Without taking his eyes from Crunard, Duval clears his throat. “Would you mind telling us what happened here?”
Ismae grimaces at his stuffy formality, but I know it is the mask he wears when his emotions run high. “Of course, my lord. Your prisoner Crunard was ungrateful over his improved conditions and decided to take advantage of the duchess’s mercy. He bribed or coerced three of the duchess’s men to his cause and used them to take the bishop hostage, killing a fourth guard in the process.”
Duval turns on his heel and strides over to where Crunard sits on the floor. “Why? What was worth these four men’s lives?”
“My son.”
A vein in Duval’s temple begins to pulse. “Do you really think Anton would want you to slay his countrymen in his name? If so, he was right about you all these years—you do not know him at all.” The disgust on Duval’s face is palpable. “I should have had you killed months ago,” he mutters.
“But you didn’t.” Crunard smirks. “And now you cannot, because it would be in cold blood and your honor”—he nearly spits the words out—“would never allow that.”
“You have no idea what my honor will allow, old fox.”
“I beg to differ. It will keep you from ever truly winning.”
The words sting, as Duval has done everything in his power to keep Brittany independent of France. That they will now be joined by a marriage contract rather than outright conquest is thin comfort. Duval looks away a moment, as if arguing with himself. Without warning, he turns back around and gives Crunard a healthy clip to the jaw.
The older man’s eyes widen in surprise as his head snaps back, then close as he slumps into unconsciousness.
I shoot Duval a look of annoyance. “If I’d known we were allowed to do that, I would have clouted him myself.”
Duval flexes his hand as he takes in Crunard’s injured wrist and twisted knee. “It looks like you got a good shot at him. But you are truly all right?”
“If either one of you asks me that again, I will prove how fine I am by stabbing you with my knife.”
That elicits a begrudging smile out of him as Ismae announces, “Clearly, she is fine.”
* * *
When more guards arrive to remove the bodies and return Crunard to the dungeon, Ismae accompanies me to my room so I may change. “Knock first,” I warn her. “I don’t want Charlotte and Louise to see me covered in blood and trailing the scent of death.” Such easy violence is precisely why I am determined to keep my sisters from our family.
Ismae raps on the door. When there is no answer, she opens it and waves me inside, then pulls me over near the banked fire and begins unlacing my gown.
“Well?”
She and I have been prowling the palace and surrounding parts of the city like vultures, waiting for someone—anyone—to die so we could see how death worked in this new, upended world.
I take a deep breath before answering. “There are no marques any longer.” Saying the words out loud feels as if someone has carved my heart out of my chest, leaving it empty and hollow.
Her hands on my laces still. “Truly?” she whispers.
“Truly. Not on the guards rushing me, not on the man holding the bishop hostage, and not on the soldier who lay dying in my arms. Even as he passed into death, no marque appeared.”
Ismae’s silent disappointment fills the room as her fingers resume their work. “So, that is it. His gifts have left us.”
I give a quick shake of my head. “Not all. I am still able to feel heartbeats and sense souls as they leave their bodies.”
She lets out a breath. “Well, that’s a good sign.”
“Are you still able to sense the presence of life?” For all that we are half sisters, her abilities have differed somewhat from mine—all of Mortain’s daughters have variations in their gifts and skills.
“Yes,” she answers slowly. “But I was never certain if that was Mortain’s gift or the convent’s training.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “Do you dare try poison?”
Blushing, she pretends to struggle with a knot. “It still does not appear to harm me in the slightest. But again, I wasn’t sure whether that was one of his gifts or some strange aspect of my own body.”
To hide how happy I am for her, I smirk. “And they say I am impulsive.”
She lifts her shoulder in a half shrug as she unfastens my belt. Before she can remove it from my waist, I quickly hide the holly twig in my palm. I start to tell her of my prayer for the dying man, and the surety with which the answer came, but find I cannot. It is still too new, too nebulous. I am afraid that speaking of it will cause the connection to shatter, and I am too selfish to risk that.
?Chapter 5
Genevieve
t is a few days before I can break free from the others and return to the dungeon.
Margot’s confinement began this week, so there were many trips to the chapel for the ritual blessings, final feasts, and celebrations with the household. My absence would have been noted—and commented upon—something I am desperate to avoid. But at last Margot has been sequestered to her room in anticipation of the babe’s birth.
Descending the staircase, I let the bustle and chatter of the castle fall away like an unbearably stiff cloak. Fortunately, the sense of impending dread has left me, but the sense that the world has shifted in some unnamable way remains.
As I step into the corridor that leads to the dungeon, the darkness folds itself around me like a welcoming blanket. I pause for a moment, listening for potential guards or the sound of the prisoner’s heart beating. But there is nothing. I place my hand upon my chest to be certain, but there is only the steady rhythm of my own heart.
A fleeting sense of sorrow shafts through me for the passing of a life, unknown and alone. However, it is the passing of that life that has drawn me here—giving me a chance to explore death more closely.
There are so many lessons Margot and I had not yet received from the nuns at the convent of Saint Mortain before we were sent away. We know only a handful of ways to kill a man, and have even less understanding of how our arts work.
That is what I am hoping to learn from the dead prisoner. Provided the guards have not lugged the body away, it will be a perfect map for me to study.
It is not until I am standing almost upon the grate itself that I hear the sound of . . . panting? No, huffing. Followed by a grunt.
The sounds of a living human. Disappointment slams into me like a fist, and I nearly crush the apple I have brought for my lunch. He had to have been close to death for me to have heard his heart. Yet now he is down here breathing and grunting. How can I explore the mysteries of death if the man is still alive?
“Ives? Have you returned?” The deep rumble of the prisoner’s voice is more proof he is not as dead as he should be.