Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter Forty-Eight

WHEN WE ENTER THE ROOM, he looks up, the ferocity of his expression startling even to me. Then his gaze goes unerringly to Louise. Charlotte shrinks into my skirts, but Louise studies him curiously. “Who are you?” she asks in her high, clear voice. Beast glances at me, helpless, and I see agony in his eyes.

“Do not be afraid of him, Louise.”

“I’m not,” she says, sounding faintly affronted.

“Good. For he was very close to your mother and will see you to safety, no matter what happens. You, too,” I tell Charlotte. Then I turn my full attention to Beast. “We must hurry,” I warn him. “I was spotted, and Jamette has gone to raise the alarm.”

He nods, then looks surprised as I thrust Louise into his arms. “We will need a diversion so they do not discover your escape route. I must stay behind,” I say.

At his horrified expression, I rush to explain. “They cannot come anywhere near this room, else the passageway will be discovered and they will find you within minutes.”

“I will not leave you here!”

His eyes! Oh, his eyes! The fury and the anguish in them rob me of my breath. Two things define him—his honor and his loyalty—and he is being asked to abandon one of them.

Sensing his anger, Louise shifts restlessly in his arms, drawing his attention back to her. Using that to my advantage, I thrust Charlotte’s hand in his, quickly kiss both girls, then begin pushing them toward the bedchamber. “You must get them safely away. Everything else can wait.”

“I will be back,” he says, then leans forward and plants a savage, desperate kiss upon my lips, as if he would have me feel the force of his promise.

I do not indulge myself by watching them go but instead turn and take off the distinctive blue habit so d’Albret will not think to punish the Brigantian convent. I stuff it in one of the chests in the room and then peer out into the hall. I can hear approaching footsteps in the distance, but no one is within sight yet, so I step into the corridor and begin running in the opposite direction.

The sounds behind me draw closer, but if I can gain the main floor, I may be able to slip out the doors and lose myself among the servants in the courtyard. I hit the stairs at a full run, but my hope is quickly crushed by the sound of boots rushing toward me.

It is not the guards or soldiers or even Captain de Lur, but Julian. “Sybella!” His voice is full of both hope and caution. “You’re back!”

“I came for our sisters.”

“Sybella.” He reaches out to grab my arms.

I jerk away. “No. No.” And now that I am telling him no, I cannot stop. It is as if there is a great storm of noes that have been building inside me for years. “No, no, no.”

His brow furrows in concern and he tries again to take my arm. “Don’t touch me!” I pull out of his grip, breathing hard.

He stares at me in dismay. “What is wrong?”

“You. Us. The love you think is between us.”

He shakes his head gently, as if something is amiss with his hearing. “You don’t mean that.”

The confusion in his voice reminds me of when he was a young boy, and it pierces my heart. “I do,” I whisper.

“Why did you run away?” Even though he tries to hide it, the pain in his voice is clear.

What do I tell him? Do I speak of the convent, and my work there? Or do I simply say what is in my heart, the reason I went to the convent in the first place? “Because I was dying inside, Julian. I could not bear this life one moment longer.”

“But we had plans. I have been working to gain our father’s trust so he will grant me a holding of my own. Then we will have a life together. The life we have dreamed of since we were children.”

“That you dreamed of Julian, not me.” In spite of the gentleness of my voice, he acts as if he has been struck.

“But we talked of it, planned it together . . .”

“When we were young, Julian, too young to know that sisters and brothers did not marry and have babies together. What was between us was wrong—”

“Why should we care what the world thinks? They do not understand the bond we share. The horrors we have endured together. I wouldn’t have survived if not for you, Sybella.”

I close my eyes. “Nor I without you, but that does not make what you asked of me right. I only did it because I was afraid of losing you, afraid that you would no longer protect me or be my friend.”

He stares at me in silence, as if he has never truly seen me before. “I was always your friend and would never have stopped protecting you.”

“Julian, you betrayed me! You told on the blacksmith’s boy and had him killed!”

His eyes are wild and his breath grows ragged. “I saved you from a life as a blacksmith’s whore—bearing his dirty little brats and living an existence of toil and labor. I saved you from a lifetime of looking over your shoulder wondering when our father would find you, for he would never have stopped searching. Surely you know that.”

“If all that is true, as you say, then how could you ever have used our sisters against me?”

