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“There was more to our agreement.”
“No there wasn’t. Brittany belongs to France now.”
“It was rightfully promised to my father.”
I keep expecting the old fear to come rushing at me, but it does not. I am genuinely curious who will win this battle of wills.
When the regent speaks, her tone is more conciliatory. “Would one hundred thousand gold crowns help ease the pain of that broken promise?”
I can practically hear the wheels of Pierre’s brain calculating his options. “If it must,” he finally says.
“It must. Now leave. And do not approach me directly again.”
The door opens just then, the light from their lantern bright amongst all the darkness. It takes them a moment to see me. When they do, an intricate moment of silence follows.
The regent speaks first, her voice tinged with relish. “Are you not going to greet your brother, who has come all this way for the festivities?”
Beside her, Pierre watches me, his face hidden by the shadows thrown off by the lantern.
“No,” I say simply. “I do not think I will. I would rather he wasn’t here at all.”
She clicks her tongue. “Such unwelcoming words from a sister.”
I fold my arms, considering her. “Has it ever occurred to you there’s a reason I wish to avoid him? Wished for my sisters to avoid him?”
“What possible reason could justify the ways you have cast aside your familial duty?”
At first I think she is simply prevaricating, but as I study her more closely, I realize she is deeply serious.
Pierre chooses that moment to intervene. “Thank you, Madame, but I do not wish to pull you into our family’s disputes.”
I nearly laugh. He has pulled her in as thoroughly as a snake swallowing a lizard.
“Of course not,” the regent says. “I must get back to the festivities anyway.” She crosses the long vestibule and disappears up the staircase.
As Pierre walks toward me, I savor the heat of the pebble against my thigh and realize I am no longer afraid of him. When he is close enough, he takes my arm in his. The scar across the back of his hand has not healed well. “If you’d wanted to see me so badly, you need only have written. It wasn’t necessary to kill five—no six—of my men to summon me. If you want my attention, you have only to ask for it.” He has changed, I realize. Grown more subtle. He lifts his hand, as if intending to touch my cheek. Curious, I let him.
His fingers are cool and dry, and I feel no fear, no revulsion, no doubt. Only fury. But a quiet fury that burns as hotly as the pebble at my leg. “My goal was not to rouse your interest, but to keep our sisters safe from the men you sent for them.”
His hand falls from my face. “They are no more ruthless than you. Indeed, that is why I sent them. I needed men who could get past you. But once again, I underestimated your cunning.” He leans forward and brings his mouth closer to my ear. “You have been in France for what—two months now?—and have killed six men.” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “That I know of.” He shakes his head in true admiration, something I have never seen on his face. “The d’Albret blood has never flowed stronger than it does in you. Surely you recognize that now.”
Once, those words would have grated on me like a rasp on soft wood. All my life my family, my brothers, the entire be-damned French court, have tried to define my darkness for me.
“Come home,” he whispers. “To your rightful place. If we combine our forces, we will be unstoppable. Your dark talents are wasted here.”
Definitely more subtle. This is no threat, but him offering me the most advantageous of opportunities. “I could even let you raise our sisters and have a say in their marriage arrangements.”
As I stare into Pierre’s eyes, I finally understand that I am not as dark and ruthless as he is. I am far darker and more powerful than he could ever be.
A knowledge both primitive and true rises up from deep within me, and I feel the power of the Dark Mother fill me. Understand in my bones that while I have been broken and beaten and beyond despair, I have also rebuilt myself and have risen from the ashes of my own funeral pyre.
“You are mistaken. Not a single drop of d’Albret blood flows in my veins. I was sired by the god of death, not your puling father. For the last six years, I have trained in Mortain’s arts. So while I know more ways to kill a man than you, it has nothing to do with being a d’Albret and everything to do with being the daughter of Death.”
Pierre stares at me a long moment, his face blank with incomprehension before it grows pale. “You lie.”
I smile, genuinely amused. “That is what children tell themselves to avoid an unpleasant truth. Ask how I was able to disarm you and your two soldiers in the garden alone. How was I able to kill four of your most ruthless men? Or the assassin you sent for me? Or lure Fremin to his death in such a way that all have accepted it as an accident?”
His heart beats fast with fear. “I was there when you were born—sitting right outside the chamber. I heard your first mewling cries, saw your wrinkled red face.”
