Courting Darkness

Copyright © 2019 by Robin LaFevers

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

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Cover illustration © 2019 by Billelis

Cover design by Whitney Leader-Picone

Map by Cara Llewellyn

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Names: LaFevers, Robin, author.

Title: Courting darkness / by Robin LaFevers.

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019] | Summary: When Sybella discovers there is another trained assassin from St. Mortain’s convent deep undercover in the French court, she must use every skill in her arsenal to navigate the deadly royal politics and find her sister in arms before her time—and that of the newly crowned queen—runs out.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018021262

Subjects: | CYAC: Assassins—Fiction. | Courts and courtiers—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. | Brittany (France)—History—1341–1532—Fiction. | France—History—Charles VIII, 1483–1498—Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.L14142 Co 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018021262

ISBN 978-0-544-99119-4 hardcover

ISBN 978-0-358-23838-6 paperback

eISBN 978-1-328-52791-2

v3.0620

To fierce, determined girls everywhere.

Especially those still discovering how to be fierce.

You are the true heroes.

Dramatis Personae

From the Convent of Saint Mortain, patron saint of death

Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

Ismae Rienne, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

Annith, handmaiden to Death

Lady Margot, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême

Lady Genevieve, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême

The Breton Court

Anne, duchess of Brittany, countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont

Gavriel Duval, a Breton noble, half brother to the duchess

Isabeau, Anne’s sister (deceased)

Duke Francis II, Anne’s father (deceased)

The Privy Council

Benebic de Waroch, Beast, knight of the realm, captain of the queen’s guard

Jean de Châlons, prince of Orange

Captain Dunois, captain of the Breton army

Phillipe Montauban, chancellor of Brittany

Jean de Rieux, former marshal of Brittany

Bishop of Rennes

Father Effram

The d’Albret Family

Alain d’Albret, lord of Albret, viscount of Tartas, 2nd count of Graves (deceased)

Sybella d’Albret, Death’s daughter, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

Pierre d’Albret, second son of Alain d’Albret, viscount of Périgord and Limoges

Julian d’Albret, third son of Alain d’Albret (deceased)

Charlotte, daughter of Alain d’Albret

Louise, youngest daughter of Alain d’Albret

Tephanie Blaine, lady in waiting to Sybella

Breton Nobility

Viscount Maurice Crunard, former chancellor of Brittany

Anton Crunard, last surviving son of the former

Jean de Rohan, viscount of Rohan, lord of Léon and count of Porhoët, uncle to the duchess

Followers of Saint Arduinna

Aeva, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

Tola, Arduinnite, lady in waiting to the duchess of Brittany

Breton Men-at-Arms

Sir Lannion, second in command of the queen’s guard

Yannic, squire to Benebic de Waroch

Lazare, charbonnerie, member of the queen’s guard

Graelon, charbonnerie

The French Court and Nobility

Charles VIII, king of France

Anne de Beaujeu, sister to the king, regent of France

Philip de Beaujeu, duke of Burgundy, husband to Anne

Maximilian of Austria, the Holy Roman emperor

Princess Marguerite, former dauphine of France, daughter of Maximilian of Austria

Louis, Duke of Orléans

Simon de Fremin, a lawyer

Seguin de Cassel, general in the king’s army

The Cognac Court

Count Charles Angoulême

Louise de Savoy, countess of Angoulême

Jeanne de Polignac, mistress to Count Angoulême, lady in waiting to Louise

In France

Jasper, a mercenary

Valine, a mercenary

Andry, a mercenary

Tassin, a mercenary

Richard of Shrewsbury, claimant to the throne of England

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

Sybella

Rennes, Brittany

November 1489

As I stand on the battlements of the besieged city, looking out at the disarray before me, it is clear the god of Death has taken to the field. While this could be said of any battle—death and war are old friends, after all—today He rides a black horse, a pale-haired rider hunkered down in front of Him.

Annith. The most skilled of all of Death’s handmaidens and the sister of my heart.

She has done her part to avert this war—taken her shot using the last of the arrows forged by the gods, which flew as straight and true as if guided by their own hand. But now the French have seen her. Understand that it was she who shot at their king. And even though he is unharmed—harming him was never the intent—they are on her like jackals on a rotting carcass.

Reload! calls out Aeva, one of the dozen followers of Saint Arduinna who stand beside me along the ramparts.

Death and Annith ride hard for the gate, Mortain covering her with His body—a body from which four arrows protrude—protecting her life with His own. No, not His own, for He is the god of Death, I remind myself. But Father Effram’s warning has taken root in my heart.

My lord, you do know what will happen if you choose to involve yourself in mortal affairs, do you not?

The French archers release a second volley of arrows. As one, the Arduinnites and I return fire. But our arrows are too late. Mortain is hit yet again, taking two more to His side. Annith twists in the saddle, trying to hold onto Him.

