Author: Robin LaFevers

I settle into my fighting stance.

The man spits out a mouthful of blood, then rushes forward with his short sword thrust out. Merde, but he is stupid. Does he truly think I will just stand here and wait to be skewered?

I duck under the outthrust blade and roll onto the ground, swiping at the man’s ankle as I pass. when I come up on my knees, there is a puzzled look upon his face. He stops moving and slowly sinks to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. There is a flutter of his passing soul, but it disappears quickly.

His companion’s eyes widen at this uncanny trick. If he is smart, he will run, but he is not. He panics and lunges forward. I leap back and get the misericorde between us. It connects with his bony knuckles, just a scratch, but he stiffens, and then looks from his cut to my face.

“You cannot win against Mortain’s own,” I whisper. Then he, too, settles to the ground, as if giving a deep curtsy. Another fluttering of soul, then nothing. I frown at my lack of connection with their souls and wonder if that is another gift of grace with the misericorde, that the victims’ dying thoughts remain private.

The sound of steel scraping on stone pulls my attention back to Duval. Three of his assailants are down; the fourth is backed against the wall. As I approach, the remaining bandit glances my way. It is the merest slip, but Duval uses the distraction to force his way inside the man’s guard and strike him on the head with the butt of his sword. The man’s eyes roll up in his sockets and he slides to the ground.

“I will save you for questioning,” Duval says, then turns his attention to me. “Are you hurt?”

I glance down and see that one of the blades has sliced through the fabric of my gown. A faint line of red wells up on the meaty part of my arm. “Just a scratch. And you?” I ask, because it seems polite.

“Fine,” he says curtly. His gaze moves beyond me to the three men I’ve dispatched. “Sweet Jesu!” He hurries over to where they lie and kneels to feel for their pulses. “All of them dead,” he announces.

“I know.” I try to keep the pride from my voice. A sense of triumph races through me and I am nearly giddy with it. I have bested three men, and though the test was harder than any at the convent, I passed with flying colors. even better, I fought as well as Duval. I wonder how to compose my message informing the abbess of this without sounding as if I am bragging.

"What happened to your horse?”

My spirits crash back to earth at Duval’s question. I whirl around, shocked to see that Nocturne is lying on the ground, her sleek black side drenched in sweat and heaving like a bellows. “She was only scratched,” I tell him as I rush over to kneel beside her. The acrid tang of bitterroot fills my nose and there are flecks of bloody foam upon her lips.

“Poison.” even as I say the word, I can feel the fevered heat coming off of her. “No mere bandits, then. They wanted us dead.” I run my hand down Nocturne’s silky flank, trying to comfort her. “Do you have so very many enemies?” I ask Duval.

“It would appear that I do,” he says. “The better question is, Should I be flattered that they set seven upon me? Or does that mean someone knew I would be traveling with a skilled fighter?”

The full implication of what he has said hits me. “Are you suggesting the abbess sent them? Or Chancellor Crunard?” I am barely able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

He shrugs. “It seems whoever sent them knew that both of us could fight.”

I am tempted to ask if he also suspects Beast or de Lornay, but then I would have to reveal that I overheard their conversation, and I am not willing to do that. Not yet.

Is it possible that Duval had sent them on ahead to arrange such a thing? would he have staged an attack in order to rid himself of me?

"We must put her out of her misery,” Duval says gently.

His words remind me of what I must do, and while I long to ease Nocturne’s suffering, I am saddened beyond reason that I must bid her farewell.

"Would you like me to do it?” Duval’s voice is nothing but kind. There is no hint of condescension in it, but I act as if there is. Getting angry is the only way I can bear this. “I am trained in death,” I remind him. “I need no help.”

“None of us are trained to kill those who have served us well and faithfully,” he says. “It is a special agony all its own, and I would spare you if I could.” There is a note of sorrow in his voice and I know — know— that he has had to do this very thing. His sympathy makes the pain of losing Nocturne worse, as if my feelings for her are not some childish affection I should have put aside long ago. “I am not weak.” To prove my words, I reach down and grasp my knife handle.

