Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Eleven

D’ALBRET AND HIS MEN HAVE not yet returned from Ancenis when we retire for the evening. I wait for what feels like an eternity for Jamette and Tephanie to undress me and prepare me for bed. The fact that Jamette chatters like a nervous magpie does not help the time go by quicker. At long last, they finish their fussing and take their leave.

When I am finally alone, I go to my chest and look among my few poisons for one that is both swift and merciful, but I have none. Some are gentle but work slowly, and those that work quickly, cause too much pain and discomfort to be used for a merciful killing.

Instead, I remove my favorite knife and a sharpening stone, then go sit by the fire and begin sharpening the blade. I still do not know if the prisoner can sit a horse, or ride one, or if he is even conscious. If he is not, he will be of no use to the duchess. Not unless she can use his dead, martyred body to incite loyalists to take up arms.

He will not be marqued, but I no longer care about that.

It used to scare me, the idea of killing without a marque from Mortain to guide my hand, but now, stepping outside His grace holds no more fear for me. Especially since what little I know of that grace has been harsh. My biggest fear has always been that once I began killing at my own whim rather than Mortain’s, I would become no better than d’Albret. But over the past few days, I have begun to wonder if being the daughter of Death is any different than being the daughter of a cruel, sadistic murderer. There is little enough difference that I can see, so better to make my own choice in this, the one I think will do the most good.

The nuns’ warnings for the fate of my soul rise once more in my mind, but what the fool nuns did not realize is that my life is already a living hell, so trading one form for another is not so great a deterrent.

When a full hour has passed, I dress and collect the supplies I have selected. In addition to the night whispers and the newly sharpened knife, I arm myself with two other knives and a garrote bracelet as well as my lethal crucifix. If the knight must die tonight, then I will go immediately from the dungeon to d’Albret’s chamber, where it will be easy enough to gain access with him gone. Once there, I will simply lie in wait for him. Even he must sleep sometime. And when he does, I’ll make my move.

I will most likely not survive the attempt, but at least I will have tried, and surely that will prove that the darkness that lives in him does not live in me.

It is not the sort of escape I have prayed for, but it is an escape.

When I reach my door I pause just long enough to feel a faint throb of a heart beating steadily on the other side. Is it Jamette with her constant spying? Or some new guard my father has posted?

I quickly prepare a half a dozen lies and excuses, then open the door.

It is Tephanie. She is rolled up tightly in her cloak, like a sausage in its casing, sleeping outside my door.

I scowl down at the foolish girl, but while her presence is puzzling, she is easily enough dealt with if she discovers me. I close the door softly behind me, then step over her and make my way down the stairs to the main floor. Sensing no guard or sentry, I step out into the night.

The moon is nearly full and shines down onto the palace courtyard with the light of a thousand candles. My heart slams against my ribs as a shadow flies overhead, then swoops in among the trees in the outer court. An owl. It is only an owl, hunting for its dinner.

I wait a moment to be certain the movement has not caught anyone’s attention, then skirt along the palace wall toward the old tower. I am filled with an unfamiliar calm. I know in my heart that what I am planning is the right thing to do. The sensation is as welcome as it is unfamiliar. This time, my hands are steady as I remove the key from the small pouch at my waist and then fit it to the lock.

There is a satisfying snick as it turns and I send a heartfelt thank-you to the cautious silversmith and his skill. As soon as I step inside, I am swarmed by the spirits of the tower, their icy presence chilling me to the bone.

Hugging the crumbling wall for support, I descend until I come to the second door. The key works here, too, and then I am standing in front of the final door. I move to the side, out of the line of the jailor’s sight. I can hear him shuffling across the floor, muttering unintelligibly to himself.

When I am certain that he is not near the door, I slowly bring my face up to the grille and peer in. If I could get close enough to his ale pot, I could drop some of my own sleeping draft into it, but it is too far from the door. My only choice is to call him over and use the night whispers powder. With my hood pulled low he will not be able to recognize my face when he wakes up. I cannot help but wonder if I am truly doing him a favor by not killing him outright. There is a good chance d’Albret’s wrath will fall on him if the prisoner is found dead, and the punishment will be swift and brutal.