“I was sent to collect them on Father’s orders.”

“And the locks of hair? What were those, Julian, if not a threat?”

“Is that what you think? That I would do such a thing?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I think you would wrap it up in fine excuses and pretty lies, but only to hide from yourself what you truly intended.”

“I just wanted you to know that I would keep them safe, as I kept you safe all those years. And this is how you thank me.”

But even now, I do not know if he tells the truth or only thinks he does.

In the silence that follows, I hear once more the sound of booted feet fast approaching. I step toward Julian. “When they come, tell them you have found me and stopped me. Here, take out your sword to convince them.”

Julian shakes his head and steps away from me.

I reach out and wrest his sword from his scabbard, then shove the hilt into his hand. “Do it.” Just as I step in front of his sword point, Captain de Lur, Jamette, and half a dozen men-at-arms reach the landing.

“There she is,” Jamette says. “But where are the others?”

“What others?” Julian asks, looking from me to Jamette and back again.

“Tephanie and the girls,” Jamette says. “Sybella said they would all be leaving together.”

“I found only her. Where did you last see them?”

“In the small solar.”

De Lur jerks his head, and half the men retrace their steps to the solar. Then he turns back to Julian. “Were you stopping her? Or aiding her? One can never quite tell with you.”

Julian’s eyes are colder than frost on stone. “Are you so very certain of that, de Lur? What if my lord father has trusted me above all others and we have but played a deep game to draw her out?”

My gaze snaps to Julian’s face, but even I cannot tell if he is bluffing. Ignoring him, de Lur turns to me. “Your lord father knew just what bait to use to set the trap, and now here you are. Unfortunately, you have chosen an inconvenient time to make your reappearance, as Lord d’Albret has pressing business elsewhere at the moment.”

I arch one eyebrow in disbelief, hoping my scorn will goad him into telling me d’Albret’s business. “More pressing than exacting revenge on his prodigal daughter?”

“More pressing even than that.”

My mind scrambles, trying to find a way to turn this to my advantage. “Take me to Marshal Rieux, then.” For he has at least some small shard of decency and honor. Or at least, he did.

De Lur smiles. “The good marshal is no longer with us. He didn’t have the stomach for what was required.”

I do not know if he means that they have parted ways or that Rieux is dead.

“You will have to avail yourself of the castle dungeon’s hospitality until your father returns.” He turns to his men. “Bring her.”

Two men step forward to grab hold of my arms. Desperate to keep my knives, I jerk my arms out of their reach before they can touch me. “I do not need to be dragged like a sack of wheaten flour.”

De Lur smiles, then fingers the faint white scar on his cheek. “Oh, but you do, my lady.”

I do not like what I see in his eyes, and I shoot Julian a desperate gaze, but he is lost in his own thoughts, painful ones, by the look on his face. The men reach for me again, and this time they grab my arms and feel the knives at my wrists. De Lur orders them removed and then searches me for any other weapons.

Once again I must endure his touch, must feel his hot breath against the back of my neck, must listen as his breathing grows heavier. I say nothing, only watch him. I am not certain that I could best him in a fight, but it would be close, and I would certainly cause him grave injury. At the very least, he or his men would have to kill me in self-defense. But I am not certain I am willing to embrace death just yet. Not while there is still a chance I can get to d’Albret.

As they escort me to the dungeon—the very dungeon Beast once occupied—my heart begins to pound like a drum and I can hear my own blood beating in my ears, for this is the stuff of every nightmare I have ever had—being helpless and at d’Albret’s mercy once more.

Chapter Forty-Nine

IT IS A LONG, DARK night. Panic and terror do their best to stalk me, but I keep them at bay, knowing that if I succumb, I will only be the weaker for it. Terror is as much one of d’Albret’s weapons as his sword or fists, and he wields it with deadly accuracy, using it to sap the will and crush the spirit.

The tower ghosts flutter near me, drawn to my warmth. To distract myself, I force my mind to stillness, curious if these ghosts will tell me their stories.

But there is nothing other than a faint restless rippling in my mind, no cries of anguish, no begging for revenge, no whispered tales of the horror that was inflicted upon them. These ghosts are far older that the others, here long before d’Albret. Maybe they were not wronged in death, but simply died.

Quiet understanding comes, like a soft breeze, and I finally realize why I am able to see not just the souls that depart from their earthly bodies but the restless ghosts who linger. If I am Death’s justice, I must be able to hear their stories.

