Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  The faintest click comes from next to the fireplace. A servant bearing a load of firewood comes through a small door hidden by the paneling. He blinks in surprise when he sees me, then quickly looks away to tend the fire. When he has finished, he departs through the same door.

  I have only a moment to ponder this discovery of hidden doors and servant passages before I hear the sound of voices—many voices—approaching. Alarm drives me to my feet. Even though the king may not feel the need to be discreet, I do not wish to proclaim my presence in his chamber quite so boldly. I hurry into the bedchamber and reach the valet’s closet just as the main door opens.

  “What brings you here, Madame?” I hear the king ask.

  “Clearly there is much afoot.” While the regent’s voice comes from outside the room in the hallway, it is as cool and possessed as ever. “I thought to offer my help in some way.” She thought to slip in with the others. Interesting that she was not invited.

  “Thank you for your kind offer.” The king is stiff and formal. “Arrangements need to be made for Monsieur Fremin’s body. That would prove most helpful.”

  A long moment of sour disappointment hangs in the air as she grapples with the king’s clear rejection of her participation. Finally, the regent says, “As you wish, sire.”

  “Come in, gentlemen.” The king’s order is followed by heavy footsteps. I count six in addition to the king. He leads them straight through the elegant drawing room into the private council chamber that sits beyond it, their voices growing indistinct.

  I hurry over to the wall that abuts the council chamber and place my ear against it.

  “You don’t truly believe the woman is innocent, do you?” It is the traitorous Albi.

  “According to the queen, Lady Sybella was with her the entire night,” the king reminds them.

  “But, Your Majesty,” Albi continues, “she is an assassin. Well-schooled in the unholy arts of Saint Mortain. Surely such evil is not bound by the same rules of the physical world as we are.”

  The silence that follows is not truly silent at all, but filled with unease that rifles through the men like a cold winter breeze.

  “What are you saying?” the king finally asks, his voice holding both warning and the curling edges of fear.

  “I’m saying their ways are shadowed and closed to the eyes of man. Just because no one saw her there at the time should not be enough to clear someone of her skills from suspicion.”

  “And she did have a motive.” I recognize General Cassel’s voice. “She and Fremin have been at each other like cockerels ever since he arrived.”

  “Not to mention that is two bodies she has left in her wake,” Captain Stuart says.

  “Six.” General Cassel’s deep voice rasps over the others. “If you count the men Fremin claimed were missing.”

  “We cannot forget that she is an assassin trained who does not serve us—you, Your Majesty—and is thus suspect,” the Bishop of Albi presses.

  “What sort of saint trains assassins, anyway?” Stuart mutters.

  “A heretical one.” It is the first time the king’s confessor has spoken.

  “We have been over this,” the Bishop of Narbonne says. “The Nine are within Church canon.”

  “They shouldn’t be,” the confessor mutters darkly.

  “This does shed new light on Fremin’s missing men,” Cassel points out. “It could well be his claims were true.”

  “But if his claims were true, what has happened to the girls?” The king’s voice is tired and strained. “For all of her strange ways, I cannot believe that she did them any harm.”

  “Perhaps she and the queen are counting on your honor and chivalry to blind you to her crimes, as if you were some poor hapless fool who couldn’t see past such subterfuge.”

  Silence follows, and I can only marvel at how skillfully the general has thrown his spear.

  When the king speaks again, his voice is harder than iron. “Very well. You have convinced me. This matter is resolved. General Cassel,” he barks, “search the Lady Sybella’s room. Let us see if she is hiding something.”

   Chapter 27

  Sybella

  I am standing in front of the fire, considering my options, when the door bursts open. Only years of hard discipline keep me from startling, but I do not wish to give them the satisfaction. Instead, I turn calmly around.

  Six of them storm into the room, General Cassel at the fore, his cold, brutal eyes on me. For one heart-clenching moment I fear they intend to grab me and drag me from the room.

  “Search the chambers!” he orders.

  The men fan out, dividing the room with practiced precision, each taking a section. The window, the bed, the chest. Cassel comes to stand in front of me, too close, hoping I will cower before him. I smile sweetly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “We are looking for the murder weapon.”

  I ignore the sound of the men churning through my things and cock my head to the side, considering. “The guards said he had broken his neck. What sort of weapon do you expect to find?” It is all I can do not to flex my hands, which have indeed broken many a neck. But Cassel does not know that and hopefully, like all men, will not consider that a possibility.

  “Rope,” he says grimly. “A noose.”

  “Ah,” I say, grateful that the rope I used to strangle Fremin’s henchman is now looped through his belt.

  His gaze drops down to my waist, to my belt of gold chain from which a small knife hangs. Anger begins to bloom deep inside my gut, but I hold it firmly in check. “That could not break a neck,” I helpfully point out.

  His gaze shifts to my face.

  “Sir!”

  Reluctantly, Cassel looks back at the guard. “What?”

  “Knives, sir. Lots of ’em.”