Unless the prisoner is well enough to travel. Then all the jailor will have is a groggy head. At least until my next visit to break the knight out.

Just as I pull the twist of night whispers from my wrist sheath, there is the scrape of a boot on the stairs behind me. I glance around the antechamber, but there is no place to hide. I shove the packet back in its hiding place, grab the handle of my knife, and whirl around to face the stairs.

The tall, dark figure scowls in disbelief. “Sybella?”

Merde! It is no mere guard or sentry, but Julian. He takes three silent strides toward me and grabs my arm. “What are you doing here?” Behind the anger, I see true fear in his eyes.

“You’re back.” The joyful lilt in my voice is so convincing that even I almost believe it. I smile coquettishly. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I searched until I thought to check the one place you should not be.” He gives my arm a little shake. “You cannot imagine the danger you have put yourself in.”

“I could not sleep for the rattle and clank of the ghosts. Did you know this tower is haunted?”

“You could hear the sounds of haunting all the way from your chambers?” His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“Of course not.” I glance out from under my lashes. “I came to the chapel to pray for your safe return. That’s when I heard the rattling.”

The harsh planes of his face relax slightly. “While I appreciate your prayers, you have put yourself in harm’s way, prying where you should not.”

“How was I to know my prayers would be answered so quickly?” I smile, as if with true gratitude. Then I grow serious once more. “Ghosts, Julian. Can you feel them?” I allow a shiver to rack my body—easy enough with the chill of all the unquiet dead clinging to me like a mantle and so much fear coursing through me. I make certain to put a sparkle of excitement in my eyes. “Ghosts of all the prisoners who have died here, unshriven.” There is a faint rattle of chains just then, the first I have heard from the prisoner all night. I clutch at his arm. “There! Did you hear it? They could sneak into our rooms at night and suck the souls from our bodies.” I cross myself for good measure.

He studies me for a long, silent moment, then seems to make a decision. “Here. Let me show you these ghosts.” He lets go of my arm, then pounds once on the grilled door. As footsteps shuffle toward us, he glances down at me. “How did you get in?”

I blink, as if I do not understand his question. “I opened the door and walked in.”

“Impossible,” he hisses. A dark eye peers through the grille. He looks up so his face can be seen, then there is a rattling sound as the latch is lifted.

Interesting that the jailor opens the door so easily for my brother. Just how deeply is Julian in d’Albret’s confidence? I had thought him peripherally involved in d’Albret’s schemes, just enough to keep from drawing attention to himself, but now I must rethink that.

The door opens, and the strange little man makes a crooked bow. “That,” I say, looking at the creature, “is no ghost, but a crippled old man. Or a gargoyle.”

Julian shoots me an exasperated look, grabs my arm, and half drags me across the small room. I cover my nose with my hand. “And that is most definitely not an otherworldly stench,” I say.

“Behold.” Julian thrusts me toward a second door that also has a barred window at the top. “Your ghost.” Julian takes a torch from the wall and shoves it through the bars.

“Sweet Jésu,” I whisper. The man groans and tries to turn away from the bright flames. His face is beaten and misshapen and lumpy and crusted with blood. He is half naked, with naught but rags to cover him, and two great wounds in his left arm ooze darkly. I cannot believe this is the same creature who so valiantly fought off the duchess’s attackers but a fortnight ago. D’Albret has taken yet another bright, noble thing and ruined it. “Who is he?” It is no great trick, putting revulsion and disgust in my voice, for the prisoner has been treated like the vilest of criminals, a violation of all decent standards for ransom. We would not treat our oldest hound this poorly.

“Just a prisoner from the battlefield. Now come. If anyone else learns that you have been here, I do not think even I can save you from our father’s wrath.” With that, Julian sets the torch back in the wall, then drags me from the dungeon.

Once outside the cell, I take in great gulps of the sweet, cold air. “Is our lord father planning to ransom him?”

“No.”

“Why doesn’t he just kill him, then, and be done with it?”

“I think there is some old history between the two of them, and our father has planned some special revenge. I believe he intends to use the man to send a message to the duchess.”

I keep my voice light. “The man does not appear capable of getting a message across his cell, let alone to Rennes.”

