Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(14)
Author: Robin LaFevers

His nostrils flare in fury, and he glances at d’Albret. “She carries nothing,” he says, “but a small dagger and an even smaller heart.”

I smile as if his words have pleased me greatly. D’Albret waves for him to step back. “You will be happy to know I have found a use for you at last, daughter.”

My heart gives one slow beat of dread, for I know d’Albret believes women have but two purposes: to bear him sons and to slake his lust. With his own daughters, he begrudgingly allows a third: to be used as a bargaining piece in marriages that will increase his wealth and power.

It is the note from the convent that gives me the courage to lift my chin and smile sweetly at him. “I can think of nothing that would bring me greater pleasure, my lord, than to be of service to you.”

“I have yet to discover who betrayed our plans to the duchess and gave her warning. I wish to watch the Nantes barons more closely. Perhaps one of them pretends loyalty to me and then reports all my plans to her. With this suspicion in mind, you will become intimately acquainted with Baron Mathurin.”

I keep my face perfectly still. This is a new low, even for him—whoring his own daughter out for political gain. “The fat one with the double chins? I am not certain that we must become intimate in order for me to coax his secrets from him,” I say lightly.

D’Albret leans forward, his black beard bristling. “You are refusing?”

“Of course not.” My heart beats faster now, for I am well aware of what happens to those who refuse him.

D’Albret cocks his head to the side. “Do not tell me you have maidenly qualms, for we all know what a lie that is.”

His words are like a slap to my face and send me reeling down a long, painful corridor of memories. Memories so terrifying that my vision darkens before my mind scrambles away from them. “I am merely pointing out that there are many methods available to extract the information you wish to have.”

Satisfied with my answer, he leans back in his chair. “You will sit next to him at dinner.”

Before he can give me further instructions, his steward arrives, escorting a road-weary and travel-stained courier. D’Albret waves his hand at the captain and me. “Leave us,” he orders, and Captain de Lur escorts me from the room.

Despair and frustration threaten to rise up inside me, but I tamp them down. Even though d’Albret is all but announcing to his men and vassals that I am so sullied that I do not warrant his protection, I need not panic just yet. I place my hand over my wrist sheath, drawing comfort from what hides there, and hurry to my rooms.

I arrive at my chamber, where Tephanie and Jamette fuss and cluck and are horribly relieved to see me. Irrationally, I blame them for what has befallen me this afternoon. “Draw a bath, at once,” I order curtly.

As they begin that task, I slip into the garderobe and remove the note from its hiding place. My hand trembles as I unroll the message, careful to hold it over the privy hole so that no traces of black wax can be found and used as evidence against me. I hope that these are the instructions I have longed for. Of course the note is in cipher. Holding back my impatience, I quickly count out the necessary sequence, but I have no ink or parchment, so it takes me far too long to decipher the message.

“My lady? Your bath is ready. Are you ill?”

“I am fine,” I snap at Tephanie’s worried question. “Except I cannot find privacy.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” she says meekly, and I turn back to the note.

Dearest daughter,

We believe that Lord d’Albret has taken Baron de Waroch prisoner. The duchess has great need of the Beast of Waroch if she is to have any hope of raising an army against d’Albret or the French. We thereby order you to determine if he is indeed alive and, if so, to find a way to secure his release and see that he is brought to Rennes immediately.

Abbess Etienne de Froissard

Disbelief roils inside me, and my entire body turns hot, then cold, then hot again. I turn the note over, hoping I have missed something, then rework the code one more time. The message is the same. And it is not an order to kill d’Albret.

Anger rises up, so great it sears the breath from my lungs. She promised that I would be an instrument of divine vengeance—that d’Albret’s retribution would be delivered at the hand of his own daughter.

That very promise kept me from laughing in the abbess’s face when she told me of her intentions to send me back to his household. That promise had me redoubling my efforts to learn as many death skills as I could in my last weeks of training before I left the convent.

But more than that, her promise had given meaning to all that I have suffered and endured. Without that divine purpose to shape my life, I am nothing but a hapless victim. The anger inside surges through me once more, so dark and overwhelming I fear I will suffocate under its weight.

I will quit the convent. She cannot force me to stay here. Tucked far away on her little island, she will not even know I have left.

But d’Albret will.

And no place is safe from him, for his arm is long and he could snatch me up from anywhere in Brittany or France. No place is safe, except perhaps behind the walls of Rennes, and not even there if d’Albret decides to move on the city.

And so I must sit like a brainless coney. My future stretches out before me, grim and endless. I have been fooled by the convent and am now to be whored out by d’Albret as he weaves his malevolent snares for his enemies.

No. I clench my fists, crumpling the note and then casting it into the privy. No.

When I emerge from the garderobe, I ignore my attendants’ worried glances and yank off my clothes before they can assist me. I spend the next hour scrubbing my father’s and the abbess’s filthy schemes from my skin.

I do not know how I will make it through dinner. I cannot help but wonder how many know of the role d’Albret has given me. Nor can I help but wonder whom he will assign me to next. That fool Marshal Rieux? The quiet and serious Rogier Blaine?

As soon as I step into the dining hall, d’Albret’s gaze is upon me—as cold and dead as the meat on his plate. I keep my head held high and chatter inanely with Tephanie as I approach the dais, then curtsy. My smile is as brittle as glass—and as fragile. But lost in his own dark mood, he waves me toward Baron Mathurin.

As I make my way to the table, I wonder: How does one kill a monster such as d’Albret, someone with nearly inhuman strength and cunning? Can it even be done if the god of Death Himself does not will it?