Mortal Heart (19 page)

Then I remember my saddlebag and the journal hidden deep inside, as well as the Tears, and the strange black box. I cringe to think of the convent learning what I took with me. Even worse is the idea of those things falling into some stranger’s hands: the local prelate, a landed yeoman, or some random innkeeper who finds Fortuna nibbling at his oats. But it cannot be helped.

Slowly, I lower myself so that I am sitting on the base of the branch with my back to the tree’s wide trunk. Now that the hellequin have passed, all my muscles are trembling, as if finally acknowledging the danger I was in. Or perhaps they are merely exhausted.

I glance once more at the eastern sky, which is now tinged with definite shades of gray and pink. Dawn has arrived. I make myself comfortable and settle in to wait.

I must doze, for a dream comes to me.

I dream of a great, white boar. In my dream I am lying on the forest floor in a bed of decaying leaves. I am cold and my body aches, and I am unable to sleep. At first, I hear a snuffling noise, as if some great creature has laid its snout near the ground to inhale all the ripe forest scents. But a moment later, I understand—the creature is searching for something.

It is searching for me.

A feral, gamy tang fills my nostrils, and my heart catches in my throat, for by the sound of it, it is a huge thing. I start to push myself up, meaning to run, but I realize I must grow still instead. I hug the ground, hoping the creature will not find me. But still it snuffles and searches. My heart beats so hard with fear that I am certain it will pound its way out of my chest. Or that the creature will hear it.

Boars this size are rare, and white boars rarer still, for they are sacred to Arduinna.

Closer it draws, and closer. I can feel the heat from its body now, feel the faint moisture of its breath as it leans closer, closer. Like a frightened child, I keep my eyes closed and shiver on the forest floor, unable to face my fate.

Then a coolness surrounds me, and before I can think to pull away, the press of lips upon my own shocks me into consciousness. A low, deep voice thrums near my ear, pulling me from the fog of sleep: “You will be safe now.” I jerk awake, nearly toppling from my precarious shelter in the tree.

I
GRAB MY BRANCH
and hold on tight until the fog of sleep clears. I blink my eyes and see that dawn has broken, sending long pale arms of sunlight streaming in all directions. My ears fill with the soft sounds around me: the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush and the faint beginning of birdsong. Day is well and truly here, and there are no signs of the hellequin.

I remember my dream and a shudder of misgiving moves through me. Were those the press of
his
lips I felt?

Dreamed,
I correct, not
felt.
I lift my fingers to my mouth, remembering the distinct feel and weight of those lips. The voice said I would be safe now even as it filled my mind with visions of boars. Was it some trick? Some dark hellequin skill, an ability to insert dreams into their victims’ minds?

Or only my own fevered imagination, awash in my fears?

I shove the disturbing thoughts away and rise to my feet, clutching a branch so I do not tumble to a painful death after I have worked so hard to escape.

The hellequin said we were only a few leagues north of Vannes, a large town with thick sturdy walls. But I have no horse. That makes it easily a two-day walk—if I’m lucky. I hold still for another moment, checking for the sound of galloping horses or snuffling boars, but hear nothing. I climb down the tree, careful not to tear my gown so that it will not be wearable, as it is now the only one I possess.

When my feet are firmly on the ground, I pause and find my bearings. If I keep the rising sun on my left, I will be heading south and should reconnect with the main road. I strike out quickly. With my lack of absolute certainty that the hellequin cannot ride during the day and my newfound fear of boars, I am determined to find the road as soon as possible.

I miss Fortuna already, not simply because riding her was faster than walking, but because she has been my one constant through these past few weeks. I hold on to half a hope that I might come upon her in the woods, that she might have run herself out and is now patiently waiting for me to find her. But there is no sign of her dappled gray bulk anywhere.

I have been walking nearly an hour when I hear it—a distinctive snuffling sound that is all too familiar from my recent dream. I glance behind me but see nothing. I cannot outrun a boar, but perhaps I can appear harmless enough that it will not charge. Just in case, I look to the surrounding trees for another branch I can use to pull myself to safety, but there is none within reach.