“You misunderstand me. The knight will be the message. When his hanged, drawn, and quartered body is delivered to the duchess, it will serve as a warning that even her strongest and most loyal men cannot stand against the d’Albret name.”

The vileness of this plan makes my stomach roil. I smile and poke Julian playfully in the ribs. “My, but you are fully in our father’s confidences now. Have you risen so very high in his favor?”

We have reached the top of the stairs. Julian ignores my question and turns to face me. “How did you get in, Sybella?” It is his most serious voice, the one he always uses when he worries we are in danger.

“The door was unlocked,” I tell him. “Was it supposed to be otherwise? If so, you’d best check with the guards and see who was last on duty, for it was not when I came upon it. “

He still looks unconvinced. I step closer to him and ignore the sharp wave of revulsion that rises up from deep within me. I place my arms around his neck and rise up so that my lips touch his ear. “I am telling the truth, but you may search me if you like. It would make a very fine game.” My heart is thundering so hard in my chest, it is a wonder he does not hear it. Afraid that he will, I do the only thing I can think of to distract him. I place my mouth on his.

His eyes widen in surprise, and then he wraps his arms around me, drawing me closer so that our hearts beat against each other and I can feel the entire length of his body against mine. He pulls away long enough to sigh my name.

He is not my brother, he is not my brother.

When he moves in to kiss me again, I step sharply back, rap him on the chest with my fist, and scowl. “Next time, do not leave me for so long,” I say with a pout. If he thinks I am playing a game, he will play too. If he thinks I am rejecting him, he will turn on me. I wait, holding my breath, wondering which it will be.

When he blinks in mild surprise, I know the moment of danger has passed. “How did things go with Mathurin?” I ask to more fully distract him. “Was our father satisfied with the explanation you gave him?”

“Yes. He was pleased, in fact, that you acted so quickly to see to his interests.” Julian almost smiles, for he knows how poorly that sits with me.

“And the others. Have they returned yet?”

“No. I rode on ahead. To hurry back to you.” His voice holds an accusing note, and his eyes are but pools of darkness in this lightless place. I wonder if he is telling the truth or if he is more wrapped up in my father’s games than I have guessed.

But no, not Julian. He is the only one in my entire family who hates our father as much as I do. But he has also changed in the three years I was away at the convent, and it worries me, for I do not know him as well as I once did.

Besides, he has betrayed me before. There is nothing to say he will not do so again.

Chapter Twelve

OUR TRIP BACK TO THE room is long and tense and we do not speak at all. I glance sideways at him, but his face is obscured by the shadows.

Has he bought my explanation? Has he guessed my true purpose in going to the dungeon? No, he cannot have, for even I was not sure of my true purpose. Although now that I have seen how weak and injured the prisoner is, I am even less certain he can be saved, let alone ride the twenty-six leagues to Rennes, where the duchess awaits him.

When we reach the residential wing of the palace, Julian nods to the newly posted sentry at the door. As we climb the stairs to the upper floor, my desperate kiss to divert Julian’s suspicions lies thick in the air between us. I fear he has taken it as a bold invitation. What will he do once we reach my room?

We stop at my chamber door, and even though I know Julian is waiting for me to open it, I turn as if to bid him good night. “I am glad you are back safe and sound,” I murmur.

He steps closer to me and leans forward to nuzzle at my hair. “You know I hate being parted from you. I came back as soon as I could.”

I put my hands on his chest and play with the gold braid on his doublet to keep him from pressing closer.

It does not work. He ignores my hands between us and moves his lips from my hair and brings them down to my mouth. Despair fills me, and I scramble to think of some way to turn his own desire against him, but I cannot. Not now, when I am tired and chilled and the panicked dregs of discovery still run through my veins.

Then, praise Mortain, the door behind me opens and I nearly tumble backwards into the room. Julian’s head comes up, black fury in his eyes. I whirl around to see who has interrupted us, wanting to get my body firmly in front of Julian until he can get his temper in check.

It is Tephanie. Dear, awkward, sweet Tephanie! Her gaze flickers briefly to Julian and then comes back to me and never wavers. “You asked me to wait for you, my lady.”

“I did—thank you, Tephanie.” My voice is calm, steady, and holds the faint note of scorn Julian would expect.

