Mortal Heart

Page 20

He sits toward the back, almost out of view, staring at something he holds in his lap. I glance away so he will not feel the weight of my gaze, but I am able to keep sight of him from the corner of my eye. As I stand, he hurriedly shoves whatever he is looking at back into his saddlebag and rises to his feet.
I avoid looking at him, or even acknowledging him, while we make ready to ride. Indeed, I manage to avoid him the entire night, my efforts greatly aided by his equal desire to avoid me. When the hunt returns to the cromlech, he still sleeps near me, but does not lie down until long after I am asleep, and he rises before I wake. He spends hours staring at whatever he keeps in his saddlebag, as if trying to coax an answer from it. After two days of this, my curiosity becomes piqued.
Perhaps he is holding some token of the sins he committed when he was human, something he is using to keep his resolve strong. Perhaps giving in to mortal temptation such as I offered him will only prolong his punishment or even remove his chance for redemption altogether.
Perhaps whatever he keeps in that saddlebag will answer all these questions that plague me.
Chapter Nineteen
AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, the next night is a busy one, with lost and wandering souls so thick upon the ground that the hellequin are able to scoop them up like fishermen with a net. “Something is wrong,” Balthazaar says when the men have captured their fourth soul. “There should not be so many in one place.”
“Unless they have all been killed at once,” Sauvage says. “Then it would make sense.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Maybe there has been a battle. Or a fire.”
A battle. “Where are we?” I ask.
Balthazaar barely spares me a glance. “About six leagues north of Vannes.”
“Which means we are close to the port cities, a sure target if and when the French decide to make a move on Brittany.”
He looks at me blankly.
“The impending war?” I remind him with impatience. “It is possible the French have decided to engage us, and some battle we have not yet heard of has taken place.” Not that we would ever hear of it, seeing that we pass almost no one at night and those we do pass are not inclined to stop and share gossip.
“She is right,” Sauvage says. I am so surprised I almost ask him to repeat himself, but silence my tongue before the words can escape.
Balthazaar nods in agreement as another shout goes up. The hellequin have found yet more souls. “Come,” Balthazaar says. “Let us see if we can ask one of them why there are so many.” He puts his heels to his horse and we all ride forward.
When we are close enough to the others, Balthazaar and Sauvage rein in their horses and dismount. The souls must have been those of soldiers, for they do not cower or shrink in fear from the approaching hellequin.
Now, I think. Now is my chance, when everyone is busy with the souls. I slip out of my saddle onto the ground, then wait, stomping my feet as if to stay warm in case anyone should notice me.
As if I am merely stretching my legs, I saunter over to Balthazaar’s abandoned horse. The creature has grown used to my scent after our weeks riding together. Even though he tosses his mane and blows ­loudly, we both understand it is simply for show.
I carefully unlatch the strap that holds the saddlebag closed, glancing around as I do to be certain none of the men are watching. I reach into the saddlebag and grope blindly, certain my hands will recognize the object, for I have seen enough of it from a distance to discern the shape of it.
There! My hand closes around something long and thin. When I draw it out, I see that it is an arrow. I frown. Balthazaar does not even possess a bow.
Unease slithers across my shoulders. I turn to angle the arrow so the light of the moon falls upon it. A jolt of recognition slams through me.
It is my arrow. There is no mistaking the supple yew wood of the shaft, the black crow feathers I used for the fletching, and the single dove feather that is my own signature mark.
My heart starts to race, and slowly I bring the tip up so I may see the arrowhead itself.
It is stained dark with old blood.
My blood. Blood that I smeared upon it the night of the midwinter ceremony.
Every muscle in my body clenches. I shove the arrow into the saddlebag and begin backing away, struggling to keep my steps slow and measured.
I wait a beat, then another, before allowing myself to seek out Balthazaar’s figure. When I see that he is still with the others, gently trying to coax answers from the confused souls they have captured, I allow myself to breathe again. I have time. My snooping was not spotted. I clench my hands into fists, then open them, trying to work some of the tension from my body.
I do not know what this means, except that nothing is as it seems and I now feel myself to be in grave peril. I can only assume the arrow means the hellequin are hunting me as I originally feared, although why Balthazaar has not made a move against me, I do not know. He must be playing some long game I do not yet recognize.
Or perhaps before he could send me on to the Underworld, he found himself drawn to me and thought to take his ease. For he was drawn to me—the sparks between us crackled and snapped from our first meeting.
But then why did he reject my offer? Was it a way to use my own sin of pride against me, to rub salt into the wound of wanting him? A punishment of his own before turning me over to the judgment of Mortain?
I shake my head, trying to disentangle myself from all the questions that threaten to cloud my wits. There will be plenty of time for me to ponder my foolish mistakes once I am free. For I must escape before he connects me to that arrow or, if he has already made that connection, before he decides to move.
The good news is that the hellequin have grown fully accustomed to my presence. They trust me now and are less inclined to watch my every move as they did when I first joined them.
Morning is almost here. It is the perfect time to make my escape. I need evade capture only until daybreak. Then they will have to return to one of their cromlechs and wait until nightfall again.