I turn my attention to the living and what wrongs they might whisper to me. Jamette is naught but a victim, too frightened to see the bars of her own cage. And Madame Dinan? She was innocent once, but no longer. She chose to look away from the truth of d’Albret’s actions once too often, thus crossing the boundary from innocent to guilty.

And Julian? He was not a child of Mortain and did inherit that extra measure of strength, and yet he rejected so much of what d’Albret wanted him to be, fought so hard against the taint that marred him. Unlike Pierre, who embraced it all.

Julian always offered me kindness and love where Pierre and d’Albret offered only cruelty and pain. We had survived so many horrors together, our life was awash in so much wrongness, that the warped love he held out to me felt almost right. Almost. And in his own way, Julian was protecting me—from Pierre.

I know that love is required to defeat the monster before me, but I am at a loss as to how to manifest that love. I face him secure in Mortain’s love, and Beast’s love, and love for my sisters, but I do not know how to turn that into a weapon that I can use against him.

I must trust now in the god whose blood flows in my veins and in my own true nature. And while it is not as dark and twisted as d’Albret’s, it is dark. And strong. And will hopefully offer some small chance of victory. I must have faith, but having faith is hard, so very much harder than despair.

The sound of a key in the lock wakes me with a jolt, and it is all I can do to keep from leaping to my feet and rushing over to peer through the bars. Slowly, I stand.

When the door is flung open, two soldiers stride in, then drag me into the outer chamber. De Lur is there. “It is time to face your father’s justice.”

I am escorted to a chamber where Madame Dinan herself is waiting for me, along with Jamette. Two servants are filling a tub with water. Dinan does not even bother to look at me, just stares out the window. “Get her out of those rags,” she orders.

The two servants step forward, eyeing me warily, but I do not make their job difficult, for none of this is their fault. I watch Jamette the whole time, hoping to unnerve her, for it is her duplicity that has brought me here. “All you had to do was turn the other way,” I tell her under my breath, “and I would have been out of your life forever. Julian might even have come to hate me eventually, leaving the way clear for you. But now—now I will be a martyr in his eyes, and my memory much more difficult to compete with.”

Her eyes widen and she glances at Madame Dinan to see if she has heard, but the older woman is still staring out the window.

She has aged much since I last saw her. The skin is sagging off her delicate bones. Her eyes are no longer merely nervous but haunted-looking. As if feeling my gaze on her, she turns, but even then she will not meet my eyes. “Burn the rags she was wearing,” she tells the maid. “And get her into the tub.”

“There is no need. I will do it myself,” I say, stepping into the warm water and taking up the soap.

Once the servants have left, Dinan turns to me. “You foolish girl! You have ruined everything!”

“What do you mean?”

“Since d’Albret wasn’t able to take Rennes as he’d planned, he had to resort to other options.”

“Options that have driven Marshal Rieux from his side?”

She ignores my question. “With the duchess’s marriage to the Holy Roman emperor, he has been left with no choice but to . . .” She trails off with a glance in Jamette’s direction. “Go fetch her gown,” she orders. Jamette curtsies then hurries to do as she is told.

Remembering the abbess of Saint Brigantia’s words, I stare at her, the soap in my hand forgotten. “Is this option why my father has been communicating with the French regent?”

She stops twisting the linen handkerchief she holds and I see that her nails are bitten to the quick. “What do you know of that?”

I shrug. “Simply that there are rumors.”

She smiles thinly. “You must realize there are other ways he can gain control of the kingdom if the duchess will not honor her promises.”

I look away so she will not see how much her words disturb me, for if d’Albret is conspiring with the French regent, it can only mean disaster for the duchess. And why is Dinan telling me this? Is it because she knows I will die and take this knowledge with me? Or is there some small spark of loyalty left in her that abhors the choice d’Albret has made?

But there is no opportunity to ask further questions because Jamette returns carrying one of my gowns. It is of crimson velvet trimmed with gold braid, and I wonder if she has chosen it because the blood will not show.

