Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,147

managed to recapture Beast’s vile mount—who tosses his head, then tries to bite Beast’s fingers. Beast merely chuckles, and soon the creature is pliant, if not tame.

The farther north we ride, the deeper we venture into the forest, the trees doubling in size, their thick roots reaching deep underground, their broad canopy filtering out much of the light. It feels as if a cloak of safety has been drawn around us. No one lives this deep in the forest but the charbonnerie and a crofter or two, neither of whom is likely to offer word of our passing to Rohan or d’Albret.

Just thinking of my brother casts a pall over the morning. Pierre is here. In Brittany. He has taken up arms against the crown—even if the crown is too stupid to know it yet—and is marching in our direction. I would not wish his troops on anyone—let alone the country of my birth. The people we worked so hard to spare from the horrors of war with the French.

The French would have been far kinder to them than he will.

As the sun dips lower in the sky, we pass one of the large standing stones jutting out of the earth like the bone of some long-dead giant. “Not too much farther now,” Lazare says.

He turns right at the standing stone, leaving the hint of trail we’d been following and picking his way straight through the trees, which feel as thick and ancient as time itself. The sharp scent of wood sap mingles with the rich smell of the forest floor.

When we reach the clearing, I recognize the dozen mounds of earth, each with piles of wood slowly baking deep within until it is the charcoal the charbonnerie are known for.

There are also nearly two dozen rough tents and cooking fires whose smoke lazily drifts upward toward the trees, where children scamper among the branches like squirrels. Everyone grows still at our approach. It becomes so quiet I would swear I can hear the smoke moving through the leaves.

One of the men tending the nearest smoldering mound steps forward, his gaze skipping over Gen and me, pausing briefly on Beast, then landing solidly on Lazare, who bows from his saddle. “Greetings, Kerrigan. I hope the Dark Mother is being good to you and your families.”

Kerrigan finishes surveying our not insignificant numbers. “She has been, yes.” His tone makes it clear he suspects that is about to change.

“May I speak with you?” Lazare asks.

The man waves his arm—wrapped in thick bandages—in permission. Lazare dismounts, then he and Kerrigan step away, speaking softly. Whatever Lazare is saying, the man looks unconvinced.

“Mayhap we will spend the night under the trees,” Beast murmurs.

“Might be better than this place,” Poulet says, gazing around at the clearing.

“Poulet.” The single word from Beast is enough. Neither Gen nor Maraud look particularly perturbed, but from what Gen’s told me, they’ve had interesting travels of their own.

“I’ll have to consult with the others,” the older charbonnerie finally says. “This is not a decision for me alone.”

“I know, Kerrigan. That is why I came here first.”

The other man nods. “For tonight, they may spend the night in our forest, under our protection, but I cannot guarantee you any more than that.”

* * *

By the time we have set up our small camps and bedrolls, nearly fifty charbonnerie have drifted out of the woods—far more, I’m guessing, than live in these two dozen tents.

We are invited to dine with them and share our meals—they their acorn mash, bitter but filling, and we our dried meat and hard cheese. As before, I am fascinated by the faces of those around me, their colorless drab clothes and nearly invisible appearance belying a fierce, proud nature. Many of the women’s gazes dart my way, and I wonder what they see.

When the rituals of hospitality have been observed, Kerrigan leans back against his log. “Lazare tells me that you wish our cooperation,” he says to Beast.

Beast cuts a sideways glance at Lazare, for it was Lazare’s idea to seek help from the charbonnerie. “I welcome any and all aid we can get to put down Rohan’s rebellion.”

“You will forgive me if I point out that it hardly matters to us. We already fought this war once. Or Erwan did on our behalf. If I remember correctly, that was to maintain Brittany’s independence, which has been lost to France. For us, the war is already over.”

“While that is true, this is what I would point out.