“Maraud’s plans have plans, who then go off and have little plan babes, until before you know it, we’re knee-deep in plans. Your judgment is clouded.”
He glared at her. “Like hell it is.” Though maybe he should have spent a little less time thinking about Lucinda on the way here. “I told you I was going to get justice for my family. I also told you that you didn’t need to come.”
“It’s not your need for justice or vengeance that’s causing your judgment to be off. Or at least, it’s not the only thing clouding your judgment.” Valine’s voice grew gentle, and a gentle Valine unnerved him. Maraud hunched his shoulders and kept walking.
“It’s your grief.”
He stopped walking so suddenly that Andry and Tassin bumped into him. “My what?”
“You heard me.”
He shook his head and resumed walking. “You’re daft. I’m not feeling grief, just a hunger for vengeance.”
“You’re still mourning your brother.”
Saints take her! Why did she have to go and say it? Because now the pain was back, throbbing as if his arm had been hacked off. Only worse. Deeper. “Ives has been dead over a year,” he said woodenly.
“It’s not just your brother, but your father as well.”
Maraud kept his gaze determinedly forward, anger sizzling deep in his belly. “Why would I grieve that traitorous bastard?”
Valine’s voice was soft with understanding. “You’re mourning the man you thought he was.”
Sometimes the death of those we hate is harder to bear than that of those we love.
His own words, spoken to someone whose grief was fresh and raw came rushing back at him. “You’re daft,” he said again, but the words lacked conviction.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Jaspar said, “So, where to now?”
“To the French court,” Maraud replied without hesitation.
“Court,” Tassin grunted. “Isn’t that where Lucinda said she was going?”
Maraud tried to make his shrug as indifferent as possible. “She’s probably long gone by now.” But if not, he could kill two birds with one stone. Because once he was done with Cassel, he was going to find Lucinda. The two of them weren’t done. Not even close.
Chapter 37
Genevieve
During our travels toward Paris, my mind is consumed with what Sybella has told me—both about the convent and Mortain. Some days it feels as if the knowledge of the abbess’s betrayal and Mortain’s abdication have lifted a veil from my eyes, making the world both brighter and more stark, but clearer at least.
On other days, like today, the knowledge presses down on me, making it difficult to not slouch in the saddle during the long day’s slow ride to the next village. So much of how I saw myself, so much of what gave me value and strength, purpose and conviction, no longer applies. And while Sybella claims that the blood of a god still flows in our veins, what does that mean—or matter—if the god no longer exists?
When not even the clear joy of the villagers who greet our processional at every village we pass manages to lift my spirits, my two guards begin casting me worried glances. Whether they have been assigned to ensure that I do not run away or that I am not attacked and robbed of my expensive necklace, I do not know. It could feed three villages for a year, I’ve no doubt.
Fortunately it is winter and the days are short. Darkness comes quickly, and we are all parceled off to whatever accommodations can be found. Tonight, we are in luck. There is a castle nearby. Other nights we must make do with whatever inn, tavern, townhouse, or stable is available.
Although this castle is large, the royal traveling party is larger still, and the lord of the keep is hard-pressed to find places for us all. Many of the lower servants and all but a handful of our guards are lodged in the stables and cow byre.
I, however, have been given the luxury of my own room. Of course, it is a small, cramped storeroom just off the kitchen, and my two guards are posted outside. But it is warm and private, which is a great luxury.
When a dark, stooped figure appears in the doorway, my hand reaches for the hem of my skirt and the knife that hides there. The king had not thought to have me searched for weapons. Truly, he is bad at this. The figure stops—it is a woman—and raises her slim fingers to her lips. The hood slips back enough for me to recognize Sybella. She carries something