Dark Triumph

“Enough of this,” I say. “I have in mind something more entertaining for us this morning.” D’Albret and most of the garrison plan to go to Ancenis today to take back Marshal Rieux’s holding from the French. Which means it is a perfect day for ferreting out secrets. “Where did you say the sounds of ghosts were coming from? I would like to hear them for myself.”



For while ghosts do not make noise, prisoners do.



It turns out that the ghosts are rumored to haunt the old tower, the very place from which I watched the battle. It is also the most logical place to keep a prisoner, since it is well away from the living quarters and the high-traffic areas of the castle.



Neither of my attendants wishes to come face to face with ghosts and they both decide to wait for me in the chapel right next to the tower and pray for the newly dead barons. That suits my purposes perfectly, as I would much rather do my snooping away from their prying eyes.



The old tower was built nearly two hundred years ago. The stones are roughened with age, and the tower roof is in need of repair. I try the heavy wooden door and find it locked.



My heart quickens in excitement, for it was not locked when I was last here.



There is no guard posted so I peer through one of the arrow slits cut into the thick walls. The tower is haunted; I can feel the ghosts’ chill presence seeping out from the window—but ghosts do not clank, or make any sound at all.



I glance over my shoulder at the courtyard. There are just enough servants and men-at-arms about that I do not dare pick the lock.



Ignoring the ghostly chill, I search for some sense of a heartbeat within, but try as hard as I might, my power to detect such things cannot penetrate twelve feet of thick stone. I climb the winding, external staircase to the catwalk, then stand on tiptoe to peer in through another arrow slit.



The small shaft of light barely touches the gloom. I do not see anyone. No guard, no prisoner, no signs of life.



But wait. Some faint hint of sound wafts up—as if from the bowels of the earth itself—followed by a groan. Or a whisper. Or mayhap it is the wind. But since it is all I have to go on, I call it moaning. And even though it is so very little, it heartens me. I will have to find a way to pick the lock or steal the key when my actions can be hidden by darkness. The task is still impossible—but if I must sit here and do nothing while waiting for orders that are not coming, I shall no doubt go mad. Again.



Besides, I would like to think I am capable of doing something other than killing and acting the whore.



When I return to the chapel to collect the others, I find Tephanie alone, kneeling before the nave. Under the crucifix at the front of the church are nine small niches, each holding an image of one of the nine old saints: Saint Mortain; Dea Matrona and her daughters, Amourna and Arduinna; Saint Mer; Saint Camulos; Saint Cissonius; and, one of my personal favorites, Saint Salonius, the patron saint of mistakes.



I briefly wonder if I should leave an offering for Mortain. Does He suspect that my belief is a shallow thing? A small, flimsy protection against the more terrifying idea that He does not exist at all? What would I ask of Him, anyway?



Deliverance. That is what I would pray for.



Dear Mortain, please deliver me from this dark nightmare from which I can find no escape.



And then I snort, startling poor Tephanie. I have uttered that very prayer for nearly six long months, and look what it has gotten me. No, the truth is, Mortain has forsaken me. Either that or He does not exist.



But if that is the case, then d’Albret is my father. It is more comforting to think that Mortain has forsaken me.



Chapter Nine



WITH ALL THE MEN OFF harrying the French at Ancenis, the ladies of d’Albret’s household take dinner in the winter parlor instead of the great hall. It is a smaller room, and more intimate. And considerably warmer.



Madame Dinan takes great pride in her role as chatelaine, standing at the head of the table and waiting for everyone to arrive. That I am nearly late earns me a scowl of disapproval, but I pay no attention to that. Instead, my gaze falls on the thick ring of keys she wears at her waist.



D’Albret’s keys.



I tear my eyes away before she can notice my interest and spend the rest of dinner gossiping with the other ladies. But throughout the entire meal, my thoughts keep returning to those keys and how very much easier it would be to conduct my search of the tower before d’Albret’s return.