I glance up at the sky and try to determine how long until dawn. Less than an hour, I think. If I do not move soon, I will be forced to spend another night with them—with him—and I do not know if I can keep my newfound knowledge hidden.
To test if anyone is paying attention to me, I remount Fortuna, then urge her to take a few steps away from the group. No one spares me a glance; they are too intent on the conversation taking place between the others.
Now. The word flares up in my mind like a beacon, and I can only hope it is a sign from some god other than the god of mistakes. In slow and careful steps, I allow Fortuna to keep drifting farther and farther from the others. Still no one notices. I urge her to the right, into the trees, an excuse of needing to relieve my bladder ready at my lips, or a claim of spotting yet another wandering lost soul. Still no one follows.
Heartened now, I let Fortuna pick up her pace, threading through the thickest of the trees, which will slow down any pursuit.
The forest is quiet all around me, soaking up the sound of our passing like a thick blanket. I must put some serious distance between the hellequin and me, but to do that I will have to gallop. Once I do, there will be no way to hide that I am attempting to escape. My heart inches up into my throat.
After a moment’s hesitation, I finally put my heels to Fortuna’s flanks and urge her to fly. And fly she does. As if she can somehow sense my own urgency, she races through the trees, dodging them nimbly. Or perhaps it is all the nights she spent riding with the hunt that have given her such speed. Either way, I am heartened, as each step takes me farther and farther away from the hellequin. From the incrimination of my own arrow. From the pain of Balthazaar’s rejection and lies.
We run for close to a quarter of an hour before I have the sense that I am being followed. I turn my head to the side, straining to hear, but my ears are full of the thudding of Fortuna’s hooves and her heavy, rhythmic breathing.
She will need to rest soon.
I glance up at the eastern sky, which is just beginning to lighten. Sunrise is not far off.
I lean low over Fortuna’s neck, grab hold of her mane, and whisper in her ear for her to run faster if she can, and if she can’t, well, then may the gods themselves help us. I find I cannot pray to Mortain, not when He may have sent the hellequin to find me. At the very least, it is like pulling Him into some sordid family quarrel.
And then it reaches me: the distant thunder of horses’ hooves. After spending weeks in the hellequin’s company, I find the sound is nearly as familiar to me as that of my own breathing.
Fortuna has no more to give. Her sides are streaked in sweat, and her lungs are heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows. I glance around, but there are no buildings, no houses, no convenient churches nearby in which to beg shelter. There is nothing but trees and forest as far as I can see. I glance up at the treetops, wondering . . .
Without pausing to think it through lest I lose my nerve, I kick my feet out of my stirrups and loop the reins loosely around the saddle horn. “Keep running,” I whisper to Fortuna. “But slow down if you must. Just lead them away from me.”
Then I reach down, grab hold of the saddle, and use it to steady myself as I slowly draw my legs up.
The ground below races by. I ignore it, and the sharp rocks and logs that lie in wait should I fail. I pull my legs under me, find my balance, and slowly begin to ease myself to a standing position, letting my body adjust to the rhythm of Fortuna’s gait.
It has been months since I’ve done this, but the movements come back to me easily. I match my rhythm to that of the horse, finding my balance, and gripping tightly with my feet.
Then I wait for the perfect branch. One that will be low enough that I can reach out, grab it, then lever myself up onto it.
I remain in a half crouch while we pass scores of trees, but their branches are all too high or too narrow or not thick enough.
The sounds of the hunt are louder now. Soon they will be within sight, and once they are, my trick will not be of any use. I utter a quick, desperate prayer to Mortain: I know they are Yours, but so am I. Please do not let me be chased down like a hunted deer.
A dozen strides later, right after a slight bend on the path, I see a thick, low-hanging branch. I have no time to think, to consider, to judge if it will work. It must work. I straighten my legs, reach up, then brace myself as the jolt of the contact reverberates through my body. Then my legs are dangling in the air and I see Fortuna continue to run on without me.
There is no time to congratulate myself. I hoist myself up onto the branch, swing my legs sideways, then wrap them around the limb and shimmy toward the trunk. I reach it and pull myself to the far side just as the first of the hellequin come into view.
It is Sauvage, riding in the van, his face compressed in single- minded intent. I press my entire body flat against the tree and watch them stream beneath me, surprised to see Balthazaar bringing up the rear.
His hood is pulled close, so I cannot see his face. Even so, there is a grimness, a ferocity about his manner that makes my heart clutch painfully. He is not your concern, I tell myself. He has made that perfectly clear.
I wait, holding so still I scarcely allow myself to draw breath. Only when I can no longer hear even the echo of their hoofbeats do I let myself draw a lungful of air. They did not find me. There is a chance—a small one—that Fortuna will be able to outrun them without the weight of a rider on her back. And if not, well, they will not hurt her, for she is nothing to them. Even so, I will probably never see her again. Someone might find her, take her for his own. It is possible she might return to the night rower’s stables; I have no idea how strong her homing instincts are.
Then I remember my saddlebag and the journal hidden deep inside, as well as the Tears, and the strange black box. I cringe to think of the convent learning what I took with me. Even worse is the idea of those things falling into some stranger’s hands: the local prelate, a landed yeoman, or some random innkeeper who finds Fortuna nibbling at his oats. But it cannot be helped.