It does not work, and they plummet to the ground. Annith begins crawling toward Mortain under yet another shower of French arrows. By Fate or chance, one of them buries itself in Death’s chest, and I feel the pain of it as if it comes from my own. Ice-cold fingers of dread trail down my back before wrapping themselves around my heart.

As a lone hound brays in the distance, I shove away from the battlements and race down the stairway to the gate. More hounds join the first, raising their voices in an unholy lamentation. For a moment, the world hangs suspended, like a drop of sap oozing from a tree, and in that moment I know. The god of Death—my father—is gone. He has passed from this world.

By the time I reach the gate, the French have fallen back, as if even they sense the magnitude of this moment. Nuns from the convent of Saint Brigantia swarm toward the fallen Mortain as Annith throws herself on his body, weeping. As much as I am hurting, she will be even more so.

Before I can reach them, a laugh rings out—an incongruous, joyful sound in the solemn stillness.

Puzzled, Death reaches for his chest, his hand coming away red with blood. Although I am half a bowshot away, I hear him say, I am alive.

It feels as if the earth I am standing on gives a dizzying spin.

He is alive. But even as far away as I am, I can see that he is no longer Death.

A great chasm opens inside me, a dark yawning maw that threatens to swallow me whole. If Death no longer walks amongst us, then what purpose am I to serve? What use will there be for my dark talents and skills?

I fear the answer was writ long ago, when I was born into the family that raised me. The family that nearly killed me and drove my mother into Death’s arms.

And that answer terrifies me far more than death ever has.

Chapter 1

Genevieve

Cognac, France

November 1489

I was born in the upstairs room of an ancient roadside tavern, a group of common whores acting as midwives. My mother, too, was a whore, although perhaps not so very common. Would an ordinary woman invite Death to her bed on a dare?

I emerged covered in slime and blood, my face—indeed, my entire body—as blue as a wild hyacinth. Hushed whispers and murmurs of sympathy followed the horrified silence my arrival caused, until Solange, the oldest among them, grabbed me from my mother’s slippery hands and swatted my backside.

Nothing. I did not cry or whimper or even draw breath. But old whores are as wise as old cats, and Solange did not give up. She bent down to place her wrinkled lips on mine, and blew.

According to my mother, my chin quivered, a fist curled.

Solange blew again, her determined breath somehow shoving away the cold hands of my father as He reached for me.

I drew a deep breath of my own after that, followed by a lusty cry. The women thought me a miracle, moved that one had been visited upon them just as if they were the Magdalena herself.

All except my mother, who knew precisely who she’d invited into her bed nine months earlier. It wasn’t until I was four years old and clutched at her hand as she headed up the stairs with her night’s customer that my parentage was confirmed. His heart, I whispered into her lowered ear as I rubbed my small chest. It’s beating strangely.

Less than an hour later, he was dead.

It is that same panicked beating that has brought me to the lowest levels of the castle today—a heartbeat as close and intimate as if it is beating against my own ribs.

I follow the deep ba-bump through the narrow, twisting corridors of the dungeons, stopping when a gaping black hole appears at my feet. The darkness that oozes up through the metal grate is as thick and solid as a coiled snake.

At first, I think it a hatch to the river that runs nearby. Or perhaps—wrinkling my nose—the sewer. Until the next heartbeat reverberates through me, one long, deep ba-bump. I never feel the heartbeats of others unless they are close to dying. That is when I finally understand the nature of this pit.

It is an oubliette.

A dungeon designed specifically for those who do not even warrant the mercy of a clean death.

Nameless dread that cannot be explained by the presence of death thrums through me. My hand clenches. I should turn and walk away. Return to the sumptuous, brightly lit rooms of the castle proper.

I am getting ready to do just that when the heartbeat stops. The pressure in my chest grows, stretching against my ribs, seeping into the very marrow of my bones. Trepidation and despair sweep through me, as if the world itself has just been torn in two.

And then the pressure stops. Is simply gone, like the passing of the wind.

Who’s there?

The croaked question shatters the absolute silence, causing me to leap back. The dead do not speak.

Oubliette. To forget.

If it were called by any other name, I could turn and walk away. If it were empty, it most assuredly would hold no interest for me. But someone is down there, someone else the world has forgotten. That he is dying—well, there is no way I can ignore it now. While I was sired by the god of Death and sent to His convent to train in His arts, I have had precious little opportunity to explore them since I have left.

Who are you? The voice is low and hoarse, but it is the commanding tone of it that startles an answer from me.

No one. A shadow. My words float down into the darkness on the barest exhalation of breath. Hopefully he will think them naught but a fevered dream as he lies at Death’s door.

There is movement below, as if someone is shifting position, straining to look up. A moment later, I hear him rising to his feet. I scramble back from the hole, my footsteps quick and silent.

When I am well away from the oubliette, I allow myself to run, returning through the labyrinth of underground corridors to the main floor of the castle.

Who are you?

His question follows me like a ghost, as if the forgotten, dying man has looked into my very soul and seen the doubt and uncertainty that has plagued me for the last year.

