Mortal Heart

“In truth,” Beast says, somewhat sharply, “it was the charbonnerie and their way with fire that allowed us to take the town’s cannon back from the French and use the weapons against them.



“We sent another group to the winch house where the great chain that guards the mouth of the bay was secured. They seized control of the winch and lowered the chain. Once the dual threats of the cannon fire and the barricade had been removed, the British ships were able to pass.”



“And just in time.” Sybella picks up the tale. “For our group was small and there were a great number of French troops in the city. Once again, the charbonnerie were crucial, as they devised a most clever scheme to smoke the bulk of the enemy’s troops out of the barracks right over the city walls, which rendered their numbers manageable.”



With the grace and timing an accomplished dancer would envy, Beast now resumes talking, as if he and Sybella had planned this. “Once the British troops disembarked, it was all but over.” He falls silent for a moment before continuing. “Four brave charbonnerie lost their lives for the cause, as did six of our own men. But make no mistake, we would not have prevailed had it not been for the charbonnerie.”



Father Effram smiles and spreads his hands wide. “It is almost as if it were willed by God and His Nine.”



Beast appears to notice the old man for the first time and gives him a bemused look. “I do not believe we have met before . . .”



The bishop in red sniffs again, and Duval passes a hand across his mouth. I do not know him well enough to be sure that he is hiding a smile, but that is what I suspect. “Allow me to introduce Father Effram. He was once the bishop here in Rennes—”



“A long time ago,” the current bishop mutters.



“—but is retired now. His wisdom has proved most helpful,” Duval adds, pointedly not looking at the current bishop.



The duchess leans forward. “Sir Waroch, Lady Sybella. The charbonnerie have fulfilled their part of the bargain, and now I would fulfill mine. They were promised a place at our table, and I would honor that. Do you have suggestions?”



Beast and Sybella exchange a thoughtful look, considering. “I believe they simply wish to continue their way of life, Your Grace, but without being reviled.”



“That is just as well, as our treasury is utterly depleted and we have nothing with which to pay them,” Chancellor Montauban says dryly.



“It was never about money,” Sybella says sharply.



Montauban bows his head. “I know that, my lady. It was but an attempt to lighten the mood of a grim situation.”



Sybella blinks in surprise at his apology, then smiles prettily to let him know it has been accepted.



“What they need is to be treated with honor and respect,” Beast says.



“What if,” Duval muses, pulling on his chin, “what if we created a military order just for them, like an honor guard, but of the realm rather than of the duchess’s person? That would both elevate their status and recognize their past deeds.”



“Continuing deeds,” Beast corrects. “They have no intention of withdrawing their assistance. They are, if anything, even more committed than before.”



“An order.” The old priest presses the tips of his fingers together. “I like that. May I suggest calling it the Order of the Flame?” He shrugs apologetically. “If no one has any other proposals.”



Duval looks at Beast and Sybella, who turn to the duchess. She nods. “It is perfect. It speaks to their unique gifts and form of service. Lord Duval, see that it is so. And we will have a ceremony to honor them.”



Poor Chancellor Montauban winces. “How extravagant a ceremony did you have in mind, Your Grace?”



“I take it by your dour look that our coffers do not hold even so much as crumbs?” Duval asks.



Montauban shakes his head. “I am afraid not. The funds received for the duchess’s jewels have already been used to pay the mercenary troops some of what we owe them in order to prevent them from sacking the city from the inside.”



“Our soldiers have not been paid in a long while either,” Captain Dunois says. “It does not sit well with them that the mercenaries have been paid first. More than one fight has broken out because of it.”



Duval spears the man with a look and gives a curt shake of his head. He does not wish to discuss this now, whether due to the duchess’s presence or some other reason, I do not know.



For the first time the duchess looks over at the hawklike man. “Any word from my lord husband?” She stumbles over the word husband, and I realize the man she addresses must be the Holy Roman emperor’s vassal Jean de Chalon.



“Your Grace, I am sorry, but he is most beset by increasing problems of his own—and not by chance. The French regent has increased the troops along his borders, thus necessitating he stay engaged there. That they have managed to make a barrier of themselves between you two is but an added benefit.”



The duchess tries to keep her face impassive, but her color drains away at this news. As if to shore up her own hopes, she says, “There are others who will fight by our side.” She looks to me. “Lady Annith, please tell what the Arduinnites have offered.”



As I relay their offer of aid, all eyes in the room turn to me. “Surely they are mere legend!” Chalon exclaims when I have finished.



Beast raises one craggy eyebrow at him. “That is also what you claimed of the charbonnerie.”



The bishop leans forward, the look on his face a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “But they are women!”



The abbess, who has been as still and silent as a statue this entire time, slowly turns her cold gaze on the bishop. “As, may I remind you, are we who serve Mortain.”



The bishop swallows once, twice, and all but squirms in his chair. Captain Dunois casts a sympathetic glance at the man before speaking. “Surely their numbers are too small to be of great use to us.”



Beast shifts in his seat so that he can see the man. “I think the charbonnerie would disagree with that assessment.”



