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Prologue

Sybella

Rennes, Brittany

November 1489

s I stand on the battle out at the disarray before od of Death has taken to the field While this could be said of any battle—death and war are old friends, after all—today He rides a black horse, a pale-haired rider hunkered down in front of Him

Annith The most skilled of all of Death’s handmaidens and the sister of my heart

She has done her part to avert this war—taken her shot using the last of the arrows forged by the gods, which flew as straight and true as if guided by their own hand But now the French have seen her Understand that it was she who shot at their king And even though he is unhar him was never the intent—they are on her like jackals on a rotting carcass

“Reload!” calls out Aeva, one of the dozen followers of Saint Arduinna who stand besidethe ramparts

Death and Annith ride hard for the gate, Mortain covering her with His body—a body fro her life with His own No, not His own, for He is the god of Death, I re has taken root in my heart

“My lord, you do knoill happen if you choose to involve yourself in mortal affairs, do you not?”

The French archers release a second volley of arrows As one, the Arduinnites and I return fire But our arrows are too late Mortain is hit yet again, taking twoto hold onto Him

It does not work, and they plu toward Mortain under yet another shower of French arrows By Fate or chance, one of them buries itself in Death’s chest, and I feel the pain of it as if it coers of dread trail downthemselves around my heart

As a lone hound brays in the distance, I shove away froate More hounds join the first, raising their voices in an unholy las suspended, like a drop of sap oozing frood of Death—one He has passed from this world

By the tiate, the French have fallen back, as if even they sense the antia swarm toward the fallen Mortain as Annith throws herself on his body, weeping As , she will be even more so

Before I can reach theruous, joyful sound in the solemn stillness

Puzzled, Death reaches for his chest, his hand coh I am half a bowshot away, I hear him say, “I am alive”

It feels as if the earth I a spin

He is alive But even as far away as I aer Death

A great chas er walks ast us, then what purpose am I to serve? What use will there be for my dark talents and skills?

I fear the ansrit long ago, when I was born into the family that raised me The family that nearly killed me and drove my mother into Death’s arms

And that answer terrifies me far more than death ever has

Chapter 1

Genevieve

Cognac, France

November 1489

was born in the upstairs rooroup of co as h perhaps not so very common Would an ordinary woman invite Death to her bed on a dare?

I eed covered in slime and blood, my face—?indeed, my entire body—?as blue as a wild hyacinth Hushed whispers and murmurs of sympathy followed the horrified silence rabbed me from my mother’s slippery hands and swatted my backside

Nothing I did not cry or whimper or even draw breath But old whores are as wise as old cats, and Solange did not give up She bent down to place her wrinkled lips on mine, and blew

According to my mother, my chin quivered, a fist curled

Solange blew again, her deter away the cold hands of my father as He reached for me

I drew a deep breath of ht me a miracle, moved that one had been visited upon thedalena herself

All except my mother, who knew precisely who she’d invited into her bed nine months earlier It wasn’t until I was four years old and clutched at her hand as she headed up the stairs with her night’s custoe was confirmed “His heart,” I whispered into her lowered ear as I rubbed ely”