At the rustle of leaves just behind me, my heart begins beating so frantically I fear it will break one of my ribs. I quicken my pace, but if I go any faster, I will be running, and that will only inflame the creature.

In front of me, from what I estimate to be the direction of the road, I hear riders approaching. Judging from the sound, there are only four—no, three—of them, not an entire pack. And they
are
coming from the road. Not hellequin, then, but simple travelers. Travelers I may attach myself to until the next town.

I cannot help myself; I run, stumbling over roots, rocks, and my own feet so that I nearly tumble down the embankment to the road below. I stop, breathless, in front of the riders. We all stare at one another in a long moment of surprise.

They are women, although it is hard to tell at first for they wear no traditional garb. Their arms and legs are encased in tight leather, and their overgowns are of rough brown fur. Each has a quiver of arrows at her shoulder and a knife in her belt. There are three of them, and they rein in their mounts. “Greetings,” the middle rider says. She appears to be the oldest, as her light brown hair is shot through with gray. Her bearing is as erect and regal as if she were wearing a crown.

Before I can return the greeting, I see that they are leading a fourth horse—a dappled gray. “Fortuna!” I dodge around the others, deftly avoiding their horses’ hooves, and reach Fortuna’s side. I pat her neck and check her over for signs of injury.

“I take it you know each other?”

“She is my horse.”

“It is poor thanks to such a noble creature, to let her wander loose and riderless so that she might trip on her reins.” The speaker is tall, taller than the others and nearly as tall as Sister Thomine, who is the tallest woman I have ever met. She wears her hair in a long dark brown braid that swings as she dismounts. In that moment I realize they must be followers of Arduinna. And even though they are known to be protectors of women, this knowledge does not comfort me.

“I did not do that on purpose.” I do not try to hide my indignation. “And I
did
tie her reins off so she wouldn’t trip on them. But truly, I had no choice.”

The tall woman tilts her head. “What happened to you that you must abandon your horse in such a way and travel on foot?”

I stare at her, trying to decide what to tell them. Arduinnites are scarcer than hen’s teeth and I have seen one only once, and that was by accident. We’d been riding with Sister Widona on the mainland near a forest and caught a glimpse of a strange-looking woman—although we did not know it was a woman at first. Sister Widona nodded a curt greeting, then hurried us away. Once we were out of earshot, she explained that those who follow Arduinna bear no love for those of us who follow Mortain, since it was He who had robbed Arduinna of her sister.

Sister Widona’s words clang in my head like a great loud bell and I mentally kick myself that I did not think to ask just how deep that animosity went.

So what, then, do I tell her? Which is worse, being a daughter of Mortain or being some headstrong maiden who has behaved in a foolish manner? The uncomfortable thought occurs to me that I could be both.

The youngest of them dismounts and begins to approach me. I am assailed by the smell of leather and fur, and the tang of blood. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Have you been hurt?”

“I . . . no.”

The tallest one looks me over with haughty eyes. “You show no signs of a struggle.”

Judgment drips heavily from her words, and at first I find myself wishing I had injured myself more thoroughly as I climbed out of that bedamned tree. But then a small spark of anger ignites within me. I do not deserve her censure. I shrug my cloak away from my body, flash my daggers at her. “Perhaps it is because my pursuers were put off by these.”

The oldest one, still on her horse, speaks. “Do not take offense. It is our way, to help maids in distress or those who have been hurt or dishonored.”

“I do not know that casting doubts upon their honor is a way to win their trust,” I mutter, still ruffled by the tall one’s manner.

“You expect us to believe that a lone maid held off pursuers with a handful of knives?”

“Well, that and I disappeared up a tree.”

The eldest one’s lips twitch, and the youngest one smiles outright. “How do you come to be traveling on the road alone?” she asks.

“I have business in Guérande.”

“And you travel with no attendant or guard?” the tall one asks, disbelief still heavy in her voice.

The youngest one steps in front of me protectively. “Why don’t we ensure she is unharmed before we begin questioning her.” She is slighter than the others. Her voice sounds young to my ears, and I place her at a year or two younger than myself.

