Author: Robin LaFevers

“D’Albret is not just ruthless in battle and merciless in victory. He is a true monster.” I must reach deep for the next words, for they are buried far beneath the surface of daily thought. Indeed, some of the memories remain locked away even from me. “D’Albret murdered all six of his former wives. Surely you would not consign your own duchess to such a fate.”

In the long moment of silence that follows, the shock of what I have just done runs through my body. I am hot, then cold, then hot again. I half believe that d’Albret will somehow know what I have said, and I must remind myself that he is twenty leagues away.

By the grim look on Duval’s face, I see that he at least believes me. But not the others. Their faces are full of incredulity. Chancellor Montauban speaks. “It could be that his actions have been misinterpreted or misunderstood and these are but disgruntled rumors started by those who have suffered defeat at d’Albret’s hands.”

When I answer, my voice is colder than the winter sea. “I am an assassin trained, my lord Chancellor. Not a simpering maid who quails at talk of war.” I consider having them ask Beast, for he will verify the truth of what I say, but it is not my secret to tell. I risk a glance at him and see that he is staring down at his clenched fists.

“I believe what she says is true,” he says at last. “The count no doubt intends grave personal harm to the duchess—if not immediately, then soon after they are wed.”

Dunois rises to his feet and begins to pace. “It is hard for me to believe such despicable accusations of a man who has guarded my back and fought bravely at my side. He has always fought with honor.”

Chalon nods in agreement. “What you are accusing him of goes against every code of honor and chivalry we hold dear.”

“That you hold dear, not d’Albret,” I point out. “Besides, are you so very certain of his honor in battle? Have you never questioned why he and his troops arrived too late at the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier? Because that was not an accident, I assure you.”

“I knew it!” Duval mutters under his breath. The duchess reaches out and places a small hand on his arm to calm him. Or perhaps she is clutching him for support. I cannot be certain.

But it is the bishop whom I have offended the most with my accusations. “If this is true, why have we not heard of it? Why should we believe you? Do you have any proof? In the name of Christ, girl, his brother is a cardinal!”

I glance briefly at the abbess then. “I have long been in his household and know far too well the nature of the man.”

The bishop presses. “Then why have you not come forward sooner?”

A wave of helplessness and futility washes over me, but before I can begin a new round of arguments, the abbess’s cool voice falls into the room like grace. “Gentlemen, you may rest assured that Lady Sybella has spoken the truth.”

I am both surprised and grateful at this unexpected defense. Just as relief begins to unfurl inside me, she addresses them all again.

“Sybella is d’Albret’s own daughter and knows whereof she speaks.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I AM SO STUNNED THAT I can barely breathe. I could not be more surprised—or stricken—if the abbess had reached out and ripped the skin from my bones.

I would certainly feel just as raw and exposed. Indeed, it is all I can do to keep from leaping to my feet and running from the room as every eye turns on me. Is that a new glint of caution I see in Captain Dunois’s gaze? A faint look of revulsion in Chancellor Montauban’s? The bishop merely looks outraged, as if someone has disordered his carefully constructed world simply to spite him. Chalon’s face is also interesting, for it is a carefully shuttered mask, and it is clear his interest has sharpened.

But it is Beast’s gaze that feels the most like a blow.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. If I do not look, I will not have to see the disgust and loathing that now rises from him like steam from a boiling kettle.

And Ismae. What is she feeling right now? For I have known her the longest and have never breathed a word of my lineage. I stare straight ahead and tap my foot, as if I am bored.

The first to speak is Ismae. “Excuse me, Reverend Mother, but is Sybella not Mortain’s daughter, rather than d’Albret’s?”

It is all I can do to keep from leaping from my chair and hugging her.

“But of course, child. She was sired by Mortain, which is how she comes to serve the convent. But she was raised by d’Albret in his household for the first fourteen years of her life. For a certainty, d’Albret considers her his daughter.”

Duval shifts in his chair and sends the abbess an unreadable look. That is when I realize he does not trust her. “I would think the more important question would be whose daughter Sybella considers herself to be. My lady?”

I look up and meet his kind gray eyes. He is giving me a chance to answer this accusation, and I begin to understand why Ismae is so fond of him. “The happiest moment of my life was when I learned I had not been sired by d’Albret, my lord. For as dark as Mortain is, He is a beacon of holy light compared to the baron. So yes, I consider myself Mortain’s daughter.”

Beast shifts in his chair, and every particle of my being screams at me not to be such a coward and look at him. But still I do not, certain that what I will see will break even my hard, shriveled heart.

“Then the matter is settled,” the duchess says. “And it seems to me that if what the lady Sybella says is even remotely feasible, then we have nothing to lose by including that possibility in our plans. Much as when we expect an attack from the north, we still arrange for a strategy in the south, should we be proven wrong.”

Captain Dunois strokes his chin and slowly nods his assent. “That seems wise to me.”

“It cannot hurt,” the chancellor concedes.

But the bishop is still reluctant. “I fear it will draw our energy and resources away from more dire needs.”

“Even so,” the duchess says. “We will act as if every word she says is true.” She turns from the bishop to me. “Tell me, demoiselle, do you have any suggestions for us to consider?”

“We have secured a betrothal agreement with the Holy Roman emperor,” Duval adds. “We could make that public if you think that will deter d’Albret at all. But if we announce it, the French will use it as an excuse to launch a full attack.”

I shake my head. “I fear that news would only make d’Albret move more quickly—to prevent the marriage—rather than stay his hand. But I do agree that the duchess will only be safe once she is married. You must find a way to make the marriage happen now.”

Duval smiles wryly. “That will be difficult with the Holy Roman emperor off fighting in Hungary.”

Without troops, without a strong husband by her side, she is lost.

“Demoiselle.”

