Mortal Heart

“But of course we will help.” Floris looks out toward the twinkling campfires of the French. “They will have the city fully surrounded in another day or two.”



“I know. There has been a steady flood of refugees ever since their banners were first spotted.”



“They’d best hurry, for once the French are in position, no one will be able to get in or out of the city.”



In the silence that follows, I wish to ask her if she will tell me her story of Arduinna and Mortain, to see if it is the same as the one Father Effram and Mortain have told me. But as closely as they hold their secrets, I dare not ask. Especially not in front of so many.



The following day, Duval, Dunois, and Beast spend their time poring over maps, trying to mark the French encampments. The duchess excuses herself and retires to her solar. Or tries to. She is exhausted but too ill at ease to be able to rest. In the end, she takes herself and her ladies off to the cathedral to pray beside Isabeau’s tomb.



I have little enough to do except worry about Ismae and miss Sybella, who awoke late while we were in the council meeting and has now taken herself to the convent of Brigantia to spend time with her sisters. Isabeau’s passing has made them all the more precious to her.



As I pace in front of the fireplace, my eyes fall on the black box, now splintered and broken, and I remember the arrow. I hurry over and dig through the wreckage. The moment my fingers touch the slim, dark wood, a deep knowing runs through my fingers. I pull the arrow out and carry it over to study it in the light from the window.



I think of the story both Father Effram and Mortain told me, how Death’s capturing Amourna was naught but a mistake, a wretched, human mistake, and how it was Arduinna whom he had loved all those centuries.



I think of the Arduinnites, who have refused to share their story with anyone and let us all assume it was because they did not wish to contradict either Dea Matrona or Amourna and prove either of them wrong. But of a certainty, pride goes hand in hand with ferocity. What if they simply could not bear for the world to know that Arduinna had been rejected for her younger, fairer sister? Floris as much as admitted that Mortain had played her goddess false.



The fragment of the arrow I hold is older than anything I have ever seen except for the standing stones and cromlechs that litter the countryside like discarded playthings of the gods. The wood is so hard as to almost be stone, and the arrowhead is of some metal—bronze, I think—gone black with age.



The implications send me reeling, for they are almost too incredible to believe. And yet . . .



And yet, why else would an ancient arrow be kept in the heart of the convent, concealed in a box with no means of opening it, as if Mortain himself were hoarding some small keepsake of his lost love?



What if I am holding the last of Arduinna’s arrows in the palm of my hand, a true relic of the gods?



My mind gallops over everything I have ever heard said of Arduinna and her arrows. That they fly straight and sure, that they never miss, and that they bring the pain of true love to those that they strike.



My pulse starts to race. What if we could take this relic, the ancient weapon, and find a way to use it to the duchess’s advantage?



As I turn the arrow over and over in my hand, an idea of how to not only avert war but turn this defeat into a triumph for our duchess begins to form. A triumph of not just politics, but the heart.



Chapter Forty-Seven



“WELL?” I ASK IMPATIENTLY. “Do you think it could work?”



Father Effram studies the arrow, his hands tucked into his sleeves as if he is afraid to touch it. “It is possible . . .” He looks up at me, his eyes alight with excitement. “Probable, even, for as you say, why else would the convent of Mortain have held on to such a thing for so long?” He reaches out, his fingers hovering just above the arrow. “How very old it must be,” he muses.



“But what if I am wrong?” I clasp my hands together and begin to pace. “I do not wish to kill the king of France.”



“Don’t you?” He cocks his head, truly curious.



“No.”



He nods. “Well, then, I suppose there is one way to be certain. You will need to ask your abbess—”



“She does not know.”



“Well, someone should have the answers you seek. I admit, it is a most appealing idea.”



“I know the duchess does not wish all those deaths on her conscience,” I tell him. “And I know she is worried sick for all the countrymen who must die if we go to war. It is the only way I can think of to avert bloodshed.”



“Perhaps it is even worth the king’s life,” he suggests.



“No,” I say sharply. “It is not. Besides, the French regent would only seek retaliation, which would be swift and far more brutal than a simple war.”



“If a war can ever be called simple,” he murmurs. We stare at the arrow a moment longer.



“How do I ensure that if the king is struck with it, he will fall in love with the duchess rather than the one who has shot the arrow?”



His answer is swift and sure. “By putting the duchess’s blood on it.”



I look up at him in surprise, and he gives a sheepish shrug. “It is the only option that makes sense.”



I gently pick up the arrow, lay it on the length of velvet, and roll the fabric back up, my movements slow and reluctant. “I suppose it is time for me to have a talk with someone who knows.”



Because of my duties for the duchess, I am unable to slip away to the battlements for three days. The entire city is preparing for both a war and a siege, and the duchess’s presence and authority are in much demand, as she is forced to make hard decision after hard decision. How many of the hundreds of people fleeing the threat of war can she allow into the city before our resources and supplies are stretched so thin that we assure only our own deaths by starvation or our quick surrender? Which of the many foreign troops that are garrisoned in the city can be trusted not to abandon their posts? Or worse, switch sides, given that they have been paid only a small portion of their fees and have little hope of receiving anything more than sad little coins made of leather, essentially worthless? It is one long endless heartbreak for her, and I do not envy her the task.