“I never said that you were.” His voice is still gentle, as if he sees how much this is hurting.

which only makes me resolved to prove that it is not. “If you will cease your endless prattle, I will do it.” I feel rather than see him step back, and I am suddenly able to breathe now that he is no longer near. I turn my full attention to Nocturne, wanting to find some way to let her know how much I will miss her.

I place my cheek along her neck, breathe in her familiar horsy scent. “Thank you,” I murmur in her ear. “For carrying me so faithfully, and for being my friend.” I whisper this last part so softly that I am afraid she will not hear. But her ear twitches, and I know that my words have reached her. She gives a faint whinny, as if to let me know she understands. “I hear there are many carrots where you are going,” I tell her. Then, before I can falter, I grasp the misericorde and put it to her throat.

Nocturne’s spirit leaves her body in a red-hot gush. A faint breeze rustles by, bearing the scent of sweet green grass and the sense of galloping into the wind. I lay my head down on her neck and pray I will not weep.

Then Duval grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. If I didn’t know he had nerves of iron, I would have said there was a faint glimmer of panic in his face.

"What are you doing?” I wrench my arm out of his grip.

He stares intently at the cut on my arm. “If one blade was poisoned, why not all of them?” As I look at him blankly, he gives me a little shake. “You might have been poisoned too.”

Now that he has mentioned it, there is a faint burning sensation in my arm. I glance down at the cut. “I am fine,” I assure him.

“You cannot know that. Perhaps even now it is working its way to your vital organs.” He takes my arm again and keeps a firm hold on it as he leads me to his horse.

He does not know I am immune to poison, and I am reluctant to share this. If he himself was behind our attack, better not to hand such secrets to him. when we reach his horse, he stops long enough to feel my brow. “No fever yet,” he mutters.

“I am fine, I told you.”

He ignores my protestations and puts his hands around my waist. I barely have time to gasp before I am perched on the horse’s back, the imprint of his hands still burning against my skin. He springs up into the saddle, then takes the reins in hand. “Grab hold of me or else you’ll tumble off,” he instructs over his shoulder.

Gingerly, I place my hands along his sides.

“Hold on,” he repeats, then puts his heels to his horse. we fly forward, and I barely have time to grab the thick folds of his cloak to keep myself from spilling off.

He gallops back the way we’ve come. The overturned cart is gone now and there is no sign of anyone nearby. He takes a side street, then another, and soon we come to a wider street with finer houses.

Duval pulls up in front of one of them. His horse has barely come to a full stop before a groomsman rushes out to take the reins. Duval dismounts only long enough to introduce me to his steward, then remands me into the keeping of his housekeeper, Louyse, a round, pleasant-faced woman who welcomes me cheerfully, if curiously.

when he starts to give her orders to send for a doctor, I stop him. “Milord. If I had been poisoned, I would be dead by now.”

He scowls at me and begins to argue, but I cut him off. “Look how quickly it felled my horse. Surely someone my size would be dead already.”

His face clears somewhat at my words. “Perhaps. But why would only one of their blades be poisoned?”

“I do not know. I only know that I am well, and that is enough.”

He nods curtly. “Very well. Louyse will see that you have anything you may need.” He surprises me by taking my hand. It is for the servants, I tell myself. To convince them of our masquerade. “Promise me you will send for a doctor if you start to feel ill.”

I want to laugh at his concern. No, I want to wrap it around me like a blanket and use it to soothe my most recent loss. Instead I say, “I promise,” knowing it will cost me nothing.

Then he leaps onto his horse, calls four of his men to ride with him, and leaves. As they clatter out of the courtyard, I realize I do not know if they head for the palace or back to the scene of our attack. My desire to know is so strong, I take one step forward as if to run after them, but then I notice Louyse’s puzzled look.

I give her a wan smile, and she smiles back broadly. “Come, demoiselle. You are no doubt weary from your journey.”

I marvel at how well trained she is, for I am certain she heard Duval say poisoned, and yet she neither sends me curious glances nor asks me any intrusive questions.