Who, by the Nine, am I?

When I finally reach the main section of the palace, I pause to brush off my skirts and smooth my hair. I arrange my face into the bland, subservient mask I have worn for the past five years, then step into the warmth of the light.

Oddly, it is far colder against my skin than the living blackness of the dungeon.

Chapter 2

Sybella

Rennes, Brittany

One Week Later

The loss of my father, still sharp and raw, drives me to the city gates, as if I’m hoping that he will return. But of course, he does not. Even so, like one of the restless souls that still hover where their bodies fell, I hover in the shadows of the gate and stare out at the empty field beyond.

No. Not empty. A small holly bush appeared three days after Mortain fell, springing wholly formed from the earth soaked with his blood. Its leaves are dark green and glisten with bright red berries. Holly has always been sacred to Mortain.

Beneath the miraculous bush, humble offerings have sprung up like toadstools after a rain—a silver coin, loaves of coarse brown bread, a comb of honey, a bundle of willow twigs, a black ribbon. The branches are rumored to bring love to the forlorn, health to the sick, and peace to the dying. It is the last that I find most believable. He was the god of Death, after all.

I have often wondered why my god bid me live when I sank to the bottom of that river nearly six months ago. He did not just whisper encouragement in my ear, but put his cold hand upon mine and pulled me to the surface, into the waiting arms of one who loved me.

Was it simply a gift for all I had suffered? Or was there some purpose I had yet to serve? Or mayhap it was naught but a parent’s instinct to assure his child’s survival.

He saved me once before. When I was fourteen years old and in pain beyond bearing, I tried to take my own life. On that day, I was told by my old nurse that I was sired by Death and not Count d’Albret, my mother’s husband and the man who raised me. I was taken to the convent of Saint Mortain then, where I spent the next three years learning Death’s arts.

Even that was not my first brush with death. I very nearly did not survive my own birth, arriving with the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck, my mother’s body unable to let go of me, already regretting her decision to bring me into this world.

If not for the promise my true father had made to her, I would have gone with her into death. But promise he did, and the god of Death is not one to break such promises. Instead, I lived.

And he, he . . . did not.

Anger as bright and red as one of the holly berries flares in my belly. Anger that one so newly come into my life has left it far too soon. Why did my father save me, only to abandon me once more? Why did he bid me live if he would not be here to guide my hand? It was only through Mortain’s existence and grace that I found a place in this world. A purpose.

I reach out and grab a piece of holly, ripping it from the bush. Whether it is to hurt the bush or because I need some reminder of who I am, I cannot say. But the leaves are sharp with thorns, and I cut myself. A drop of blood wells up, as dark and red as one of the holly berries.

Is this blood still mingled with that of the gods or will I, too, become fully human?

Behind me, someone coughs. Shoving the holly into my pocket, I pull a dagger from my belt and whirl around. But it is only a wizened priest, sparse white hair fluttering slightly in the breeze, who stands there.

Father Effram. I hope he cannot hear the disappointment in my voice. How am I able to feel everyone’s heart beating but yours? In the days since Mortain fell, that is the one gift of his that I know still remains—my ability to sense the heartbeats of the living.

Father Effram’s eyes dance with a mischievous light as he spreads his hands wide and lifts his shoulders. "It is a very old heart, Lady Sybella." The twinkle in his eye reminds me of Annith’s claim that the ancient priest does not merely follow the patron saint of mistakes, but once walked the earth as Saint Salonius himself.

What brings you outside the city gates, Father?

There is a . . . problem that requires your attention.

What sort of problem? Anticipation stirs in my chest. I have been prowling the city since the battle, searching among the jubilant townspeople, relieved merchants, and dispersing mercenaries to see what other gifts might still remain. The right sort of problem could reveal those answers.

I’m afraid one of the prisoners has overpowered his guard and taken a hostage.

I turn and begin walking back to the city. Which prisoner?

The former chancellor Crunard.

I look sharply at Father Effram.

What does he want?

Annith.

Does he not know that she has returned to the convent of Saint Mortain?

Apparently not.

And the hostage? Who is he?

When the priest does not answer, I grow uneasy. Father? I prompt.

He sighs deeply, reaching up to tug at his ear. The bishop.

I stop walking. Surely you jest.

No jest, my lady.

While the bishop is a member of the duchess’s Privy Council and one of her spiritual advisors, he and I have only one thing in common—our mutual dislike. Of all the members of the duchess’s inner circle, he is the one who insists on clinging to his prejudice and judgment of me.

Every deed I have done out of love, he ascribes to self-interest. Every action born of my loyalty, he has suspected of treachery. Even my devotion to Mortain is tainted in his eyes, due to my own dark past, my depraved family, and the nature of my god.

It is like looking into a mirror that reflects back all the worst fears I ever had about myself.

For seventeen years, my self-loathing had been honed to a razor-sharp edge. It was only Mortain’s grace that was able to dull it and cleanse me of despair. That I should be asked to save the bishop’s hide now, when those old wounds have opened, seeping even older doubts and fears, seems a cruel fate.

