Mortal Heart (48 page)

Before the white-faced page can speak, a dark brooding figure fills the doorway. Without waiting for an invitation, he steps inside. Ismae gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, and Sybella’s lips part in surprise, but no sound emerges.

Balthazaar walks slowly forward. “For too long I have kept to the shadows, and I will do so no longer. I would be a part of this.”

The bishop crosses himself, and beside him Father Effram bows low, his cowl falling over his head as he does. No one else says anything or ventures into the awkward silence growing larger by the moment. I rise to my feet and clear my throat. “Your Grace, Lord Duval, may I present my lord, Mortain.”

The duchess’s eyes widen, but with curiosity and wonder rather than fear. She motions him forward. “Pray, join us.”

Duval grows distinctly pale, and even Beast looks caught somewhere between awe and discomfiture. But it is the abbess’s reaction that is most satisfying. Her entire body stiffens in surprise. Mortain turns to look at her a long moment, until she finally looks away, her guilt and shame burning inside her like a candle.

Duval clears his throat. “My lord. We were just discussing a way to get Annith into the French camp so she can fire Arduinna’s arrow at their king.”

“I know.” Mortain comes to stand next to Duval and looks down at the map the others have made. “Please continue.”

Duval tugs briefly at the collar of his doublet, then resumes. “I have been thinking, perhaps it would be best if Annith disguised herself as a camp follow—um, a laundress—as Ismae suggested, and insinuated herself into the camp. Then she could choose the right time to make her move. In the confusion that follows, there is a good chance she could easily slip into the nearby woods to hide for a few days.”

Mortain stares down at the map, one white finger tracing a line from the center pavilion off to the side of the camp where it meets the forest. “That is a lot of occupied ground to cover with no escort.”

Marshal Rieux gives a sharp shake of his head. “In any case, I’m afraid that it is no longer a possibility.”

“Why not?”

“Because this morning, scouts and sentries reported that the French are moving their scaling towers and cannon into range, even as we speak.”

“How soon until they will be ready to fire?”

Rieux shrugs. “It could be as little as two days from now.”

Duval swears a black oath. “So, even time is no longer on our side.” He runs his hand through his hair. “That reduces our options to an outright assault or a sortie of some kind.”

Captain Dunois furrows his brow. “Neither of which creates a clear path for getting the girl back to safety.”

“What if we created a diversion? Sent out a sortie to distract them, then sent out a second, smaller contingent to punch through to the pavilion during the ensuing scramble?”

“In addition to the second sortie,” Beast muses, “we could use our own cannon. Remind the French that we have them and maybe even take out a few of theirs while we’re at it.”

Mortain’s voice fills the room. “But that still leaves Annith’s safe return to chance.”

The room falls silent. “We could mount a full-scale charge,” says Marshal Rieux. “Use what remaining mercenaries we have left to us.”

“If they will even fight. Many of them will not until they are paid what is owed them.”

Captain Dunois rubs his face with his hand. “That reminds me. There is another contingent of mercenaries demanding to leave the city.”

Mortain looks quizzically at him, and Duval attempts to explain. “The French king is buying off our mercenaries, hiring them out from under us.” He turns to Dunois. “Let them go, and good riddance.”

“Wait!” Beast’s eyes grow distant, as if he is studying some invisible map that only he can see. “How many mercenaries are attempting to leave?”

“Three or four hundred.”

A grin spreads across Beast’s face, lighting it with a nearly unholy glee. “We have just found our way out of the city.”

Duval grins back, discerning his meaning at once. “Our forces can slip out with the mercenaries.”

Mortain plants his hands on the table and leans forward. “While it is an excellent plan for getting to the French king, it does not address how Annith will get safely back into the city.”

“We will have to plan two diversions and utilize our cannon. We could send a sortie out this sally port.” Duval points to the map. “The French would think we were taking advantage of the departing mercenaries when, in truth, we would be creating a diversion of our own. It is common enough for the besieged to make forays into enemy camp hoping to find food or loot of some kind.

“Then, even if the first group posing as mercenaries can’t get her back, the second group can clear a path for her.”

“But who will clear a path for them?” My question gives all of them pause. “We are trying to avoid countless deaths, not hasten them.” The duchess and I exchange glances, and suddenly, I have no idea how she has borne the weight of these decisions. I do not think I could bear it. “You are asking them all to sacrifice their lives simply to give me a chance to shoot the arrow. An arrow we do not even know will work—”

“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.

T
HE 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 breasts. 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.