Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(86)
Author: Robin LaFevers

“They rode Josse down like a dog on the road, then pierced him with a lance. They dragged me back tied in ropes because I fought them so.”

I can feel Beast’s anger moving through his limbs, but he says nothing. I focus on the fluttering ghosts who have drawn near as I talked. There is Alyse, who gave me Louise and laughter. And Françoise, who gave me Julian, my first friend, and a true brother before he became my enemy. My own mother, who gave me life, and Jeanne, whose story, I now realize, was no cautionary tale, but one of courage—the courage to face death rather than the horrors life held for her.

For all the atrocities d’Albret has committed—and there have been many—it is these innocents he swore to love and protect that have been betrayed most grievously. These are the ones that deserve to be avenged.

Any doubts that I held about Beast being strong enough to bear all the horrors of my past are gone. The last of my secrets has been spilled, and still he holds me in his arms as if he will never let me go.

Something wakes me. At first I think it is the silvery moonlight streaming in the window and falling across the bed. And then I hear a faint sound, like barren winter branches rustling in the wind. Although I do not hear my name precisely, I know that the sound is calling me, beckoning me closer, and I am afraid. Afraid it is the ghosts of d’Albret’s dead wives, calling me to account.

But the sound comes again, and I know I must go. Quietly, I lift the covers, swing my feet onto the floor, and rise from the bed.

The sound comes a third time, and it is as if there is a string tied to my heart that pulls me toward it. I step into my shoes, throw my cloak around my shoulders, and slip from the room.

It is the dead of night and all is quiet. For the first time that I can remember, I do not feel afraid in my father’s house. Whether it is because of Beast, who sleeps nearby, or because of the otherworldly voice beckoning me, I do not know. Perhaps I simply have nothing more to lose.

The castle corridors are empty, as is the great hall. There are a few sentries posted at the door, but since I am born of darkness, the shadows are my friend, and I use them to hide my passing.

Outside, the night has turned bitterly cold. Mortain’s freeze, the farmers call it, an unexpected cold snap that threatens the emerging spring crops.

And that’s when I know who is calling me. I pull my cloak closer and hasten my steps, not surprised when the rustling leads me to the cemetery.

The waning moon casts the graveyard in pale silver light, but I am drawn to the darkest corner where the shadows are the deepest. As I approach, a tall, dark figure emerges. He is dressed all in black and smells of the earth in early spring, when the fields have just been tilled. With a jolt that pierces my heart, I recognize my true father. Every doubt I have had that He existed, every fear that I have possessed that I am tainted by d’Albret’s dark blood, falls away from me in that moment. Like a lamb in a field that trots unerringly to its own mother, I know that I am His. At first, the wave of gratitude and humility this brings makes me want to fall on my knees before Him and bow my head. But as I look upon Him, the years of anguish and terror unfurl inside me, and a great whip of anger lashes out. “Now? You come to me now? Where were You all those times when I was small and terrified and truly needed You? Where were You when d’Albret cut down the innocent time and time again?”

Then, just as suddenly as it came, the anger is gone. “And why did You abandon me? When You came for my mother, why did You not take me with You?” The last question comes out in a whisper.

“It was your own mother’s wish, that you live.” When He speaks, His voice is like a cold wind from the north, bringing snow and frost. “She prayed not only to be delivered from her husband but that other women be spared her fate. That prayer brought Me to her so that I was there when you were born, to see you safely into this world as well as to carry your mother away, as I had promised.”

“So You did not reject me?”

His voice, like the rustle of dying leaves, fills my head. “Never.”

“But I have sinned against You and acted on my will alone, rather than Yours. Do I not deserve Your retribution?”

“No, for you are My daughter and I would no more punish you for plucking flowers from My garden than I would for your drawing breath. Besides, the men you killed had earned their deaths. If they had not, the knife would have missed, the quarrel gone wide, or the cup laced with poison remained untouched.”

“Are the marques not meant for us to act upon?”

I realize I do not so much as hear Him speak as feel Him inside my mind, as if He is unfurling some great tapestry before me, filling me with understanding.

As a person’s death draws near, his soul ripens and readies itself for plucking. That ripening can be seen by some. As souls ripen, they begin to loosen from their bodies, much as fruit makes ready to leave the branch. But even the same fruits on the same tree fall at different times—occasionally defying all odds and clinging throughout the entire winter.

And just like one who toils in the orchards, He does not control everything. Not the wind, nor the rain, nor the sun. And just as those elements shape the fruit on the tree, so do many factors shape a man’s life, and therefore his death.

Then He reaches out and lays His cold hand on my head, and His grace and understanding fill me, burning away all vestiges of d’Albret’s evil darkness weighing on my soul until the only darkness that remains is that of beauty. The darkness of mystery, and questions, and the endless night sky, and the deep caverns of the earth. I know then that what Beast said was true: I am a survivor, and the taint of the d’Albrets was but a disguise I wore so that I could pass among them. It is no more a true part of me than the cloak on my back or the jewels I wear. And just as love has two sides, so too does Death. While Ismae will serve as His mercy, I will not, for that is not how He fashioned me.

Every death I have witnessed, every horror I have endured, has forged me to be who I am—Death’s justice. If I had not experienced these things firsthand, then the desire to protect the innocent would not burn so brightly within me.

There in the darkness, shielded by my father’s grace, I bow my head and weep. I weep for all that I have lost, but also for what I have found, for there are tears of joy mixed in with those of sorrow. I let the light of His great love fill me, burning away all the tendrils and traces of d’Albret’s darkness, until I am clean, and whole, and new.

Beast finds me just before daybreak. Asking no questions, he helps me to my feet. The small circle of frost on the ground is all that remains of Mortain’s presence.