Chapter Fifty

DE LUR TAKES GREAT PLEASURE in binding my hands behind my back and prodding me forward into the great hall. As I am ushered in, I hold my head high. The chamber is stuffed full of d’Albret’s retainers and vassals. Looking among them, I see that there are none of the Nantes lords who were recent allies of d’Albret’s. Have they left? Has he killed them all out of suspicion? Or perhaps any of his soldiers with a scrap of decency left with Marshal Rieux. I know not, but the soldiers and vassals here are wholly his and have been for years. They are the ones who stood silently by as he murdered each of his six wives, who eagerly carried out his order to terrorize the town into submission by raping their women and burning their homes. They are the ones who chased down and slayed any servants who remained loyal to the duchess, hunting them with as much feeling as if they were hunting rats. Whatever d’Albret plans for me, there will be no help from them.

De Lur shoves me forward, and, with my wrists bound, I am barely able to keep my balance. D’Albret sprawls in the great chair on the dais, his cold fury lurking just beneath a thin veneer of civility. But my newfound purpose burns so bright within me that there is no room for fear. Or maybe I no longer care. Especially knowing that Death will not—has never—rejected me, but will welcome me home when my time here is done.

Besides, even if I were terrified, I would not give d’Albret the one thing he wants—me cowering at his feet. Instead, I stare coolly at him, as if he has been brought before me to be held to account for his crimes.

He straightens, his eyes studying me with cold appraisal. “You have much to answer for. You have betrayed my plans to the duchess—twice—run off with my prisoner, and kidnapped my own children from under my roof. Surely no father has ever had to suffer such treachery at the hands of his own daughter.” He rises up from his chair and crosses the small space between us. “What did you do with my prisoner? I had plans for him, you know. Did you let him bed you, like you let the blacksmith’s boy?”

Hearing him talk of what is between Beast and me this way sickens me. “The prisoner was nothing to me. An assignment, nothing more.”

“An assignment?” He circles me slowly, assessing. “Are you truly a whore, then?”

Suddenly, I want him to know. Need him to know whom I truly serve and all that I have done to thwart him. “Have you not guessed? I am not your daughter. My mother invited Death into her bed rather than suffer life with you, and I was sired by Mortain Himself.”

A loud silence rises up in the room, broken only by the crack of his hand as it strikes my face. My head snaps back, and I taste blood.

“Then clearly returning you to Death will not be a punishment. I shall have to find some other way to repay you for all the grief you have caused me.”

I know I should stop. Keep my mouth closed and leave well enough alone, but I have stood silent witness in his household for too long. I will not be silent any longer. “I am not merely Death’s daughter, but His handmaiden as well. All the accidents that have befallen your allies and trusted commanders have not truly been accidents but my own hand carrying out Death’s orders and, through Him, the duchess’s.”

D’Albret smiles then, surprising me. He leans in close to my ear. “For all that you wrap your killing in some saint of old, you are just like me,” he says with something akin to pride. “You fool only yourself. It is a shame we could not have come to terms, you and I.”

As he gives voice to the very fear that has dogged me all my life, I smile. D’Albret may play with Death. He may even be good at it, but I am Death’s true daughter. “No,” I say, my voice strong and sure. “I am not like you. I have never been like you. For while you think to control Death and bend it to your will, I am His will. I have never killed an innocent, or to serve my own pleasure. I have killed only men like you who are a blight upon the earth.”

“A blight, am I? We shall see.” He reaches for a strand of my hair and then rubs it between two of his fingers. “I find I am quite taken with the idea of mixing my bloodline with Death’s own. Then, surely, nothing could withstand my will.”

The mere thought of d’Albret’s touch sickens me, and the idea of the abomination that would result fills me with unspeakable terror. I struggle against the rope at my wrists, but it does not so much as budge. I curse myself for throwing my true parentage in his face, for I should have remembered just how shrewd he is at finding the thing one values most and using it as a weapon.

D’Albret smiles, and his hand leaves my hair to trail down my face, like a caress. I cannot help it: I shudder at his touch, at what I see in his eyes. “Since you are not my daughter, I could even make you my seventh wife, hmm?”

I glance at Madame Dinan, but her face is a brittle mask.

D’Albret winks at me, then pats my cheek. “She will not mind. She is barren and understands I must have sons to secure my holdings.” Then he grabs my chin, locking me in place, and presses his mouth on mine in a brutal, crushing kiss. Bile rises in my throat as his teeth grind against my swollen lip. When he licks the cut on my lip, I shudder violently, every nerve in my body screaming at the wrongness of it, the sheer horror of it. With no other way to fight back, I bite him.

