Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(47)
Author: Robin LaFevers

It is Duval who answers. “By the same batch of miracles that has you astride that horse, you great ox.”

Then Ismae and I must jump aside as a half a dozen men come trotting by bearing an empty litter. Ismae points them toward Duval and Beast. “Come,” I say. I let go of her arm and hurry after the litter. “I must give them instructions as to Beast’s care.”

Over Beast’s loud protestations that he is fine, I warn Duval that, in addition to having a fever, Beast cannot put any weight on his leg.

Duval and the men have a quick conference among themselves. “We will take him to the convent run by the sisters of Saint Brigantia. If anyone can tend his injuries, it will be them.” He shoots me a look that lets me know he will be wanting answers soon, then he directs his men to help Beast.

But it is no easy thing to remove an injured twenty-stone man from his horse, and it cannot be done without some jostling and bumping. Beast grits his teeth, and his face turns white as he mutters something about being tossed around like a sack of onions. Then one of the men loses his grip, and the horse startles, slamming Beast’s wounded leg between its flank and the helping guard, and Beast faints.

I sigh. “I fear that has become a new habit of his,” I murmur to the others. “Although it is probably for the better.” I motion for Yannic to dismount so he and I can show the damn-fool soldiers how to get Beast off the horse without killing him.

It is clear that Duval is torn between concern for his friend and his duty to his sister. In the end, I assure him that Yannic is as able as any of us to see to Beast’s care, so he gives stern instructions to the men on what to tell the sisters of Saint Brigantia, with promises that he will be there shortly. Then he turns to me. “Come now. We would hear your accounting of what has happened.”

“But of course, my lord.” Indeed, I cannot wait to discharge what I know. It is as if I have been carrying a hot ember deep inside my body that is slowly turning my insides to ash. It will be no hardship to be rid of that burden.

Ismae loops her arm through mine as we follow Duval to the palace door. “Where is he taking us?” I ask under my breath.

“To the duchess’s chamber, where she is holding council with her advisors.”

“At this hour?”

Ismae grows sober. “At all hours, I’m afraid.”

“Are they trustworthy, these advisors of hers?” I have not been impressed with the steadfastness of her guardians Marshal Rieux and Madame Dinan.

She grimaces. “Yes, that is why it is such a small group.”

As Duval leads us through the maze of palace halls and corridors, I allow myself to adjust to the cacophony of the beating hearts and hammering pulses. It is as if a hundred minstrels have all decided to bang their drums at the same time.

I also study the faces of the people I pass—servants, retainers, even the pages—trying to get a sense of their characters.

Duval leads us to a small chamber guarded by two sentries, who step forward to open the door to admit us. The duchess stands at a large table flanked by three men who stare at the map in front of her. One is dressed in travel-stained clothes and it is clear he has only just arrived. The second man is dressed in bishop’s robes and hovers near the duchess like a fat scarlet toad. The third is slender and serious, his brow wrinkled in thought. With relief, I realize I recognize none of her advisors, which means they will not recognize me.

It is the first time I have seen the duchess up close. She is young, and short, with fine skin and a high noble brow. Even though she is but thirteen years of age, there is something regal about her that commands respect. At the sound of our entry, they all look up, questions in their eyes.

Duval’s smile transforms his face. “Beast is here. In Rennes.”

The duchess clasps her hands together as if in prayer and closes her eyes, joy lighting her young face. “Praise God,” she says.

“I rather think we should be praising Mortain,” Duval says dryly, “as it is His hand that guided him here.” He motions in my direction, and all eyes turn to me.

“Then you and your saint have my most sincere thanks and profoundest gratitude,” she says.

I sink into a deep curtsy. “It was my pleasure, Your Grace. However, I bring you not just your noble knight but vital information concerning Count d’Albret and his plans.”

“You mean the man is not content to steal my city out from under me and sit on it like a brooding hen?”

“No, Your Grace. Even now he has put into motion a number of plans, any one of which could bear rich fruit.”

The thickset bear of a man on the duchess’s right gestures with his hand. “By all means, share with us these plans.”

“Count d’Albret, Marshal Rieux, and Madame Dinan hold the city against you, and while there are many who remain loyal to Your Grace, Count d’Albret does his best to make it . . . difficult for them to remain so.”

“Wait, wait. Start at the beginning. How were they able to take the city from the attendants and retainers who were still in residence there?”

Before I can answer, there is a rustling behind me, a sound that reminds me of a snake slithering in dry grass. In that moment, I recognize why I am uneasy: I sense eight pulses but see only seven bodies before me.

Slowly, as if I am in a dream, I turn around and see the abbess of Saint Mortain standing behind me. She skulks in the far corner, like a spider, which is why I did not see her when I first came in. Her blue eyes study me coldly, and my heart plummets like a stone.

I have not escaped my past; it has been waiting for me here all along.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“GREETINGS, DAUGHTER.” While her words are friendly enough, her voice is cool, and the kiss of welcome she gives me is as cold and impersonal as Death Himself. “Excellent work. We are pleased that you were able to perform your tasks so admirably.”

I curtsy deeply, my eyes watching her warily. Ismae and Annith always got along well with the abbess, and genuine fondness seemed to exist among them. Indeed, Annith was treated like a court favorite much of the time, and Ismae always saw the woman as her savior, as if it were the abbess’s own hand that had lifted her up from her drab life as a peasant.

The abbess and I had a different sort of relationship. One built on mutual dislike and distrust, brought together only by our shared needs: mine for a sanctuary, hers for a finely honed weapon she could let loose as Mortain willed. I trust her as much as I do a viper.