Let him pray to his God. If he is worthy of being saved, then surely He will send someone.

Father Effram’s gaze meets mine squarely. He has.

"Someone other than me."

He scratches his nose. God makes use of what tools He can find.

I stare at him a long moment before huffing out a resigned breath. While this is not the answer I seek, I will not turn down a chance to pit my skills against a known traitor. Even if I cannot kill him, I am spoiling for a fight. Any fight will do.

Besides, it will pain the bishop greatly to be saved by the likes of me. That is reward enough.

Chapter 3

When we reach the north wing where Crunard is being held, three guards stand in front of the closed door, weapons drawn. Good. Crunard will not be escaping with his hostage. When they see us, to my astonishment, they abandon the door and rush toward us, weapons drawn.

Fortunately, it is a long hallway.

I flip my knives so that I hold them by the tip. I wait one heartbeat, and a second, hoping beyond reason that Mortain can still marque those meant for death. The precepts of my faith have always insisted that to kill without his marque to guide our hand is to step outside his grace and risk becoming naught but a murderer.

But no marques appear, and the men are almost upon us. Fortunately, the precepts of Mortain also grant us the ability to kill in self-defense.

Down! I shout to Father Effram. I let one dagger fly, then the next.

The closest guard reels back, clutching his eye. Behind him, the second man checks his stride, dropping his sword as his hand claws at the knife embedded in his throat. The third guard steps around the others, sword raised.

He is a big man, thickset and heavy. Either it has not registered that I have just mortally wounded his two friends or he is stupid, so certain he has a killing blow that he moves slowly, like an executioner at a beheading.

In the time it takes for his sword to arc toward me, I retrieve the stiletto from my left sleeve. Ducking in low, I launch my entire body at him, aiming for his gullet.

The move brings me up against his chest, my blade sinking deeply into the hollow of his throat. For one crystalline moment, we are pressed together in an embrace, his sword flailing uselessly behind me. I twist the stiletto, shoving it in deeper.

Just as I leap back to avoid the blood, a great, dark, flapping thing rises from his body and tries to wrap itself around me. I do not know who is more shocked, the soul as it hovers in disbelief near his lifeless husk, or myself as I realize that the ability to experience the souls of the dying is a gift of Mortain's that is still left to me.

But there is no time to savor that. As I hurry to collect my knives, Father Effram pushes to his feet. His cheeks are pink, his eyes bright with . . . fear? Excitement? Admiration? I cannot tell.

As I approach Crunard’s chamber, I feel more alive than I have in days, my skin tingling with anticipation, my heart leaping at the challenge before me. There are three—no, four—pulses beating in the room. I tighten the grip on my long knife, ​no longer caring that it is the be-damned bishop I am saving.

On my signal, Father Effram raps smartly on the door. Monsieur Crunard? I have the woman you asked for.

As the key turns in the lock, I utter a silent prayer for Mortain’s guidance. If some of his gifts are left to me, then perhaps a tenuous connection still exists between us as well. A connection that could allow me to know his will.

As soon as the door begins to open, I kick against it with all my might, forcing it back against the wall with a crash.

Crunard stands behind the door, his sword pointed at me, my long knife holding it at bay. A fallen guard lies on the floor behind him. Another stands with a sword pointed at the bishop, who cowers in the corner.

Crunard glares at Father Effram. This is not Annith!

Annith is not coming.

There is the briefest flicker of surprise and disappointment before Crunard gains control of his features. She has already left?

I cannot help it—I laugh. Did you truly think your daughter would bid you a fond farewell? Not only are you a traitor to our country, but you have treated her and her mother abysmally.

My barb finds a home. I did not even know she existed until mere months ago.

That does not excuse any of it.

Crunard’s jaw tightens. I think you forget that I am the one holding the hostage.

I think you forget that the bishop and I do not care for each other in the least. I am more interested in your motives than his safety.

I want out of this prison.

To what end? So you can betray the duchess a second time? And why today? As I speak, I move carefully, so slowly that to the untrained eye it will look as if I am holding still.

So I can find my son.

The son he claims is being held hostage by the French regent. The duchess already promised she will inquire after his whereabouts when she arrives in France. I am closer now to the armed guard standing over the bishop—almost within striking range.

Crunard’s free hand clenches into a fist. I do not trust that the duchess will do it. I wish to search for him myself. His eyes are as clear and guileless as a babe’s, but his gaze shifts ever so slightly. He is lying. Of that I am certain.

I raise my knife. Properly applied, the tip would do very little damage, but might yield up the truth behind his lies. The thought unnerves me. Mortain has only been gone a handful of days, and already my mind turns back to the dark instincts of my past.

I smile, but I do not think it is reassuring. You can trust the duchess. She is not doing it for you, but for Annith, who would like to meet this brother she so recently learned of. I tilt my head. How will she feel about this newest trick of yours? Killing innocent guards, threatening the bishop, further dragging her family name through the mud.

