“But we had plans. I have been working to gain our father’s trust so he will grant me a holding of my own. Then we will have a life together. The life we have dreamed of since we were children.”
“That you dreamed of Julian, not me.” In spite of the gentleness of my voice, he acts as if he has been struck.
“But we talked of it, planned it together . . .”
“When we were young, Julian, too young to know that sisters and brothers did not marry and have babies together. What was between us was wrong—”
“Why should we care what the world thinks? They do not understand the bond we share. The horrors we have endured together. I wouldn’t have survived if not for you, Sybella.”
I close my eyes. “Nor I without you, but that does not make what you asked of me right. I only did it because I was afraid of losing you, afraid that you would no longer protect me or be my friend.”
He stares at me in silence, as if he has never truly seen me before. “I was always your friend and would never have stopped protecting you.”
“Julian, you betrayed me! You told on the blacksmith’s boy and had him killed!”
His eyes are wild and his breath grows ragged. “I saved you from a life as a blacksmith’s whore—bearing his dirty little brats and living an existence of toil and labor. I saved you from a lifetime of looking over your shoulder wondering when our father would find you, for he would never have stopped searching. Surely you know that.”
“If all that is true, as you say, then how could you ever have used our sisters against me?”
“I was sent to collect them on Father’s orders.”
“And the locks of hair? What were those, Julian, if not a threat?”
“Is that what you think? That I would do such a thing?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I think you would wrap it up in fine excuses and pretty lies, but only to hide from yourself what you truly intended.”
“I just wanted you to know that I would keep them safe, as I kept you safe all those years. And this is how you thank me.”
But even now, I do not know if he tells the truth or only thinks he does.
In the silence that follows, I hear once more the sound of booted feet fast approaching. I step toward Julian. “When they come, tell them you have found me and stopped me. Here, take out your sword to convince them.”
Julian shakes his head and steps away from me.
I reach out and wrest his sword from his scabbard, then shove the hilt into his hand. “Do it.” Just as I step in front of his sword point, Captain de Lur, Jamette, and half a dozen men-at-arms reach the landing.
“There she is,” Jamette says. “But where are the others?”
“What others?” Julian asks, looking from me to Jamette and back again.
“Tephanie and the girls,” Jamette says. “Sybella said they would all be leaving together.”
“I found only her. Where did you last see them?”
“In the small solar.”
De Lur jerks his head, and half the men retrace their steps to the solar. Then he turns back to Julian. “Were you stopping her? Or aiding her? One can never quite tell with you.”
Julian’s eyes are colder than frost on stone. “Are you so very certain of that, de Lur? What if my lord father has trusted me above all others and we have but played a deep game to draw her out?”
My gaze snaps to Julian’s face, but even I cannot tell if he is bluffing. Ignoring him, de Lur turns to me. “Your lord father knew just what bait to use to set the trap, and now here you are. Unfortunately, you have chosen an inconvenient time to make your reappearance, as Lord d’Albret has pressing business elsewhere at the moment.”
I arch one eyebrow in disbelief, hoping my scorn will goad him into telling me d’Albret’s business. “More pressing than exacting revenge on his prodigal daughter?”
“More pressing even than that.”
My mind scrambles, trying to find a way to turn this to my advantage. “Take me to Marshal Rieux, then.” For he has at least some small shard of decency and honor. Or at least, he did.
De Lur smiles. “The good marshal is no longer with us. He didn’t have the stomach for what was required.”
I do not know if he means that they have parted ways or that Rieux is dead.
“You will have to avail yourself of the castle dungeon’s hospitality until your father returns.” He turns to his men. “Bring her.”
Two men step forward to grab hold of my arms. Desperate to keep my knives, I jerk my arms out of their reach before they can touch me. “I do not need to be dragged like a sack of wheaten flour.”
De Lur smiles, then fingers the faint white scar on his cheek. “Oh, but you do, my lady.”
I do not like what I see in his eyes, and I shoot Julian a desperate gaze, but he is lost in his own thoughts, painful ones, by the look on his face. The men reach for me again, and this time they grab my arms and feel the knives at my wrists. De Lur orders them removed and then searches me for any other weapons.
Once again I must endure his touch, must feel his hot breath against the back of my neck, must listen as his breathing grows heavier. I say nothing, only watch him. I am not certain that I could best him in a fight, but it would be close, and I would certainly cause him grave injury. At the very least, he or his men would have to kill me in self-defense. But I am not certain I am willing to embrace death just yet. Not while there is still a chance I can get to d’Albret.
As they escort me to the dungeon—the very dungeon Beast once occupied—my heart begins to pound like a drum and I can hear my own blood beating in my ears, for this is the stuff of every nightmare I have ever had—being helpless and at d’Albret’s mercy once more.
Chapter Forty-Nine
IT IS A LONG, DARK night. Panic and terror do their best to stalk me, but I keep them at bay, knowing that if I succumb, I will only be the weaker for it. Terror is as much one of d’Albret’s weapons as his sword or fists, and he wields it with deadly accuracy, using it to sap the will and crush the spirit.
The tower ghosts flutter near me, drawn to my warmth. To distract myself, I force my mind to stillness, curious if these ghosts will tell me their stories.
But there is nothing other than a faint restless rippling in my mind, no cries of anguish, no begging for revenge, no whispered tales of the horror that was inflicted upon them. These ghosts are far older that the others, here long before d’Albret. Maybe they were not wronged in death, but simply died.