Mortal Heart

“It will work,” Mortain says.



“Even so, we cannot ask so many men to ride to what will certainly be their death.”



There is a long moment of silence. “That is what they are trained for,” Captain Dunois explains gently. “And they well understand the need for some to die in order that a great many more can live. It is the very nature of a soldier’s life.”



Mortain looks at me. “What if,” he asks softly, “we do not ask your men to ride to their death? Instead, we will ask those that are already dead.”



“The hellequin,” I whisper.



“The hellequin. They wish to atone for their sins and find redemption. I believe sparing thousands of lives will grant them that.”



The bishop clears his throat. “Can they be trusted to ride on such a mission without you leading them?”



Slowly, Mortain turns to face the bishop, causing the other man to flinch. The grim acceptance in his eyes causes a dark ribbon of unease to unfurl inside me, even before he speaks. “I will be leading them.”



Father Effram steps forward, his hands clasped together and his head bowed in deep obeisance. “My lord, you do know what will happen if you choose to involve yourself in mortal affairs, do you not?”



Mortain looks at the old priest, almost as if he is surprised by his question. “I do,” he says.



When no one says anything further, I cannot contain myself. “What? What will happen if you involve yourself in the affairs of mortals?”



Mortain looks back down at the map, avoiding my eyes. “Then I will die as one.”



The duchess offers to prepare a chamber for Mortain, but he politely declines. We now stand up on the ramparts with the warm summer wind buffeting at our hair. “You cannot do it!” I tell him.



“You can give your life for your country but I cannot give my life for yours?”



“The weight of your life is far different from that of mine, measured out in centuries rather than simply years.”



He turns away from me. “I have learned that the quality of life is not determined by its longevity. And I would argue that your life is worth more than mine. At least to me. Besides, the world is changing and the age of gods coming to an end. Just as smaller kingdoms are being devoured by larger ones, so too are we gods being assimilated by the One God. Our time is drawing to a close.” Almost as an afterthought, he swivels his head around and scowls down at me. “Do you think so very poorly of my military skills that you are certain we will fail?”



“No! But the whole reason you and the hellequin will be riding out is to save others from certain death. The nature of the mission hasn’t changed—it is most likely a one-way ride. The only thing that has changed is that you will be going, and I am not certain if I can bear it if you don’t return.” Saying such things makes me feel slightly foolish, for we have not talked of a future together. Well, except for the suggestion that I join him in the Underworld.



However, if he is gone, I will be utterly alone, without even Mortain’s presence to sustain me with his strength and courage as he did when I was a child, for the god will have stepped fully into the mortal world.



But, I remind myself, that is his choice to make, just as being the one to fire the arrow is my choice to make, and so I keep silent.



“What will you do?” he asks. “After.” He does not say after he has died, but the words sit heavy in the night air.



I stop and think. What will I do? I have given no thought beyond our goal. The answer comes to me, unexpected and surprising. “I shall return to the convent.” I pull his hand into mine and squeeze it. “I will return to the convent and tell the others of their father, and what sort of man—and god—he was.”



I have surprised him. After a moment’s silence, he smiles. It is white and dazzling and rips my soul fair in two.



“And then?”



“And then? I do not know.”



He looks down at our entwined hands. “I will wait for you. Before passing on to whatever is next, I will wait for you in the realm of death so we may travel there together.”



My eyes burn with the unexpectedness of his gift. “No,” I say fiercely. “I do not want you to suffer any longer than you must. You have already been stuck there an eternity.”



He smiles. “I will not be suffering.” He reaches out and places his palm upon my chest, over my heart. “You will always open to me. Through you, I will watch my daughters grow, feel the life flowing through your veins, bask in the love that fills your heart. It will pass like no time at all.”



He pulls me into his arms then, our time for talking over. He lowers his lips to mine, placing them over my mouth gently, our kiss bearing the weight of a thousand we may never have.



Chapter Fifty-Four



THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, in a distant corner of the city, just as the sun begins to drop low in the sky, the hellequin begin trickling over the city walls, using the very same ladder that the French used to breach our defenses. They come spilling over, a shadowed, rippling darkness that makes no noise. The air itself seems to recoil at their presence, and the few soldiers who witness it cross themselves, the utter paleness of their faces giving voice to their fear even though they do not.



My eyes go immediately to Balthazaar. He is at his most human, wearing black leather and chain mail. His cheeks are covered in dark stubble, disguising somewhat his otherworldly pallor.



Fifty of them have volunteered for this mission, including many that I know: Begard, Malestroit, Sauvage, and Miserere, who is the last to scale the wall. I try to assure myself that their presence has nothing to do with their knowing or caring about me—they are hellequin and have assured me dozens of times that they care for no mortal; they are intent only on redemption. Half will be escorting me, and the other half—led by Miserere—will be raiding on the French supply wagons, the diversion they have settled upon.



They will not be coming back. Their only role is to provide us an escape route to allow us to get from the king’s tent back to the postern gate and the safety of the city walls.



Beast has found four charbonnerie to accompany us, their mission to get to the cannon and use them against our enemy and buy us time.