I glance at Julian as if to apologize for this overly dutiful servant. His temper has dissipated, and in its place is a faint mocking expression. “It is late, and I am sure your attendant would like some sleep before the night is over.” He turns to Tephanie. “You may leave,” he tells her.

Hidden behind my skirt, my hand reaches out and grabs her arm, an iron grip that holds her in place. She curtsies and murmurs, “It is no inconvenience, my lord, but a great honor to be able to serve my lady in any way she wishes.”

I tilt my head at Julian. “Do you hear that, my lord brother? She is honored to serve me in any way she can.”

He looks at me, then at Tephanie, and I see in his eyes the exact moment he concedes the battle. “I cannot argue with such devotion, then. I bid you both good night.”

After Julian takes his leave, I stumble into my chamber and nearly sag to the floor. My knees weaken, my guts turn watery, and I cannot stop trembling.

“My lady?” Tephanie’s simple face is clouded with worry. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine.” Uncertain of my ability to school my features just yet, I do not look up.

Ignoring my words, she hurries to my side. I brace myself for her barrage of questions, but she surprises me by saying nothing. She simply takes one of my ice-cold hands in hers and begins chafing some warmth back into it.

Something about her touch, the simple, undemanding nature of it, makes me want to weep. Or perhaps it is still the aftereffects of my fright.

Once again, Julian has interfered, ruining my plans and destroying my hard-won resolve. Even worse, I suspect he is more fully in d’Albret’s confidence than I had thought. How far will his loyalty go? Which is his greater desire—to keep me safe or to serve our father?

And the knight! Sweet Jésu, what they have planned for him! To be hanged, drawn, and quartered is the most hideous torture I can imagine. He will be hanged by the neck—but not so long that he actually dies. No, they will cut him down before he escapes into that sweet oblivion. Then they will slice him open and remove his entrails while he watches, finding endless ways to keep him conscious and alive as they do so. When that is done, they will throw him to the ground, secure each of his limbs to a horse, and send them all galloping off in different directions until he is ripped apart.

Fearing I will be sick, I force the image from my mind. Sensing my shivering, Tephanie leaves my side long enough to fetch my night shift, then quickly helps me undress by the fire. She slips the clean gown over my head, presses a cup of heated wine into my hands, and goes to warm the bed.

When she has finished, she curtsies, still not meeting my gaze. “Will that be all, my lady?”

I study her bowed head and flushed cheeks and wonder what makes her so loyal to me when all the others revel in my fall from favor. But loyal she is, and determined, too, with her stubborn insistence on serving me in the face of Julian’s not insignificant displeasure. “Stay.” I intend it as a command but fear it sounds more like a plea.

She blinks in surprise, then curtsies an acknowledgment. While she makes ready for bed, I crawl between the covers. Even the warmth from the heated bricks cannot remove the trembling from my limbs.

Is the prisoner cold in his dungeon? Or is he well past consciousness and too far gone to feel anything at all?

The bed dips as Tephanie crawls in. I give her a moment to settle, then scoot back toward her heat, as hungry as any ghost for her vital warmth.

Just as I finally stop shivering and begin my downward tumble into sleep, I feel a pair of soft, tender lips press against my hair. Or perhaps it is but a dream. Either way, it seems like a promise of absolution.

Chapter Thirteen

MY FATHER AND THE REST of his men are back in time for the midday meal. They have not taken the time to wash, and they reek of horses, sweat, and old blood, but that is not why my appetite evaporates at once. It is the sight of d’Albret in such high spirits, for he is only ever that cheerful when he is planning something truly heinous. As I take my place at the table, Julian sends me a look of warning—Tread carefully.

With Julian’s discovery of me in the tower dungeon, all my fine plans have turned to ash. I cannot possibly break the Beast out now, or save him from the fate they have planned. They have probably doubled the guard on the tower. Plus, Julian will know precisely who is to blame.

Although, since I would likely not survive the attempt, I suppose that part does not matter overmuch. My fingers drift to the ring I wear on my right hand, the black cut-obsidian stone that hides a single dose of poison. One meant only for me.

With his eerie sense of timing, d’Albret turns his sharp gaze in my direction just then, his eyes dancing with a predatory gleam. “What have you been up to while I was away?”

