Mortal Heart

They will not last much longer, not when they are that outnumbered.



I glance over at the second scaling tower and calculate its distance from the king. If I were upon it, I could easily see him. It is even possible he would be in range of my bow. The arrow would have a far better chance of striking him if it came from above.



If I can reach the platform.



And if I can avoid drawing the attention of every French archer in the camp.



Deciding this is my best option, I lightly press my heels against my horse’s sides and she leaps forward. I shut out all the noise and confusion on the field around me and focus on the platform that overhangs the wheels of the scaling tower. I grasp the front of the saddle to steady myself, pull my feet up beneath me, then—as I have a hundred times before—attune my body to every movement of the horse and begin to stand up. I have barely reached my full height when the platform is there, right in front of me, and I have no time to think but must simply react so that it does not knock me off the horse. I get my arms up just in time to grab on as my ribs connect solidly with the platform, and I give silent thanks for the two padded hauberks I wear. Then I scramble up on the platform, relieved when I feel the solidness of the wood beneath my feet. Afraid I have been spotted but not willing to stop and find out, I hurry to the beams and trellises of the scaling tower, step around one, and press myself close to it. Only then do I look back to check if I have been seen.



No one seems to have noticed. I glance over my shoulder at the city wall. From there I am in plain sight, but those on the field cannot see me. Or they have not bothered to look up. Either way, it is a small sliver of luck, and I will take it.



As I shrug my bow from my shoulder, I seek out the figure of the king. I can see him better now, and from this height, I should be able to shoot over the heads of his attendants and retainers. Except now that I am here and free from the press of bodies, I realize it is—just barely—too far, and the breeze is coming from the wrong direction. It blows toward me and away from the king, just enough to drag against the arrow, reducing its speed and range, making the shot impossible.



As I watch, his attendants step back. He is getting ready to dismount, and once he is off his horse and among the crowd, I will never be able to hit him.



There are only impossible options left to me. Even though I am not divine or even gifted by nature of my birth, it feels as if all I have struggled with my entire life, all that I have trained for, and all the skills I have practiced have brought me to this moment.



But I had also thought it impossible ever to leave the convent, or confront the abbess, or meet a god face to face, let alone fall in love with one. Impossible things do happen. But only if we make them.



I draw the arrow dipped in the duchess’s blood, then fit it to the bowstring. I lift my bow, the black feathers of the fletching tickling my cheek. Dear Arduinna, I pray as I sight down the arrow. Although I come newly to your service, please let me be your instrument in this. Guide this arrow, for the love you once bore him, for the love you might bear me as one marked by your own hand, but mostly to save all the innocents from the horror of war.



As I pray, the breeze dies down, as if the hand of the goddess is holding it back. But I do not take the shot, for still air will only gain me ten feet, and I need at least thirty. Moments later, I feel a brush of wind against my neck, sending the strands of my hair forward to tickle at my cheeks.



But still, I do not take the shot.



I wait until the breeze sighs past my face and streams down along my shoulder, until I see the grass on the field below me begin to ripple as the gust dances its way downrange. Then, when it is in the best position to carry the arrow forward, I release the bowstring.



In that same moment, ready to dismount at last, the king stands up in his stirrups so that he is ever so slightly higher than those around him. The arrow strikes him in the fleshy part of the arm—praise the saints that he is not wearing full armor—then disintegrates, falling to the ground in a sprinkling of black dust.



I stare in dismay. Is the arrow too ancient to withstand the impact? Or is it part of the magic of the arrow itself?



The king frowns and swipes at his arm. Whatever happened, he has felt it, and that is a good sign. He leans close to examine a rip in his sleeve, his fingers coming away red with blood. I close my eyes, my body going slack with relief.



But my relief is short-lived, for I have been spotted. A small force of French archers has seen me. They drop to their knees in the field and raise their crossbows. I throw myself behind the thick wooden support beam of the siege tower, pray they are not excellent shots, and reload my own bow.



A rapid series of thuds, like hammer blows, descends upon me, the force of them causing the wood to tremble slightly. But no arrow finds me. While the archers are reloading their crossbows, I peer around the beam, raise my bow, and fire a shot. I pick off one, but there are easily a dozen more, and I duck back behind the safety of my beam. As I draw another arrow, I realize there is no way I will be able to take on all of them.



They fire again, one of the quarrels whistling past my ear as it misses the beam. As soon as the volley is over, I turn and take another shot, eliminating one more. Only ten left.



A third volley of arrows pins me behind the beam again, but there are far fewer than before, far fewer than could be accounted for by the two stricken archers.



There is a flash of movement off to my left. I turn and see that two of the archers have pulled out of formation and are approaching me, one on either side. I will be able to hit one, but not both. Merde. I lift my bow to the one on the right, for he is closer to being able to fire. When my arrow buries itself in his eye socket, I turn to face the other archer. But too late; his crossbow is raised, sighted on me.



Chapter Fifty-Six



A GREAT DARK SHAPE BARRELS down on the archer, sunlight glancing off the sword as it arcs toward his head. The archer’s shot goes wide, then his headless body crumples to the ground.



Balthazaar.



There is a clash of steel as the rest of the hellequin fall upon the remaining bow men. I hurry over to the edge of the platform. “What took you so long?”



