“But of course, my lord.” Indeed, I cannot wait to discharge what I know. It is as if I have been carrying a hot ember deep inside my body that is slowly turning my insides to ash. It will be no hardship to be rid of that burden.
Ismae loops her arm through mine as we follow Duval to the palace door. “Where is he taking us?” I ask under my breath.
“To the duchess’s chamber, where she is holding council with her advisors.”
“At this hour?”
Ismae grows sober. “At all hours, I’m afraid.”
“Are they trustworthy, these advisors of hers?” I have not been impressed with the steadfastness of her guardians Marshal Rieux and Madame Dinan.
She grimaces. “Yes, that is why it is such a small group.”
As Duval leads us through the maze of palace halls and corridors, I allow myself to adjust to the cacophony of the beating hearts and hammering pulses. It is as if a hundred minstrels have all decided to bang their drums at the same time.
I also study the faces of the people I pass—servants, retainers, even the pages—trying to get a sense of their characters.
Duval leads us to a small chamber guarded by two sentries, who step forward to open the door to admit us. The duchess stands at a large table flanked by three men who stare at the map in front of her. One is dressed in travel-stained clothes and it is clear he has only just arrived. The second man is dressed in bishop’s robes and hovers near the duchess like a fat scarlet toad. The third is slender and serious, his brow wrinkled in thought. With relief, I realize I recognize none of her advisors, which means they will not recognize me.
It is the first time I have seen the duchess up close. She is young, and short, with fine skin and a high noble brow. Even though she is but thirteen years of age, there is something regal about her that commands respect. At the sound of our entry, they all look up, questions in their eyes.
Duval’s smile transforms his face. “Beast is here. In Rennes.”
The duchess clasps her hands together as if in prayer and closes her eyes, joy lighting her young face. “Praise God,” she says.
“I rather think we should be praising Mortain,” Duval says dryly, “as it is His hand that guided him here.” He motions in my direction, and all eyes turn to me.
“Then you and your saint have my most sincere thanks and profoundest gratitude,” she says.
I sink into a deep curtsy. “It was my pleasure, Your Grace. However, I bring you not just your noble knight but vital information concerning Count d’Albret and his plans.”
“You mean the man is not content to steal my city out from under me and sit on it like a brooding hen?”
“No, Your Grace. Even now he has put into motion a number of plans, any one of which could bear rich fruit.”
The thickset bear of a man on the duchess’s right gestures with his hand. “By all means, share with us these plans.”
“Count d’Albret, Marshal Rieux, and Madame Dinan hold the city against you, and while there are many who remain loyal to Your Grace, Count d’Albret does his best to make it . . . difficult for them to remain so.”
“Wait, wait. Start at the beginning. How were they able to take the city from the attendants and retainers who were still in residence there?”
Before I can answer, there is a rustling behind me, a sound that reminds me of a snake slithering in dry grass. In that moment, I recognize why I am uneasy: I sense eight pulses but see only seven bodies before me.
Slowly, as if I am in a dream, I turn around and see the abbess of Saint Mortain standing behind me. She skulks in the far corner, like a spider, which is why I did not see her when I first came in. Her blue eyes study me coldly, and my heart plummets like a stone.
I have not escaped my past; it has been waiting for me here all along.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“GREETINGS, DAUGHTER.” While her words are friendly enough, her voice is cool, and the kiss of welcome she gives me is as cold and impersonal as Death Himself. “Excellent work. We are pleased that you were able to perform your tasks so admirably.”
I curtsy deeply, my eyes watching her warily. Ismae and Annith always got along well with the abbess, and genuine fondness seemed to exist among them. Indeed, Annith was treated like a court favorite much of the time, and Ismae always saw the woman as her savior, as if it were the abbess’s own hand that had lifted her up from her drab life as a peasant.
The abbess and I had a different sort of relationship. One built on mutual dislike and distrust, brought together only by our shared needs: mine for a sanctuary, hers for a finely honed weapon she could let loose as Mortain willed. I trust her as much as I do a viper.
She motions for me to rise, then she turns to the others in the room. “I would remind you that Sybella has traveled far and at great discomfort and risk. No doubt she would like to make herself presentable before she tells the rest of her tale.”
At her words, I am suddenly aware of just how filthy and travel-stained I must appear, as if I am some grub that has scuttled out from under a rock.
The duchess is quick to apologize for her lack of hospitality and insists I take the time to refresh myself before reporting to the council. I had been so concerned with sharing my news that I had given no thought to my appearance until the abbess pointed it out. The evil cow. She likely did it on purpose, to throw me off balance.
My unease increases when the abbess insists on escorting me to my chamber herself. Ismae sends me a nervous glance as I curtsy to the duchess and then follow the reverend mother from the room.
As we walk, she says nothing except to order a servant to fetch things for a bath and make the room ready. She holds her head high, her posture rigidly straight as she glides down the hall. I do not know if her silence is because she fears being overheard or if it is yet another way to unnerve me.
We reach a chamber with a cheerful fire. A tub has been placed in front of it, and two maids are emptying kettles of hot water into the bath. The abbess quickly dismisses them. Once we are alone, she turns to face me, her beautiful face contorted with anger. “What are you doing here, Sybella?” she hisses. “You were only to free him, not personally escort him to Rennes.”
I toss my head in the face of her anger, both to give myself strength and to annoy her. “And how would he have gotten here, with me practically having to carry him from the dungeons? It was only after days of my tending his wounds that he was even able to stay on a horse—and then only when he was tied on.”
The abbess’s nostrils flare in irritation, for as much as she longs to, she cannot argue with my logic. She shoves her hands in her sleeves and begins pacing. “But now we have no one in Nantes.”
“It does not matter, Reverend Mother, for none of the traitors was marqued. Not Marshal Rieux, not Madame Dinan, and not d’Albret.” I watch her carefully to see if she recognizes that her promise to me—that I would be able to kill d’Albret—was broken.
She does not. “There is still great value in having you there. Someone will need to keep the duchess informed.”
And suddenly I am furious. Furious that she does not even care that she lured me back to hell on earth with a false promise and that for a span of time, death was more inviting to me than the life I was forced to live—the life she had forced me to live, using lies and a lure she knew I would find irresistible.
I take a step toward her, my hands clenched into fists so that I will not slap her. “Great value? Great value? For whom? And at what cost? You promised me I could kill him. Promised me Mortain had marqued him and was waiting for me—not any of His handmaidens, but me—to go back there and kill him. You lied to me.”