Instead, she leads me inside. A great hall looms to my left, and the sun sparkling through the oriel window casts a glow on the tapestries covering the wall. It occurs to me that I should at least try to search Duval’s home now that he is gone, but in truth, I cannot muster the desire. I am tired down to my bones, and my movements feel as if I am wading through water.

Perhaps there was poison on the blade after all. If so, this feeling will pass quickly, much quicker than some malaise of the heart, which is what I fear it is. Nocturne’s death shouldn’t gnaw at me so, but it does, and I hate how weak I am.

Louyse continues up a wide center staircase to a bedchamber. It, too, has glass windows, and thick velvet drapes keep out the chill. There is a fire burning in the hearth, and a large tub sits nearby. A serving maid is just emptying a bucket of steaming water into it.

My spirits lift somewhat at the thought of a bath. I have not had a bath since the convent and am in sore need of one.

There is a light knock on the door and a footman appears bearing my satchel. Louyse motions for him to put it on the bed, then shoos both him and the maid from the room. She takes a step in my direction. “May I help you with your gown?”

“No!” The small spurt of panic I feel at exposing the scars on my back gives more force to the word than I intend. “Thank you,” I add, more graciously. “But I am convent raised and more comfortable disrobing in private.” My heart is beating quickly. I have not given a single thought to the assistance of a maid.

Her eyebrows raise only slightly, yet another sign of her excellent training. “Very well. I shall leave you to your bath then.” And with that, she leaves.

When she has quit the room, I ease myself onto the bed. All sense of triumph has fled and I feel nothing but the keen loss of Nocturne and the awareness of how very far from home I am.

Chapter Seventeen

I come awake with the fine hairs at the nape of my neck lifting in warning, every muscle in my body tensing with anticipation. As my mind fumbles with the unfamiliar surroundings, my hand reaches for the stiletto under my pillow.

A voice heavy with weariness rumbles through the silence. “You can leave that pretty little prince sticker of yours where it is.”

Duval. I am tucked up in his house in Guérande. My hand relaxes its grip on the handle. “You don’t stick with it,” I correct automatically, much as Sister Arnette does. “You shove and twist.”

A low, warm chuckle fills the chamber, and my skin ripples slightly. Annoyed, I want to rub my forearm to ease the sensation, but I am not ready to let go of my knife just yet.

Duval sits in a chair with his back to the lone window. Has he come to take advantage of me? Here, where the only ones who will hear my protests are those loyal to him?

For I will protest, I assure myself.

“I said put your dagger down.” This time there is a hint of steel in his voice rather than laughter.

“You must be mad to think I’ll just sit here in the dark, defenseless — ”

"What exactly do you feel you must defend against? I have not made any move toward you.”

And there he has me, for I cannot say what I must guard against, only that I feel threatened in some way.

“You have exactly five seconds to put your dagger away before you find it at your lovely throat.” He thinks to browbeat me into obeying him, but his words have the opposite effect. I am filled with a desire to test my skills against his. we have both dispatched three men today. How would we fare against each other? The thought has something dark and unsettling unfurling inside me. I shove my stiletto back under the pillow, afraid I will use it without cause.

Lying down feels too vulnerable, so I sit up. Duval’s broad shoulders are silhouetted by the faint moonlight coming in through the window and I want desperately to see his face so I can discern what he is about, but it is cast in shadow. Besides, he isn’t even looking at me. His head is leaning back against the chair, and the faint slump to his shoulders hints of his fatigue. "Why are you here?” I ask.

He turns his gaze to me, and although his eyes are still hidden in the shadows, I feel them as surely as any touch. My skin ripples again, and this time I do rub my arms.

"What is my fair assassin so afraid of? I wonder.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Duval tilts his head to the side. “No?” He studies me a long moment, then rises out of his chair. I hold my breath as he crosses to my bed. “Are you afraid I will draw closer, perhaps?” His voice is pitched low, little more than a purr. My breath catches in my throat, trapped by something I long to call fear but that doesn’t feel like fear at all. every inch of my skin is thrillingly, painfully aware of the soft linens and bedcovers between us.