He steers his horse so that it is directly below me. “We were detained.” Without giving myself time to think about it, I jump down. My breath leaves me in a dizzying rush and for one terrifying moment I fear I will miss, but the horse prances forward and then Balthazaar’s arms are around me.



Infantry with lances and pikes are swarming toward us now. Sauvage and the rest of the hellequin wheel their horses around to engage. “Go!” Sauvage calls over his shoulder, lifting his sword. The weight of Balthazaar’s despair at having to leave his men surrounded and outnumbered presses upon my heart like a stone.



Malestroit lifts his enormous hammer, then gives a nod—of farewell or relief or blessing, I cannot tell. Then he spurs his mount into the fray, his hammer swinging wildly.



I turn away, unable to watch when he should fall. Another contingent of pikesmen come running from the encampment, the sharp points of their pikes gleaming silver in the sunlight. Balthazaar’s arms tighten around me. “Keep low,” he says, then pulls me up close against his chest and covers me with his body as he gallops for the postern gate.



But the French have figured out that is where we are headed, and they know that I was the one who shot at their king. They too make for the gate. Out of the corner of my eye I see rows of archers run forward, then kneel and draw up their bows. I make myself as small as possible and pray to every god in existence.



The twang of bowstrings fills the air, followed by the swish of arrows in flight. I brace myself. Behind me, Balthazaar grunts, then jerks.



Before I can look to see if he has been hit, another volley of arrows comes raining out of the sky, only these come from the city itself. I look up at the ramparts, my heart swelling when I see the Arduinnites lined up along the crenellations, already firing off another round.



We are almost at the gate now, almost to safety. Balthazaar hunkers lower in the saddle and something wet begins to spread across my back.



A second volley of arrows come from the French behind us, but a smaller volley, as the Arduinnites have reduced their numbers. Balthazaar jerks again, his arms around me loosening their hold. When we are half a bowshot from the gate, he starts to fall. I scramble to maintain my balance, to find a way to hang on to him and the horse both and not topple over, but I cannot. As he falls, his weight pulls me from the saddle, and we both go plummeting to the ground. His demonic horse rears up, hooves flailing and nostrils flaring, before turning and galloping directly for the attacking soldiers.



The impact drives all the air from my lungs and for a moment I fear I have broken every bone in my body. But even as he fell, Balthazaar maneuvered himself so he would land first, taking the brunt of it. As we roll apart, I see he has easily a half a dozen arrows protruding from him. Panic gnaws at my heart. I start to crawl toward him but must stop as a fresh salvo of French arrows rain down around us, sending a final arrow into his chest. There is a faint, almost silent twang as the Arduinnites answer with another volley of their own.



Using that as cover, I scramble to Balthazaar’s side. Stark terror clutches at my heart at how white his face, how still his body. No, no, no, my heart screams. This was not how it was supposed to be. In the far distance, a lone hound begins to bray, the sound eerie and chilling even in the full light of day. More hounds take up the lament, and the earth itself seems to shudder, then stop, as if the very laws of its existence have been tested.



The entire field grows quiet as I stare down at Balthazaar’s lifeless form. At the arms I will never again feel around me, the eyes that will never again peer so deeply into my soul, and the lips I will never again coax into a smile. “No,” I whisper, then cup Balthazaar’s pale cheek in my hand and lay my forehead against his. I know that his love does not die with him, that I will carry it with me always, but that is cold, empty comfort. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps and I am not sure I will ever draw a full breath again. This pain is worse than anything I have ever imagined—I, who have been familiar with pain my entire life.



A trumpet sounds just then—three shorts blasts. I do not know what it means, but the French soldiers do. Reluctantly, with mumbling and dark glances, they sheathe their weapons and point their spears down. A mounted knight comes riding before them and motions them back.



He is chasing them away.



Once they are out of arrow range, the knight turns and nods to me, and I want to shout at him that he is too late.



But others begin to reach us now, as soldiers from the city gate swarm forward, the Arduinnites covering them with their threat of another rain of arrows. Someone grabs me by the arms and tries to pull me back to the safety of the gates, but I refuse. The Brigantians come next, bringing a stretcher with which to carry Balthazaar back. Before they transfer him onto it, they stop to examine his wounds. Two arrows have gone straight through his chest, the arrowheads fashioned in such a way as to pierce even the mail that he wore.



Carefully, the Brigantians break the arrowheads from the shafts, then pull them slowly from his chest. As the shafts leave his body, Balthazaar arches up off his back. He gasps and draws in a huge gulp of air. His face spasms in pain, his hand going to his chest, and I stare down in disbelief.



“It hurts,” he croaks, and I laugh, a giddy, frightened sound.



“Of course it hurts,” I tell him, then bend down and begin raining kisses over his face. “You’re alive.”



He pulls his hand away from his chest and stares at the red blood that covers his palm. “I am alive.” The marvel in his voice matches my own. A shadow falls across us just then, and when I look up, I see Father Effram. “He’s alive,” I whisper, afraid that if I say it too loudly, someone will hear and take it away.



Father Effram smiles. “He is alive.”



“But how?”



He smiles gently at me, but before he can speak, Balthazaar begins to cough, clutching his chest. I start to panic, but Father Effram lays his hand on my shoulder. “This wound will not kill him. The first death makes him mortal; it is the second death that will carry him from this world.”