Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

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

As my hand grows wet with his blood, and I watch his eyes dull, I want to throw my head back and howl with victory. Instead, I yank my knife out, and he starts to slump to the ground.

Even now, with his guts spilling out onto the fine white marble, Death does not claim him and no marque rests upon his brow. It never will. That is another thing I learned from my true father that night: d’Albret is not welcome in Death’s realm. That is the promise Mortain made to all d’Albret’s victims, that d’Albret will be barred from the Underworld, his flesh fated to linger until it rots, his soul to wander restlessly until the end of time.

Madame Dinan rushes to his side and tries to shove his guts back into his belly, staining her slender white hands with blood and gore. As she calls for the surgeons, I have a vision of her new life as it spreads before her, tending to d’Albret and his unnatural wound for all the rest of her days.

I glance again at the fallen Julian’s face, as white and still as marble. That is when I understand that it was Julian’s love that was the key to this victory. His love for me, Beast’s love for Alyse, my own love for my sisters—even Jamette’s love for Julian—has driven all of us to this moment in time, each strand wrapped around the next like links in a chain.

And now d’Albret is as good as dead. And I am finally free.

Dinan looks up to glare at me. “Seize her!”

Ah, but I am not free yet. There are still over fifty men in here, and all of them are staring at me with eyes bright with the promise of violence and their own brutal nature. What did I hope? That with d’Albret’s death, they would be released from their own dark impulses and rejoice in their freedom? No, for they were drawn to him as like is drawn to like, and they eye me now with a hunger for blood and vengeance. Besides, they will have to answer to Pierre for what happened here. I grip the knife I still hold in my hand. D’Albret cannot hurt anyone again—my destiny has been fulfilled. I will not surrender to what I see lurking in the enraged faces around me. Slowly, I lift the knife and press the tip of it to my own throat.

One of the men, seeing what I intend, leaps forward. He looms over me, the helm he wears shadowing his face. I try to pull away from his grasp, but he is as quick as he is tall. When his hand closes around my wrist—the moment our skin touches—I know.

My head snaps up, and I look into a pair of light blue eyes that burn with an unholy light.

Beast.

Chapter Fifty-One

THE SIGHT OF BEAST FILLS my heart with such joy that I fear it will burst. He is dressed in d’Albret’s colors and shoves a rolled-up leather packet into my hands. His disguise buys us some time, and while his body blocks me from the other men’s view, I quickly unroll my knives. Since there is no time to don the sheaths, I stab them through my skirt, threading the blades through the thick fabric so they will not fall out.

“Bring her over here!” Captain de Lur orders.

When I am fully armed, Beast flashes one of his fierce grins at me. “Cut the tabard off, for I will not besmirch my god by fighting in d’Albret’s colors.”

I cannot blame him. I put the tip of my knife to the tabard and cut it in half, careful that the blade does not go too far. Beast shrugs out of it and pulls his sword from its sheath. For a brief moment, the men think he means to use it on me. “You ready?” he asks.

“I’ve only been waiting on you.”

He smiles again, then turns to face the surrounding men, and confusion erupts. As Captain de Lur takes a step toward us, there is a faint whisper of sound, then his eyes roll up and he crumples. A small rock pings to the floor.

Yannic.

Then Beast gives one of his bloodcurdling yells as the battle lust engulfs him. He raises his sword and lunges to his left to get his body and his weapon between me and the bulk of d’Albret’s soldiers.

I kick out, my foot connecting with the nearest man’s gut, up high where it will knock all the air from his lungs. Gripping a knife in each hand, I realize that all the hate in this room is no match for the love that fills me. And fill me it does, its effervescence racing along my limbs, chasing away the sorrow and fatigue, as if some holy light rather than mere blood flows in my veins.

But it is no holy light, simply me, whole and unafraid of who and what I am, eager to do the work I was born to do.

D’Albret’s men have regrouped and are rushing toward Beast. He meets the first parry, and the sound of their swords is deafening.

I tighten my grip on my knives as another soldier rushes toward me, sword drawn. As easily as if I were practicing with Annith, I duck under his blade, get inside his guard, and shove my knife into his throat. Before he has even begun to fall to the ground, I turn to meet another. But this one has witnessed my trick just now and lowers his own sword to block another such maneuver. So instead, I flip my knife around, grab it by the point, and hurl it toward him. It takes him straight through the eye, and he drops to his knees.

Two more guards approach and I turn to meet them. Time slows, like a drop of honey suspended from the tip of a knife. As I feint and parry, every move comes without conscious thought. It feels as if my body has been filled with something as cool and dark and unerring as a shadow. I am whole now. Whole and unbroken and filled with an unearthly grace that moves through me with unspeakable joy.

From out of the corner of my eye I see that the battle fever has completely consumed Beast, and he churns through the rushing guards like a plow tills through earth. Truly, we are the gods’ own children, forged in the fire of our tortured pasts, but also blessed with unimaginable gifts.