  A sense of violation squeezes me by the throat when I see that one of the soldiers has lifted the mattress from the bed frame, exposing four of my longest knives.

  Cassel swings his shaggy head back to me. “No weapons, eh?”

  “I never said I had no weapons, only none that were capable of breaking a neck.”

  He crosses over to the bed and lifts my anlace from its hiding place. “This is not something a lady in waiting would have.”

  I curl my fingers into fists so I will not grab it from his meaty hands. “We have already established I am no ordinary lady in waiting. I cannot protect the queen with naught but my bare hands.”

  At his gesture, his men collect my knives. For a brief moment, I indulge in the vision of me leaping forward, taking back my knives, and killing the four of them before the other two can blink. Instead, I move to the window, where one of the men is still fumbling with the drapes. “Here, let me give you more light.” I yank one of the drapes aside. The soldier startles, dropping the curtain, his hand going for his knife as light spills into the room. I cluck my tongue at him. “It is only a drape, monsieur, and a dusty one at that.” His cheeks flush dull red as two of the others snicker.

  Another shout goes up, and we all look to the soldier kneeling beside the chest, his hand gingerly holding out a glass vial filled with amber liquid. “We’ve found her poisons, sir!”

  I laugh. “Poison? I imagine the queen would beg to differ. Those are the very physics I give her daily. Here. Let me show you.” As I reach for the vial, the man flinches as if he expects me to throw it on him and turn him to stone. I take it gently from his hand, put the vial to my lips, and swallow. “See? Nothing even remotely harmful.”

  Cassel stares at them impassively. “Take them anyway.”

  I shove the vial at the soldier and glare at the general. “You’d best check with the queen. She will not look kindly on one who destroys the only tisane that has brought her any relief.”

  He hesitates then. “Take the vials to the queen and ask if she recognizes them,” he orders. “But be careful—do not risk her touching them or drawing too close.”

  For all of his brutishness, the gener
al is not an idiot. As we stare at each other a moment, I try not to see all the physical similarities to Beast. It is too painful to see them in this man—one who embraces brutality, savors raw power, mistakes violations for strength. He could not be more different from Beast had they been born on opposite ends of the world.

  I focus on that, will myself to discern the differences. They are there—the eyes that feel wolfish and feral in Beast’s face are darker and more piggish in Cassel’s. Beast’s nose has been broken more often, but his mouth holds humor and kindness rather than cruelty.

  Cassel breaks our gaze, looking to something behind me atop the cupboard. I see my small casket, then bite back an oath as he heads toward it. It is a good thing Beast is not here, I realize, else they would come to blows. While there is no doubt in my mind that Beast would prevail, it would cost him dearly. It would not just wound his soul, but the repercussions for killing the king’s favorite general could easily cost him his life.

   Chapter 28

  Genevieve

  When I deem it safe to emerge from the valet’s closet and make my way to the sitting room, the king looks up from the fireplace, his eyes troubled and distant. He blinks at me, as if he’d forgotten I was here. “Thank you for your discretion.”

  “But of course, Your Majesty. I have no desire to bring any more trouble to your door. It is my hope to ease your burdens.”

  He nods vaguely and turns his attention back to the fire.

  I try to keep quiet, to wait for a moment that I can choose once it is ripe, but my anger and my fear for Sybella are too great. The memory of the regent searching my rooms, the sense of violation it filled me with. It will only be worse for Sybella, with the brute Cassel taking pleasure in such a show of raw power.

  “They are wrong, you know.” I curse myself for my own artlessness. Recklessness will not aid me here.

  He lifts his head and scowls in disapproval. “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Not intentionally, but there were few enough places for me to hide. Would you rather I pretend I hadn’t heard, even though we both know I have?”

  “I’d rather you mind your own business and not insert yourself,” he says coldly. “These matters do not concern you. Not if you are, as you say, loyal to me. In truth, it’s getting harder and harder to know if your loyalty is to me or the queen.” He shoves away from the mantel and stalks toward me. “You don’t work for the queen, do you?” While his voice is deceptively soft, the menace in it is unmistakable. “She hasn’t placed you under my nose? To spy on me and influence me to do her bidding?”

  No, I want to shout, your rutting sister has. “No, Your Majesty. But you do remember what I told you last night? That the regent and the Bishop of Albi are working together. You would do well to keep a mind to what his motives are.”

  “And you would do well to tend to your own affairs,” he says curtly.

  My subtlety falls on deaf ears. Very well. Subtlety be damned. “It is my business. I am from the convent. I honor the Nine. Their accusations affect me as well.”

  He waves a hand. “Not if you don’t tell anybody, they won’t.”

  “I don’t mean in terms of repercussions, but when they disparage my faith and dishonor my saints.” For all that I don’t consider myself particularly devout, the bishop’s words fester in my soul. I take a step closer to him. “They are wrong,” I repeat, willing him to hear me.

  “So you are a theological expert now?”

  “No,” I admit, “I am Sybella’s sister, and what they say about her and our faith is untrue.”

