I study the lumpy, bruised face, searching for signs of Alyse, d’Albret’s sixth wife. She spoke of having a brother, but it is hard to imagine them springing from the same womb.
Knowing I will not be able to sleep with Beast’s admission plaguing me like the biting flies of high summer, I tell the gargoyle that I will take the first watch. Even though this hunting lodge is well hidden, we dare not lower our guard.
He does not argue and curls up near the dying fire and falls asleep with an ease I cannot help but envy. Only then, when no one can see, do I let myself think of Alyse.
Her hair was the reddish blond of a fox kit’s fur, and her face covered in freckles that my brothers claimed were the pox but that I thought were merely homely. She was always bringing flowers into the house, not just from our formal garden, but from the meadows as well. Even budding branches from the fruit trees in our orchard, which made the servants think she was daft.
Even more exhilarating, she brought smiles and laughter. It was as if the sun had finally emerged from the clouds in our household, or at least at first. My older brothers took cruel delight in tormenting and teasing her. And Julian, well, I think he begrudged her my affection, for every minute I spent with her was one I did not spend with him. And even with all of that, she was kind to me up until the end.
That Beast is her brother . . . well, clearly the gods are having a rich jape at my expense.
Or . . . the thought comes to me slowly . . . perhaps they are giving me a chance to balance the scales of justice. For if I am able to save this man from d’Albret’s dungeons and deliver him safely to Rennes, I will have paid back some small part of the debt I owe his family.
Desperate to distract myself from the truth I have just learned, I push away from the sleeping knight and pick up the filthy discarded clothing and the dirty rags. We will have to bury these. Or perhaps I will send the gargoyle out to burn them. If he could set the fire at a great enough distance, it might even direct d’Albret’s search away from us.
When I have tidied as best I can, I take a sharpening stone from one of the bundles and move outside. The rain has stopped, which will make it easier to listen for approaching horses. I remove one of my knives from its sheath and draw the stone along its edge. The faint scraping sound is as calming as a lullaby to my frayed nerves. Like a scavenger eager to pick over carrion, my reeling mind keeps returning to the one thing I do not want to think about. Truly, the gods have outdone themselves this time, for there are few people in this world I owe a greater debt to than Alyse. There are fewer people my family has wronged more horribly.
Is it possible I have been given a chance to right those wrongs?
Not that it matters, for getting Beast to Rennes alive and whole and without being found by d’Albret’s scouts is not any easier simply because he is Alyse’s brother.
It is, however, that much more vital that I do so, for more than the kingdom’s future hangs in the balance—my one small chance at redemption does as well.
When I run out of chores to keep me outside, it is time to return to the kitchen. There is much to be done—new poultices to be prepared, bandages to be cut, fires to be tended. Those tasks do not care one whit for the newfound shyness I feel toward Beast. Will he bring up the subject of his sister when he awakens? And if he does, how can I keep all the questions I have from spilling out?
Inside, I see that Beast’s eyes are open and he is staring at the ceiling above him. “You are still alive,” I say. “That is more than I dared hope for.”
He turns his head to me. “I told you I was hard to kill.”
“You did warn me, yes.” I can feel his eyes on me as I busy myself with putting more water on to boil. Does he even remember that he spoke of Alyse? And what would a simple assassin wish to know of that connection? Nothing, most likely. “Is that why you were not slain on the battlefield?” I ask. “Some gift of Saint Camulos? Or was it because d’Albret had other plans for you?”
“Saint Camulos does not protect us from death.” Beast’s voice is dry. “Nor did the men realize whom they had unhorsed. However, once d’Albret saw who I was, let us just say he is not one to let such an opportunity go to waste.” He is quiet for a moment, then speaks again. “Do you know what they had planned for me?”
Unable to help myself, I look up and meet his gaze. “I do.”
He nods. “Then you understand the debt I owe you.”
Uncomfortable with the gratitude I see in his eyes, I look back to the pot of water. “Do not be so very grateful. If I had not been able to get your lumbering carcass up those stairs, I would have killed you myself and saved d’Albret the trouble.”
“Then I would have owed you an even greater debt, for not everyone recognizes the mercy in a quick, clean death.” He pauses then, studying me. “How would you have done it?”
His question surprises me. “You mean how would I have killed you?”
“Yes. Do you have a favorite method for such things?”
Since he knows I am an assassin, there is no need to be coy. “I prefer a garrote. I like the intimacy it allows me when I whisper reminders of vengeance in their ears as they die. But in your case, I had sharpened my favorite knife especially for the occasion.”
His brows quirk up. “Why no garrote for me?”
I look pointedly at his thick neck, bulging with muscle and sinew. “I do not have one big enough,” I mutter. “Besides, yours was to be a merciful death. A knife is quicker and less painful.” If I thought my confession would shock him into putting some distance between us, I was sorely mistaken, for the great lummox laughs.
Frustrated by this kindness—one I do not deserve—I set the new poultice on his thigh, and his laughter quickly turns to grunts of pain.
Shortly after that, I gently nudge the gargoyle awake, for if I do not get some rest soon, I fear I will grab Beast by his shoulders and force him to answer all the questions crowding their way onto my tongue. It would not take him long to figure out my connection to d’Albret if I were to do that.
The jailor springs nimbly to his feet, checks once on his prisoner—now his patient—then goes to sit by the door. I stretch out by the fire and pray I will not dream of Alyse. Indeed, I do not wish to dream at all.
I come awake with a start, surprised that I have slept. It is nearly dark outside, and the ashes are cold in the hearth. I have slept almost all day. As I sit up, it occurs to me that it is too quiet. Is that what woke me? And then I hear it. The faint jingle of a harness and the soft whinny of a horse.