Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  “One portcullis and a drawbridge, then we’re free.” Beast glances around until he finds the narrow stairway tucked behind the door. “The mechanisms to raise both are likely up there. Poulet, come with me.”

  Once the portcullis is raised and the drawbridge lowered—with no guards or sentries alerted—Beast comes back down the stairs to join us. “We have a problem,” he announces.

  “What now?” Lazare asks.

  “The drawbridge is raised using a winch and pulley.” We all look at him blankly. “It will be too heavy for Sybella to operate on her own.”

  And just like that, our plan is felled not by our enemies, but by simple mechanics.

  “Nonsense,” I mutter indignantly. “It is only the pedestrian drawbridge, not even the main one.”

  “But it still weighs four hundred pounds.”

  Which is why there is a winch, I think but do not say. There is no point in arguing further until I know if I can do it. Wanting to prove Beast wrong, I mount the stairs to the room that holds the workings of the drawbridge.

  “I’ll stay,” I hear Poulet say. “No one knows my face, and it will be easy enough to slip out of the palace yard in the morning.”

  “No one is staying,” I call back down. I have operated winches before, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let this one foil our plans.

  I place my hands on the spokes, then pull with all my might. It does not so much as budge. Resisting the urge to kick it in frustration, I come around to the other side, grip it again, and push, putting my entire body into it. Still nothing.

  “It is too heavy.” Beast leans against the wall by the stairs, arms folded as he watches me.

  “Poulet is not staying behind,” I say stubbornly. There is too great a chance they would find him and punish him for our escape.

  “No, he’s not.”

  Alarm leaps in my breast. “And you most definitely are not staying behind. Don’t even think it.”

  He pushes away from the wall. “Would that be so very bad, to have me stay behind long enough to ensure you, too, got away safely?”

  I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Yes,” I whisper. “The entire point of this was to get you out of here.” And away from your vile father.

  He reaches for me then. “I do not like leaving you here.”

  “It is only for another day or two. Long enough to be certain no one discovers your absence or, if they do, connect it to me and thus the queen. And Pierre is not here,” I add softly.

  There is a flicker of something in his eyes before he gathers me close. “No,” he whispers in my ear, “but the regent is, and she is every bit as venomous as he.”

  “I will be fine.”

  He slips his hands into my hair and cups my head, forcing me to meet his gaze, his dislike of this part of the plan clear in his face. “If you are not fine, I will come back and raze the palace to the ground with my bare hands and choke the life out of anyone who has harmed you. Are we clear?”

  “It will not be necessary. I promise.” I rise up on my toes and press my lips against his, trying to reassure him that this will all work out as we’ve planned.

  “I hate to break up you two lovers, but are we going to leave tonight or just make camp?”

  “Lazare,” Beast growls, “tell everyone to get ready to cross the drawbridge.” Once they are all across, he steps around me, then reaches for the winch. Although the muscles in his arms bunch and flex impressively, he does not even have to breathe hard. It is beyond annoying.

  “You promised you would not stay behind,” I remind him.

  “I’m not.” He grins. “There.” He reaches for a nearby torch and jams it into the turnwheel. “Most of the weight is up and balanced on this side of the fulcrum. You should be able to get it up the rest of the way. Try it, but leave the brake in.”

  I reach for the spokes again, relieved that they do indeed move when I pull on them hard enough. “There. I can do it. Now how will you get down if the drawbridge is not—”

  He grabs me once more, this time in a rib-cracking kiss meant to both silence me and reassure me that he does not bear a death wish. Then he releases me and trots down the stairs. I hurry after him in time to see him take a running start, then leap, reaching for the top of the drawbridge with both hands. With the length of his body pressed against the wood, he begins to pull himself up, his heart beating rapidly with the effort—no, wait. “Someone’s coming!” I whisper. He nods, then hoists himself the rest of the way, balancing on the four-inch lip of the drawbridge, graceful as a cat. I race back upstairs to finish raising the bridge as soon as he is clear.

