Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Sample Chapter from GRAVE MERCY
Buy the Book
Read More from the His Fair Assassin trilogy
More Books from HMH Teen
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Copyright © 2020 by Robin LaFevers
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhbooks.com
Map by Cara Llewellyn
Cover design by Whitney Leader-Picone
Cover art © 2020 by Billelis
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: LaFevers, Robin, author.
Title: Igniting darkness / by Robin LaFevers.
Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2020] | Sequel to: Courting darkness. | Audience: Ages 14 and up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: Sybella locates her fellow assassin and novitiate of the convent of Saint Mortain, only to discover that Genevieve has made a lethal mistake, and there are far-reaching consequences for loved ones entangled in French court intrigues.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019045857 (print) | LCCN 2019045858 (ebook) | ISBN 9780544991095 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358335801 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Courts and courtiers—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. | France—History—Charles VIII, 1483–1498—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.L14142 Ig 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.L14142 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045857
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045858
v1.0720
For Nysa and silver linings,
without which this book would not have been written
Dramatis Personae
From the Convent of Saint Mortain, Patron Saint of Death
Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the queen
Lady Genevieve, Death’s daughter, former lady in waiting to the countess of Angoulême
Ismae Rienne, Death’s daughter, former lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany
Annith, handmaiden to Death, acting abbess of the convent
Balthazaar, Annith’s consort
Lady Margot, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the countess of Angoulême (deceased)
The French Court
Charles VIII, king of France
Anne, queen of France, duchess of Brittany, countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont
Anne de Beaujeu, sister to the king, regent of France
Pierre de Beaujeu, Duke of Bourbon, husband to Anne
Louis, Duke of Orléans
Simon de Fremin, a lawyer
Seguin de Cassel, general in the king’s army
Captain Stuart, captain of the king’s guard
The Bishop of Albi
The Bishop of Narbonne
Father Effram, follower of Saint Salonius
Count Charles Angoulême
The Breton Court
Gavriel Duval, a Breton noble, half brother to the queen
Isabeau, Anne’s sister (deceased)
Duke Francis II, Anne’s father (deceased)
Breton Nobility
Benebic de Waroch, “Beast,” knight of the realm, captain of the queen’s guard
Viscount Maurice Crunard, former chancellor of Brittany
Anton Crunard, last surviving son of the former chancellor
Jean de Rohan, viscount of Rohan, lord of Léon and count of Porhoët, uncle to the queen
Jean de Rieux, former marshal of Brittany
Jean de Châlons, prince of Orange
Philippe de Montauban, chancellor of Brittany
Captain Dunois, captain of the Breton army (deceased)
The d’Albret Family
Alain d’Albret, lord of Albret, viscount of Tartas, second count of Graves (deceased)
Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the queen
Pierre d’Albret, second son of Alain d’Albret, viscount of Périgord and Limoges
Jul
ian d’Albret, third son of Alain d’Albret (deceased)
Charlotte, daughter of Alain d’Albret
Louise, youngest daughter of Alain d’Albret
Followers of Saint Arduinna
Aeva, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the queen
Tola, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the queen
Men-at-Arms
Yannic, squire to Benebic de Waroch
Lazare, charbonnerie, member of the queen’s guard
Poulet, member of the queen’s guard
Jaspar, a mercenary
Valine, a mercenary
Andry, a mercenary
Tassin, a mercenary
The Nine
Mortain, god of death
Dea Matrona, mother goddess
Arduinna, goddess of love’s sharp bite, daughter of Matrona, twin sister of Amourna
Amourna, goddess of love’s first blush, daughter of Matrona, twin sister of Arduinna
Brigantia, goddess of knowledge and wisdom
Camulos, god of battle and war
Mer, goddess of the sea
Salonius, god of mistakes
Cissonius, god of travel and crossroads
Prologue
Maraud
France 1490
Maraud awoke to the sound of retching—a retching so violent his own stomach clenched into a fist and tried to punch its way out of his throat.
That’s when he realized the retching noises were his.
“That’s right, big guy. Let it all out.”
A woman’s voice. “Lucinda?” he croaked.
“What kind of fool asks for the woman who just tried to poison him?”
He knew that voice.
“A straw-headed fool, that’s who.”
That one, too. Should be able to place them both. Saints! Why was he so disoriented? He cracked open an eye, only to find the world bobbing up and down, furthering his stomach’s revolt. He shut his eye again.
“She didn’t poison him,” a third voice grunted.
Tassin. The name came to him so easily he almost wept.
“She most certainly did.” Andry.
“Tassin’s right.” The woman again—Valine. “She wouldn’t save him, then poison him.”
“I disagree.”
Maraud considered it a major victory that he recognized Jaspar’s voice right away.
“Maybe she wanted the pleasure of killing him herself. She would not be the first to do so.”
As he tried to sit up, Valine said something, but her words were lost as he struggled to keep from puking up his liver.
Hell. He was sitting up—more or less. On his horse. He shifted, which caused a tug around his middle. Not sitting on his horse. Tied.
“Whoa, there!” Valine drew her mount close to his. “Not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“I’m fine,” Maraud gritted out between clenched teeth, afraid if he opened his mouth too far, he’d spew all over her.
“If you think you can stay in your saddle, I can untie you.”
“In a minute.” He willed the world to stop swooping around like a drunken stable boy. “On second thought, leave it. This way I can doze off again if I need to.”
Valine arched one dark brow in amusement, and a strange, strangled sound came from his right, like a goose stuck in a trumpet. He turned—slowly!—to find Tassin . . . laughing? Maraud hadn’t seen him laugh in—Christ. Had he ever seen him laugh?
“So.” Andry got back to the business at hand. “Do we follow her?”