“Ah, but were you in my mother’s bedchamber nine months before? No, of course you weren’t.” I lean closer, as if whispering a confidence. “I know it is upsetting to think of your father being cuckolded, for if it can happen to him, it can certainly happen to you. But at least take comfort in the knowledge that he was cuckolded by Death and not some simpering courtier.”
It is only when I see the truth of my words finally sink in, see the fear that widens his eyes, that I turn and walk away.
Chapter 49
The sense of power I feel does not leave me, not even when, the next day, I find myself before the king.
His audience chamber is an enormous room with towering ceilings, meant to hold crowds of petitioners and courtiers as they watch the king of France hear their pleas, hand down his proclamations, and mete out justice. But this morning, the room is empty of all but a small handful of the king’s closest advisors, the ones I have come to know all too well. General Cassel stands behind the king on his left, while his confessor is to his right. The regent, I am happy to note, has been relegated to a position farther down, standing with the bishops. From the corner of my eye I glimpse the humble brown of Father Effram’s robes among all the snowy white and scarlet, and wonder how he gained a seat at this table.
“Sister, dearest!” Pierre breaks away from the others, coming forward to greet me when I am only halfway to the dais. He takes my hands in his, and I stare pointedly at the cut on the back of his hand and smile.
His pulse quickens in anger.
“When your brother heard of what had befallen his men, he became most worried on your behalf, Lady Sybella,” the king says. “He wished to assure himself of your safety.” The king looks both pleased and relieved, as if the world has once more been reordered to his liking.
“Indeed.” Pierre squeezes my hands in what looks like an affectionate gesture, but the grip grinds my bones together painfully. “I had to see for myself that you were alive and well.”
I tilt my head, as if perplexed. “But, brother, we saw each other last night, at the coronation ball. Right after you had spoken with the regent.” Something flickers in Pierre’s eyes—fear? Unease?
Before he can say anything, the Bishop of Albi speaks. “Your Majesty, surely Viscount d’Albret’s concern for his sister can ease all the misgivings she expressed regarding Monsieur Fremin and his men before they disappeared.”
With his back still to the others, Pierre asks, “And what misgivings would those be?” His voice is normal, controlled, but his gaze is hot with fury.
“She thought your men afraid to bring you ill news,” the king explains, watching us both closely.
“Ah, in that she may have been correct. I do not tolerate failure, not when my sisters’ safety is concerned.”
“If you are so concerned for our safety, why have you not asked after our younger sisters?”
/> In the beat of silence that follows, he realizes his mistake even as my words renew the others’ uncertainty. He recovers quickly. “Because I have already heard of it.” He shifts to face the king and his council. “Imagine my surprise to arrive in Paris and learn most disturbing rumors regarding my sisters. Rumors Madame Regent has confirmed are true. I am not inclined to allow even one sister to remain in royal custody.”
The king shifts on his throne, face grown thunderous, and the entire room pauses in stunned silence. “We believe Monsieur Fremin’s men took the girls.”
“And I believe my sister is behind this,” Pierre says quietly.
I laugh, surprising everyone. “How, brother dear? I have been here the entire time. I have never left.” Before he can answer, I take a step toward him, serious once more. “Tell me. Did you know which men Monsieur Fremin had chosen to travel with him on this business of yours?”
Unease flickers across Pierre’s face. “It was a task I delegated to him. I did not need a list of his traveling companions and supplies.”
“So you did not know he had chosen four of your most foul, vicious men to escort us home? Men no true brother would ever want his sisters near?”
“I already said that I did not.”
I shake my head, as if amused. “Come now, brother. You are among friends.” I glance pointedly at the regent. “You may tell everyone why you are really here.”
Pierre’s eyes widen in faint alarm as he realizes I heard the conversation last night. The room falls silent with anticipation. I turn to the king. “Madame Regent and Pierre are old friends, Your Majesty. They have been since he betrayed the queen and handed the city of Nantes over to your sister.” The king’s jaw flexes. Gen is right. He hates that she did so without consulting him. Allowed him to think they had been cheering him as their rightful king rather than through an act of betrayal.
“In fact,” I continue, “she is so very fond of him that she agreed to pay him one hundred thousand gold crowns.”
“Why?” The words explode from the king as his gaze flies to his sister.