  I hear a grunt as he launches himself across the moat. With no time to ensure he has not hurt himself, I place my foot against the spokes of the winch to remove the brake, then hoist the bridge all the way up. No sooner have I done so than the door to the gatehouse opens. With trembling arms, I step back against the wall, inching toward the corner where the shadows are the deepest.

  “The regent said she saw the old priest wandering around down here. Wanted us to patrol the gates and make sure nothing was amiss.”

  “Everything looks fine,” a second voice says, then grunts. “Except there ain’t no guards in here, like there should be.”

  Their heartbeats grow louder as they cross the first room, then move into the second, where they stop. “Portcullis is down, bridge is up. Just the guards are missing.”

  “Do we tell her that?”

  A long pause as they consider the price of displeasing the regent. “Not yet. You stay here while I go see who was supposed to be on duty. If I can’t find out who and where they are, then we’ll tell her.”

  I lean my head back against the wall as my own pulse begins to return to normal, not quite believing that they have gotten free.

   Chapter 71

  My head has scarcely touched my pillow when Elsibet is shaking my arm. “Wake up, my lady. The king has sent for you.”

  Alarm clangs against my ribs like a bell. Praise the Nine he did not send for me two hours ago. As I dress, I try to reassure myself that he cannot have discovered Beast’s absence. If so, he would have sent an armed guard. The thought is not as reassuring as it should be.

  Once I am presentable, I am ushered, not to the king’s audience chamber, but to his private apartments, past the main salon, past the bedroom where his valet is overseeing the last-minute packing for his hunting trip, to an office of sorts. The king sits at his desk. A stack of correspondence is shoved to one side while a small white letter sits in the middle. He does not bother with a greeting.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Not Beast, but Gen, and I am prepared for this. “No, Your Majesty. Her departure was a great surprise to me. While she and I have known each other only for a short time, I would have thought she would have informed me of her plans, but she did not.”

  That pleases him, although he tries not to show it. He splays one hand on the desk, straightening a corner of the letter with his finger. “Perhaps she did not trust you, just as I do not trust you.” His fingers curl in on themselves. “Or perhaps you are lying. It would not be the first time you have lied to your king.”

  “I am sorry circumstances forced me to lie to you, but I would do so again to protect those I love.”

  He makes a dismissive gesture. “You only want your sisters for political gain, as does your brother. You are as ruthless and political a creature as he is.”

  His words probe roughly at a bruise that has not yet healed. “Only because life has forced me to be.”

  He reaches for one of the map weights and begins rubbing it with his fingers. “I am sick of your entire family.”

  Would that you were sick enough to banish me from court, I think, but the gods never make it that easy.

  As if in rebuke, the small black pebble in my pocket grows warm. It is not too late to provoke him to such an act. I lift my chin in defiance. “I have done everything I can to meet your queen’s needs. I do
not know what else I can do to persuade you that I have only her best interests at heart.”

  He closes his hand around the map weight, capturing it. “Leave.” The word bursts from him like an overripe fig from its skin and my heart fair dances a jig in my chest. He leans forward, warming to the idea. “The only way you will ever convince me you are not the political creature I believe you to be is to love the queen enough to leave court. The sooner, the better.” His heart beats rapidly with the intensity of his emotions.

  I bow my head. “If only I could be assured of the queen’s safety, I would do so at once.”

  My words displease him. “Safe from what?”

  “The regent. She is the only one who has moved against her.”

  He studies the map weight in his hand. “Then you will be most pleased to know that I have ordered her to remove herself from court for the time being. She has her own family to see to, after all.”

  It is hard, so hard, to keep my jubilation from my face. I incline my head in thanks. “You are correct, Your Majesty. I am comforted knowing that is the case.”

  “Then you will have no issue leaving as soon as possible? Although I suppose today is too much to hope for.”

