Mortal Heart

“We lock the doors at the third bell and do not open them again till morning. If you’re not back by then, do not bother.”



“Thank you! I will be back before the third bell rings.” And then we are at the door. Balthazaar flings it open, shoves me out into the night, and shuts it behind us. Before I can berate him for creating such a scene, he presses me up against the wall, lowers his head, and captures my lips with his.



The force of it fair steals my breath and for a moment, I can do nothing but stand there and reel. Taking advantage of my inaction, he wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer, as if even the small space between us is too much. Luckily, the movement brings me back to my senses, and I—less forcefully than I should—shove him away. “What are you doing here?”



He stares down at me, and I must force myself to look away for fear I will lose myself in that gaze once again. “Were you not acting my lover just then?”



I glance around to see if anyone has witnessed our display. Luckily, we are alone in the courtyard, most likely because his enormous black stallion is tossing his head and pawing at the ground like the creature from the Underworld he is. “Yes, you lummox, but only so you and the innkeeper would not come to blows. Now, get off me. I have work to do.” I want to ask him why he left me and where he went, but refuse to let those questions pass my lips. Lips that still feel the press of his upon them.



“I finished my work in Nantes,” he says.



My head snaps up and I half fear he has read my mind.



“That is what I am doing here.”



I push away from the wall. “What business did you have in Nantes?”



“A new hellequin has been sworn to our service.”



“Truly?”



“Truly.”



Because lies fall as easily from his lips as ripe fruit from a tree, I press further. “What sins is he seeking redemption from?”



“He was overcome with lust for his own sister, and yet died trying to protect her. In his moment of death, he begged for a chance to redeem himself, and so it has been granted.”



“So that is why you left with not so much as a by-your-leave.”



His voice softens. “I said goodbye.”



So. That was no dream, then. I study him suspiciously. “You left not even knowing if my sight had returned.”



“But it had.”



And how could he know that? “Be safe, my love,” a voice murmurs. Then I feel the press of cool lips upon my eyelids. I scoff at my suspicions. Hellequin have no such powers. It was but a coincidence. My body finally adjusted to the power of the Tears, that is all. “Well, I am fine now, as you can see. And I have work to do.”



“I will accompany you.”



Merde, that is all I need, him looking over my shoulder. “You will not! My work is meant to be done in private.”



“As is mine, and yet you witnessed it for nearly three weeks.”



“At your invitation.”



“Besides, what if you go blind again? Or lose your hearing? Or power of speech? Then you will need my help.” There is a faint note of smug satisfaction in his voice.



I nearly shove him again in frustration, but then I see how the spark of humor lights up his eyes, lifting the despair and making them nearly human. And just like that, my anger dissipates. “Very well. But you must do as I tell you.”



He places a hand on his chest. “Always.”



I roll my eyes.



Crunard is being held in the northeast gate tower. As we head through the nearly deserted streets of Guérande, I keep a careful eye out for the city watch. Beside me, the hellequin moves as quietly as a wraith. Indeed, the shadows of the night seem to pool around him, as if his very presence attracts them. It is most unsettling and it takes every ounce of training I have to push it out of my mind and concentrate on the task at hand.



I am ready for this. I have spent my entire life preparing for this moment, this chance to serve Mortain. Instead of sitting walled up in some suffocating tomb using nothing of who I am to serve Him, now every skill I possess, every bit of intellect, every moment of training, will be brought to bear on this task, and in doing this, I will dedicate my life to His service.



If He will have me.



I do not know what I will do if the life I want is denied me, but the thought is less bleak now than it once was. I tell myself that has nothing to do with the hellequin at my side. Or if it does, it is only because I have learned through him just how far Mortain’s grace and mercy can extend.



I ignore his dark brooding presence at my elbow and review everything I have learned about marques—about how and where they appear and the different ways in which Mortain’s daughters see them. I know that Ismae has seen marques since she was young and that they appear to her in ways that suggest the method of death. Sybella only sees them on the victim’s forehead, and she did not see that until after she was administered the Tears.



There are initiates who never see marques at all, although those are rare. That is why we rely so heavily on the seeress, and it is no small part of why I am so terrified of having that rest on my shoulders—I cannot believe that I am to be His voice in this world.



When we reach the gate tower, I put my hand out to stop the hellequin. Just as I do, two guards emerge from the door. Before I can react, the hellequin grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around so that my back is against the wall. Leaning over me, he presses our bodies together, his cloak swirling forward with the movement and wrapping itself around my legs. Then he brings his hooded head down toward mine, so close I think he plans to kiss me again, and while I am annoyed with his actions, my traitorous heart gives a small, eager leap. Just as I prepare to wrench away from him, he whispers in my ear, “Hold still.”



I curse my own loss of focus. He is right. It is one of the first lessons we learn at the convent, how to meld with the shadows. And I would have remembered it if I hadn’t been so distracted by the idea of him kissing me again. There is a good chance the sentries will not see us, and if they do, they will likely think it is merely some soldier’s dalliance.