His face grows white with fury. He takes a step toward me, the tip of his sword lowering ever so slightly. It is the smallest of openings, but I take it. Father! The door!

When the guard glances toward the door, I lunge at him. Before he has time to react, I grab him by the hair, jerk his head back, and slit his throat.

Blood spurts out in a crimson rain, staining the floor as well as the cowering bishop. I do not stop long enough to comfort him, but launch myself at Crunard, bracing for the impact of his sword against my dagger—hoping my blade will be long enough.

Instead of resistance, I find Crunard standing with his sword stuck in the closed door, Father Effram sprawled at his feet. I check my momentum as Crunard pulls his gaze from the dead guard to my oncoming rush, then shift my weight to my back leg and swing my front leg up to kick the hand still holding the sword.

There is a loud snap as the contact breaks his wrist. He bellows, and his grip goes slack. Before he can do more than that, I step in close and point the long knife at his throat.

His face is pale, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. His pulse beats rapidly against the blade’s edge.

I glance at Father Effram on the floor. Are you all right?

Fine. I am fine. He tries to leap up, but finds himself yanked back down. If somewhat stuck. He tugs helplessly at the hem of his robe caught in the door. If you could be so kind, my lady?

My lips twitch as I reach out with one hand to open the door long enough for him to retrieve his robe. The priest springs to his feet. "I do serve the patron saint of mistakes," he mutters, dusting off his robe.

The sword embedded in the door is at the exact height of Father Effram’s heart. It is just as well that you do. That mistake saved your life.

Father Effram glances over his shoulder, the blood draining from his face. To give him something to think about besides how close he came to death, I tell him to go see what the bishop is whining about.

As he hurries off to that corner of the room, I step away from Crunard to peer around the desk to the man on the floor. His heartbeat is weak and irregular.

Who is he?

The sentry on duty when my friends arrived. His injury was an accident.

The man’s shirt is stained red with blood. Since when is a chest wound an accident?

I had a sword pointed at him, but he wasn’t supposed to throw himself on it. He was outnumbered, after all.

He was supposed to ignore his duties and see to his own safety? I snort. Not everyone is as cowardly as you and takes the easy way out.

Please, he says, tell me. What was easy about my sons dying one by one as they fought for their country? Or having my last surviving son taken captive in a futile battle for Brittany’s independence?

Cupping his useless hand, he takes a step closer. Tell me, what was easy about learning that son was held hostage by the regent of France? And that the only way I could save him was to turn my back on everything I had fought for my entire life? I have been forced to sit here for a year, unable to do anything to find him. Please, do tell me how easy that was.

Merde. That cannot have been easy. Maybe that was not the right word, I concede. But then, nothing about our country’s fight to remain independent of France has been easy. Before he can say anything else, I point my knife at him. Do not go anywhere.

I won’t. Even though his eyes stay firmly on mine, the muscles in his body tense, gathering strength to make a break for the door.

I sigh in exasperation. I tried to give you a chance, I remind him, then kick his left knee. It is a gentle tap—meant to deter, not destroy—but he is old and not expecting it. He shouts as he crashes to the floor. Assured he will not go anywhere, I finally hurry over to the injured man and kneel beside him.

His eyelids flutter, and a groan of pain escapes his lips. Must warn the duchess . . . Crunard—

I place my hand on his shoulder. Shhh. He did not escape, monsieur. Your brave deed gave us the time we needed.

His breathing becomes easier. And the bishop?

I glance over at the bishop, whom Father Effram is helping to his feet. He will live. I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

The man gives a faint nod, before his eyes drift shut. The bishop and Father Effram approach us. Will he make it? Father Effram asks.

I shake my head. Father Effram kneels beside the dying man. What is your name?

William.

Tell us what we can do for you, William.

So thirsty.

Eager to do something to ease his agony, I rise to my feet and snag an ewer that sits on the desk, then return to William's side.

He is too weak to lift his head, so I rip off a corner of my underskirt, dip it into the water, and dribble it into his mouth. He is dying. I know it. But there is no marque on his forehead; no deathly shadows lurk upon his mortal wound.

A wave of despair washes over me at the finality of this moment, for both William and me. There truly are no more marques of Mortain to guide the living into death. To guide me. How am I to navigate such a world? What will keep me from straying too far into the shadows?

But I am not the only one of Mortain’s daughters serving here at court. Where is Ismae? I ask Father Effram.

He considers me a moment. I believe she is with the duchess.

Go and fetch her, if you please. She is death’s mercy, I murmur. She will know what is to be done.

His face softens. But you too know what is to be done, Lady Sybella. And you are already here.

Just get her, I snap.

He rises to his feet and heads for the door. Best send for Duval as well, I call after him. The duchess’s half brother and master strategist will need to know of Crunard’s newest betrayal. And take the bishop with you. He is no doubt anxious to get out of his bloody robes.

