“So You did not reject me?”

His voice, like the rustle of dying leaves, fills my head. “Never.”

“But I have sinned against You and acted on my will alone, rather than Yours. Do I not deserve Your retribution?”

“No, for you are My daughter and I would no more punish you for plucking flowers from My garden than I would for your drawing breath. Besides, the men you killed had earned their deaths. If they had not, the knife would have missed, the quarrel gone wide, or the cup laced with poison remained untouched.”

“Are the marques not meant for us to act upon?”

I realize I do not so much as hear Him speak as feel Him inside my mind, as if He is unfurling some great tapestry before me, filling me with understanding.

As a person’s death draws near, his soul ripens and readies itself for plucking. That ripening can be seen by some. As souls ripen, they begin to loosen from their bodies, much as fruit makes ready to leave the branch. But even the same fruits on the same tree fall at different times—occasionally defying all odds and clinging throughout the entire winter.

And just like one who toils in the orchards, He does not control everything. Not the wind, nor the rain, nor the sun. And just as those elements shape the fruit on the tree, so do many factors shape a man’s life, and therefore his death.

Then He reaches out and lays His cold hand on my head, and His grace and understanding fill me, burning away all vestiges of d’Albret’s evil darkness weighing on my soul until the only darkness that remains is that of beauty. The darkness of mystery, and questions, and the endless night sky, and the deep caverns of the earth. I know then that what Beast said was true: I am a survivor, and the taint of the d’Albrets was but a disguise I wore so that I could pass among them. It is no more a true part of me than the cloak on my back or the jewels I wear. And just as love has two sides, so too does Death. While Ismae will serve as His mercy, I will not, for that is not how He fashioned me.

Every death I have witnessed, every horror I have endured, has forged me to be who I am—Death’s justice. If I had not experienced these things firsthand, then the desire to protect the innocent would not burn so brightly within me.

There in the darkness, shielded by my father’s grace, I bow my head and weep. I weep for all that I have lost, but also for what I have found, for there are tears of joy mixed in with those of sorrow. I let the light of His great love fill me, burning away all the tendrils and traces of d’Albret’s darkness, until I am clean, and whole, and new.

Beast finds me just before daybreak. Asking no questions, he helps me to my feet. The small circle of frost on the ground is all that remains of Mortain’s presence.

No. That is not true. For I am utterly transformed by His presence. All the fear and doubt and shame has been stripped away, like dead leaves in a winter storm. Only the clean, strong branches remain.

I know now why d’Albret bore no marque, and I also know why he has not yet died. Even better, I now possess something I never had before: faith. Faith in myself, faith in Mortain. But most of all, faith in love. Hate cannot be fought with hate. Evil cannot be conquered by darkness. Only love has the power to conquer them both.

With the strength of that love flowing strong within me, we make ready to go rescue my sisters.

Chapter Forty-Six

WE RIDE HARD FOR NANTES, stopping only when it is so dark we cannot see the road in front of us, then start again as soon as there is light enough to continue. Beast brings Yannic and Lazare and two of his men-at-arms. There is little time for talking, and we collapse bone tired into our bedrolls each night and fall into a dreamless sleep.

When we draw near Rennes, Beast dispatches the two men-at-arms with messages for Duval and the duchess. As we turn and head south, I wonder if this was my destiny all along, to face d’Albret with Beast at my side, for surely it will take the power of our two gods to bring him down. Or—I glance at the silent Lazare, whose rouncey struggles to keep up with our stronger horses—two gods and the Dark Mother Herself.

By the time we draw near Nantes, we have a plan firmly in place. The desire to ride off straightaway and storm through the gates of the city to the palace is nearly overwhelming. But we will have no prayer of success if we face d’Albret in our current exhausted state. Indeed, we barely have a prayer of success if we are rested and fully prepared, so we stop at the abandoned hunting lodge, the very one where this journey first began, hoping that it is still abandoned.

“Empty,” Beast says when he returns. “It does not look like anyone has been here since we left.”

That is all the rest of us need to hear. We put our heels to our horses’ flanks and head for the stable. They hardly need any steering, for they are as exhausted as we and go eagerly to the scent of hay and the promise of rest.

For all my exhaustion, I cannot sleep. I toss and turn, causing the bed ropes to creak in protest. I can think only of the morrow and getting my sisters to safety. I wonder where they are being kept and who is guarding them. Hopefully, they are in one of the palace’s many chambers rather than in the dungeon, for Louise’s health will quickly fail if she is kept in such a foul, damp place. And while d’Albret might not care for her, he would not want to lose a bargaining piece in this game he plays.

The desire to leave now is so overpowering I fear I will have to tie myself to the bed. To wait here all alone for morning when I can finally act is agony.

But you are not alone, a small voice whispers inside my heart. A great, giant-sized love waits in the next room.

Suddenly, I wish to drown myself in that love, don it like a shield or a suit of armor to keep my doubts at bay. Without stopping to think, I throw aside the covers, get to my feet, and step out into the hall.

When I pause at the door, my doubts catch up to me. Will he think me wanton or depraved? Surely not, for he has learned every horrible secret I possess and has not flinched. It is impossible not to be humbled by the sheer immensity of that gift.

I knock once on the door, then open it.

The room is dark but for a trickle of moonlight coming in from the window onto the bed. At my entrance, Beast starts to reach for his sword, then stops. “Sybella?”

I shut the door softly behind me. “I have slept with five men, not dozens. Three because I had to, one because I thought he could save me, and the fifth so I could get close enough to kill him.”

He says nothing, but watches my fingers as they unlace my chemise.

“I have never lain with a man out of love.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I would like to do so at least once before I die.”

“You love me?”

“Yes, you great lummox. I love you.”

He lets out a sigh. “Sweet Camulos! It’s about time.”

