Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,167

look. “You will say anything, grasp at any straws to save yourself, won’t you, demoiselle?”

I give Fortune’s wheel one last spin. “The guard that was killed—what did you do with his body?”

“I don’t know. Gave it to his family.”

“Send someone to contact that family and retrieve whatever personal belongings were on him, Your Majesty. In them you will find a gold brooch that will tell you precisely who killed the man. It was not Beast, who was locked behind a thick wooden door.”

“You, then?”

“No. General Cassel.”

He stares at me a long moment, his face unreadable. “Farewell, Demoiselle d’Albret. I sincerely hope our paths never cross again.”

Needing to move, I cross once more to the window and look out. I am still five floors up, the stone is still too smooth to climb. There are no ledges or molding or even crumbling mortar I could use as a foothold.

Even worse, they have posted a half dozen armed guards at the base of the old tower. Even if I were to get out, I could not get Beast free.

With no path for escape, the king’s words finally sink in. If I had thought returning to Nantes was difficult, how much worse will it be to reside in a d’Albret household again?

And if I am not here, who will free Beast before he is executed?

Each realization is like a stone being laid upon my chest until it is nearly impossible to breathe. Old remembered pain comes hurtling out of its hiding place, infecting me like a plague, causing my hands to shake and my knees to weaken. It is like having gnawed one’s arm off to escape a trap, only to find oneself back in the very same trap.

The ghosts come then, not just my own, but the castle’s as well. Their cold presence seeps out of the stone into my very soul, chilling me to the bone, and saps my spirits even more. I thrust them aside, feeling them scatter like pigeons who have spied a cat, then begin to pace the small room, wishing a servant would come and light the fire in the hearth.

Then I laugh. As if I do not know how to light my own fire.

I cross to the fireplace, take wood from the stand, and lay it upon the hearth. I search for the tinderbox, my hands fumbling with cold—or fear—as I strike the flint. A spark catches. I set it to the kindling and watch the flame come to life. The faint heat eases something inside me.

It is the Dark Mother to whom I have prayed these last months. It is she who brings hope out of darkness. And though this moment feels hopeless, that doesn’t mean I must give in to despair. Hope need not shine brightly. It need only be a dogged refusal to give up.

The king—and his be-damned advisors—may be playing a game of chess, but I do not have to agree to be their pawn. I can turn this game into one of my own making. I need only figure out what that might be.

* * *

The king does not wish to make a public spectacle of my brother dragging me off in front of the entire court, so they wait until dusk. When Pierre arrives, it is clear he is taking no chances.

Even though we are accompanied by nearly forty men, every one of them cut from the same rough cloth as Maldon and le Poisson, he ties my wrists and my ankles. But not before he searches me, looking for weapons, quickly removing my five knives and my anlace. He did not find, or mayhap did not recognize, my rondelles or my garrote bracelet. To my great relief, he did not linger or tarry at the task, but executed it with quick efficiency.

Panic tries to beat its hot, fluttering wings against the inside of my chest, but I refuse to acknowledge it. It would have been easy enough to flee, that moment when the king announced my fate, but I did not. Nor did I flee when I was escorted from the palace, still within the king’s view, and had not yet been bound.

If I had I known I was going to be bound, I might have. But now I focus on the questions that plague me: How did the regent know that the English were in Morlaix? They landed but a week ago. If she had spies in place, then surely they would also have reported how valiantly we