As the bishop passes me on the way to the door, he pauses to utter a short prayer for William. He does not so much as glance at me or utter a single word of thanks. I nearly laugh. Even now, after I have saved his sorry life, he cannot bear the sight of me. Whether it is because I am Mortain’s daughter or because of the more human aspects of my past, I do not know.

Dismissing him from my mind, I turn my attention back to the guard. Since there is nothing else I can do, I take his hand in mine.

Father Effram is wrong. I am useless in this situation. I am—was—death’s justice, never his mercy. It was Ismae who bestowed the mercy that death could deliver. Not I. I was only ever to serve as his vengeance.

William groans again, a heartbreaking whimper of pain. I grip his hand tighter, as if by doing so I can will him into death.

It is close now. I can feel his soul frantically beating against his body, wanting to be free. I do not know whether to be grateful that I can still feel such things or enraged that I must feel them with no way of knowing what I am supposed to do.

His heartbeat falters and stumbles, then struggles to keep going—like a valiant horse that is pulling too heavy a load. It would be so easy to free him of that.

I reach up and run my hand gently along his brow, then down his cheek. Be at peace, dear William. I place my palm over his struggling heart. I close my eyes and breathe deep, growing still inside. How can I ease this man’s plight?

Slowly, an answer comes, filling both my heart and mind with a presence that is far wiser than I. And that . . . presence . . . knows the absolute rightness of what to do.

I press my palm more firmly against his chest, using no more pressure than I would to caress my sister’s cheek. Rest now.

With a faint sigh of relief, his heart stops. In the silence that follows, William’s soul rises from his body, like some wary cat unfurling from a hiding place, then rubs against me. In thanks, I realize.

I allow myself to savor the peace the soul feels. The peace that it in turn brings me.

The soul does not linger or try to force itself upon me as most do, but simply floats up to the ceiling, where, like all souls, it will wait three days before finally departing.

When I look away, I find Crunard watching me. I blink twice, trying to reorient myself.

He is dead, I say.

Is he, now? Crunard’s eyes are sharp and bright.

Which means in addition to your crime of treason, you are a murderer. I utter the words harshly, hoping they will hide my sorrow. This was no casualty of war or battle, but your own selfishness and greed.

His face contains multitudes—anger, disappointment, frustration—but no regret, no sorrow, no remorse. Indeed, it feels as if there is almost a belligerent ferocity lying just beneath the surface. "I do not think it was I who killed that man," he says softly.

The wily fox, they used to call him. And no wonder. You are mistaken. I simply placed my hand on his heart and prayed that his death be easy.

And Mortain chose to honor your wishes? His scorn is palpable.

Yes, I say, trying to keep the wonder from my voice.

Chapter 4

The sound of others approaching from the far end of the hallway is a welcome distraction.

Have you sent for Beast? Ismae’s voice is as familiar as my own. It was the first voice that reached through my grief and despair when I arrived at the convent. If not for her gentle coaxing, I would have run away rather than allow myself to be trained by the nuns who served Mortain.

No, Duval answers. He is not scheduled to return until tomorrow. The heels of his boots are clipped and hard upon the floor.

Duval. Ismae’s voice is filled with both compassion and warning.

His footsteps slow. What?

Whatever Crunard was planning, it failed. Do not . . . do not act rashly.

Says the woman whom I spent nearly a year trying to restrain from killing half the nobles at court. His words do not hide the pride or love he holds for her, although he would be appalled to know that.

It’s been a long time since I tried to kill anyone, Ismae grumbles.

Duval ignores her protest. Why do you think I would do anything rash? Crunard has only betrayed our country and my sister, poisoned me, tried to kill you, and has now repaid the leniency we showed him by littering the hallway with bodies.

Father Effram clears his throat. I believe that was Lady Sybella, my lord.

Gavriel Duval appears in the doorway, his gray eyes filled with a barely contained fury. I do not even pretend that I was not eavesdropping. What took you so long?

Stepping over the trail of bodies you left in the hallway. Duval’s voice is dry as bone, but the harshness in his face is softened by gratitude. Once again, we owe you a debt of thanks.

Before I have time to rebuff his sincerity, Ismae pushes past him, shaking her head in exasperation. But silent questions—and envy—lurk deep within her probing gaze. If you wanted to get out of your stitching duties, I’m sure there was an easier way.

I shrug carelessly. It’s important I keep my skills honed, especially in light of my upcoming trip to the French court.

As she draws closer, she scrutinizes my face, my gown, my very soul, to assure herself that I am okay.

Your concern is almost insulting.

Hush. She reaches up to wipe something from my cheek. You’re covered in blood.

Without taking his eyes from Crunard, Duval clears his throat. Would you mind telling us what happened here?

Ismae grimaces at his stuffy formality, but I know it is the mask he wears when his emotions run high. Of course, my lord. Your prisoner Crunard was ungrateful over his improved conditions and decided to take advantage of the duchess’s mercy. He bribed or coerced three of the duchess’s men to his cause and used them to take the bishop hostage, killing a fourth guard in the process.