I feel Balthazaar’s heart beating against my own as the two soldiers pass by. They are close enough that the hellequin could reach out and touch them if he wished, but they do not so much as look in our direction. When they have passed and their footsteps no longer echo on the cobblestones, Balthazaar steps away.



“I told you you would have need of me.”



I avoid his eyes as I adjust my skirts. “I could have escaped their notice equally well on my own. I have been sneaking and skulking since I was a child, and am very good at it. Now, are you ready to play your part?” It was the price I demanded if he insisted on coming with me.



“I still say you would make a better distraction than I.”



I give him a grin that is all teeth and little humor. “Yes, but I have the sleeping draft and you do not.” I give him a push, which is like pushing a stone wall. He makes certain I know this by resisting a long moment before finally choosing to step back.



I squelch the urge to reach out and kick him.



As he slips away, I keep myself from asking him what he plans to do to distract the guards. Instead, I slide along the gate-tower wall, ease myself toward the guard room, then slip inside. Torches flicker lazily in their iron sconces, causing long shadows to dance in the dim light. I move quickly to the table where the men had been sitting, their dice still lying upon its surface. Quickly, I remove the small paper of fine white powder from the cuff of my sleeve, tap a sprinkle into each cup, then pour the rest into the jug. Before I can do more than that, I hear the footsteps of the returning men.



I step back into the shadows near the corner of the room, grateful for the sputtering torch light that is barely enough to see the dice by.



And then I wait.



The men take their seats. One of them says something, laughs, then lifts his cup and takes a swig of wine. As he lifts the jug to pour himself more, his companion drains his cup and holds it out to be filled as well. Some of the tension in my shoulders relaxes and I lean back against the wall, waiting for the draft to do its work.



I do not know if it takes longer than it should or if it is just very hard to wait while crouching in the shadows. At last, their heads nod, and first one, then the other, slumps over the table, the movement causing the dice to fall to the floor.



Victory wells up within me. Now I may face Crunard.



Slowly, I turn and walk from the antechamber to the short narrow hallway beyond, then pause. There are no doors here, only grilles of ironwork, much like the portcullis. A lone man sits behind one of them. For all that he is in need of a haircut and his beard a trim, I recognize him immediately from his visits to the convent.



Feeling my eyes upon him, he looks up. Slowly, he leans back against the wall, one side of his mouth lifting in a bitter smile. “I wondered when she would send someone after me. It is not like her to waste an opportunity when one of her opponents has been weakened.”



“I am not sent by the duchess,” I tell him as I search his face for any hint of the dark smudge that I am so desperately praying for.



“I know. You are sent by the abbess of Saint Mortain.”



Chapter Thirty-Four



AT HIS WORDS, everything inside me grows still. “You know why I am here?”



“Perhaps even better than you do.”



His words prick at something uncomfortable in me. “What do you mean?” That I must ask this question rankles me, but my need to know what hidden web is being woven is greater than my pride.



He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant gesture. “It means that I understand better than you why you have been sent. You think you are on Mortain’s business, but you are not. You are here on hers.”



I force out a laugh and hope it does not sound as false to his ears as it does to mine. “You are facing death, my lord. It is not surprising that you would say anything you can think of to stay my hand.”



He shifts then, rises to his feet. Good! If he comes closer to the light, mayhap I will see a cursed marque. I silently raise my bow.



He ignores the arrow pointed straight at his chest and stands just on the other side of the iron bars. “Did she tell you why I must die?”



“You betrayed the duchess, did everything in your power to hand our kingdom over to the French regent. I do not think there is much to explain.”



“Your fellow handmaiden chose not to kill me once. Perhaps she knew something you did not?”



My heart twists painfully. “Matelaine?”



He frowns slightly. “No, Ismae. When she first discovered I was the one behind the plots here at court, she chose not to exact justice. Have you asked yourself why?”



Even though there is hardly any room, I take a step closer. “No. I was too busy trying to puzzle out why you had killed the second handmaiden sent after you. Surely you recognize that now, in addition to your crimes against the kingdom, you have committed crimes against Mortain.”



His frowns deepens and he appears genuinely puzzled. “A second handmaiden?”



I laugh again. “Playing dumb will not help you, not when I stand here with an arrow pointed at your black heart.”



He spreads his hands wide, as if giving me a clear shot at his chest. “If you think I am eager to cling to this life when all I have ever cared for is gone—my family, my lands, my honor—then you are sadly mistaken.” Crunard grips the bars with his hands. “I welcome death,” he whispers.



“Then you shall have it,” I whisper back. But even though every fiber of my being wishes to see this man dead for what he did to Matelaine—and to the duchess—I find I cannot release the arrow.



He leans forward. “Do you see one of your precious marques on me?”



Shock travels along my bones that he would know of such things. “It is probably hidden by your clothing.” I motion with the bow. “Strip.” While I am eager to see if he bears a marque, I am equally eager to wipe the smug certainty from his face.