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It is an impossible shot. A small wooden door facing our direction in the north tower. But she is an Arduinnite and makes it easily. Or mayhap Arduinna herself guides the arrow with our message wrapped around its shaft. Whatever is behind it, skill or luck, it sinks into the door and stays there.
“Will they find it, do you think?” Gen asks.
Aeva stares at her.
“I mean, we don’t know how often they patrol this tower. It doesn’t face the main conflict they have before them. What if no one wanders up here for two days?”
Aeva purses her mouth, takes another arrow from her quiver, and removes a small clay flask from one of the pouches at her belt. She dips the arrowhead into the pitch—for that is what it is, I can smell it once it is open—then holds the point out to Lazare.
He has already produced a flame from some flint or powder—or mayhap his be-damned fingers—and ignites the arrow.
In one deft movement, she raises the bow, sights down the shaft, then shoots. This one, too, lands in the door, but farther up. The flame is not hot enough to burn through the door—or our message—but it sends a thin stream of smoke into the air. Within a quarter hour, a guard comes to investigate.
Our message has been received. Now all we must do is wait.
Chapter 73
Genevieve
I come awake, my hand at my knife, as something nudges me in the ribs.
“Watch,” Sybella says softly.
The sun has not only barely begun to rise, but the battlements of Châteaugiron have come to life. Men scramble along the ramparts, hurrying to and fro. Before my eyes can sort out what I’m seeing, a loud belch of thunder explodes nearby. I clap my hands to my ears, then shove to my feet and hurry to the ridge overlooking the valley. Just as I reach it, another explosion erupts from the castle cannon.
Rohan’s encamped forces are in complete disarray. Men scurry in all directions—toward their cannon, for cover, and for the panicked horses. I can just make out their commander bellowing to ready their own cannon. I feel a tug on my arm and look to see I am the only one standing. I quickly drop to my belly so we will not be spotted, and watch with the others.
A third cannon goes off, fire disgorging over the rampart as the explosion shakes the ground and trembles through my body, causing my bones and innards to rattle. Wood splinters and metal screams as the projectile strikes one of Rohan’s cannon. The men on the ramparts cheer, and it is all I can do not to join them.
A sense of happiness sneaks up on me, catching me unaware. All my life I have searched for happiness, but have never found it, or when I did, it was as fleeting as a glimpse of quicksilver.
But in this moment, I am the happiest I have ever been. It doesn’t matter that what we do is dangerous, or that our lives are in peril. I am surrounded by a newly formed family, and it anchors me to this world as solidly as the roots of an oak tree. I wish to preserve this moment forever, like a stray leaf trapped in ice, but ice that will never melt.
If only Maraud were here.
As the reverberations of the cannon begin to fade, I realize I can feel the beating of a heart. It is faint and far away. Moments later, I feel a soul drift up into the sky buffeted on the wind. It does not rush or feel angry or even carry many images. Perhaps because of the distance. I have only a sense of surprise and disbelief and then it is gone.
Rohan’s men—the ones not laid low by the cannon blast—hesitate for a moment before the commander bellows at them to light their own sodding cannon. As they scramble to do so, I hold my breath. Lazare is the expert and swore it would work, but I will not rest easy until I see with my own eyes that it has.
Two men load the heavy ball into the cannon, while another carefully pours powder from one of the kegs into the powder chamber. Or tries to. He shakes the small barrel, but nothing comes out. He gives a harder shake.
Another blast from the castle scatters them. Although I am growing more used to the sound now, it still feels as if the sky is being torn apart.
This, I think. This is precisely the sort of thing I imagined doing when I joined the convent. Not stealing powder or watching artillery fire, but things that mattered. Things that helped people. Things where I could make a difference. Turn the tides of war. Make desperate bids for victory. Sneak behind enemy lines. Not the endless waiting and making myself small and invisible.
