Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,56

too easy—too convenient—for him to place all the blame squarely on her, someone he doesn’t like and who threatens the natural order of his world.

I close my eyes for a moment as my despair flares into hot, bitter remorse. I will never be able to unring that bell. To fix things.

I study his profile as he broods into the flames. Not if you don’t tell anybody, they won’t, he said.

While I cannot fix the whole, mayhap I can fix some of it.

The room is empty, the king leaning on the council table in front of him. The blue velvet of his doublet is stretched tight across his bunched shoulders. “Your Majesty.”

He holds up one hand. “Not now, Genevieve. I have no wish to hear a defense of your friend. This was exactly the reason I ordered you not to consort with her. Her scandal threatens to drag you down with it, merely by your association.”

It is not her association with me that has caused this problem, but my own actions. Without the knowledge of the convent I provided, his suspicions would never have fallen on her.

Every word he has uttered crystallizes my resolve. “But, sire,” I say softly. “What if it is not Sybella’s scandal?”

He twists his head to look over his shoulder at me. “What are you saying?”

For days I have wondered how I could fix this, but no answer has presented itself. Very well. Perhaps it cannot be fixed, but I can at least soften the most painful edges of the blow. “I am saying that I killed Monsieur Fremin, not Sybella.”

 Chapter 29

The king shakes his head. “No.”

“Yes.”

His arms fall to his sides, his fists clenching. “You committed murder under my roof?” He looks at the couch where I passed the night. “Under my very nose?”

“It was more a matter of protection than murder.”

“He threatened you?”

“He threatened Sybella’s life and the safety of her sisters. No one would listen.”

“You have betrayed me. Betrayed my trust in you.” As he talks, the note of hurt in his voice is quickly overrun with anger. “You spit on the protection I offer. Why?”

“I will not cower in safety behind your robes while those who are dear to me are cast to the wolves. You judged her guilty before you even knew all the facts.”

“I had heard the facts and had determined her claims to be false.”

“You were closing ranks and shutting your ears to an outsider who rubs you the wrong way.”

His nostrils flare. “I do not believe your claim. Why would she not kill him herself? She is an assassin as well.”

“Because she knew that you did not trust her, that you would not believe her.”

“And why should I believe you?”

I shrug. “What have I to gain by lying? In truth, I have everything to lose—your protection, your good opinion, my life.”

He grinds his teeth and slams his palms against the table. “Dammit, I trusted you!”

“Indeed, sire. And still you may.”

“I cannot trust someone who murders my guests at will! Who treats my favor with so little regard. Who casts aside everything I have done to help her.”

For once, prudence takes hold of my tongue, and I do not point out that I have received no favors, not one, nor have I benefitted much from his protection. “It was not at whim. He entered her chambers with the intention of doing her harm.”

He whirls back to me. “How can you know that?”

“Because I was there.”

“The sentries did not report that they saw you.”

I lift one shoulder and allow a smile of satisfaction to play about my lips. “I am an assassin. Shadows are my friend. They were right about that much.”

He stares, his breath growing more rapid. Whether from anger or shock or dismay—or all three at once—I do not know. He strides closer. He is not a tall man, but his anger makes it feel as if he is looming over me. My heart wants to race in apprehension, but I will not let it. I deserve his wrath, not Sybella. It is I who have upset his neatly ordered world with my revelations; Sybella has only tried to protect her sisters. Indeed, this is the only way to tip the scales of justice back into balance.

“I could have you put to death for this.” The anger that colors his voice does not completely hide a faint thread of distress. I grasp on to that thread as a drowning man would a rope.

“You could,” I agree. “But is there