How long we fight, I do not know, but slowly, as if I am being drawn up from the bottom of some deep well, I become aware of my surroundings. Now that I have stopped fighting, I feel as thin and empty as a discarded glove. Over half of d’Albret’s men lay dead at our feet. The other half show no signs of retreating. Indeed, two of the men have gone for reinforcements.

Out of knives, I bend over and pluck a sword from one of the dead soldiers who litter the ground, then turn to Beast, who is breathing hard.

The light in his eyes is only half feral now. He opens his mouth to say something, but an explosion rocks the building—indeed, the very earth beneath our feet. It sounds as if a dozen cannon have been shot at once. Beast grabs my hand and begins pulling me toward the door.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Lazare and his charbonnerie.”

“Here?”

“He thought we might need a diversion. Nor did we think it necessary to leave the duchess’s own weapons in the hands of her enemy to be used against her.” Another explosion follows.

“And the girls?”

“At the convent of Brigantia. The abbess swore she would not release them to anyone but you or me or on the duchess’s own orders.”

As the soldiers recover and regroup, they spot us moving toward the door.

We break into a run.

At the main door to the palace, small knots of servants huddle, peeking out the door and watching, whispering among themselves, but they make no move to stop us.

Outside, in the courtyard, I blink against the bright light. Clusters of soldiers stand, trying to discern the direction of the attack, not realizing it is their very own artillery that has been destroyed. Beast uses their confusion and heads for the east gate. Not wanting to draw any more attention to ourselves, we walk rather than run. But he is a head taller than most men and I am dressed in crimson; it does not take them long to notice us. Besides, they are d’Albret’s men, and they know too well the punishment that will be exacted if they fail to stop us. They quickly shift their attention from the unknown attackers to us and begin moving toward the gate, blocking our escape.

Beast does not so much as check his stride, merely switches direction and begins running toward the stairs that lead to the battlements. I do not know what he has planned, but I follow him blindly. Behind us another shout goes up.

I glance over my shoulder to see that the archers have been summoned and are forming a line in the middle of the courtyard.

Luckily, the stairway is covered with a stone arch, which will afford us some protection, and its narrow width will force the soldiers to go two abreast and slow their pursuit.

However, when we emerge on the battlements, I quickly realize there is nowhere for us to go. I throw a questioning look at Beast, who says nothing but continues running until we reach the farthest tower—the one that looms over the river.

More shouts ring out from below and I look down to see the archers are loading their crossbows. Beast stops and turns to me. “We must jump.”

I stare down at the swollen, roiling river below. “We will be leaping to our deaths.”

“Do I bear a marque?”

I glance up at his forehead, relieved to see there is no dark smudge upon it. “No,” I say in wonder.

“Then we will make it. Trust me.” As he holds out his hand, three crossbow bolts arc by, flying wide.

The sounds of our pursuers grow louder as they gain the stairs. Soon they will be on the battlement behind us and close enough that their arrows will not miss.

I reach out and take Beast’s offered hand. A glorious smile spreads across his face, making it almost beautiful. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Do not let go,” he says, “and kick your feet to get us well clear of the wall.”

I nod, then he tugs us several paces back from the edge. We take deep breaths, filling our lungs with air. There is a shout as one of the men gains the parapet. It is an archer, and he is raising his crossbow.

We take a running start, and then we jump.

The wall drops away beneath us and we are flying through the air. We do not let go of each other but kick and windmill with our free arms, trying to get as far away from the shallows as we can. Beast grins maniacally, as if he will keep us alive by sheer will.

Then a cold, hard shock jars my teeth and sends the rest of the air whooshing from my lungs as the water closes over my head.

Chapter Fifty-Two

THE FRIGID WATER SUCKS ME down into its murky depths. It is dark and disorienting, and I cannot tell which way is up. I remember every story I have ever heard of Saint Mer and how she lures sailors deeper and deeper into her realm until they cannot find their way back.

But this is a river, not the sea.

I try to kick to the surface, but my rich, heavy skirt is already filled with water and has turned to lead, pulling me down like an anchor. Even so, I struggle desperately to swim free. The water is dark and cloudy, and my vision is filled with bubbles swirling, much like snow in a blizzard. And still I am pulled down. I push off my shoes, then fumble at the ribbons around my waist so I can be free of my skirt, but they are wet and my hands clumsy, and no matter how I struggle, they are stuck fast in a tight, wet knot. My lungs burn with the effort of not breathing, and I am not sure how much longer I can hold my breath. Black spots dance before my eyes.

At least I have been spared the fate d’Albret had planned for me. And the fierce retribution of his men. I will die knowing that Charlotte and Louise are safe and that d’Albret will never be able to hurt anyone again.

My feet touch the soft, silty bottom of the river, and still I am too stubborn to take a breath, knowing it will be water that fills my lungs, not the air I crave.

