Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(57)
Author: Robin LaFevers

we finally reach a closed wooden door. Duval nods at the guard posted there, who steps aside to let us enter. Duval leads me into to a well-furnished room with an outside balcony. winding steps lead from the balcony to a private courtyard. Duval points to a still, twisted body on the flagstones below. “Fedric, Duke of Nemours.”

“No!” I whisper, then lift my skirts and hurry down the staircase. I curse my sense of death, wishing to hold out hope one moment longer, but there is no mistaking that Nemours is dead.

when I reach the body, I kneel at his side. "When did this happen?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

I glance sharply back at Duval. One eyebrow is raised in a sardonic question that does nothing to mask the fury and disappointment he feels.

“You cannot think that I did this!”

“I cannot?”

“No, milord. I have received no instructions from the convent, nor has my god revealed His will to me. Are you so very certain he did not fall?”

Duval grunts. “I am not.”

Nemours’s body still holds traces of warmth. He cannot have lain here long. "Who found him?”

“I did.”

when I raise my eyebrows in inquiry, he shoves his hand through his hair. “Do not look at me so. we were to meet to review the final betrothal arrangements, but when I arrived his chamber was empty.”

“Did you question his men?”

“Yes. They confirmed he spent the morning alone and had no visitors.” He glances up at the window, two floors above us. "When I found his chamber empty, I looked out here to see if he was waiting in the courtyard and saw his crumpled form.”

Our eyes meet. “But he told no one of his true identity; he introduced himself as a wool merchant from Castile. Only the Privy Council knew who he was . . .”

“Precisely.” His lips twist in a smile that has nothing to do with humor. “After yesterday’s meeting, they all knew about Nemours, and any one of them would have had time to act.”

“So one of the duchess’s closest advisors must have been involved with this.”

Duval nods in agreement. “Although, it is not impossible that Gisors learned of Nemours’s identity through one of his many spies. Or perhaps he paid off one of the council members. Nor is it beyond the bounds of reason that d’Albret arranged this in retaliation, for I can very easily believe Madame Dinan told him of Nemours.”

“No matter which of those is correct, you still come back to the fact that someone from your Privy Council said something. To someone. with ill intent.”

Duval’s jaw clenches. “Does his soul still . . . linger?” He waves his hand awkwardly. “Can you speak with it?”

“I will try.”

I turn my face from Duval and bow my head. Do the people of Nemours worship the same gods and saints as we do in Brittany? I have no idea, but it is worth trying.

I close my eyes and allow this world to fall away until I no longer feel the hard stone beneath my knees or see the fading light of the sun against my eyelids. The faint chill of Death caresses my cheek, like a loving mother who has greatly missed her child.

when I peel away the thin veil between life and death, Nemours is there waiting. His distress at being outmaneuvered is thick and solid, a veritable wall of grief. But it is the despair he feels at leaving the duchess without a protector that touches my heart, for his last thought proves what an honorable man he was. I, too, am filled with despair. why must the honorable die when so many dishonorable live?

Sensing the presence of life, Nemours’s soul moves toward me. I gently reach past the cloud of grief and misery that surrounds him, searching for more of his last thoughts in this world, looking for something that will help us. There: The solid feel of a hand against his back, a sharp push, the sense of falling. The force of his landing sends me reeling. I do not realize that I have almost fallen myself until I feel Duval’s hand on my shoulder pulling me back into life and breaking the connection with Nemours. A gasp escapes me and I open my eyes.

Duval stands over me, his warm, solid hand grounding me in this world, his face full of concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, my lord. I am fine,” I say.

Duval’s free hand touches my cheek. It feels far warmer than Death’s caress but is just as gentle. “Then why are you so pale?” he asks softly.

“I am not.” I shove his hand away and cast my eyes down to avoid meeting his. “Nemours was pushed. From behind. He does not know whose hand it was, for he never saw it.” we are both silent as we digest the full implications of this news.

Someone on Anne’s Privy Council is a murderer.

Chapter Thirty

Duval stays late at the palace so he can inform the duchess of the events and see to the necessary letters and arrangements required by Nemours’s death. I sleep not a whit. I am furious that this chance at happiness has been snatched from the duchess, that such an honorable man has died by such a dishonorable hand. I want to fix it, to put things right, but it is beyond even the skills of Mortain.

But perhaps I can grant the Duke of Nemours a small mercy. At daybreak, Louyse bustles in with a full pitcher of water and a cheery “good morning,” shutting the door behind her with her ample hip. “After I lay out your clothes, I will bring a tray to your room to break your fast. Also, my lord Duval left you a note.”

“A note? Is he not here?”

“No, demoiselle. He and the other lords have gone off on a hunt to stock the castle larders.”

She hands me the note and turns to my garderobe. I am torn between opening it at once and using the moment to slip into my fresh chemise. Shame wins over curiosity, and my scar is securely hidden by fine linen by the time she returns. Once she has helped me into a gown, she excuses herself to fetch my tray. I tear open the note, cracking the seal and spilling small bits of red wax to the floor.

Ismae,

I have decided that we will be moving into the palace to be nearer the duchess. If last night’s activities are a sign of things to come, I would be close at hand when she needs me.

Also, after much discussion, the council has decided to go on with the planned hunt — indeed, all court activities — as if nothing has happened. There is no reason the death of an unannounced stranger would alter our behavior, and thus are we bound and trapped by our own deception. It is better that as few as possible know the extent of this disaster.

Be well,

Gavriel

He is right. No one but the Privy Council and he knew Nemours’s identity, so it would not make sense to accord Nemours any particular honors. But in denying him those, surely we are adding to our grievous insult against the man.