The tall one continues to study me with narrowed eyes and I wonder what I have done to raise her ire. “She has already said she was fine.” She begins walking toward me. When she reaches my side, she stops walking, leans her head forward, and sniffs. “You reek of man.”

“Aeva!” the younger one protests. Then, almost as if unable to help herself, she too sniffs, then frowns. “You smell of death as well,” she says, puzzled.

“Death?” I ask, both annoyed and startled.

The tall one—Aeva, she was called—wrinkles her nose in distaste. “It is the stench of the hellequin that clings to her.”

She can smell them?
“That would be because it was the hellequin who were pursuing me.”

The youngest one’s lips part in surprise, but Aeva simply sneers. “Are you certain you were pursued and you are not simply a hellequin’s lightskirt?”

Even if I could not hear the thick contempt in her voice, the worried look on the youngest girl’s face would have alerted me that it was far better to be the victim of a hellequin than his lightskirt. It is not the least bit difficult to sound insulted, for I am sorely irked by their manner. “I am no one’s lightskirt.” Although not for want of trying, I realize, and I am suddenly ashamed by my actions. At the convent, we are not taught that it is wrong to lie with a man, but surely it is wrong to lie with one merely to avoid an unwanted fate.

“Then why do you reek of death?”

“I did not say I had not been close to one, only that I was not his lightskirt.” At my words, the tension in her body relaxes somewhat. “But neither was I his victim, for I escaped just before dawn and waited high in a tree for daybreak. And then I found you.”

“It was only the guidance of the Great White Boar herself that brought us here,” the oldest one says.

“I dreamed of her,” I tell them.

Aeva’s head whips around. “You lie.”

“I do
not
lie. I dreamed of a great boar, and that she was . . .” I cannot bring myself to say she kissed me with her great white snout, nor am I certain that is even what happened. “And she was protecting me.”

The three women exchange glances and the youngest looks pointedly at Aeva. “That does match Floris’s vision.”

My interest sharpens. “Is Floris your seeress?”

“No,” the oldest one says. “I am Floris, one of Arduinna’s priestesses. I too saw the Great White Boar last night, and she led me to you.”

Aeva studies me most skeptically, as if she is still trying to sort out how I came to be in their midst. “Did you make an offering to Ar­duinna?” she asks.

“No. The idea never occurred to me, as I have not been raised to be familiar with her ways.”

“No matter.” The youngest one reaches out and squeezes my arm. “It is a most auspicious omen. What is your name? I am called Tola.”

She is so friendly and her blue eyes dance so cheerfully that I cannot help but smile back. “I am Annith.”

“Well, Annith,” Floris says, “we are pleased to hear that you are unharmed, and even more pleased to hear that the Great White Boar has taken you under her protection, for indeed, it will be perilous going from here. You will have to postpone your trip to Guérande, I’m afraid.”

“What?” All the goodwill I had been feeling toward these women in the past few seconds evaporates. “You cannot stop me from traveling on my business.”

“Well, that is a matter of dispute,” she says, sounding faintly amused. “But it is not we who have caused the delay. The French troops have landed at Vannes and taken the city. These shores are crawling with them like fleas on a hound. In truth, that is who we thought to rescue you from—French soldiers.”

I
T IS EASY ENOUGH
to fall in with them. At least for now. They will offer me protection from the invading French, and although they dislike the daughters of Mortain, they despise the hellequin even more. That hatred of the hellequin makes them the perfect ones to offer me protection.

Surely the sudden appearance of Arduinna’s followers on the road in my time of need is no accident. Indeed, it feels as if Mortain is placing small steppingstones at my feet, one at a time, so that I may have a chance to wrest my own fate out of the abbess’s greedy hands.

Even so, I must resist the urge to keep looking over my shoulder. The hellequin do not hunt in the daylight, I remind myself at least a dozen times. The others make note of my unease but say nothing, and I hope that it gives the stamp of truth to my story.

We have not been on the road but two hours before we come upon a cart. Two hedge priests sit in the front, and it is draped in black. Our group moves to the side to give them room to pass. As they do, I cannot help but look into the back of it, wondering who has made their final journey into death. Perhaps it is the first of the French soldiers’ victims.