The commander steps around the wounded to see what the matter is. The cannoneer gesticulates wildly, and the commander sends for another keg of the powder. The gunner wrenches it open and tries to pour, but the same thing happens—nothing comes out.
The commander casts it onto the ground, grabs a pike from a nearby infantryman, and stabs it into the barrel, then kneels to examine the black mess.
He looks up and begins shouting, and the cannoneers back away.
“It worked,” I murmur.
Lazare looks wounded. “Did you doubt me?”
“Knowing a miracle will occur does not keep one from marveling when it does.”
He turns away, a hint of a smile curling his lip.
The castle gets off a dozen more cannon shot, leaving the field below in disarray. Lazare pushes to his feet. “I’m going to get closer and see if I can catch wind of which way they will send for more powder. Then we’ll know where to set our ambush. Anyone want to come?” He looks at all of us, but his gaze lingers a moment on me. Aeva, Poulet, and one of the queen’s guards volunteer, but the rest of us stay at camp.
When they have gone, Sybella scoots closer to me, her eyes bright as she nudges me with her shoulder. “I think Lazare likes you.”
“He is enjoyable company.” I keep my eyes on the scene below.
“It would not take much to encourage him.”
“It wouldn’t.”
She draws back to study me. “You aren’t hesitating because he is a charcoal burner?”
I cannot help it. I laugh. “No!” As if I would ever hold anybody’s beginnings against them. After she continues to stare at me in bemusement, I say, “My mother is a whore. All the aunts I told you about—they work in that same trade. I am in no position to throw stones at anyone else’s beginnings.”
She blinks once, the only reaction she allows to show. “I would never have guessed you were not noble born. You have mastered your training well.”
I shrug, not sure what to say to that.
A considering look crosses her face. “Then why not dally with Lazare? I can’t help but think that your dealings with the king have left a poor taste in your mouth. Perhaps a fun tumble would be just the thing to cast it from your mind?”
She is right. “A fun tumble would be just the thing. But my stupid body has decided there is only one person it wishes to tumble with, and saints know where he is.”
“Who?” she asks gently.
I jerk my head around to look at her. “I did not say that aloud.”
She smiles faintly. “You did, actually.”
Rutting goats! I stare straight ahead, debating whether to tell her or not. “Maraud,” I say finally. When she still looks puzzled, I clarify. “Crunard. Anton Crunard.”
She stares at me a long moment, then gives out a whoop of laughter.
I scowl at her and start to rise to my feet. “No, no. It is not you. It is just that I think Father Effram is more correct than he knows when he tells us of the gods using us for their own amusement.”
It is not her laughing that has me wanting to get up and move, but the concern that has lurked in my breast since Maraud disappeared. I have not told Sybella yet. The more I think upon it, the more I fear it is not coincidence that he went missing the same time as her brother. I do not want to place that burden on her shoulders.
“He is not dead,” she says finally.
Hope quickly fills me. “Is it one of Mortain’s gifts that tells you that?”
“No. It is me being hopeful. I refuse to believe the gods have woven all these threads together simply to snip one off too soon.”
I stare down at the grass. “What if they have decided that is my punishment?”
“For what? Sleeping with the king? If that were the case, every courtesan, mistress, and favorite throughout history would’ve been struck dead.”
It is more complicated than that, but before I can explain further, she continues. “As much as it pains me to sound precisely like Father Effram, I cannot help but believe it simply means his role in all of this—whatever this might encompass—is not over.”
Chapter 74
Maraud
By the time they reached Limoges, Andry and Tassin were riding with the group, although Maraud had not spoken to them or even made eye contact. But knowing they were there was enough. D’Albret’s holding was a teeming mass of soldiers and men-at-arms. There was only one thing so many men could be preparing for. “Having a jousting tourney, are you, d’Albret? I didn’t think that was a sport you enjoyed.”
D’Albret cut him a glance that told him just how unamused he was by Maraud’s taunting. “We’re preparing for war.”
Just as he’d feared. “Against whom?”