“You returned.”



Balthazaar’s voice unfurls from the darkness in the corner, and I whirl around to face him. “I did not mean to stay away so long,” I say. “The duchess is beset by problems and we are busier than I would have imagined. She also misses Isabeau and hates being alone, and so she keeps me nearly constantly at her side.”



“And you, Annith? Have you been eager to see me? Or are you still discomfited by my presence?” He says the words lightly, but something in his voice draws my gaze up to meet his. That is when I see him—Balthazaar is there in the bleakness and sorrow that lurks in Death’s eyes, and I realize that whatever skin or body he wears, his heart spoke the truth to me, and my own heart responded. Even more telling, when I was most in pain, most in need of comfort, it was him I went to. Not Ismae, not Sybella, but him.



“I am growing accustomed to it all.” I will him to see that I am telling the truth. Something in my face must convince him, because the pain in his expression eases somewhat. He glances down at the parcel I carry.



“What is that?”



“It is something I must ask you about. I . . . I found it at the convent, before I left, and took it not understanding what it was.” I place the parcel on the flat surface of the crenellation and carefully unroll the velvet to reveal the arrow. I feel him stiffen beside me.



He stares at the arrow a long time, saying nothing. After a while, he reaches out and—almost tenderly—runs his finger along its surface. “It is mine, yes.”



“And is it also Arduinna’s?”



He looks at me. “Yes. It is the arrow she used to pierce my heart.”



“So that part of the tale is true, then?”



“That she pierced my heart? Yes. But it is also true that it was pierced with love for her, not her sister. Nor do the tales mention that my hellequin—my damned hellequin—went out and captured the wrong sister, believing they were doing me a great service, for they thought her lovelier than Arduinna, and more biddable besides. They did not realize it was her ferocity and defiance that drew me to her. I knew she was one of the few who might be strong enough to survive in my kingdom.”



“Those that follow Salonius always claimed it was a mistake.” Balthazaar snorts. “They should know, as I believe he had a hand in it.” He shakes his head as if still unable to believe it. “How could I reject Amourna and tell her it was not she I desired, but her sister? She was soft and lovely and she was much taken with the idea of being queen of the Underworld.”



“But you loved Arduinna.”



“Yes. And she thought I had played her false.”



“What happened to Amourna? For she seems to have faded from the world even more than the other gods.”



“As I said, she was soft and somewhat flighty. At first, she loved being queen, but soon it no longer entertained her—it wasn’t the pageant and festivity she had been longing for, and the pain of loving the damned became too much for her. Slowly, over the centuries, she simply faded away, as the first flush of easy love often does.”



“And you were left alone, with neither sister.”



He looks at me, and I feel the force of his gaze like a blow as he takes a step closer. “Until you opened your heart to me.” I fear I will drown in that gaze, but I cannot look away. Giving me time to pull back or turn my head or do any number of things to let him know he is no longer wanted, he slowly lowers his lips to mine.



They are cool. Cooler than I remember. But the shape of them is the same, and the taste of him. But even more importantly—the need and longing his lips awaken in me has not changed. Slowly, we draw apart. “If you loved Arduinna, then why have you slept with so many women throughout the centuries?” I did not intend to ask such an artless question, but now it hangs in the air between us.



It is hard to tell in the dark, but I think his lips twitch with a hint of amusement. However, that is quickly chased away by the bleakness that is all too familiar. “It was the only way left for me to partake of life. All the other ways that I, that Death, had been a part of life were absorbed by the new church or forgotten and no longer celebrated.”



“Oh.” I do not know what to say to that, but it goes a long way toward relieving me of any jealousy that I had been harboring.



“Come.” He holds out his hand, and for a moment I panic, thinking he is going to ask me to lie with him again. I can’t. Not now. Or at least, not yet, for it is all still too new and strange and . . . overwhelming. “Sit with me,” he says, then lowers himself gracefully onto the ground.



I hesitate only a moment before allowing myself to be coaxed into joining him. We sit, stiffly, side by side. “You are one of her line, you know.”



“Whose?”



“Arduinna’s.”



I pull away from his shoulder and stare at him. “What do you mean?”



“You even bear her mark.” He slowly reaches out and places his finger just below my ear, then runs it along the sensitive skin at my throat to the back of my neck, making me shiver. “Here,” he says. “A small red starburst, Arduinna’s bite, they call it, although I do not know why, for she has never bitten anyone as far as I know.”



“How can that be? They told me that Arduinnites were made, not born.” I reach up to feel it, but my fingers discern nothing. This does, however, awaken the memory of Tola asking about a mark I had there. She knew.



He settles back against the wall. “Just because she marks you does not mean she has given you special skills or talents. But those who are conceived under the cloud of jealousy or through deceitful means are hers, for hers is the domain of those who feel love’s sharp bite and the pain of rejection. Whether or not they choose to act upon it is up to them.”