He jerks away, fury darkening his eyes. He raises his hand to strike me again—

“No!” Julian’s voice rings throughout the hall.

D’Albret turns his cold, flat eyes to Julian. “I will take my vengeance as I please.”

“No, my lord,” Julian says again.

D’Albret tilts his head and studies his son. “You cannot bear for others to touch her, can you?”

“It is not that.”

“Do you wish her for yourself? If you will breed me heirs with Death’s own blood in their veins, I would forgive you much.”

I hold my breath and wonder if Julian will take what is being offered. “No,” he says, looking not at d’Albret but at me. As our eyes meet across the distance, I know that he has made his choice—he has chosen to be my brother rather than my lover, and I am filled with a quiet joy. We were always strongest when we faced our tormentors with one mind. But in the next moment, my happiness trickles away, as I see what that choice will cost him. A marque has begun to form on his brow.

“Wait, Julian.” I start to go to him, but de Lur yanks me back.

Julian steps away from d’Albret and comes to stand before me until we are but a handbreadth apart. “Do you remember when we were children and you were afraid of the dark? Do you remember what I promised you?”

“Yes.” My throat is so constricted with grief that the word comes out in a whisper. He promised that when he grew up, he would slay all the monsters.

“I meant it. I am only sorry I did not do it sooner.”

“If you do this, you will die.”

His mouth wrenches into a wistful smile that nearly breaks my heart in two. “I fear a part of me—the best part—has been dead for years.” He presses a quick kiss upon my brow—that of an older brother—then steps back and turns toward d’Albret.

“Are you truly willing to die for her, boy?”

In answer, Julian draws his sword. He is an excellent swordsman, but he does not have the ruthless skill nor the cruelty that d’Albret possesses. I cannot believe that I must stand here helplessly and watch the one person who loved me the longest, now die for that love. That could even have been d’Albret’s intention all along, for surely he knows that watching Julian die trying to defend me is the most crushing punishment he could devise.

There is a ring of steel as d’Albret draws his sword, and Captain de Lur pulls me out of the circle the other men have formed. The entire room grows silent. Then Julian advances with a rapid succession of blows, but d’Albret counters with a brutal thrust that causes Julian to leap back to avoid being impaled.

As they eye each other warily, I strain my wrists trying to bring my fingers within reach of the knot, but I am unable to reach it. I turn my gaze to the room, at all the hard and unsympathetic faces.

Beast will come.

But he will be too late.

The crowd murmurs in approval, and I look back to the fighting men in time to see d’Albret deliver two quick blows, one on either side of Julian’s head. That is when I suspect d’Albret is only toying with Julian and does not wish to kill him. Or at least, does not wish to kill him yet.

Julian is disoriented just long enough for d’Albret to step inside his guard and deliver a vicious hack to his ribs. I bite down on my swollen lip to keep from crying out, fearing it will only distract Julian more. He doubles over, grimacing with the pain, breathing hard, as blood begins to seep through the cut and onto his doublet.

Pleased by this drawing of first blood, the men break into grim smiles. As they shift on their feet, I feel a hand on my bound wrists. I pull away, fearing one of the soldiers has decided to act on his own, then realize these are a woman’s hands that have touched me. A moment later, something hard and sharp is slipped into my fingers.

A knife.

I glance over my shoulder and see Jamette silently slipping back among the crowd. While she does not love me, she does love Julian. But what can I do with one puny knife? Does she wish that I put him out of his misery? Or hope that I will use it on myself and stop the fight?

Keeping my eyes on the men in front of me, I slip the knife up so that it is hidden between my hands, then maneuver it until I feel its tip meet the resistance of the rope. Then I begin sawing at the bindings.

D’Albret is openly toying with Julian now; a quick blow here, a nick there, a sudden cut to the arm. Frustrated, Julian sidesteps and swings his blade upward, coming inside d’Albret’s guard and almost—almost—plunging his sword into the other man’s gut, but d’Albret sidesteps at the last possible moment. The mood of the watching men shifts again, their displeasure palpable, for they bear Julian no love. He has never been one of them like Pierre has.

Julian is growing tired now and is no longer quick on his feet. I saw frantically at the ropes, my fingers cramping and slick with blood where I have nicked myself.

