Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(14)

But I have prey of my own. Both the barons have grown ashen, and Julliers’s left arm hangs useless at his side. If he is experiencing numbness in his limbs, it will not be long now.

Then the huntsman sounds his horn again, and the hounds are off the leash, the teaming swarm of them racing toward the underbrush to flush out the game. A frantic thudding of wings follows as the startled partridge take flight.

Like heavy stones thrown from a trebuchet, the falcons drop from the sky and plummet toward their prey. A series of soft thumps follow.

But one falcon—mine—is still moving; a lone rabbit has also been flushed from the brush. The poor creature’s death squeal is harsh in the quiet of the forest, and every nerve in my body flares, for the noise made by a dying rabbit is shockingly similar to that produced by a dying man. As the falcon returns, I thrust out my arm and hold my breath, waiting to see whose wrist she will return to. When she lands on mine, I decide to take it as a fortuitous omen.

I glance once more at the two barons and wonder yet again why Mortain has marqued them for death but not d’Albret. Their sins and betrayals are small when weighed against his.

It would have me questioning Mortain’s very existence if I did not so desperately need to believe in Him, for if He is not my father, then d’Albret is, and that I could not bear.





Flushed with the pleasure of our morning’s hunt, we head back to the castle. Julliers has given his hawk to his groom to carry, and Vienne slumps drunkenly in his saddle. While I am glad that the poison is working, I feel a tinge of regret at not being able to use my knives. They offer a much quicker and cleaner end, and I have no appetite for the lingering deaths of soft, pampered barons.

Everyone is happy with the morning, except Jamette, whose little goshawk caught nothing but a vole. “It is a good thing we do not have to eat only what we catch,” I tease her.

She glares at me, which makes me laugh out loud.

We are nearly to the city walls when I feel something watching me. It is not Julian, for Jamette is busy trying to draw him into conversation. Nor is it Pierre, who has taken full advantage of Vienne’s poor health and is practically making love to his wife in plain sight of us all. I glance over my shoulder, but there is no one there.

I turn back in my saddle. Are the French troops close enough that they could have scouts nearby? Or did some of the Rennes garrison stay behind to keep an eye on d’Albret’s movements?

Or perhaps it is no living thing I sense but the soul of one of those men who died so violently on the battlefield.

I glance over my shoulder once more. When I do, a crow flutters from a far tree to a closer one. His left wing is crooked, as if it had once been broken.

Merde.

I whip back around in my saddle. It is my very own crow. The one Sister Widona had rescued and kept in a cage when I first arrived. She used the frightened, wounded creature to draw me out of the morass my own mind had fallen into. Without that crow, I might be there still.

The convent has sent me a message. It has been four long months since I last heard from them, and I had nearly given up hope that I ever would again. But now. Now there is a message. My spirits soar just like the falcons did moments ago. Perhaps old Sister Vereda has Seen what I could not—d’Albret’s death.

“You seem restless.” Julian’s voice yanks my mind from its daydreaming. The crow’s timing could not be worse.

“Not at all,” I say.

Ever jealous of the attention Julian pays me, Jamette sticks her long nose in. “Why is that crow following you?” she asks.

“You are deluded,” I scoff. “He is not following me. I think he is after the vole you caught.”

“No, no,” she says, and my hand itches to slap her silly face. “It is following you. Look!”

The crow flutters another tree closer.

“Tsk. Does not the lowly crow realize he is far beneath my sister’s notice? Here.” Julian moves his hand toward his falcon’s jesses. “I will dispatch the uncouth creature for you.”

“No!” I say, too sharply.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I give him a cool smile. “What am I to do with a crow? Put it in a pie with Jamette’s vole? Besides,” I add in a bored voice, “it is wounded, or deranged. No healthy crow would hover this close to falcons. And see how it holds its wing? Leave it be. Or,” I say, smiling in open challenge, “better yet, do try to catch it. That way I can beat you back to the castle.”

With that challenge thrown down, I put my heels to my horse and fly forward. A split second later, the others follow.

I even let Julian win.





When we reach the castle, I hand my falcon to the waiting groom, then dismount. My gaze scans the horizon for the crow, half fearing he will land on my shoulder in front of everyone. I must think of a way to get the message without half the castle seeing.

Jamette lingers near the stable, still trying to flirt with Julian, and Tephanie is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps I can steal a few moments in my room alone and coax the wretched creature to the window long enough to remove the message he carries. Leaving the others to their own amusements, I quit the courtyard and enter the palace, then head for the stairs.

No one follows. My luck holds, and when I reach my chamber, it is empty. I head straight for the window and open the casement—but there is no sign of the crow. I wait a few more moments, willing him to find me, then huff out a sigh of frustration. Just as I am about to close the window, I hear a caw and see a flap of black wings. But too late. I can hear Jamette and Tephanie at the chamber door. I slam the window shut and close the thick velvet curtains.