It is all I can do not to look at Julian. Surely he hasn’t spoken of my trip to the dungeon with d’Albret?

No, of course he hasn’t, for if he had, d’Albret’s beard would not be bristling with goodwill. I decide a humble approach is best, at least until I know what this is about. “I entertained myself with the ladies of the castle and went into town to see what amusements it offered.”

He takes a sip of wine, studying me the entire time, letting the silence—and my apprehension—build until I fear my nerves will snap. “I also had a belt that needed fixing,” I tell him, not sure if this is a test to see if my explanation matches Jamette’s.

“So?” he asks, gesturing with his goblet. “How did you find the city? Did they treat you well? Deserving of your station?”

His face is unreadable, and I cannot tell if I am walking into a trap or if he is actually curious. “The townspeople were circumspect, although the workmanship of the smiths was not what we are used to.”

He nods, as if he expected nothing else. “And how was the mood of the town? They are always sullen when my soldiers ride through, but that is the way of townspeople toward soldiers. How they received you is a better indication of their true loyalties.”

I think back to the smith and his reluctance to wait on us. Of the nervous glances of the pie seller and how the shopkeepers looked at us with suspicion. I shrug. “They were accommodating enough.”

Jamette turns and looks at me in surprise. It is then that I see her new bauble—a round, pink pearl that dangles in the middle of her forehead from a delicate gold chain. “Did not the smith almost refuse to wait on you?” she says.

I cannot decide which I wish to rip out first—her loose tongue or her too observant eyes. I do not think she was close enough to the smith and me to make out the actual words between us. “I fear you are mistaken. He was merely unsure of whether he could have the job done in the time I required.”

“Oh,” she says, looking faintly sheepish.

I turn back to my father, wanting to make certain the smith will not fall into his disfavor. “He was courteous, if a bit provincial. And his wife was most obsequious.”

“That is too bad,” my father says.

Marshal Rieux looks at him in surprise. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

My father grins, truly one of his most horrifying expressions. “I was looking forward to making an example of their lack of respect.”

A chill scuttles down my spine and I try to think of something to divert his attention from the smith. I receive help from an unexpected quarter.

Pierre, who has had too much wine, raises his glass. “Instead, we should make an example of the duchess and ride on Rennes!” Baron Vienne’s wife sits at his side, ignored and forgotten. She looks as if she has aged ten years over the past few days, whether because of her husband’s recent death or Pierre’s attentions, I cannot be sure.

Julian looks at him askance. “Except that they are too well supplied and can easily withstand a siege. We will be left standing on the battlefield looking like fools.”

“Not with our might,” Pierre slurs.

Julian pointedly waves away the page who is waiting to refill Pierre’s goblet. “Might counts for nothing if we cannot get inside the city walls.”

D’Albret’s expression turns sly and he begins playing with the stem of his goblet. “Ah, but what if we had help from inside,” he says, and my heart drops. Has the duchess not purged her council of all the traitors? There is no one left, by my reckoning. All of the traitors sit here at this table.

“Help?” Rieux says, clearly puzzled.

D’Albret draws out the moment, draining his wineglass and waiting for the steward to refill it before continuing. “I have sent men to infiltrate the ranks of the mercenaries Captain Dunois has hired to augment the duchess’s troops. They have been ordered to ensure they are assigned to the vulnerable parts of the city—the gates, the bridges, the sewers; anyplace that could provide an entrance point.

“Once they are in position, we will have several chinks in her armor to use at our convenience. When the time is right, they will be able to open the city gate for us. Once our forces are inside, it will be easy enough to overpower her guardsmen and man the ramparts with our own. The duchess’s sanctuary will quickly become her prison.” He smiles, his teeth brilliantly white against the blackness of his beard.

It is clear that d’Albret’s unbridled ambition will yield to nothing but death. The thought of his forces descending on Rennes and invading the city causes my stomach to shrivel into a sour knot.

Pierre raises his goblet in salute. “Is now the time to send her our message, my lord?”

D’Albret stills, and for one long moment, I fear he will hurl his goblet at Pierre. Instead, he smiles. “Tomorrow, whelp. We will send her our message tomorrow.”

It appears the injured knight has just run out of time.