Duval turns on his heel and strides over to where Crunard sits on the floor. Why? What was worth these four men’s lives?

My son.

A vein in Duval’s temple begins to pulse. Do you really think Anton would want you to slay his countrymen in his name? If so, he was right about you all these years—you do not know him at all. The disgust on Duval’s face is palpable. I should have had you killed months ago, he mutters.

But you didn’t. Crunard smirks. And now you cannot, because it would be in cold blood and your honor—he nearly spits the words out—would never allow that.

You have no idea what my honor will allow, old fox.

I beg to differ. It will keep you from ever truly winning.

The words sting, as Duval has done everything in his power to keep Brittany independent of France. That they will now be joined by a marriage contract rather than outright conquest is thin comfort. Duval looks away a moment, as if arguing with himself. Without warning, he turns back around and gives Crunard a healthy clip to the jaw.

The older man’s eyes widen in surprise as his head snaps back, then close as he slumps into unconsciousness.

I shoot Duval a look of annoyance. If I’d known we were allowed to do that, I would have clouted him myself.

Duval flexes his hand as he takes in Crunard’s injured wrist and twisted knee. It looks like you got a good shot at him. But you are truly all right?

If either one of you asks me that again, I will prove how fine I am by stabbing you with my knife.

That elicits a begrudging smile out of him as Ismae announces, Clearly, she is fine.

When more guards arrive to remove the bodies and return Crunard to the dungeon, Ismae accompanies me to my room so I may change. Knock first, I warn her. I don’t want Charlotte and Louise to see me covered in blood and trailing the scent of death. Such easy violence is precisely why I am determined to keep my sisters from our family.

Ismae raps on the door. When there is no answer, she opens it and waves me inside, then pulls me over near the banked fire and begins unlacing my gown.

Well?

She and I have been prowling the palace and surrounding parts of the city like vultures, waiting for someone—anyone—to die so we could see how death worked in this new, upended world.

I take a deep breath before answering. There are no marques any longer. Saying the words out loud feels as if someone has carved my heart out of my chest, leaving it empty and hollow.

Her hands on my laces still. Truly? she whispers.

Truly. Not on the guards rushing me, not on the man holding the bishop hostage, and not on the soldier who lay dying in my arms. Even as he passed into death, no marque appeared.

Ismae’s silent disappointment fills the room as her fingers resume their work. So, that is it. His gifts have left us.

I give a quick shake of my head. Not all. I am still able to feel heartbeats and sense souls as they leave their bodies.

She lets out a breath. Well, that’s a good sign.

Are you still able to sense the presence of life? For all that we are half sisters, her abilities have differed somewhat from mine—all of Mortain’s daughters have variations in their gifts and skills.

Yes, she answers slowly. But I was never certain if that was Mortain’s gift or the convent’s training.

I glance at her over my shoulder. Do you dare try poison?

Blushing, she pretends to struggle with a knot. It still does not appear to harm me in the slightest. But again, I wasn’t sure whether that was one of his gifts or some strange aspect of my own body.

To hide how happy I am for her, I smirk. And they say I am impulsive.

She lifts her shoulder in a half shrug as she unfastens my belt. Before she can remove it from my waist, I quickly hide the holly twig in my palm. I start to tell her of my prayer for the dying man, and the surety with which the answer came, but find I cannot. It is still too new, too nebulous. I am afraid that speaking of it will cause the connection to shatter, and I am too selfish to risk that.

Chapter 5

Genevieve

It is a few days before I can break free from the others and return to the dungeon.

Margot’s confinement began this week, so there were many trips to the chapel for the ritual blessings, final feasts, and celebrations with the household. My absence would have been noted—and commented upon—something I am desperate to avoid. But at last Margot has been sequestered to her room in anticipation of the babe’s birth.

Descending the staircase, I let the bustle and chatter of the castle fall away like an unbearably stiff cloak. Fortunately, the sense of impending dread has left me, but the sense that the world has shifted in some unnamable way remains.

As I step into the corridor that leads to the dungeon, the darkness folds itself around me like a welcoming blanket. I pause for a moment, listening for potential guards or the sound of the prisoner’s heart beating. But there is nothing. I place my hand upon my chest to be certain, but there is only the steady rhythm of my own heart.

A fleeting sense of sorrow shafts through me for the passing of a life, unknown and alone. However, it is the passing of that life that has drawn me here—giving me a chance to explore death more closely.

There are so many lessons Margot and I had not yet received from the nuns at the convent of Saint Mortain before we were sent away. We know only a handful of ways to kill a man, and have even less understanding of how our arts work.

That is what I am hoping to learn from the dead prisoner. Provided the guards have not lugged the body away, it will be a perfect map for me to study.

It is not until I am standing almost upon the grate itself that I hear the sound of . . . panting? No, huffing. Followed by a grunt.