Follow her. The woman who tried to poison him three times. And outright lied to his face ten times that. Not to mention she’d planned to trade him as if he were a pig at a fair.
“No.” Lucinda made her bed, now she could lie in it. He put his heels to his horse’s flanks. A good bracing gallop should clear his head.
Or cause him to dump the contents of his stomach. Only time would tell.
Chapter 1
Genevieve
Plessis-lès-Tours
France 1490
Whether one is raised at a convent that serves Death or in a tavern room filled with whores, there is one lesson that always applies: There is no room for mistakes. The wrong amount of poison, the incorrect angle of the knife, poor aim, or a false gesture when pretending to be someone else can result in disaster, if not death.
It was the same at the tavern where I spent my earliest years. How many of my aunts would have had other lives, but for one mistake? Some, like my mother, chose their path. But for others, it was too many years of poor harvests, or crossing the tanner’s guild, which was always looking for excuses to remove its female members. Being alone at the wrong moment, catching the eye of the wrong man might send one’s life skidding down the slope of destiny into a midden heap.
Which is precisely where I have landed.
The shadows in my darkened room loom large as I run my fingers along the silky edges of the crow feather. The good news is the convent did not abandon me. The bad news: They might, once they learn what I have done.
And what will the king do with this knowledge of the convent I so foolishly handed him? He knew nothing about it until I spoke of its existence. Will his anger pass like a sudden summer shower, or will it fester and grow?
Far off in the distance, a cock crows. Morning comes, but no answers with it. I have spent the night trying to convince myself that, after five years of their silence, I owe them nothing. But the sick shaking that has kept me awake all night tells me my heart believes something else.
Which do I listen to?
Once before, I did not listen to my heart. Come with us, Maraud said. We can help.
Maraud. Even though he did not know what I was facing, he offered his help. His friendship. And so much more.
I have stood at only five crossroads in my life, and of all of them, that is the one I regret the most. Not trusting Maraud and accepting that help. Indeed, I have ensured he will loathe me as much as the king does. My name will be a curse upon the convent’s lips and reviled for generations. Truly, the wreckage I have left in my wake is breathtaking.
Thinking of Maraud is like rubbing my heart against broken glass, so I shove all thoughts of him aside. I must find a way to fix this—to unsay those words to the king. Or at the very least, convince him they are far less important than he thinks they are. But he may not ever call for me again or may decide to have me thrown into the dungeon.
Something deep inside warns me that it is possible this cannot be fixed. Have I broken a piece of crockery that can be glued back together, or shattered a crystal goblet that is irreplaceable? As if in answer, the fine hairs at the nape of my neck lift in warning, and I realize I am not alone.
I shift my hand toward the knife I keep under my pillow.
“Good morning.” It is a woman’s voice, low and melodious. Surely someone sent by the convent to punish me would not use such a cheerful greeting.
I peer into the shadows for the source of the voice.
It laughs, a note of earthiness among the lilting sounds. “You do not need your knife for me, little sister. Did you not see the feather I left you?”
Keeping the knife hidden in the folds of my gown, I sit up. “I saw a crow feather.” My words are as carefully measured as pennies from a beggar’s purse. “But crows are a most common bird.” The young woman—mayhap a year or two older than myself—sits in the room’s lone chair. Even though she is cast in shadow, it is clear that she is impossibly beautiful—the contours of her face so elegantly constructed that it borders on being a weapon in its own right. While I cannot see if she is smiling, I sense her amusement, all the same.
“Who else would leave you such a thing?”
I shrug one shoulder. “The French court is a complex and devious place, my lady. Messages can be intercepted and twisted to suit any number of intentions.”
“You are wise to be cautious. But have no fear, I am well and truly convent sent—and your sister, besides.”
&n
bsp; My sister. The words throw me off balance as surely as a well-placed kick. This woman. Margot. All of us at the convent are sisters. And I have betrayed them.
They betrayed me first.
I shove my hair out of my face. “If that is the case, if you are well and truly my sister . . .” Weeks—nay, months—of anger swell up, as unstoppable as the tide. “Then I have to ask, what in the rutting hell took you so long?”
She blinks, the only hint this might not be the greeting she was expecting. “You only just arrived, what, three—four—days ago?”
Heat rises in my gorge, making my words harsh. “I’m not talking about the last three days. I’ve been waiting for five years.”
A flash of vexation distorts her face, but her voice remains calm. “The convent has been in disarray these last few months. No one was aware you had been removed from the regent’s household.”
The words dangle like bait. I want to believe them, but to do so means that I fell into a trap of Count Angoulême’s making. “Surely they knew of my change in residence, else why was my patron receiving letters of instructions regarding me?”
The woman grimaces—the grimace giving me more hope than any words she has spoken. “There have been many changes at the convent. The details of your and Margot’s location were missing.”
Missing. “We were not a pair of boots or a prayer book to be lost. We were two young girls left with no means of communication, no direction nor orders, nothing for nearly a third of our lives.”
Her earlier warmth cools somewhat. “We have been rather distracted by France’s invasion, the warring amongst the duchess’s betrothed, and the matter of securing both her and our country’s safety,” she says dryly. “Surely the nature of your assignment was explained to you?”
“That was no assignment, but abandonment. We assumed you’d forgotten about us.”
“You could certainly be forgiven for thinking that.”
I don’t want compassion, but answers. No, what I truly want is to slog back through time and unsay the words I spoke to the king. To undo my grievous mistake. But since she cannot give me that, answers I shall have. “Had you forgotten about us?”
She studies me, weighing how much to say. For all of her sympathetic manner, I must not underestimate this woman.
Igniting Darkness Page 1