Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(107)
I stop what I am doing and turn to face the bed.
“I want you to go as well. Attach yourself to the duchess as if you were her shield, for in truth, you may be. Do not leave her side.”
My hands grip my skirt and I hurry back to him. “My lord, that is not what my convent has ordered.” I do not let myself think on what my convent actually wants me to do. The herbwitch’s words rise up in mind and I cannot tell if they are meant to taunt or comfort: It is a dark god you serve, daughter, but remember, He is not without mercy. Is this His mercy, then? That I will not have to slay Duval with my own hand because he is already dying from poison? A dark god indeed.
“Perhaps not,” he says, “but surely it is what they would want you to do if they knew of her plans.” when I do not speak, he turns to Beast. “Make her go with you. No matter how sick I am or what Crunard or Dunois say, make sure she rides out with you. Carry her if you have to. Swear it.”
“I swear it.” Beast’s deep voice rumbles through the room.
Duval turns to me, his voice more gentle now. “This is what I have worked for my entire life, Ismae, the duchess’s safety. I cannot finish this task, so I ask that you do it for me.”
And of course I cannot say no. Not to his dying wish. “Very well,” I whisper.
A faint tremor shudders through Duval’s body, as if it is only his determination to make these last arrangements for his sister that has kept him going. Our eyes meet. “Thank you.”
when Beast and de Lornay take their leave, Duval leans back against the pillows, his face taking on a grayish pallor. I have spent the day longing to share my news of Crunard’s signet ring with him, but he is so ill, I do not have the heart to add to his cares. “You really must sleep, my lord. You can give us more instructions when you wake up.”
He says something I cannot make out. "What?” I ask, coming closer to the bed.
“If,” he says. “If I wake up.”
I reach down to caress his cheek, his week-old whiskers rough and scratchy against my palm. He is burning as if with fever.
“Do not cry,” he says.
I scrub at my face with my free hand. “I am not crying, my lord.”
“Lie with me,” he says, and I do not know if he means to lie next to him on the bed or rather to lie with him as a woman lies with a man. “They say it is the most glorious way to die, lying with Death’s handmaiden.”
There is a hint of the old Duval in his smile and it fair breaks my heart all over again. I want to tell him he is not dying, but my throat is so tight with grief I cannot force the words out. even if I could, he would surely know it as a lie. I kneel beside the bed. “My lord,” I whisper, “you are too ill.”
He falls silent then, and regret pierces me so sharply it is all I can do not to cry out.
Too late, too late. everything is too late. I want to raise my voice and shout and rant at all the gods and saints in the heavens. Instead, I step out of my gown and let it puddle on the floor. I remove the sheaths at my wrists, then the one at my ankle. when I am left in nothing but my shift, I lift the bedcovers and climb into bed beside him.
His arms are waiting, and as I slip into them, the rest of the world falls away. The skin and muscle in his arms twitch and spasm, damaged as they are by the poison, but he pulls me close until my head is on his shoulder and our chests are touching through the thin linen of my shift.
His heart beats impossibly fast, as if he has just run some great race. wishing I could slow his heart by my touch, I place my hand on his chest, the ridges and bumps of his scars rough beneath my fingers. He smiles and captures my hand. He tries to bring it to his lips, but his grip is too weak and he drops it. I snuggle up against him, my arms draped around his neck and shoulders, determined to stay as close to him as humanly possible.
It is all that we have left to us. And while it is more than I ever dared dream, it is nowhere near enough.
Chapter Forty-eight
I do not sleep at all that night, afraid to lose one single moment I have left with Duval. Just before dawn I peel myself away from him, one small inch at a time, so that he does not wake. I hold my breath as I put my full weight onto the mattress, afraid the shifting movement will disturb him, but it does not. Indeed, he is sleeping deeply, his breathing shallow. His pulse beats in his throat, thin and thready. Truly, this is a small mercy that my god has granted me. I do not have to even raise my hand and Duval will be dead by nightfall.
Perhaps Mortain knew I could not kill him even if he bore the marque. I cannot kill the only man I have found it in my heart to love.
And no matter how much I long to stay by his side, I have promised all my choices away; to the convent, to the duchess, to Duval himself. I am caught in a web of my own making, my crisscrossing promises ensnaring me as neatly as any trap. Only duty, which once held such joy for me, is left. It is as sharp and bitter in my mouth as bile.
I am dressed and ready before Beast comes to collect me. I have no wish to be dragged from the bedside and have no doubt that Beast will do exactly as he promised. Leaving Duval is as painful as cutting out my own heart and giving it to the crows to feed on. I do not look at Beast when he arrives. I do not dare meet his eye, for if I see one drop of sympathy there, I fear I will splinter into a thousand pieces like shattering crystal.
While Duval has not been seen around the palace for the last few days, it is only the duchess and the Privy Council who know he has gone into hiding. with the rest of us en route to Nantes, he should be safe enough in my chamber. My eyes are dry as bone, my face as still as the cold marble floor beneath my feet as I move through the palace in a daze. Beast sends me a number of worried glances, small flickers of concern that prick against my skin. I barely register their existence.