Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(99)
And if I cannot figure it out, he will die.
Chapter Forty-four
When morning comes, Duval is gone. I tell myself that his being well enough to leave is surely a good sign.
The night has brought some clarity but no solutions. I do not think the convent is behind Duval’s poisoning, for who would they use to do it? I have not seen or heard from Sybella since d’Albret left. Besides, the note from the abbess made it quite clear that this task was my last chance to prove to the convent I was serious about my duties and my vow.
Which means someone else is behind the poisoning.
I think of Duval’s chessboard and how the white queen stood surrounded by fewer and fewer allies. The answer, of course, has to be one of those left standing: Marshal Rieux, Captain Dunois, and Chancellor Crunard.
Of those, only Crunard has free access to the convent and only Crunard has accused Duval of spying for the French regent. even angry as Marshal Rieux was, he suspected Duval only of acting in his own self-interest rather than Brittany’s. And of course, what better way to deflect suspicion from one’s own actions than to lay the blame at someone else’s feet.
Like the tumblers in a lock, my mind shifts and moves. with hindsight, everywhere I look I can find traces of Crunard hidden in the background or under layers of deceit. He was one of the few who knew I was traveling with Duval to Guérande and would know extra assailants would be needed. The lone captive from that attack was killed immediately after Crunard returned to the city. I even saw him meet with the French ambassador. And while the chancellor spoke with Gisors sharply, he himself has pointed out how easy it is to fake that.
If all of that is true, then he must also be behind Duval’s poisoning. I assume such poison can be found in a town of Guérande’s size. Or perhaps he obtained some directly from the convent. Or —
I hurry to my trunklet, take the key from my neck, and fit it to the lock. I remove the tray of weapons and look to the poisons beneath. Frantically, I examine the bottles and jars. They are all full except one: the jar of Arduinna’s snare. That is half empty.
All the symptoms fit: rapid pulse, dilated pupils, dry fever, disorientation, paranoia, numbness in the extremities, and, in the end, death.
Crunard has used my own poisons to destroy Duval. He had access to this very trunk when he traveled with my things when they were sent from the convent. A lock is easy enough to pick.
With shaking hands I return the vials to the trunk and lock it. I push to my feet and try to think. If it is Crunard, then to what end? Did he not think that the convent would issue the order? Or is it more than that? It is possible he has been feeding the convent false information all along, but again, to what end? And while I do not fully understand how the marques work, I know they are more complex than I — and perhaps even the convent — first thought. It would be easy enough for him to feed us information that supports his claims and withhold information that does not. when my own reports contradict his, how easy it is to dismiss them as the work of an unskilled novice.
But how do I tell the reverend mother that?
She will not like the suggestion that he has used her for his own ends. Nor am I certain she will believe me. even so, I fetch a parchment and quill and do the unthinkable. I write a letter to the abbess to tell her why she is mistaken and that her liaison has given her false intelligence.
when I have poured out all my suspicions regarding Crunard, I seal the missive, then begin a second one. This message is for Annith and begs her to write me with the antidote for Arduinna’s snare. Sister Serafina must have something, some antidote she can send. If she does, Annith will surely find it. I also inquire after Sister Vereda’s health, wanting to know if she is still having visions.
when I finish, I approach Vanth’s cage. He is sleeping with his head tucked under his wing and is sorely put out at being wakened. I mumble an apology and secure the notes, then carry him to the window. “Fly fast, if you please. Much depends on this.” Then I toss him out the window. He spreads his wings and rises into the gray sky, and I watch until I can no longer see him.
That done, I dress quickly. There is one possible antidote I know of: a bezoar stone. I am not certain if it will work on poison passed through the skin, but it is worth a try. And there is only one person I can think of who might possess one.
It is nearly a half a day’s ride to the herbwitch’s cottage and even though I have never come this particular way, I have no trouble finding it. I have feared the old woman for most of my life. when I was younger and Mama had first sent me to her for tansy to treat my sister’s fever, I had hidden nearby, crying for hours. I was certain the woman would take one look at me, know that her poison had failed, and finish the job then and there.
Of course, she had not. She had merely beckoned me from the shadows, coaxing me with a bit of honeycomb dripping with golden honey — a rare treat I could not resist. when at last I believed she would not harm me, I had managed to stutter out what I had come for, which she gave to me and then sent me on my way. I had believed that she did not recognize me, and so my fear had left me.
But clearly I had been wrong, for it was she who came for me years later and whisked me away to my new life.
When I reach the small, squat cottage surrounded by a riotous garden, I dismount, tie the horse to the fence post, then open the gate. A merry little bell sounds, making me jump. I weave my way through the hawthorn hedge and the waist-high bushes of lavender until I reach the front door. It opens before I can knock and the herbwitch herself peers up at me through her rheumy eyes. “Still hovering, after all these years?” she asks. “Come in before you let all the warm air out.”