  “Not impossible, no. Not if that is what you wish.”

  He carefully sets the map weight on the table. “It is. Now go.”

  * * *

  That very afternoon, the same day the regent was to expose Gen, browbeat the king, and try to reclaim his power for her own, I leave the palace. Not, however, before I see her own entourage ride out. “We have not seen the last of her,” the queen says, standing at my side as we watch the departure from her solar.

  “No, but it is a reprieve, and I will gladly take it.”

  “As will I. Now be safe. And Godspeed to you all.”

  Of course, the king does not take my word that I will leave and has chosen to send an escort to accompany me to the Abbey of Saint Odile, the place recommended to us by Father Effram. I do not mind, for the hardest part is behind us. Now all we must do is warn the Breton barons of Rohan’s plans, aid them as necessary, then return with the proof of his treason. While Rohan is one of the wealthiest land owners in Brittany, he is only one man, and his resources are limited.

  The abbey is but an hour’s ride from Paris. As we leave, the fear and tension is pulled from my body, as if the end of it has snagged on the walls of the palace gate. It slowly unravels until it is naught but a thin, frayed thread that snaps when we pass out of the city limits.

  When we arrive at the abbey, the abbess herself greets me. She was born in Brittany, and her mother was a dedicand of Saint Brigantia. She does not offer any refreshment to my guards, but instead ushers me inside while they turn around and begin their ride back to the city. Once we are within the sturdy stone walls, she glances at me. “Would you like to rest and partake of some refreshment?”

  “No thank you, Reverend Mother.”

  Her mouth twitches. “I did not think so. And it is just as well, as I think the larger one is going to chop all my trees into firewood to pass the waiting.”

  We proceed through the abbey to the grounds behind it where I spy the others. Beast looks up just then, drops his ax, and begins striding toward me. “It is done. We are free.”

   Chapter 72

  “How many do you think there are?” Poulet keeps his voice low so it does not carry down into the valley.

  Lying on his belly with half his chest hanging over the edge of the ridge, Beast grunts, “Two hundred.”

  We are all on our bellies, spying on Rohan’s troops that surround Marshal Rieux’s holding at Châteaugiron, but Beast is the only one risking life and limb. I resist the urge to yank him back from the edge. As if I could budge his great bulk.

  Lazare spits off to the side. “Are we sure he’s not working with them?”

  It is a fair question, given the marshal’s fickle loyalties in the past. “I think the eight cannon pointed at his castle are a fair indication that he is not,” I say.

  Lazare shrugs. “Could be for show.”

  “To show whom? No one is coming as far as they know.”

  He lets it go, but not without muttering something under his breath. I ignore him and angle my body to better hear what Beast is saying.

  “Two hundred men, eight cannon. No other siege engines, except a battering ram.”

  “Is that normal?” Gen asks.

  Beast shakes his head. “They are trying to stay as nimble as possible.”

  Gen stares back down at the heavy cannon, each of them at least five times the weight of Beast. “Those are nimble?”

  Beast grins. “Compared to other siege engines. And they can do far more damage in less time.”

  “How do a dozen of us overpower two hundred men and their cannon?” Gen muses. To her credit, her voice gives no hint that she thinks the task impossible.

  Beast scoots back from the edge. “Very strategically.”

  Lazare rolls over and stares up at the sky. “We will foul their powder.”

  Aeva frowns at him. “They will have more brought in. Why not simply aim their cannon at them?”

  “Cannon aren’t very effective against infantry,” Beast explains. “They’re too scattered to provide a solid target. You might take out a few, but you won’t do any lasting damage.”

  Lazare sighs to make sure we all know how we try his patience. “Besides, then we wouldn’t have the gunpowder.”

  “Wait. If we want the gunpowder, why not just steal it?” Gen asks.

  “Because we don’t want them to suspect anyone is out here working against them.” Lazare shoots her a lopsided grin.