I wait a full hour for everyone to be abed. While I wait, I open my jeweled casket where I keep the few items I brought with me from the convent. Sister Serafina saw to it that I had a decent supply of poison, all of it artfully disguised. There is a crystal vial that contains what looks like the same belladonna that all the women use to make their eyes lustrous, but mine is far more potent. I have a small gold box filled with arsenic powder, and a jar of Saint Arduinna’s snare disguised as a salve for burns. There is also a hairnet spun of gold and decorated with dozens of white pearls, each one filled with a poison called vengeance.



I remove a paper twist filled with the fine white powder Sister Serafina calls night whispers. A full packet is enough to kill a large man. Half of that will put a woman down. Only a pinch is required to assure that Madame Dinan sleeps through the night.



I tuck the small packet into the knife sheath I wear at my wrist, then hunt for the boots that the convent had made especially for me. They are of the softest leather and allow me to move as silently as a shadow. I leave the safety of my room and head for Madame Dinan’s chamber.



Once, when I was ten years old, d’Albret became so enraged at his favorite hunting hound for not bringing down a twelve-point stag that he shot the creature with his hunting bow. After a brief yelp of pain, the loyal beast began dragging himself toward d’Albret, the arrow embedded in his hindquarters, whining softly in his throat and begging forgiveness. D’Albret finally relented and delivered a second shot that put him out of his misery.



With disgust, I realize that I am precisely like that hound: even when the convent has wounded me deeply, I still doggedly do the sisters’ bidding.



No, I remind myself. I am doing this not for the convent, but for the knight. The man’s loyalty and determination in the face of such overwhelming odds is the most noble thing I have ever seen. If he lives, he deserves a much better fate than the one he will find in d’Albret’s dungeon.



When I reach Dinan’s room, I pause and put my ear to the door, relieved to hear only one pulse beating inside.



The hinges are well oiled and make no noise as I open the door. Once inside, I creep across the floor to the bed and carefully ease the thick velvet curtains apart. When Madame Dinan does not so much as stir, I take the twist of paper from its hiding place, remove a pinch of the night whispers, and silently blow it at her face. Moving quickly so I do not breathe any of the deadly powder, I yank the bed curtains shut.



The next few moments drag by, as there is nothing to do but stand there and wait for the poison to take effect. Eventually her breathing grows deeper. When she begins to snore faintly, I know the powder has done its work.



Next I go to the windows and part the thick drapes to let in just enough moonlight to illuminate my search. Luckily, d’Albret’s keys are not hidden but sit in plain sight on a small carved table near the bed. It would be quickest to take the entire ring, but I do not know what I shall find or how long I will be. Smarter to take only the key I need in case she wakes before I return.



Keeping the keys pressed against my palm so they do not rattle or clank, I search for the most likely one. Nearly all of the keys are shiny and new, like the palace itself, but there is one that is old and made of iron. It is larger than the others and coated in rust that looks like dark blood in the moonlight. Certain it is the key I seek, I remove it, then set the others back on the table. I return to the window, close the curtains so the room is once more in full darkness, and quit the chamber.



I move lightly, almost holding my breath, as I creep down the hallway and descend the stairs to the main floor. I do not allow myself a sigh of relief until I have reached the door that leads to the courtyard. Even then, I force myself to wait long, precious minutes so I can be certain no guards are patrolling at regular intervals. Only then do I step outside.



Silence fills the courtyard like a thick wine fills a cup, and the white stone of the palace walls glow eerily in the moonlight. I dart forward, skirting the large staircase and cursing all that whiteness that casts my dark figure in harsh relief. My blood thrums through my veins and every muscle in my body is taut with nerves. The urgent need for caution tingles on the back of my tongue, as if I have drunk some brew of bubbling silver.



But in the end, there is nothing to fear. Nearly all the soldiers have gone with d’Albret to Ancenis, and all the servants have been so thoroughly terrorized that there is little need for guards or sentries.



When I reach the tower door, there is a cold, dark fluttering sensation, as if I have disturbed a nest of unseen bats, but the flutterings are too big—and too cold—for something as alive as bats, and too silent for owls. Their cold seeps into me and the chill of them causes my hand to shake so much that it takes me three tries before I am able to fit the key into the lock.



The door hinges, which should creak with age and rust, are as silent as moth wings. I slip inside and shut the door behind me.



