Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,58

closer to bewilderment. “What did you say?”

Merde. Before I can answer, one of the soldiers returns and sticks his head in the door. “Sir! The king wishes to see you at once.”

Cassel does not look away. “I’ll be right—”

“The king said to come at once, sir,” the man says unhappily.

Reluctantly, Cassel pulls his gaze from mine. “This is not over,” he says under his breath.

“Oh, but it is,” I say just as softly to his retreating back.

* * *

When I am alone at last, I grab my skirts to give my hands something to do besides tremble. It is not fear that has me shaking, but rage. I make myself draw a deep breath, then another, using the air to cool my anger.

As my mind clears, my gaze falls on the trampled holly twig, the broken leaves and smashed berries as bruised as my heart. I kneel down, and fury explodes inside me again, although this time it is accompanied by a hollow sense of desolation. It is just a twig, I remind myself. Just a stupid piece of a branch that fools liked to call miraculous.

It was also my last remaining piece of Mortain. The desolation that fills me is so complete that I cannot breathe. I fumble for my pocket, my fingers closing around the pebble, welcoming the bite of pain as it presses against my palm. I stare down at the ruined remains of Mortain’s last miracle, the heat of unshed tears searing my eyes. But one escapes, landing on the holly. I stare at it, the last mingling of his essence and mine.

I blink, trying to clear my vision. The crushed edges of the leaves are not torn, merely sharply bent. And the berries are not crushed, but simply misshapen. As I watch, the holly shifts, so slowly my eye cannot truly see it, but within a hand span of minutes, it is whole again. Not quite new—there are creases where it was torn and scars along the berries’ surfaces. But it is whole and remade. A miracle, for all that it is a small one. I gently scoop up the sprig and cradle it to my breast.

 Chapter 31

Genevieve

The next day, when it has grown dark, the door to the king’s chambers finally opens. It is not the king, but two young boys—apprentices, I realize—jostling a large wooden trunk between them. On their heels comes an older man of middle years. He is not a servant, and certainly not a courtier. His clothes are of good quality, but serviceable. He does not so much as glance at me. “Careful with that, you despicable turnips! Set it down in the far corner near the fire. Carefully!”

The boys hurry to do what he asks. With quick, practiced movements, they open the top of the traveling case, which folds out to create a table.

The man crosses to the fire and stokes it, motioning at one of the boys to add fresh logs until it is burning hotly.

When he is satisfied with the fire, he tells the boys, “Enough! If that table is not set up by now, then I’ve wasted these last seven years on you.” There is no malice in his words, and the boys ignore his scolding as a tree ignores the wind. “Now begone. And stay out of everyone’s way. I’ll send for you when I’m done.”

As they clamber to the door, one of them shoots a curious look my way—the first one of them to make eye contact. I smile, but he ducks his head and scurries out. A faint swell of understanding begins forming in my chest. The king was very happy to remind me that he had a variety of punishments at his disposal. Clearly he has put some thought and planning into this one.

The man has tied on a leather apron and is muttering over a set of tools—a hammer, pliers, tongs. I think of Maraud, nearly broken in the dungeon at Cognac: the iron chains, the manacles, the oubliette.

The king would not have me tortured, would he? I square my shoulders. Just because that is what they have in mind does not mean I must submit to it. I run my hand down my skirts—a seemingly nervous gesture—to assure myself of my knife’s solid presence.

The man begins hammering. Before I can investigate, the door opens and the king strides in, moving with confidence and purpose, the dregs of last night’s anger still lurking in his eyes. He does not look at