“As would the Arduinnites,” I say. “Though their numbers are small, they did great damage to the French at Vannes.”



“We will accept whatever aid our countrymen are willing to give.” The duchess’s voice is loud and firm. Then she turns to Duval. “Will the defeats at Morlaix, Vannes, and Guingamp deter the French regent?”



“If that doesn’t, your marriage should,” Chalon mutters.



Duval addresses the duchess. “We can hope it deters them,” he says. “And at least we do not have d’Albret and his troops to worry about any longer.”



Sybella shifts in her seat. “Do not be so certain of that, Lord Duval.”



His gaze moves to her. “What do you mean?”



“I mean that whatever d’Albret was planning will not necessarily end with his death. He had been negotiating with the French, who are camped only a short way down the Loire from Nantes. I was not able to learn what he had planned, but if his men are working with the French, I am sure it will not benefit the duchess in any way.”



“Do you think they have learned of the marriage by proxy to the Holy Roman emperor?” Chalon asks.



“Of a certainty, d’Albret knew. Whether he—or someone else—got that information to the French regent is anyone’s guess.”



“With as many spies as they have at court, I have no doubt they’ve learned it by now,” Duval mutters.



“More importantly,” Captain Dunois says to no one in particular, “will it cause them to take action?”



Chapter Twenty-Nine



WHEN THE COUNCIL DISPERSES, THE duchess requests that Ismae attend her, and Sybella excuses herself so she can check on her sisters at Saint Brigantia’s convent to see that they are comfortably settled in. As I watch them all go, my heart aches with the all too familiar sensation of being passed by. Only this time, it is not some thrilling assignment I am being left out of but life itself, and I feel as lonely and trapped as I did back at the convent.



Ismae now has someone with whom to build a life outside the convent walls. So does Sybella, and while I do not know much about the Beast of Waroch, I can see the great joy and peace he brings her, and that alone is enough to make me love him greatly.



But what of me? What role is it my destiny to play? For the only thing that would have made being seeress bearable was seeing Sybella and Ismae when I had visions of their assignments and hearing the tales of their adventures. I could at least have lived vicariously through them.



But now—now it does not look like they will ever set foot on that small island again.



Even though I am a hundred leagues away from the convent, I can suddenly feel the walls pressing in on me as surely as if I were in the seeress’s chamber itself. Or perhaps after several weeks on the open road I have simply grown accustomed to being outdoors. Either way, if I do not get some fresh air, I fear I will suffocate.



I go to my room to grab a cloak, wrap it around my shoulders, and return to the palace corridors.



Even though I have no idea where I am going, I stride off purposefully, ignoring the few curious gazes directed my way. Surely if I just keep walking, I will get to a door of some kind.



However, there is no doorway at the end of this hall. Instead, it ends in another hall, forcing me to choose right or left. I go left, assuming that will lead to the outer edges of the palace. However, I do not find a doorway, but a staircase. I follow the narrow stone steps up and up and up again until, at last, there is a door. But it is guarded by sentries.



Remembering Ismae’s claim that as one of Mortain’s own, I can go where I please, I give the men-at-arms a serene nod and motion for them to open the door. Much to my surprise, they do. When I walk through, I find that I am at last outside. I take a deep breath of fresh air and try to get my bearings. I am not in the front of the palace, as I had hoped, but instead have come out the back, where the palace abuts the city wall. There is another set of stairs, which I climb until I gain the ramparts.



As I stand on the battlements looking out over the valley beyond the city wall, something deep inside me uncoils. I lift my face to the cool night breeze that whips at my hair and my cloak. I think of the Arduinnites, their camp hidden out there among the trees. I think of the hellequin and their desolate existence brightened only by the distant promise of redemption and the individual gifts they bring to their duties. I marvel at all I have learned, which hardens my resolve. I will not let the abbess, or self pity, defeat me.



The awareness that I am not alone comes to me slowly, like waking from a particularly deep sleep. Someone is nearby, in the shadows where the wall meets the rampart. I can feel him watching me. It cannot be a sentry, for he would not have stood so still for so long without making himself known. Uncertain whether my lack of fear is a sign of wisdom or folly, I fold my arms in front of me so that the daggers at my wrists are within easy reach, then turn around to face the shadows, pressing against the stone wall behind me. “Show yourself.”



A darkness within the shadows begins to move slightly, causing me to catch my breath until I see that it is only a black cloak rippling as a man steps forward.



Recognition slams into me, causing my heart to clatter against my ribs and all the blood to drain from my face.



Balthazaar.



Even as joy—silver and bright—skips lightly through my veins, I reach for the knife at my wrist, for that joy is overlaid with a dark, heavy thrum of apprehension. “What are you doing here?” How I manage to sound so calm with so many emotions coursing through me, I do not know, but I am grateful all the same.



Instead of grabbing me or attacking me, Balthazaar barks out a laugh, the sound cutting through the darkness like a blade. “I have asked myself that a thousand times, calling myself a fool for every one of them, and yet, here I am.”