But that is far easier to say without Charlotte and Louise standing here with their wide, frightened eyes. Nor do I think that would have warranted Captain Dunois’s respect any more than what I did. But by not killing Pierre, I feel as if I have allowed a poisonous serpent to roam free, endangering not only my sisters, but Beast.
Would killing Pierre have been the right thing to do if not for my sisters’ presence? How thin is the line between self-defense and willful murder? I fear it will be too thin for me to recognize as I cross it.
I cannot even turn to my sisters for comfort right now, afraid they will see my anger and be frightened by it.
It frightens me.
Anger, along with violence, is the favored currency of my family. The family I want no part of, and yet is always there—in my memories, in the world, in my actions.
When I step outside the palace, the gathering storm clouds have grown so dark that the late afternoon sky looks as if night has already fallen. The wind that howls through the courtyard mirrors the storm in my own heart.
I draw my cloak more tightly around me. Go ahead and try, I mutter. I would welcome the chance to fight something—even the wind.
Because I still can, I slip one of my knives into my hand, concealing it among the folds of my cloak—but only barely. I am not required to hide who I am just yet.
The courtyard is still full of Rohan’s men, but the chaos is giving way to order as the castle’s steward and stable master see that all the men and horses are cared for.
I plunge through the crowd, not caring whose arm I jostle or elbow I bump. A heavily bearded soldier looks up with a growl of warning. I meet his gaze, praying he will start something. Instead, he mutters an apology and steps aside. Coward, I want to shout at him, but he has given way and that will have to be victory enough.
Deciding to put my anger and restlessness to good use, I head for the perimeter wall that separates the palace from the rest of the city. I want to know how Pierre got in.
Rohan’s troops had only just arrived as I chased him out of the garden. If Pierre had come through the gates prior to the troops, the sentries would have questioned him. He would not have risked that.
Unless he was there with Rohan’s knowledge. I turn sharply and begin walking the perimeter. No, that cannot be. The houses of Rohan and d’Albret have never been close allies. Indeed, they have often competed for the same crumb of power or land. They would not collaborate on this.
Which means Pierre likely breached the palace wall. A ladder, grappling hooks, a rope. Any of those could create a way in. In addition to the main gate tower, there are two smaller gates. They are also guarded, but by fewer men. If Pierre gained entrance there, one of the sentries will know.
As I scan the thick stone walls of the palace’s outer bailey for any signs of forced entry, yapping hounds of guilt nip at my heels. Could I have prevented this?
It is not possible to keep my sisters locked inside the palace every moment of every day, nor personally guard them every second. If so, how would I serve the duchess?
* * *
When I reach the southern gate, a frisson of unease slithers through me. The guard who should be on duty is not at his post. I tighten the grip on my knife and pull a second one from its sheath. At the door, I pause. There is nothing. No sound. No beating hearts. Frowning, I slip around the corner, then cautiously peer inside.
A man is sprawled on the floor.
Swearing under my breath, I hurry to his side. The sentry lies face-down in a pool of dark blood, a knife protruding from his back. It is a common weapon, the kind many soldiers favor. Because it is so unexceptional, it is precisely the sort I would choose for such a task.
I slip my own blade back in its sheath, then gently pull the dagger from the dead man. “I am sorry,” I whisper as I reach out to turn him over.
The moment my fingers touch his shoulder, his soul unfurls from his body and rushes at me. Even as I reel in shock, I recognize it at once. It is the vibrant one I encountered just a few short hours ago while up on the battlements, where I was cradled in Beast’s arms. Laughing and complaining of my small problems. Ignoring this very soul and accusing him of acting like an indulged cat.
My stomach curdles at my own stupidity. This is how I could have prevented Pierre’s attack. By listening to this soul’s warning.
Sickened and ashamed, I open myself to the dead guard.
A sense of outrage crashes into me like a wave, nearly causing me to sway. Outrage at treachery inside the walls of the palace. Outrage that some coward would strike him in the back. Outrage that he had become the weak link in the duchess’s defenses.
As the first wave of emotion recedes, bewilderment takes its place, resulting in a dizzying swirl of images: Pierre’s face, the tabard of red and yellow, the bitter taste of betrayal, a lingering sense of loss. The man is young, not yet married, and just setting out to make a name for himself.
When he has finally quieted, he pauses, radiating a faint sense of indignation as he studies me.
“I’m sorry I failed you,” I whisper. “I should have heeded your warning. Please forgive me.” The soul withdraws in on itself, feeling as if it is not in any position to grant or receive forgiveness.
But the soul is wrong. It was my error, not his, that allowed Pierre to get as far as he did. My arrogance and complacency did this. While I did not kill the guard, everything that came afterward is my fault.
I close my eyes and let the caustic shame and bitterness burn through me, turning that arrogance and complacency to ash. When I have grown accustomed to the pain of it, I open my eyes and stare down at the fallen guard.
How can I grant this loyal man the peace he deserves? I do not have a misericorde, the most rare of Mortain’s weapons that will instantly send a soul on its journey, relieving it of the need to linger for three days. Only Ismae has that.
But . . . the misericorde is made of Mortain’s own bones, or so they said. I am no longer certain if I believe that to be true, if I ever did, but within that legend is the seed of an idea.
I take the point of my knife and prick the thick pad of my littlest finger. Dark red blood oozes up. I stare at it for a moment. Blood and bone, the very stuff we humans are made of. The very stuff the gods themselves were once made of. Held sacred by all the Nine, and the new Church as well. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
“You have served your duchess and country well,” I whisper. “May the Nine grant you peace.” I reach out and smear the drop of blood onto the man’s forehead, the precise spot where the marque of Mortain most often appeared when he still guided my hand.
The results are as shocking as they are sudden. The soul grows buoyant, lighter, as if unraveling from the tether of earthly guilt and fear. After a brief flash of delighted awe, it circles me once, twice, and a third time, then rushes upward and dissolves, becoming a part of the very air itself.