedom? No, for they were drawn to him as like is drawn to like, and they eye me now with a hunger for blood and vengeance. Besides, they will have to answer to Pierre for what happened here. I grip the knife I still hold in my hand. D’Albret cannot hurt anyone again—my destiny has been fulfilled. I will not surrender to what I see lurking in the enraged faces around me. Slowly, I lift the knife and press the tip of it to my own throat.
One of the men, seeing what I intend, leaps forward. He looms over me, the helm he wears shadowing his face. I try to pull away from his grasp, but he is as quick as he is tall. When his hand closes around my wrist—the moment our skin touches—I know.
My head snaps up, and I look into a pair of light blue eyes that burn with an unholy light.
Beast.
Chapter Fifty-One
THE SIGHT OF BEAST FILLS my heart with such joy that I fear it will burst. He is dressed in d’Albret’s colors and shoves a rolled-up leather packet into my hands. His disguise buys us some time, and while his body blocks me from the other men’s view, I quickly unroll my knives. Since there is no time to don the sheaths, I stab them through my skirt, threading the blades through the thick fabric so they will not fall out.
“Bring her over here!” Captain de Lur orders.
When I am fully armed, Beast flashes one of his fierce grins at me. “Cut the tabard off, for I will not besmirch my god by fighting in d’Albret’s colors.”
I cannot blame him. I put the tip of my knife to the tabard and cut it in half, careful that the blade does not go too far. Beast shrugs out of it and pulls his sword from its sheath. For a brief moment, the men think he means to use it on me. “You ready?” he asks.
“I’ve only been waiting on you.”
He smiles again, then turns to face the surrounding men, and confusion erupts. As Captain de Lur takes a step toward us, there is a faint whisper of sound, then his eyes roll up and he crumples. A small rock pings to the floor.
Yannic.
Then Beast gives one of his bloodcurdling yells as the battle lust engulfs him. He raises his sword and lunges to his left to get his body and his weapon between me and the bulk of d’Albret’s soldiers.
I kick out, my foot connecting with the nearest man’s gut, up high where it will knock all the air from his lungs. Gripping a knife in each hand, I realize that all the hate in this room is no match for the love that fills me. And fill me it does, its effervescence racing along my limbs, chasing away the sorrow and fatigue, as if some holy light rather than mere blood flows in my veins.
But it is no holy light, simply me, whole and unafraid of who and what I am, eager to do the work I was born to do.
D’Albret’s men have regrouped and are rushing toward Beast. He meets the first parry, and the sound of their swords is deafening.
I tighten my grip on my knives as another soldier rushes toward me, sword drawn. As easily as if I were practicing with Annith, I duck under his blade, get inside his guard, and shove my knife into his throat. Before he has even begun to fall to the ground, I turn to meet another. But this one has witnessed my tric
k just now and lowers his own sword to block another such maneuver. So instead, I flip my knife around, grab it by the point, and hurl it toward him. It takes him straight through the eye, and he drops to his knees.
Two more guards approach and I turn to meet them. Time slows, like a drop of honey suspended from the tip of a knife. As I feint and parry, every move comes without conscious thought. It feels as if my body has been filled with something as cool and dark and unerring as a shadow. I am whole now. Whole and unbroken and filled with an unearthly grace that moves through me with unspeakable joy.
From out of the corner of my eye I see that the battle fever has completely consumed Beast, and he churns through the rushing guards like a plow tills through earth. Truly, we are the gods’ own children, forged in the fire of our tortured pasts, but also blessed with unimaginable gifts.
How long we fight, I do not know, but slowly, as if I am being drawn up from the bottom of some deep well, I become aware of my surroundings. Now that I have stopped fighting, I feel as thin and empty as a discarded glove. Over half of d’Albret’s men lay dead at our feet. The other half show no signs of retreating. Indeed, two of the men have gone for reinforcements.
Out of knives, I bend over and pluck a sword from one of the dead soldiers who litter the ground, then turn to Beast, who is breathing hard.
The light in his eyes is only half feral now. He opens his mouth to say something, but an explosion rocks the building—indeed, the very earth beneath our feet. It sounds as if a dozen cannon have been shot at once. Beast grabs my hand and begins pulling me toward the door.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Lazare and his charbonnerie.”
“Here?”
“He thought we might need a diversion. Nor did we think it necessary to leave the duchess’s own weapons in the hands of her enemy to be used against her.” Another explosion follows.
Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2) Page 35