The sounds of a living human. Disappointment slams into me like a fist, and I nearly crush the apple I have brought for my lunch. He had to have been close to death for me to have heard his heart. Yet now he is down here breathing and grunting. How can I explore the mysteries of death if the man is still alive?

Ives? Have you returned? The deep rumble of the prisoner’s voice is more proof he is not as dead as he should be.

You have been alone so long your enfeebled mind is conjuring ghosts for company.

There is a faint whisper of movement, and though I cannot see through the murk, his regard is palpable as it reaches through the dark to take my measure. While my enfeebled mind has conjured many ghosts these last long months, you are the first to smell of apples.

I loosen my grip on the fruit in my hand, the full impact of his situation finally registering. He has been locked down here for months. Was near death but a few days ago.

I do have an apple. Would you like it?

Yes. The force of his hunger causes his voice to crack.

It is a simple thing, to bring such reverence to a man’s voice. The apple is too large to fit through the grate, so I reach for the small knife at my belt and slice it in half. I will drop it down, one half at a time.

There is a rustle as he comes to stand beneath the opening. I peer down, but see nothing in all that sooty darkness. It’s coming through the center, I tell him, hoping he can catch it rather than have it land in the filth I can smell all the way from here. I drop one half, then the other, holding my breath until I hear the quiet slap of them landing in his palm.

A long silence is followed by a juicy crunch and a grunt of pleasure. As he gulps down the fruit, I am filled with satisfaction. I have helped someone. Even if it is only to keep them from starving one more day. It is the same feeling I had as a child when I found a stray cat behind the tavern and would sneak it a saucer of milk. Although the satisfaction tonight is tenfold.

Who is Ives? I whisper, wondering if I should be worried about the guards.

A long pause. One of the ghosts.

Something in his voice feels unspeakably sad, and I find myself wanting to change the subject. And what of you? Why are you not a ghost? You seemed near death but days ago.

I was. Until it rained and filled the seep so I was able to quench my thirst.

So, I did not imagine it. Does no one bring you food or water?

They did. Once. There is a note of wistfulness in his voice.

I will bring more if I can.

I regret the whispered promise before I reach the first corridor leading out of the dungeons, where reality begins to chase away the last dregs of satisfaction. I cannot come back. I have no convincing pretense for being down here. Count Angoulême would ask questions, poke and prod and watch me more closely.

My role in this household is one of a biddable, humble attendant, not someone who possesses such morbid interests or would dare to explore death if she stumbled upon it. Too many years have been spent cultivating that bland demeanor. It is beyond foolish to risk it for some unknown prisoner.

And yet my soul is hungry for such risks. A taste for them was fed to me with my mother’s milk, then nurtured and honed by the convent. To not take them feels like leaving fruit to wither and die on a vine.

Chapter 6

When I reach my chamber, the countess of Angoulême sits in a chair by the fire, waiting for me. I hide my surprise with a warm greeting. My lady. I sink into a deep curtsy.

She motions me to my feet. Where have you been, Genevieve? I cannot tell by her expression how long she has been waiting.

Roaming the halls. You know how restless I get when cooped up for too long.

She wrinkles her nose. I do not understand your need to gallop about. I have always thought it was odd, ever since we were children.

I nearly laugh. She and I never knew each other as children, but first met when we were twelve years old. She, too, was a ward of the regent, one of the girls Madame Regent raised as her own. There were others as well, including the young dauphine, Marguerite, once destined to be queen of France.

I only gallop when I am outside, my lady. Indoors, I keep to a trot.

She studies me with thoughtful eyes. Once she would have laughed at my jest, but with her new elevated station, she inspects each word for any sign of disrespect or overfamiliarity.

She moves her hands to her belly. While it is softly rounded with child, she is not as far along as Margot. Does it bother her that her husband’s mistress—her own lady in waiting—will be bearing his child before she does? Deciding to ignore—or forgive—my jest, she says, My lord husband wishes to see you.

Caution wars with curiosity. The count has not summoned me in over a month. Ah, then. Best not keep him waiting.

Louise’s heavy brow creases faintly as she searches yet again for the sign of disrespect she fears.

I reach down to take her arm and pull her to her feet. After all, I say cheerfully, he is an important man with much to do.

Do you know why he wishes to see you? Her dark brown eyes meet my own, hesitant questions lurking in their depths.

No. I allow a faint hint of surliness to color the word. It is a trait of mine she knows well. I have probably offended or transgressed in some way. Louise has always been too timid and biddable to do anything improper, but secretly enjoys when others take such risks. Her mouth quirks up in a faint smile, the questions fading from her eyes.

The thick oak door to Count Angoulême’s room stands open. He sprawls in a chair at his desk with his back to the fire, a decanter at his elbow, a half-full glass in his hand. The room is cloying with the thick, too-warm scent of vetiver, cloves, and wine. I do not go in, but remain in the doorway. My lord? The countess said you sent for me?

He waves me forward. Come in, come in. Don’t hover. And close the door.

The first several times he asked me to close the door, I hoped it meant he had news from the