Pressing his advantage, D’Albret takes a mighty swing. Julian ducks so that the blade whistles through empty air, then uses d’Albret’s brief moment of surprise to deliver a stroke that crunches so loudly I am sure he has broken at least one of d’Albret’s ribs. Although I feel like cheering, I keep silent, for it would only draw attention my way.

Then Julian gives up all pretense of fighting fairly or with honor and rushes, lifting his sword so that it will catch d’Albret square in the face, but the older man steps back and stumbles as the crowd gives way, and the blow misses. Even if by some miracle Julian survives the fight, I am not sure the men will let him walk away.

And still I cannot cut through the be-damned rope.

Julian is bleeding from a dozen different cuts, and if he ever owed a debt for having loved me, he has surely paid it.

At the next flurry of blows, I must look away, for Julian’s fatigue is so great that I fear each blow will be his last. I pull against the rope once more, hoping I have frayed it enough that I can free my hands, but still it holds.

When the sound of clashing blades stops, I look up. Julian is breathing hard, and I can feel the labored beating of his heart as it tries to keep up with the strain of attacks and fuel his flagging body, and my own heart aches for him. Then d’Albret comes on hard and fast, but incredibly Julian is able to block each blow, until a savage swing that nearly decapitates him. He jerks back just in time, but the tip of the blade opens his right cheek to the bone. I long to run to them, to put myself in front of Julian and stop this game of d’Albret’s. I do not even realize I have taken a step forward until de Lur yanks me back. I glance at him and pray I live long enough to kill him after I kill d’Albret.

If I kill d’Albret. The fight is winding down. Julian is staggering, his sword arm drooping, his blade dragging on the floor.

But d’Albret does not press his attack. Instead, he says, “By God, I will end this now.” Then he raises his sword high over his head. But instead of lunging toward Julian, he pivots, aiming the blow in my direction, and some small part of me is glad. Glad that he has chosen Julian over me and that I do not have to watch another loved one die.

But Julian, ever quick-witted Julian, sees what d’Albret’s intends. He leaps in front of me, and the sword plunges through his chest. His dark eyes widen with surprise—and pain. As I cry out, doubling over in anguish, the rope around my wrists finally gives way.

As Julian falls, the entire hall grows quiet and all the men step back. Not out of respect for Julian, but out of fear for their own skins, for it is hard to know how d’Albret will react to this.

In the ensuing silence, I drop to my knees beside Julian. The force of his leap wrenched the sword from d’Albret’s grip, and it is still impaled in his chest. He is soaked in crimson, his face is even whiter than Death’s own. His soul beats frantically against the trappings of his mortal body, desperate to be free of the pain that consumes him. He tries to speak, but his pale lips cannot form the words.

“Dearest brother, you were wrong. The best part of you still lives.” I lean down and place my lips upon his brow. In forgiveness, and in farewell.

No sooner have I done so than his soul bursts from his body, as if it needed only my permission to be free. And it is free. It is finally, finally free from the dark world it has inhabited for so long.

There is the sound of boots on the marble floor, then d’Albret stands over us. He nudges Julian’s body with his foot. “We must add the death of my son to your list of crimes.”

As I stare down at Julian’s poor, wounded body, true understanding dawns. In order to defeat d’Albret, I have only to love more than he hates.

And I do. My heart is filled with the love I bear, love that I was too terrified to give voice to for fear d’Albret would use it against others in order to hurt me. But they are all gone, far beyond his reach. Only I remain.

Julian’s sword is but inches from my hand. Now, I think. Now. Fueled by all the fierce love inside me, I reach out, grasp the sword hilt still slick with my brother’s blood, then surge upward, aiming to drive it deep into d’Albret’s belly.

D’Albret discerns my intent just in time. He kicks out with his foot, knocking the sword from my fingers, then his hand reaches out and closes around my throat.

I smile. I know d’Albret will not kill me this way, for I was born with the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck and did not die. And I still have the knife Jamette gave me—the very one I once gave her.

Still smiling, I lean in toward d’Albret as if welcoming his hands around my neck. I grip the knife handle firmly and, fueled by seventeen years of the despair I have felt on behalf of those I love, whip the knife out from behind my back and plunge it into his belly, driving it upward.

D’Albret’s eyes widen in surprise, and his hold around my neck loosens. He looks faintly puzzled, as if unable to believe what I have done. I shove upward again and twist, willing the knife to damage every organ it touches, just as he has damaged every life he has touched.