Then one of d’Albret’s men lunges forward and cuts the knight’s horse out from under him. He gives a long, despairing bellow as he goes down, then like ants swarming a scrap of meat, his enemies are upon him. The man’s death cry reaches all the way up to the tower and wraps itself around my heart, calling for me to join it.
A fierce wave of longing surges through me, and I am jealous of that knight and the oblivion that claims him. He is free now, just like the gathering vultures who circle overhead. How easily they come and go, how far above danger they fly. I am not sure I can return to my own cage, a cage built of lies and suspicions and fear. A cage so full of darkness and shadow it may as well be death.
I lean forward, pushing my body out past the battlements. The wind plucks at my cloak, buffets me, as if it would carry me off in flight, just like the birds or the knight’s soul. Let go, it cries. I will take you far, far away. I want to laugh at the exhilarating feeling. I will catch you, it whistles seductively.
Would it hurt? I wonder, staring down at the jagged rocks below. Would I feel the moment of my landing? I close my eyes and imagine hurtling through space, rushing down, down, down, to my death.
Would it even work? At the convent, the sisters of Mortain were as stingy with their knowledge of our deathly skills and abilities as a miser is with his coin. I do not fully understand all the powers Death has bestowed upon me. Besides, Death has already rejected me twice. What if He did so a third time and I had to spend the rest of my life broken and helpless, forever at the mercy of those around me? That thought has me shuddering violently, and I take a step away from the wall.
“Sybella?”
Fresh panic flares in my breast, and my hand reaches for the cross nestled among the folds of my skirt, for it is no ordinary crucifix but a cunningly disguised knife designed for me by the convent. Even as I turn around, I widen my eyes as if excited and curve the corners of my mouth up in a brazen smile.
Julian stands in the doorway. “What are you doing out here?” he asks.
I let my eyes sparkle with pleasure—as if I’m glad to see him rather than dismayed—then turn back around to the battlement to compose myself. I shove all my true thoughts and feelings deep inside, for while Julian is the kindest of them all, he is no fool. And he has always been skilled at reading me. “Watching the rout.” I am careful to make my voice purr with excitement. At least he did not find me until after I warned Ismae.
He joins me at the wall, so close that our elbows touch, and casts me a look of wry admiration. “You wanted to watch?”
I roll my eyes in disdain. “It matters not. The bird slipped the net.”
Julian tears his gaze away from me and looks out onto the field for the first time. “The duchess got away?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He glances quickly back at me, but I keep the look of contempt plastered to my face like a shield. “He will not be happy,” Julian says.
“No, he will not. And the rest of us will pay the price.” I look at him as if just now noticing he is not dressed for battle. “Why are you not on the field with the others?”
“I was ordered to stay behind.”
A brief spasm of fear clutches my heart. Is d’Albret having me watched so very closely, then?
Julian offers me his arm. “We need to get back to the hall before he returns.”
I dimple at him and cozy up to his arm, letting it almost but not quite brush against my breast. It is the one power I have over him—doling out favors just often enough that he does not need to grab for them.
As we reach the tower door, Julian glances back over his shoulder at the battlement then turns his unreadable gaze on me. “I will not tell anyone that you were up here,” he says.
I shrug, as if it is of no difference to me. Even so, I fear he will make me pay for this kindness of his.
Already I regret not jumping while I had the chance.
Chapter Two
I HURRY ALONGSIDE JULIAN, REFUSING to let my mind pick and fret at possibilities. I hold my head high, my scorn of those around me plain on my face. In truth, it is no act, for I loathe nearly everyone here, from d’Albret’s courtiers and attendants to the spineless Breton lordlings who showed no resistance when he seized their duchess’s castle for his own. Craven, lickspittle lackeys, the lot of them.
Julian pauses just outside the great hall, waits for a small cluster of retainers to pass, then slips in behind them, minimizing the chances that our entrance will be noted. And while I am glad he is committed to keeping my secret, I can only wonder what payment he will demand for doing so.
Inside the hall, quiet servants hurry to and fro, carrying flagons of wine, stoking the fire, trying to anticipate every need before they can be scolded or punished for not seeing to it quickly enough. Small knots of people are scattered throughout the hall, talking furtively among themselves. Clearly, word has reached them that d’Albret’s gambit has failed and he will not be returning in triumph.
The only person in the hall who does not have the good sense to cloak himself in caution is the idiot Marshal Rieux. He paces before the fireplace, railing at Madame Dinan that d’Albret has destroyed his honor by springing a trap while under Rieux’s flag of truce. He is a fine one to talk about honor as he was the duchess’s own tutor and guardian—up until the day he betrayed her and joined forces with d’Albret, certain their combined might would convince the young duchess she had no choice but to do what they wished.
But she surprised them all.
There is a deafening clatter of hooves out in the courtyard as the men return, followed by the sound of soldierly chaos—the rattle of discarded weapons, the creak of leather, the clang of mail and armor. Usually, there are shouts of victory and coarse laughter, but not today. Today the men are eerily silent.
There is a thud as a door is flung open. Quick, heavy footsteps stride down the hall accompanied by the jingle of spurs. The entire room—even Rieux—falls quiet as we await the approaching storm. Servants make themselves scarce, and a few of the more cowardly retainers find excuses to leave the hall.
The desire to be elsewhere is overwhelming. It is all I can do to keep my feet anchored to the floor and not turn on my heel and run back up the stairs to the safety of the upper chambers. But my very guilt requires that I stay and show d’Albret that I have nothing to hide. Instead of fleeing as I wish, I lean toward Julian’s ear. “Do you think Madame Dinan and Marshal Rieux are lovers?”
Even though Julian smiles in amusement, he also gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. I frown in annoyance and shrug my arm away from him. He knows me too well. Far, far too well.
And then the force of d’Albret’s presence is upon us, swirling into the room with all the heat and destruction of a firestorm. With him comes the stench of blood and mud and sweat. His face is white with fury, making his beard look all the more unnaturally black. Close on his heels is his main henchman, Bertrand de Lur, captain of the guard, followed by a dozen lords and retainers. Two of them, Barons Julliers and Vienne, were the duchess’s own vassals, but they were so eager to prove their loyalty to d’Albret that they agreed to ride with him to set this trap, even though they knew full well what he had in mind for their liege.
It therefore brings me a great joy to see that Mortain has marqued them both for death—each has a dark shadowy smear across his brow. Between that and the duchess getting away, this day has not turned out half bad.
“Why are you smiling?” Julian asks.
I pull my gaze away from the two men. “Because this should prove most entertaining,” I murmur, just before d’Albret’s voice cracks through the hall like a whip. “Get men up in all the towers. See if anyone is there who shouldn’t be. If a warning was sent, it most likely came from the north tower.”