In the faint moonlight shining in through the arrow slit, the dark shadows flutter and float gently through the air. Those that are not huddling next to me are drifting downward. Down it is, then, for ghosts are ever attracted to the warmth and comfort of life.



The stairs descend in a tight circle, and I put my hands on the wall to guide me. It would not do to fall and break my neck. The stone is rougher here and wet with dampness from the nearby river, the steps crumbled slightly with age.



At the foot of the stairs is another locked door. Merde! I should have brought all of the keys with me! But no, this key fits the second door as well. My teeth threaten to chatter and I pretend it is the chill and not my fear as I turn the key and slowly open the door.



It is the smell that reaches me first. A rank mixture of mold and mildew, old blood and human filth. I brace myself for the worst, but I find only an antechamber. On the far side is yet another door, this one with a high window covered in narrow iron bars. Faint light flickers from within. Quiet as one of the ghosts who trail after me, I cross the small space.



When I reach the third door, I press myself against the wall so I cannot be seen through the bars. I wait for a dozen heartbeats, but no one comes.



Slowly, with my heart hammering against my ribs, I inch to the grille and peer inside.



A lone torch casts a faint light into the dark chamber, and shadows bounce and flicker against the stone wall. Someone is moving about and making strange formless noises to himself. In truth, it looks like a small gnome or dwarf from a hearth tale, but then I see it is simply a man who is gnarled and bent over. At first I think he is chortling and dancing, and then I realize that he is lame in one leg and that is merely how he shuffles across the chamber. And the chortling is chewing—he is gnawing on a stale crust of bread. Disgusted, I tear my eyes from him and survey the rest of the room. An ale pot, a chamber pot, a wooden ledge for sleeping and sitting. And another be-damned door sits in the far wall.



I pull away, back against the wall once more. Is that all that is keeping this knight imprisoned? Four locked doors—at least two of which have the same key—and a decrepit old man? Is the prisoner even still alive? I wonder, and then I scoff at the stupidity of my own question. Of course he is still alive, for they would not set a guard—not even one such as the little gargoyle in there—to watch over a corpse.



Unless they wanted to be certain no one found out he was dead.



Holding my breath, I let my senses explore the locked room. I feel the twisted little man’s heart beating strong and steady. Coming from beyond the door, fainter and slower, is the beat of a second pulse. The knight is alive, at least for now.



Almost as if he feels my mind searching out his, the prisoner groans.



The little guard shuffles over to the prisoner’s door and makes some guttural noise through the grille. The prisoner groans louder, and the sound is followed by the rattle of heavy chains. He is manacled, then, and his chains are the origin of the rumors of ghosts.



I stay and watch for a while longer, trying to get a feel for the guard’s rhythm: when he sleeps, and how deeply, and if he ever leaves. But he does not. He pisses in a pot in the far corner. There is a small pile of stores against the east wall, a keg of ale. He pauses to grunt at the prisoner now and then, but whether it is an encouragement or a taunt, I cannot tell. When I have tarried as long as I dare, I inch away from the door. It would not do to grow careless now and kick a stone or shuffle my feet. As I begin making my way up the stairs, I decide it has been a decent enough night’s work. I know where the knight is, that he is alive, and how he is guarded.



What I do not know is how I will get him out of there without getting us both killed in the process.



Chapter Ten



WHEN I RETURN TO MY chamber, instead of crawling into bed, I go to the table and take two fat white candles from their holders. I shove one on the end of the poker near the fireplace, then hold the poker next to the flames. It is tricky, as I do not want the candle to drip away, only to soften enough that I can mold and shape it. When I judge it ready, I pull it from the heat. Working quickly before it cools, I shove the tower key into the soft wax, pushing so that it makes a deep impression. I soften the second candle in the same way, then press it down on top of the first.



Once that is done, I use a knife to whittle away all the extra wax so that my mold is as small as possible. I toss the shavings into the fire and hide the wax casting in one of my velvet jewelry pouches.



It is a long, tense walk back to Madame Dinan’s chamber, but as I go, a plan begins to form, as fragile and tenuous as a spider’s web.

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