Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(46)
Author: Robin LaFevers

Beast pauses in wiping the charcoal dust from his face. “You don’t trust them?”

“It is more accurate to say that I don’t trust anyone. I wonder if Ismae is still assigned to the duchess. Perhaps I can get a message to her.”

Beast glances at the sentries. “I am not sure they would grant you an audience with Ismae even if she is here.”

I grimace, for he is most likely correct.

Beast thinks a moment, then reaches into some hidden pouch tucked on his person and removes something. “Here.” He hands me a small brooch—the silver oak leaves of Saint Camulos. “Ismae should recognize this, and if she does not, Captain Dunois will. As will the guards. They will honor any who carries this symbol.”

Holding the brooch tightly in my hand, I dismount, leaving him and Yannic to stay with the horses. I approach the palace and wait for the guard to finish questioning a burgher who is there to meet with the chancellor and complain about the most recent round of taxes. After the burgher has been told the chancellor has much more important business at hand—such as keeping the city from being attacked by the French—he is sent on his way, and then I am facing the sentry. He scowls at my poor clothing and the grime I am covered in. Even so, I tilt my head and give him my most fetching smile. He blinks, and his scowl softens. “What do you want?” he asks. “If you’re looking for scullery work, you must go around to the kitchens.”

I glance at the handful of pages lingering just inside the door. “I wish to get a message to one of the duchess’s attendants.”

The second sentry saunters over. “What business could you have with one of the duchess’s ladies in waiting?” he asks, as if the mere idea is some great jest.

I decide that a little mystery will aid my cause. “Ismae Rienne is no mere lady in waiting,” I tell him. “Give her this and bid her come as quickly as she can.”

I do not know if it is the mention of Ismae or the sight of Beast’s silver oak leaves that catches the guard’s attention. Whichever it is, he takes the brooch, hands it to a page, and murmurs some instructions. When the boy scampers off, I saunter over to wait by the wall, trying to look important but harmless—a surprisingly difficult combination. After a few moments, the sentry decides I won’t dash in on my own, so relaxes his guard somewhat.

I rest my head against the stone and allow the sense of jubilation to flow through me. Beast is still alive and we are as safe here as anywhere in the entire kingdom. With the abbess tucked away at the convent on the other side of the country, she will not know that I have arrived in Rennes until she receives a message. She cannot send me on a new assignment. At least not for a while. That gives me some time to work out what I would like to do next. Suddenly, the world looms large, full of possibilities and freedom.

And no one—no one—here in Rennes knows my true identity, so my secrets will be safe.

At the faint murmur of approaching voices, I carefully tuck my moment of triumph away and inch toward the causeway.

“No, you cannot kill him. He is the duchess’s own cousin,” a man’s voice points out wryly.

“All the more reason not to trust him,” a woman says.

It is Ismae, and the joy and relief I feel at hearing her voice is nearly overwhelming.

“If something should happen to the duchess,” she continues, “he stands to inherit the kingdom. Besides, he has been a guest of the French regent for the last year. How do we know where his true allegiance lies?”

“He was a prisoner!” The man’s exasperation is nearly palpable.

When Ismae speaks again, she sounds aggrieved. “Why did you not stay with the council? The message was for me, not you.” Unable to stop myself, I smile. For it is such a very Ismae-like thing to say.

“Because the message was the sigil of Saint Camulos, whom I serve, not you.”

Then she and the gentleman emerge from the entryway and hurry toward the sentry. “Where did you get this?” the nobleman demands. He is tall, with dark hair and the well-muscled grace of a soldier.

The guard points to me. The man’s head snaps around and I am speared by a gray gaze that is as cold and hard as the stone at my back.

He takes a step in my direction. “Who are you?” he asks in a low, angry voice.

Before I can answer, Ismae shoves him aside. “The message was for me, Duval. Oh! Sybella!” Then she throws herself at me and I am encased in a fierce hug. I hug her back, surprised at how very much I want to weep into her shoulder. She is alive. And she is here. For a long moment, that is enough, and I simply savor the feel of her familiar arms about me.

She pulls away to eye me carefully. “Is it really you?”

I smile, although I can tell it is a lopsided effort. “In the flesh.”

“The oak leaves?” The nobleman’s impatience rolls off him in waves as he clenches the silver brooch in his hand. Duval, Ismae called him, which means he is the bastard brother of the duchess.

“I have brought you something,” I tell them. “There.” I nod to where Beast and Yannic wait on their horses.

Duval’s face lights up just as Ismae’s did when she saw me, but before he can hurry to him, I grab his arm. “He is gravely injured. Once you get him off that horse, you will need men and a litter to move him. And you must do it quietly. I bring much news and none of it good.”

Duval frowns his understanding and gives the guards an order to send for help—and to keep quiet about it—then rushes off to greet his friend.

“You did it!” Ismae whispers fiercely. “You got him free. I knew you could.”

I stare at her. “You knew of my orders?”

She grabs my hands. “It was my idea! The only way I could think of to get you out of there. Every time I saw you in Guérande, I feared for your safety and your sanity. Now here you are, and that haunted, mad glint is gone from your eyes.”

I do not know whether to kiss her for getting me out of d’Albret’s household or slap her for all the trouble her idea has caused me. In any case, her words ring true. I no longer feel as if I dance along the edge of madness.

Ismae puts her arm though mine, and we begin walking toward the others. “I will never forgive the reverend mother for assigning you to d’Albret. She might as well have sent you into the Underworld itself.”

A faint wave of panic threatens, then recedes. Ismae does not know—has never known—my true identity, for all that we are like sisters. I am saved from further conversation when I hear Beast bellow, “Saint’s teeth! You’re alive? How is that possible?”