Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(89)
Author: Robin LaFevers

It appears all the gods are in favor of this venture, and it is all I can do to keep from leaping over the desk and hugging her. “’Tis a great solution to a most vexing problem. Thank you.”

“So it is but a rescue mission?” Her sharp eyes study me.

I hold her gaze. “That is the focus of our foray.”

“Good. Although if there are other opportunities that present themselves, I hope that you will seize them. You will need to be most careful. D’Albret and his troops returned three days ago, he and his forces riding hard from Rennes. Whatever he had hoped to accomplish there did not happen, and he and his men are in a foul humor.”

That is good news, then, for surely that must mean that his saboteurs were not able to help him gain entrance to the city.

“That is why things are so quiet here. The townsfolk have taken to their homes and closed their shops, not wanting to come into contact with d’Albret or his men when this mood is upon them.”

For some reason, my thoughts go to the silversmith who fashioned the key for me. “That is most wise of them.”

She pushes herself to her feet and crosses to the window that overlooks the moat. “There is something else you should know. There are reports, reliable reports, that the French regent and a large fighting force are encamped a mere five leagues upriver.”

So close! “Did they think to take advantage of d’Albret’s absence by invading the city while he was making war on Rennes?”

She shakes her head. “I do not know, for messengers have been flying fast and furious between d’Albret and the French for the last fortnight. Whatever it is, they may be planning it together.”

She turns to face me. “I do not tell you this to dissuade you but so that you will keep your eyes and ears open. If you were to catch wind of what is afoot while you are moving these girls to safety, I am sure the duchess would be most grateful. Now, go fetch your companion, and when you return, I will escort you to the passage myself.”

The tunnel is long and dark, and the oil lantern the abbess gave us casts just enough light so that we do not trip and fall. The walls are of dank stone, dripping with damp from the nearby river and the moat overhead. The darkness swallows up most of the light from the lantern. It feels as if we have stepped into the long, murky throat of some monstrous serpent from the legends of old.

When finally the meager light shows a stone staircase, we quicken our pace and hurry up the stairs. According to the abbess, since the duke was aware that his own chamber might well be the first taken in any hostilities, the door opens into the room the duchess and Isabeau shared as children.

I quietly lift the latch, then slowly pull the door open—only to be met by another wall of wood. No, not a wall, but the back of a huge wooden headboard. The door is set into the wall behind the room’s bed and further hidden from view by the bed curtains. There is just enough space for a person to pass through, although Beast will have to turn himself sideways, and even then it will be a tight fit.

Yannic will wait in the passageway armed with his slingshot and a long dagger, as we do not dare risk having our avenue of escape sealed off by our enemies.

The bedchamber opens onto a small receiving room, and even though I sense no hearts beating in there, I pause. It is as if some invisible barrier holds me back, my mind remembering all that I have endured within these walls, even while my heart sings that it is different now. I am different now. I had been forced to disguise my true nature even from myself—for what hounds would not be terrified by the wolf that stalks among them? And even a baby wolf must be given a chance to grow. That thought allows me to step into the chamber. Beast follows silently on my heels.

At the door, I peer out to see if there are any guards or sentries posted, but the hallway is empty. “You have to wait here,” I tell Beast. “At least until I know where they are, and how heavily guarded.” His eyes burn with frustration, for he is not used to standing idly by while others put themselves in danger, but he knows that for now, stealth is our best weapon, not brute force.

In the hall, I am careful to keep my head down and hope the wimple I wear will shield my features from any casual passersby. The farther I move away from the door, the more it feels as if some great weight is pressing down upon me. Instead of making it hard to breathe like it once did, the force propels me forward, much like a crashing wave hurls a boat toward shore.

I have not gone two doors down before I hear voices—the clear, high voices of children. They come from inside the third chamber. There are no guards posted, so I take a deep breath, remind myself that I am Mortain’s daughter, then rap on the open door. The voices stop.

“Come in.” It is Tephanie, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I had half feared Madame Dinan or Julian himself would be guarding the girls. But no doubt they did not expect me to come gamboling into the lion’s den unannounced.

I enter the room, careful to keep my eyes lowered, and slip my hands inside my sleeves to my hidden knives, in case I need them quickly. “Hello.” I pitch my voice deeper than normal. “I am Sister Widona, from the convent of Saint Brigantia, and I have been sent to see to the child they call Louise. She is said to have contracted lung fever.”

Tephanie draws closer until I can see the tips of her plain brown shoes poking out from under her skirt. “Not lung fever, no. But she coughs all the time and her lungs seem weak. We would be very grateful for any healing skill you care to offer.”

“But of course,” I say as I shut the door behind me and then slowly look up.

It is Louise who recognizes me first. She leaps from the couch where she has been playing with her doll and runs forward, flinging herself at me. I pull her close, savoring the feel of her small arms wrapped around my neck. She has grown thin and frail, and her cheeks bear an unhealthy flush. Tephanie watches her with a mixture of surprise and dismay until her startled gaze moves up to my face. Her mouth drops open and her hand flies to her face. “My lady.”

I hold my finger to my lips and pray she is loyal to me and the girls.

Slowly, Charlotte rises from the couch, her solemn brown eyes never leaving my face. “I knew you’d come,” she says, and I open my arms to her as well. Stiffly, she walks over to me, but she does not throw herself at me like Louise. She has always been more formal, so I reach out and pull her close. Only then does she relax into my embrace.

Tephanie glances to the door. “My lady. It is not safe for you here. They say . . . they say the most horrible things about you.”