The Arduinnites too have joined us and have offered their archers to act as cover when needed. As they are the best archers in the land, we gladly take them up on it.



Marshal Rieux has secured the strongest, fastest, and most skilled horses to be found in the city, but Aeva surprises me by dismounting and leading her horse to me. “Here,” she says. “Ride this one.”



While it is kind of her—and she is rarely kind—I politely decline. “I wish to ride Fortuna, for she has been with me since the beginning of my journey.”



“My offer is not a slight against Fortuna, who is a fine horse. But my horse has been trained in the ways that Arduinna does battle and has some skills that even the noble Fortuna does not.”



“What sorts of skills?” I ask, intrigued in spite of myself.



“If you whistle, like this”—she puts two fingers in her mouth and lets loose a piercing note—“she will come to you. And if you press your knees and twitch the reins just so”—she demonstrates—“she will stumble and appear to fall, putting your opponent off-guard.” She goes on to show me a half a dozen tricks the horse knows, and in the end, I realize I cannot refuse her offer. Too much depends upon this mission’s success.



Captain Dunois has amassed a small mountain of gear from the mercenaries—hauberks, helmets, gloves, and the like, although in truth, there is not much difference between them and what the hellequin already wear.



It is I who have the most dressing up to do. They have refitted a special saddle for me, one that allows me to sit a little higher on the horse, giving me some much needed height. I am wearing two padded hauberks, which give my shoulders and chest some additional girth and have the added advantage of hiding my br**sts. Over that I wear a boiled-leather jerkin, vambraces, and riding leathers. I do not understand how any soldier is able to move once he has been suited up.



When it is time for me to don my helmet, my accursed hair will not cooperate. “Perhaps a linen cap would hold it in place,” Sybella suggests.



“No. Just cut it off,” I tell her.



She pauses a beat, and I turn to look at her. “It will grow back. And it is not worth risking it coming undone at the wrong moment, for how would I explain myself then?”



“True enough,” she murmurs, then lifts her knife to my hair and chops it off.



As I try my helmet once more, there is a faint susurration of sound behind me. When I turn around, I see that the hellequin are pressing upon Sybella, requesting a lock of my hair to carry with them. For some reason, a lump forms in my throat; I do not understand why the hellequin would want such a thing, so I pretend I do not see and busy myself with the last step, smearing my face with charcoal dust to disguise the smoothness of my skin and my cleanliness. Then I take a few minutes to wave my arms back and forth and pretend to draw a bow, trying to adjust to the feel of the hauberks.



Finally, we are ready and mounted on our horses. “The French checkpoint at the main gate is expecting you,” Captain Dunois informs us. “The terms have been set. You will be leaving with a group of nearly four hundred mercenaries, so your presence should not draw any undue attention.”



“Will not the other mercenaries realize they have never seen us before?” Miserere asks.



Captain Dunois shakes his head. “There have been thousands of them in the city and there is no way any one man or contingent has met all of them.”



Though Duval wanted to be here, there was no reason for someone in his position to involve himself with the mercenaries’ departure, so he remains stuck in the palace. Ismae is attending the duchess. It was she who cut the duchess’s hand and squeezed her blood onto the tip of the arrow, then bound the cut with a healing balm and bandaged it. She refused to say goodbye to me in the determined belief that I would be coming back.



In addition to Sybella, Beast is here, appearing right at home among the hellequin. Indeed, he looks as if he would seize a horse and ride with us if not for the death grip Sybella has on his arm. “Be safe,” she tells me. “And may all the Nine bless your journey.”



We begin moving to the main gate. In the northern part of town, far from our small group, fifteen hundred Breton forces wait, dressed for battle, chargers at the ready. If we fail, they will ride out to disable the cannon and destroy the siege towers before they can be used against us. It too will be a one-way mission. As they are not hellequin who welcome death, I pray they will not be needed.



Our plan is known to only a select few, so as we pass soldiers and men-at-arms in the city, they jeer at us and throw rotten food and rocks, thinking we are mercenaries leaving them to their fate. At least until Sauvage nearly rides a group of them down so that they must leap out of the way, after which they restrict their displeasure to slurs and taunts.



I ride in the center group, just behind Miserere, with Malestroit behind me. Balthazaar is in the lead. I am the weakest link in this chain we have constructed, for I am smaller than nearly all the others, except for Begard. With my padding and saddle platform, I am about the same size as he. Luckily, Captain Dunois has assured us that not all mercenaries are as enormous as the hellequin, so once we join the main group, we should be even less noticeable.



The throng of defecting mercenaries waits just inside the city gates. They believe the duchess and her councilors have no knowledge of their defections, and so they simply threaten the sentries with their lives. The sentries have been instructed not to resist or attempt to engage, so they give them no argument.



I am tense as we ride out under the stone arch, terrified that somehow someone has leaked word to the French of our plan and they are looking for us among the others. But the few French soldiers and officials who wait just outside the gate simply motion for us to pass on through. They are alert and on edge at first, and have a division of archers with bows drawn in case we are some warring sortie in disguise. But as the last of us rides out and no one charges, they lower their guard.