  “What is the advantage to having fouled powder?”

  He rolls his eyes. “They will send for more. And when they do, we’ll ambush that shipment of powder, and we will have it and not them.” His eyes take on a dreamy, faraway look. “Do you know what I can do with all that powder?

  I smile. “I have a good idea.”

  Beast nods in approval. “Now we just need to get a message to Rieux to let him know what we’re planning. If timed well, he could use the interval to turn his cannon on them and do some damage without risking his holding.”

  We all stare down in silence at the impenetrable fortress surrounded by two hundred foe and wonder how in the name of all the saints we are to get a message through that.

  “It’s impossible,” Poulet finally says.

  Aeva scoffs. “It’s as easy as breathing.” She motions to the castle. “I get close enough to shoot an arrow over the wall.” I eye the distance dubiously, but if anyone can, it is she. “Unless he’s of duller wit than I remember, he will recognize the fletching as belonging to Arduinna.” She glances at me. “And he can read, can’t he?”

  * * *

  It is decided, over Beast’s protests, that Genevieve, Aeva, Lazare, and I will be the ones to sneak into Rohan’s camp and foul the powder. The four of us were born to shadow or forest, and we are armed with knives and garrotes, arrows and wineskins.

  “We will accompany you as far as the edge of the woods,” Beast insists.

  As we head out, Aeva gets close enough to mutter, “He wasn’t nearly this fussy before you got here.”

  I shoot her a withering look. “That’s because he doesn’t care what happens to you.”

  “Or he knows I’m not as impulsive as some.”

  Lazare cuts us off. “Unless you are planning to alert the enemy to our approach, I suggest you all hush your flapping mouths.” We are nowhere close enough for Rohan’s men to hear us, yet we stop talking all the same.

  Once we draw near the camp, we spread out. It is more difficult to notice one person moving in the dark than an entire troop. The sentries on night watch do not so much as cast a glance in our direction as we sneak past them. At the main camp, there are a dozen pitched tents—we are having a warm, early spring, so many of the men sleep out in the open.

  The artillery wagon is with the rest of th
e supply train. While a number of men have laid their bedding around it, there are no additional posted guards. They are either certain of their watchmen or confident that they will meet no opposition. They are wrong on both counts.

  Aeva stays back from the supplies, on the far side of the sleeping men, with her bow drawn in case any should wake and want to interfere. Lazare leads Genevieve and me toward the wagon. After peering at the contents for a few moments, he springs lightly up into the wagon bed and begins silently moving around.

  He finds seven small wooden barrels and carries them to the back, where Gen and I wait. He removes a knife and pries the cork from the hole, then peers inside. “This is it.” His voice is nearly indistinguishable from the soft night noises around us.

  Using my knife, I pry the cork from the barrel closest to me, then lift the wineskin and pour all the water from it into the barrel, moving the stream around so as to soak as much of the powder as possible. Beside me, Gen does the same.

  But we have only brought six wineskins, and there are seven barrels. Before I can ask Lazare what we should do for the seventh barrel, I hear a faint trickling sound. Beside me Gen makes a muffled noise. When I look up, Lazare grins over his shoulder as he pisses into the final barrel. From the twinkle in his eye, I cannot help but think he planned to do that, no matter how many barrels there were.

  * * *

  When we have finished with the powder, we return to the woods where Beast, Yannic, and Poulet are waiting. Aeva glances at the sky. “The wind has died down, and the camp is asleep. Now is the best time to send the message.”

  “Do you have a spot picked out?” Beast asks.

  Aeva points.

  “Very well. Lead us to it.”

  She stares at him. “I do not need an armed guard to shoot an arrow.”

  Beast shrugs. “Mayhap not, but we are going to provide one, nonetheless.”

  It is clear she wishes to argue, but having traveled with him for weeks must have taught her the uselessness of such effort. With a quiet huff, she heads toward her vantage point.