At the duchess’s gentle voice, I raise my head to meet her gaze. “You look utterly exhausted and we would command that you go find rest so we may speak again tomorrow. Thank you again for the great service you have done on our behalf.”

I stand and sink into a curtsy. “It was an honor, Your Grace.” And to my surprise, I find the words are true. I relish having something to lay before her besides more deaths. Even if that something now stares at me with hot, furious eyes.

With the meeting adjourned, I follow the abbess out into the hall, my jaw clenched tightly. When we are out of earshot of the others, I surprise both of us by reaching out and grabbing her arm. She stops immediately and looks down at my fingers resting on her sleeve. Even though my heart is pounding at my own daring, I wait a beat before removing my hand. When I do, the abbess lifts her cool blue gaze to my face and raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” I ask. “Why did you tell them who I am?”

She frowns slightly. “So they would know to believe you.”

I study her closely. Is it that simple? Was she only trying to support my claim? “While it is true that their knowing my lineage chased away their doubts, I cannot help but think you could simply have confirmed my statements without revealing my true identity.” Without revealing that I come from a family renowned for its cruelty and depravity—never mind that I have now just betrayed that same family, which is all many will see in my actions.

She moves her hand in an impatient gesture. “It does not matter that they know. Indeed, it is good for them to realize what powerful tools the convent has at its disposal and how long its reach is.” She gives a curt nod, then removes herself from the hall, and I am left standing there, a lamb sacrificed for the elevation of the convent.

Without thinking, I head toward the castle door. I have no desire to go to my chamber and wait for Ismae to search me out, with a hurt and puzzled look in her eyes.

The cool night air does little to soothe my fury. My entire body itches with rage, as if it will burst out of my skin. I do the only thing I can think of, which is begin walking. Away from the palace, away from the abbess, away from Beast, whom my secrets have betrayed. Even with my talent for breaking things, I am astounded at the speed with which I have destroyed this budding friendship.

He knows. He knows I am the daughter of the man who killed his beloved sister. He knows that I have hardly opened my mouth without lying to him. Even now, he is likely going over every question he has ever asked and remembering all the lies I have told him.

He knows I have been shaped in the same dark stuff, with as little redemptive value. It would have been easier if I had been branded a whore or cast out as a leper.

My breath catches in my throat, and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. It feels as if I’ve ruined one of the few things that has ever truly mattered.

At first, I was simply unwilling to admit to anyone—especially a prisoner d’Albret had treated so poorly—that I was a d’Albret. Then later, when I learned of Beast’s connection to the family, nothing on earth could have compelled me to tell him the truth of who I was.

What else could I have told him but lies? The first time he asked we were but half a league from Nantes with no reason to trust each other. How would I have gotten him to safety?

My one true opportunity came at Guion’s farm, when Beast asked me to tell him of his sister. But while I am strong enough to kill a man in cold blood, play Julian’s razor-edged games, and rebel against the abbess, I was not strong enough to kill that mysterious, tender something that had sprung up between us in that moment.

And that weakness has cost me everything with Beast.

No. There could never have been anything between us. I was given a chance to tilt the scales of justice—just a bit—and that was all. As nice as it was to have someone view me in a flattering light, I was never worthy of his true regard. And now, now he will know that the person he saw when he looked at me was not real.

As if some small part of me seeks to cool my temper, my feet carry me through the darkened streets of the city toward the river. I storm past the elegant stone and timber houses, past the town square, to where the streets are smaller and the houses lean together like drunken soldiers. The streets are busier here, as the scum of the city goes about its business under the cover of night. Small bands of beggars, dividing the day’s spoils; drunken soldiers avoiding the night watch; thieves lurking in the shadows, waiting to take advantage of those too weak or drunk to notice the silent removal of their valuables.

The taverns here do a brisk business, and voices spill out onto the streets. There is a wild, frantic energy in this part of town that fits my mood perfectly. I raise my head and dare any of the dangers lurking in the shadows to try to match its skill against mine. I even slow my steps so that I appear hesitant, fearful—but it does not draw anyone. Perhaps those who prey on others can sense my desire to prey on them.

Frustrated, I continue all the way to the river, where the very dregs of the city lurk. As I stand on the bridge and look into the dark water, the truth I’ve been running from for days rises up like a rotten log from the bottom of a pond. It was not just Beast’s good opinion or respect that I craved, but his affection. The shriveled, withered bit of gristle that lives where my heart used to be has managed to fall in love with him.

The pain and humiliation of that is like a fist to my gut. I grip the stone railing of the bridge and stare down at the river. How deep it is? I wonder. I know how to swim, but my gown and cloak are heavy and would drag me to the bottom in no time.

“My lady.”

Annoyed at the intrusion, I snap my head up.

A drunken soldier saunters toward me. Here is the release I seek. He is a hard-faced fellow, a mercenary, I think, for his jerkin is of boiled leather, and neither his cloak nor his brooch bear any insignia. He is wine soaked enough to be friendly, but not so much that he is impaired. I turn to face him.

“Is my lady lost?” he asks. “For this is no part of town for someone as fair as yourself to be wandering.”

“Do you think I am not safe?”

“No, I think you are at grave risk, my lady. There are any number of louts and ruffians who would take advantage of you.”

“But not you.”

He smiles then, a wolfish grin. “I have only your pleasure in mind.”

“Indeed?” At first, I am not sure if I want to fight him or bed him, but when he places his large, gloved hand on my arm to pull me close and I smell his sour wine breath, I realize it is not his lust I hunger for, but his blood. I want to bury my fury and betrayal in his thick, meaty neck and watch his blood spurt back at me in a red-hot rage that will meet my own.

I could even call it an offering to Mortain. Or the Dark Matrona. Whichever god will listen to my prayers and deliver me from this nightmare I inhabit.