Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(89)
I remove the two knives I carry in my boots and hand them to two other boys. “Just like an assassin, your greatest strength will be your stealth and cunning. And speed. You will need to get in quickly, strike, then move away before anyone has even realized you are there. That means in addition to what I teach you here tonight, you must begin to learn to move quietly. Right now, you sound like a herd of oxen galumphing through the forest. Pretend you are sneaking up on somebody if you must, but learn to move without making noise.”
“There is no honor in that,” one of the woodcutters snorts.
Quicker than he can blink, I step inside his guard, whip his belt from his waist, and twist it around his throat, just tight enough to get his attention. “There is no honor in throwing your life away either. Not when the duchess needs every man in her kingdom if we are to win the coming war.”
The boy swallows audibly, then nods in understanding. I step away and hand him back his belt. “Besides, if what you say is true, then those who serve Mortain have no honor, and I am certain that is not an accusation you care to make.”
They quickly shake their heads. “Now, the quickest and quietest way to kill a man is by slitting his throat, just here.” I run my finger across my own. “This is not only an excellent killing blow but also a way to silence him so he cannot call out and alert others.” I step into the lessons I was taught at the convent as easily as I step into a new gown. “Here. Put your fingers at your own throat. Feel the hollow at the base of it. The spot you want to strike is three fingers up from that.” I watch as they all grope at their own throats. “Good. Now I will show you the striking motion from behind.”
“On me?” Jacques asks, his voice cracking.
“Yes,” I say, hiding a smile. “But I will use the knife handle, not the blade.”
I spend the next hour teaching the greenlings some of my most basic and crudest skills. How to slit a throat; where to strike from behind so that a single blow will kill a man; where best to place your body when garroting someone so his thrashing will not dislodge your hold. We do not spend nearly as long as I’d like, but our wood is needed to feed the fires if we are to eat. They are all still awkward and clumsy with the movements, but now they have some small skills they can use.
That night, when we finally sit down to eat, I feel as if I have earned my supper.
When the meal is done and the fire burning low, I go in search of my bedroll. Someone—Yannic, I presume—has laid it out carefully between two of the great tree roots so that I am cradled between them. Near stumbling with exhaustion, I reach down to lift the blanket, then blink in surprise at the small clutch of pink flowers that have been laid on my pillow.
It appears that my sins are forgiven. At least, the ones Beast knows about.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LATER, WHEN EVERYONE HAS RETIRED for the night, a large, hulking shape steps away from the dying fire and moves in my direction. “You look like a babe in a cradle,” Beast says.
I glance to the root on either side of me and decide I like his comparison. “Dea Matrona is holding me close.” I am certain I can feel the roots pulsing as they draw nourishment from the earth.
Being careful of his injured leg, he uses the tree to ease his way down to the ground beside me. “Have you finished confessing all your darkest sins to me?”
I am glad he can accept my earlier confessions with such a light heart, and clearly the gods are handing me this perfect moment for sharing the rest. I am grateful for the darkness that cloaks us, casting everything in shadow, muting life itself somehow. “Sadly, no.” I take a deep breath. “I would warn you that you are courting the very woman responsible for your sister’s death.”
A moment passes, then another, and still he says nothing. I peer through the darkness, trying to see his face, looking for some sign that my confession has addled his wits or left him speechless with revulsion. “Did you not hear me?”
“Yes.” The word comes slowly, as if he must haul it up from some deep well. “But I also know you are quick to paint yourself in the darkest light possible. How old were you?”
“Fourteen,” I whisper.
“Was it your own hand that dealt the killing blow?”
“No.”
Beast nods thoughtfully. “Can you tell me how a lone fourteen-year-old maid could stop one such as d’Albret?”
“I could have told someone,” I say in anguish.
“Who?” Beast says fiercely. “Who could you have told who would have had the means and the power to stay his hand? His soldiers, who were sworn to serve him? His vassals or his retainers, who had sworn similar oaths? No one could cross a dangerous, powerful lord such as d’Albret at the say-so of a mere child.”
“But—”
“All those things you did—or didn’t do—were a matter of survival. Telling anyone would only have exposed you as knowing the full scope of what went on in d’Albret’s household and endangered you even further.”
“It is not just that,” I say. “I was unkind and laughed when my brothers teased Alyse or played cruel jokes on her. I would laugh as loudly as they did.”
Beast’s jaw clenches, and it is clear that I have finally managed to make him see the extent of my cruelty.
“And what would have happened if you hadn’t?”