I cannot help it. I laugh. “What do you mean?”

“I have loved you since you first slapped that vile mud on my leg and ordered me to heal.”

“As far back as that?”

“I was too stupid to know it, but yes.”

“When did you realize you felt that way?” I am embarrassed to ask such a pitiable question, but I yearn to know.

He tilts his head in thought. “When the abbess announced you were d’Albret’s daughter.”

I gape. “That is when you decided you loved me?”

He lifts his hands, as if in surrender. “There was no deciding about it. It was just there. A great, unlooked-for complication. It is why I grew so angry, thinking the gods were having a rich jape at my expense.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“So does that mean you will lie with me?” My voice sounds far more vulnerable than seductive.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his face growing serious. “Sybella, with all that you have endured at the hands of men, you do not have to do this. You do not have to give your body to earn my love. It is already yours.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I would go to my death having truly loved at least once.”

He rises to his feet and crosses the short distance between us. I always forget how much he towers over me. Most likely because I never look upon him with fear. His hand comes up to smooth the hair back from my face, as if he would see it—me—more clearly. That simple gesture makes me feel more exposed than standing here in naught but my shift.

“I want you to be with me for the right reasons. Not because you feel you must or because you fear we will die, but because you want it with your heart and your body.”

I stare into his eyes—eyes that are only part human, just as I feel only partly human. If ever there was a man who could understand—and accept—the darkness in me, it is Beast. “Who better to entrust both to than the mighty Beast of Waroch?”

He pulls me closer, his gaze drifting down to my lips. I am surrounded by the heat from his body, can feel his heart thundering in his chest. He lowers his head until our lips are almost touching. When he hesitates, I rise up on my toes to close the distance between us and press my lips to his. Our kiss is sweet and raw and full of hunger. My hunger. His hunger. A hunger born of two lifetimes.

It is also full of rightness. Such blessed rightness. No dark ribbon of shame unfurls inside me. No voice screams No inside my head. I do not have to close my eyes and pretend I am a hundred leagues away.

His hand moves downward, his fingers trailing along my neck, and I savor the rough feel of his callused hand, marvel that a hand that has such a capacity for killing can also be so gentle. His other hand encircles my waist, then slowly skims up my ribs, stopping just before he reaches my breast. He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “Are you certain?” he whispers.

That is when I hear it, the faint note of disbelief in his voice. “I have rarely been more certain than I am in this moment,” I say.

Then his mouth is back on mine and the carefully banked heat that has smoldered between us for so long erupts. Still, no darkness threatens to claim me. Instead, true desire, as uncertain and ungainly as a newborn colt, awakens in my body. My own limbs become unfamiliar, my movements uncertain. I, who have only ever been practiced and skilled. But I do not care, for all that has come before is but a distant memory. All that matters is us. Only us. This moment. His hand on my body. The mingling of our breath. Our hearts that are so close they now beat as one.

With a dizzying swoop, he picks me up and cradles me in his arms, surprising a laugh out of me. “What are you doing?”

He grins. “I’ve always wanted to carry a fair maid away and ravish her.”

“Methinks you should reconsider who is ravishing whom,” I murmur, surprised at how much I enjoy the sensation of his arms around me, of being carried.

When we reach the bed, he gently lays me down, his eyes drinking me in. And even though it is his trick, to see into my soul, in this moment I see into his—his doubts and uncertainties—and see that I want this. That I want him. I reach up and take his hand, pulling him down beside me. “If you do not know how to ravish, I will gladly teach you.”

He laughs then, and once again I place my mouth on his, letting his laughter fill all the dark places inside me.

And then the laughter fades, and for a brief moment, I am reminded of the charbonnerie’s stories and feel certain that it is not Amourna, or even Arduinna, who blesses our night together, but the Dark Mother Herself, with Her gift for new beginnings.

I awake in the morning with Beast’s thick arm wrapped tightly around me. It reminds me for a moment of one of the roots of the great trees in the forest that anchor them to the earth.

I know I should wake him, that we have an urgent, impossible task before us, but I am hungry for one more moment, wanting to savor the magic that has taken place between us. Oh, it is not the magic that the poets speak of in their love poems, but a different, far stronger magic.

I stare down at his face. It has not grown more beautiful since I first found him, festering in the dungeon, and yet it is more dear to me than my own.

His eyes open just then, and he catches me studying him. “What?” His early-morning voice is gruff, like two rocks being rubbed together.

“I was wondering, since I have kissed you three times now, if you might turn into a handsome prince.”

At the sight of his quick, easy grin, I feel my heart dance in my chest.

“Alas, you are still stuck with a toad, my lady.”

“Ah, but it turns out I am quite fond of toads.” I lean down and kiss his nose, surely one of the silliest things I have ever done, but I do not care. “Even toads who sleep the entire day away.” I plant one more kiss upon his face, then force myself from the bed.

I do not even mind that he watches me dress.

When I reach the kitchen, Lazare looks up from the knife he is sharpening, his keen eyes missing nothing, so that I feel almost n**ed before him.

“Someone is happy this morning,” he smirks.

“Someone is eager to feel the kiss of cold steel before he’s even broken his fast.”

His smile widens, for the fact that I have not already pulled my knife on him only serves to prove him right.

“Don’t you have a cart to fetch or something?” I ask.

He nods toward the window. “It’s here already. Some of us didn’t laze about all morning.”

I look outside and see three other charbonnerie and a cart full of charcoal. Our means to gain access to the city has arrived. “Well then. Let’s get going.”

The strategy that worked so well when we traveled to Rennes serves us equally well here. In no time at all, I have tucked my hair up under a coif and smeared a thin film of coal dust over my face and hands. My altered appearance will render me nearly invisible, for guards pay little attention to lowly peasants and even less attention to the shunned charbonnerie.