Just as my lungs are ready to spasm, ready to gasp for air when there is nothing but water, an icy hand grabs mine. At first, my heart leaps in joy because I think it is Beast, but surely it is far too cold for any human hand. Has my father come to escort me home?

But it matters not. I kick and strain, letting the hand pull me to the surface, hoping we will make it before my lungs give way. But I am cold, so cold. My own hands no longer work properly, and I lose my grip.

I flounder for a moment, then begin to sink again, until the hand—warmer this time—grabs hold and pulls as I kick frantically for the surface.

Up, up, up he pulls. Just when I am certain my lungs will burst, I break through the surface with a loud splash. I take in great gulping breaths of air as I tread water. I look over to see Beast doing the same, but it is harder for him because he cannot stop smiling. When we finally catch our breath, he reaches down and cuts the ribbons that hold my heavy skirt, and it slowly drifts to the bottom. Then we turn and kick off, letting the strong current of the river begin to carry us away.

I think once more of all those I have loved and lost, and I know that they have found peace at last. And I—I have my whole life before me, and for the first time, it is filled not with fear and darkness, but with love and promise.

And a beast. I cannot help it. I smile, finally able to appreciate the gentle laughter of the gods.

Author’s Note

WHILE GRAVE MERCY TOOK PLACE against a historical and political backdrop, Sybella’s story is a much more personal one, touching only on the fringes of the political happenings of the time. Because of that, I have taken a bit more creative license with this book.

As with Grave Mercy, many of the characters in the book are actual historical figures, and the broad strokes of the politics have been taken directly from history. The duchess did retreat to Rennes with her council, and the French did invade Brittany’s borders and conquer a number of towns.

One of the greatest liberties I have taken is that I have greatly compressed the time frames involved. While many of the events of this story did happen in the spring of 1489, there was then a large gap of about a year and a half when nothing significant happened politically. The French took towns that were then reclaimed by Bretons. Ambassadors met and political protocols were observed, all of which makes for fairly dry storytelling. Anne traveled around the countryside, visiting her people, while France kept sniffing around Brittany’s borders, looking for a way in. It came at the end of 1490, when Anne married the Holy Roman emperor by proxy and thereby broke the Treaty of Vergers. So essentially I have compressed the events that occurred in 1490 and 1491 and pulled them all together into one year for ease of storytelling.

I have probably taken the most grievous liberties with the historical figure of Count Alain d’Albret, one of Anne’s most ardent suitors. It is true that he was in his fifties, large and rough-looking, with an uncouth manner. Madame Dinan, Anne’s governess, was indeed his half sister and pressured the young duchess constantly, trying to get her to agree to the match. All of that has been taken from historical chronicles of the time. It is also true that Anne was so repelled by him that she issued a decree stating she would never marry him, no matter what documents she may have signed as a child. This strong revulsion in one so dedicated to her country captured my imagination.

This came together with my research into the folklore of Brittany, where two of the historical kernels for the Bluebeard tales are said to have originated. One is the story of Conomor the Cursed, and the other was about Gilles de Rais. When Sybella first showed up in Grave Mercy so damaged and broken, I knew that she had to have suffered some horrible trauma, and so all those elements swirled together and coalesced into Dark Triumph.

After the events at the end of 1491, Count d’Albret seems to disappear from the annals of historical record, except for the recording of his death in 1528. He would have been more than eighty years old, an extraordinary age for that time.

Jean d’Albret, Count d’Albret’s oldest son, became King of Navarre, and d’Albret’s daughter, Charlotte d’Albret, later went on to marry Cesar Borgia.

For the most part, I have tried to stick with words that were in use at the time the story takes place, but that wasn’t always possible. The word saboteur did not come into English usage until the early part of the twentieth century; however, the root word, sabot, was in use in the fifteenth century. Since saboteur has such a distinctly different nuance of meaning that the closest historically accurate word, conspirator, I have decided to stick with saboteur and hang what little justification I could on the French roots of the word.

Such are the problems that keep historical fantasy writers awake at night.

COMING IN SPRING 2014:

HIS FAIR ASSASSIN: MORTAL HEART

Annith has watched her gifted sisters at the convent come and go, carrying out their dark dealings in the name of Saint Mortain, patiently awaiting her own turn to serve Death. But her worst fears are realized when she discovers she is being groomed by the abbess as a Seeress, to be forever sequestered in the rock and stone womb of the convent. Feeling sorely betrayed, Annith decides to strike out on her own.

She has spent her whole life training to be an assassin. Just because the convent has changed its mind doesn't mean she has.

Visit www.hmhbooks.com to find all of the books in the His Fair Assassin trilogy.

About the Author

ROBIN LAFEVERS was raised on a steady diet of fairy tales, Bulfinch’s Mythology, and nineteenth-century poetry. It is not surprising that she grew up to be a hopeless romantic. She was lucky enough to find her one true love, and is living happily ever after with him in the foothills of Southern California. Visit her website at www.robinlafevers.com.