was born in the upstairs room of an ancient roadside tavern, a group of common whores acting as midwives. My mother, too, was a whore, although perhaps not so very common. Would an ordinary woman invite Death to her bed on a dare?
I emerged covered in slime and blood, my face—indeed, my entire body—as blue as a wild hyacinth. Hushed whispers and murmurs of sympathy followed the horrified silence my arrival caused, until Solange, the oldest among them, grabbed me from my mother’s slippery hands and swatted my backside.
Nothing. I did not cry or whimper or even draw breath. But old whores are as wise as old cats, and Solange did not give up. She bent down to place her wrinkled lips on mine, and blew.
According to my mother, my chin quivered, a fist curled.
Solange blew again, her determined breath somehow shoving away the cold hands of my father as He reached for me.
I drew a deep breath of my own after that, followed by a lusty cry. The women thought me a miracle, moved that one had been visited upon them just as if they were the Magdalena herself.
All except my mother, who knew precisely who she’d invited into her bed nine months earlier. It wasn’t until I was four years old and clutched at her hand as she headed up the stairs with her night’s customer that my parentage was confirmed. “His heart,” I whispered into her lowered ear as I rubbed my small chest. “It’s beating strangely.”
Less than an hour later, he was dead.
It is that same panicked beating that has brought me to the lowest levels of the castle today—a heartbeat as close and intimate as if it is beating against my own ribs.
I follow the deep ba-bump through the narrow, twisting corridors of the dungeons, stopping when a gaping black hole appears at my feet. The darkness that oozes up through the metal grate is as thick and solid as a coiled snake.
At first, I think it a hatch to the river that runs nearby. Or perhaps—wrinkling my nose—the sewer. Until the next heartbeat reverberates through me, one long, deep ba-bump. I never feel the heartbeats of others unless they are close to dying. That is when I finally understand the nature of this pit.
It is an oubliette.
A dungeon designed specifically for those who do not even warrant the mercy of a clean death.
Nameless dread that cannot be explained by the presence of death thrums through me. My hand clenches. I should turn and walk away. Return to the sumptuous, brightly lit rooms of the castle proper.
I am getting ready to do just that when the heartbeat stops. The pressure in my chest grows, stretching against my ribs, seeping into the very marrow of my bones. Trepidation and despair sweep through me, as if the world itself has just been torn in two.
And then the pressure stops. Is simply gone, like the passing of the wind.
“Who’s there?”
The croaked question shatters the absolute silence, causing me to leap back. The dead do not speak.
Oubliette. To forget.
If it were called by any other name, I could turn and walk away. If it were empty, it most assuredly would hold no interest for me. But someone is down there, someone else the world has forgotten. That he is dying—well, there is no way I can ignore it now. While I was sired by the god of Death and sent to His convent to train in His arts, I have had precious little opportunity to explore them since I have left.
“Who are you?” The voice is low and hoarse, but it is the commanding tone of it that startles an answer from me.
“No one. A shadow.” My words float down into the darkness on the barest exhalation of breath. Hopefully he will think them naught but a fevered dream as he lies at Death’s door.
There is movement below, as if someone is shifting position, straining to look up. A moment later, I hear him rising to his feet. I scramble back from the hole, my footsteps quick and silent.
When I am well away from the oubliette, I allow myself to run, returning through the labyrinth of underground corridors to the main floor of the castle.
Who are you?
His question follows me like a ghost, as if the forgotten, dying man has looked into my very soul and seen the doubt and uncertainty that has plagued me for the last year.
Who, by the Nine, am I?
When I finally reach the main section of the palace, I pause to brush off my skirts and smooth my hair. I arrange my face into the bland, subservient mask I have worn for the past five years, then step into the warmth of the light.
Oddly, it is far colder against my skin than the living blackness of the dungeon.
?Chapter 2
Sybella
Rennes, Brittany
One Week Later
he loss of my father, still sharp and raw, drives me to the city gates, as if I’m hoping that he will return. But of course, he does not. Even so, like one of the restless souls that still hover where their bodies fell, I hover in the shadows of the gate and stare out at the empty field beyond.
No. Not empty. A small holly bush appeared three days after Mortain fell, springing wholly formed from the earth soaked with his blood. Its leaves are dark green and glisten with bright red berries. Holly has always been sacred to Mortain.
Beneath the miraculous bush, humble offerings have sprung up like toadstools after a rain—a silver coin, loaves of coarse brown bread, a comb of honey, a bundle of willow twigs, a black ribbon. The branches are rumored to bring love to the forlorn, health to the sick, and peace to the dying. It is the last that I find most believable. He was the god of Death, after all.
I have often wondered why my god bid me live when I sank to the bottom of that river nearly six months ago. He did not just whisper encouragement in my ear, but put his cold hand upon mine and pulled me to the surface, into the waiting arms of one who loved me.
Was it simply a gift for all I had suffered? Or was there some purpose I had yet to serve? Or mayhap it was naught but a parent’s instinct to assure his child’s survival.
He saved me once before. When I was fourteen years old and in pain beyond bearing, I tried to take my own life. On that day, I was told by my old nurse that I was sired by Death and not Count d’Albret, my mother’s husband and the man who raised me. I was taken to the convent of Saint Mortain then, where I spent the next three years learning Death’s arts.
Even that was not my first brush with death. I very nearly did not survive my own birth, arriving with the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck, my mother’s body unable to let go of me, already regretting her decision to bring me into this world.
If not for the promise my true father had made to her, I would have gone with her into death. But promise he did, and the god of Death is not one to break such promises. Instead, I lived.