Dark Triumph
Page 23

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.
She motions for me to rise, then she turns to the others in the room. “I would remind you that Sybella has traveled far and at great discomfort and risk. No doubt she would like to make herself presentable before she tells the rest of her tale.”
At her words, I am suddenly aware of just how filthy and travel-stained I must appear, as if I am some grub that has scuttled out from under a rock.
The duchess is quick to apologize for her lack of hospitality and insists I take the time to refresh myself before reporting to the council. I had been so concerned with sharing my news that I had given no thought to my appearance until the abbess pointed it out. The evil cow. She likely did it on purpose, to throw me off balance.
My unease increases when the abbess insists on escorting me to my chamber herself. Ismae sends me a nervous glance as I curtsy to the duchess and then follow the reverend mother from the room.
As we walk, she says nothing except to order a servant to fetch things for a bath and make the room ready. She holds her head high, her posture rigidly straight as she glides down the hall. I do not know if her silence is because she fears being overheard or if it is yet another way to unnerve me.
We reach a chamber with a cheerful fire. A tub has been placed in front of it, and two maids are emptying kettles of hot water into the bath. The abbess quickly dismisses them. Once we are alone, she turns to face me, her beautiful face contorted with anger. “What are you doing here, Sybella?” she hisses. “You were only to free him, not personally escort him to Rennes.”
I toss my head in the face of her anger, both to give myself strength and to annoy her. “And how would he have gotten here, with me practically having to carry him from the dungeons? It was only after days of my tending his wounds that he was even able to stay on a horse—and then only when he was tied on.”
The abbess’s nostrils flare in irritation, for as much as she longs to, she cannot argue with my logic. She shoves her hands in her sleeves and begins pacing. “But now we have no one in Nantes.”
“It does not matter, Reverend Mother, for none of the traitors was marqued. Not Marshal Rieux, not Madame Dinan, and not d’Albret.” I watch her carefully to see if she recognizes that her promise to me—that I would be able to kill d’Albret—was broken.
She does not. “There is still great value in having you there. Someone will need to keep the duchess informed.”
And suddenly I am furious. Furious that she does not even care that she lured me back to hell on earth with a false promise and that for a span of time, death was more inviting to me than the life I was forced to live—the life she had forced me to live, using lies and a lure she knew I would find irresistible.
I take a step toward her, my hands clenched into fists so that I will not slap her. “Great value? Great value? For whom? And at what cost? You promised me I could kill him. Promised me Mortain had marqued him and was waiting for me—not any of His handmaidens, but me—to go back there and kill him. You lied to me.”
She tilts her wimpled head and studies me. “Something as paltry as a lack of Mortain’s permission would not stop the Sybella I know. Perhaps in the end, your ties to d’Albret are stronger than your ties to Mortain. You have, after all, known him and served him far longer.”
Her words strike all the air from my lungs and I am so shocked by a sense of violation that I cannot dredge up anything to say and am left gaping at her like a fish.
She gives me a scornful glance. “Make yourself presentable so you can report to the duchess,” she says, then lifts her skirts and sweeps out of the room.
As I stand in the empty room, the abbess’s words echo in my head and take up residence like a nest of maggots in a rotting corpse. I feel small and tainted, as if I should not be in this room, this palace, this city. I start to rub my arms, then stop, for my skin feels flayed raw by her accusation.
Then, praise God and all His saints, the anger comes, a sweet hot rush of fury that burns the pain I am feeling to ash. I have done what I was told to do, what I promised I would do. I have risked much and ventured back into my worst nightmares, all because I believed the abbess—believed that even though she did not like me, her service to Mortain would ensure that she would be truthful with me, see me as a useful tool, if nothing else. But clearly I have been duped and have allowed myself to be the worst kind of pawn.
Even worse, I wasn’t able to accomplish the one thing that would have made it all worthwhile—killing d’Albret.
Anger surges through my body, so powerful that I shake with it. I glance around the chamber, desperate for something to break, to throw, to destroy, just as the abbess has destroyed me. But there is nothing. No mirror nor crystal, only the candles, which would start a fire if I threw them, and while I am angry, I am not angry enough to bring down the very castle that holds us.
Which is something, I guess.
Instead, I cross to the bed, grab a handful of the thick, burgundy damask curtains, wad them up in my fist, then shove the wad into my mouth and scream. The relief of all the anger and fury leaving my body is so sweet that I do it again, and again. Only then do I let the crushed, wrinkled fabric fall from my hand, and I turn back to the room, somewhat calmer.
I will leave this place, leave Mortain’s service. I have warned the duchess of d’Albret’s plans. Once I have told them all that I know about his intent to infiltrate their defenses, my duty is done. And my duty to Mortain? I snort like one of Guion’s pigs. Look what my service to Him has gotten me so far.
Heartened by this decision, I reach behind and begin to unlace my gown, thrilled to be able to step out of its grubby drabness. I walk n**ed to the tub and am pleased to find the water scented with lavender and rosemary. The duchess, at least, is not stingy with her hospitality. Slowly, and with a great sigh of contentment, I lower myself into the water.
The heavy curtains are drawn against the cold winter winds, and the room is lit only by the fire burning in the hearth and a brace of beeswax candles. As I sit there, I imagine all of my anger being drawn from me and let it flow out of me into the warm scented water, for I will not be able to make effective plans if my vision is clouded by my own anger. I lean forward and dunk my entire head so that I may wash it, too. Who knows what vermin I have picked up over the last few days’ travels?
Just when I pull my head back up and am rubbing the drips out of my eyes, there is a soft knock at the door. “Sybella?”
At the sound of Ismae’s voice, I call, “Come in.”
The door opens, then closes as Ismae hurries into the room. “I’ve brought you some clean clothes,” she says, pointedly not looking at me n**ed in the bathtub.
Her familiar modesty cheers me, and I lean back and place my arms along the sides of the tub, fully exposing my br**sts, just to fluster her. However, she knows me too well and simply rolls her eyes at me. “Would you like me to wash your hair for you?”
I find that I would, surprised at how much I missed the kind, gentle touch of friendship. Because I want it so much, I only shrug. “If you wish.” I do not think she is fooled, for she plucks an empty ewer from one of the tables and moves behind me.
We are both silent as the warm water sluices down my head and falls across my back. “I have been so very worried about you,” she whispers. “Annith checked the crows daily for word of your whereabouts and safety, but there was nothing. And no matter how many doors she listened at, she could not catch a whiff of where you’d been sent or what your assignment was. When you didn’t come back for months, we began to fear the worst.”
“And now you know. I was sent to d’Albret.”