  “You should refrain from reminding me of your relationship with her just now.”

  I stare at him a long moment, unable to keep from shaking my head.

  He glares at me. “What?”

  “I have never seen a man work so hard to ignore the parts of the world that are inconvenient to him.”

  “Careful,” he growls. “My affection for you is not infinite. And it certainly isn’t something you can use to sway me from impartial judgments I must make.”

  Impartial. I nearly laugh. Why are the bishops’ and Cassel’s counsel considered impartial while mine is not?

  “Sybella has multiple marks against her, from her undue influence with the queen, to her unorthodox faith, not to mention that she is an assassin—reportedly of some unnatural order.”

  “She is not guilty of the crimes you accuse her of.” At least, not all of them.

  “As you said, you are her sister, of course you would defend her.” That is when I realize he is hurt. Hurt that I have taken her side against his, adding one more mark against her.

  Desperation fills me. I had so hoped I was beginning to help him see more clearly, but he won’t believe me. He certainly won’t believe her. Not even if she told the full, unpolished truth about her vile brother. It is too easy—too convenient—for him to place all the blame squarely on her, someone he doesn’t like and who threatens the natural order of his world.

  I close my eyes for a moment as my despair flares into hot, bitter remorse. I will never be able to unring that bell. To fix things.

  I study his profile as he broods into the flames. Not if you don’t tell anybody, they won’t, he said.

  While I cannot fix the whole, mayhap I can fix some of it.

  The room is empty, the king leaning on the council table in front of him. The blue velvet of his doublet is stretched tight across his bunched shoulders. “Your Majesty.”

  He holds up one hand. “Not now, Genevieve. I have no wish to hear a defense of your friend. This was exactly the reason I ordered you not to consort with her. Her scandal threatens to drag you down with it, merely by your association.”

  It is not her association with me that has caused this problem, but my own actions. Without the knowledge of the convent I provided, his suspicions would never have fallen on her.

  Every word he has uttered crystallizes my resolve. “But, sire,” I say softly. “What if it is not Sybella’s scandal?”

  He twists his head to look over his shoulder at me. “What are you saying?”

  For days I have wondered how I could fix this, but no answer has presented itself. Very well. Perhaps it cannot be fixed, but I can at least soften the most painful edges of the blow. “I am saying that I killed Monsieur Fremin, not Sybella.”

   Chapter 29

  The king shakes his head. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  His arms fall to his sides, his fists clenching. “You committed murder under my roof?” He looks at the couch where I passed the night. “Under my very nose?”

  “It was more a matter of protection than murder.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “He threatened Sybella’s life and the safety of her sisters. No one would listen.”

  “You have betrayed me. Betrayed my trust in you.” As he talks, the note of hurt in his voice is quickly overrun with anger. “You spit on the protection I offer. Why?”

  “I will not cower in safety behind your robes while those who are dear to me are cast to the wolves. You judged her guilty before you even knew all the facts.”

  “I had heard the facts and had determined her claims to be false.”

  “You were closing ranks and shutting your ears to an outsider who rubs you the wrong way.”

  His nostrils flare. “I do not believe your claim. Why would she not kill him herself? She is an assassin as well.”

  “Because she knew that you did not trust her, that you would not believe her.”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  I shrug. “What have I to gain by lying? In truth, I have everything to lose—your protection, your good opinion, my life.”

  He grinds his teeth and slams his palms against the table. “Dammit, I trusted you!”

  “Indeed, sire. And still you may.”

  “I cannot trust someone who murders my guests at will! Who treats my favor with so little regard. Who casts aside everything I have done to he
lp her.”

  For once, prudence takes hold of my tongue, and I do not point out that I have received no favors, not one, nor have I benefitted much from his protection. “It was not at whim. He entered her chambers with the intention of doing her harm.”

  He whirls back to me. “How can you know that?”

  “Because I was there.”

  “The sentries did not report that they saw you.”

  I lift one shoulder and allow a smile of satisfaction to play about my lips. “I am an assassin. Shadows are my friend. They were right about that much.”

  He stares, his breath growing more rapid. Whether from anger or shock or dismay—or all three at once—I do not know. He strides closer. He is not a tall man, but his anger makes it feel as if he is looming over me. My heart wants to race in apprehension, but I will not let it. I deserve his wrath, not Sybella. It is I who have upset his neatly ordered world with my revelations; Sybella has only tried to protect her sisters. Indeed, this is the only way to tip the scales of justice back into balance.

  “I could have you put to death for this.” The anger that colors his voice does not completely hide a faint thread of distress. I grasp on to that thread as a drowning man would a rope.

  “You could,” I agree. “But is there not some legal argument to be made for protecting someone? Is that not at the very core of chivalry and honor?”

  “That is for knights,” he says, “not demoiselles who cannot mind their own business. Besides, you would have a hard time making that case when she is an assassin.”

  “Do you intend to put me on trial?” I ask, trying not to hold my breath.