Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (лучшие книги онлайн TXT) 📗
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.
