Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  “Like a thorn,” I say with false cheer.

  “A long, sharp, inconvenient thorn,” he mutters.

  I gape at him. “This was your idea, not mine.”

  He shrugs that truth aside. “Now that you have seen them, do you really think you would have been better on your own?”

  “No.” Even so, I am already questioning the wisdom of my plan, for these are not merely servants of Mortain but dark, tortured men who reek of threat and danger. Once it is full light, I will slip away. None of the old tales speak of the hunt riding during daylight. Surely I will be able to escape then.

  Balthazaar leans across his saddle, putting his face close to mine. “Do not even think it,” he says. “They have your scent now and can hunt you anywhere. No matter how much of a head start you think you have, they will find you. And they will not stop until they do.”

  I am saved from replying when all around me, the hellequin begin dismounting. Eager to be out of my saddle, I remove my left foot from the stirrup. It takes me two tries to actually dismount, and then—at last—my feet are once again on solid ground. I cling to the saddle, waiting for my legs to remember how to unbend at the knees. Balthazaar looms over me like a specter of the night. “Are you all right?” His voice is brusque.

  “Of course,” I reply lightly. “If you would show me where to tether my horse, I would like to tend to her. She does not have as much practice with nocturnal hunting as your horses do.”

  I am fairly certain I see a pinch of regret cross his face, and it heartens me, even if it is for my horse. “I will have one of the others tend her—”

  “No!” The force of my refusal surprises us both. “I would rather do it myself.” I need something to focus on besides the strange group of men in whose midst I have found myself.

  He nods, then motions to the right, where the other horses are being picketed.

  I glance at them dubiously. “Will she be all right with the others, do you think?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “They are only horses, demoiselle, and not even flesh-eating ones at that.”

  “I am not so sure,” I mutter, then I lead Fortuna away, my body grateful to be moving again. Balthazaar follows me. In spite of his words, I am careful to choose a spot as far away from the others as I can. As I reach down to unbuckle Fortuna’s saddle strap, he directs his gaze to the surrounding countryside, as if he cannot bear to look at me a moment longer.

  In the ensuing silence, I quickly finish tending to Fortuna. When I am done, Balthazaar motions for me to follow the other hellequin, who are milling at the far end of the copse, where two great stones frame an opening that seems to lead into the earth. With a start, I realize it is a doorway to the Underworld, just like the one at the convent.

  So that is where they go during the day, why no one ever sees them once the sun has risen: they return to the Underworld. Which means there must be many such passageways throughout all of Brittany.

  Once inside, I see that it is not a narrow cave or a tunnel leading to the Underworld as I had always imagined, but something far more immense. An antechamber, is my first thought. It is hard to tell with the shadows and darkness that swallow up the contours of the place, but the cavern appears to be as large as the convent. The walls are carved out of raw earth, and the ceiling . . . I look up, but there is only darkness and shadows overhead.

  At the far end of the chamber, it narrows again into a much smaller doorway than the one we entered through, one that seems to hold back a thick, almost living blackness.

  “While you may move freely about the cromlech, do not cross that doorway.” Balthazaar speaks from just behind me. “For once a mortal crosses the threshold of the Underworld, they may not return.”

  I study his face to see if this is a jest, but it does not appear to be.

  Once they have gathered inside the cromlech, the hellequin sit and lean against the walls of the cave, stretch out on the floor, or huddle in groups of twos or threes. One or two even light a fire.

  “I would not think that hellequin would need fires to warm themselves.”

  “They do not need them, precisely. It is more a source of comfort. And to remind themselves they were once human.”

  His words make me aware of how very much I do not know about these servants of Mortain, for all that they serve the same god that I do. I open my mouth to ask one of a dozen questions that crowds my head, but he holds up his hand. “You are hollow-eyed with fatigue. Your questions can wait until nightfall.”

  Nightfall. Their morning, when they begin their day.

  Balthazaar chooses a spot near the front and drops my saddlebag on the floor. “You will be safe here. But if you do not feel safe, come find me. If you cannot find me, find Miserere, for he is to be trusted most of all of them.”

  “That does not comfort me as much as you think it should.”

  He grunts, then strides off to join the others, his black cloak rippling behind him like a piece of the Underworld itself. Unsettled, I turn my attention to my own needs. I am near the front, but there are over a score of hellequin between me and the exit. I do not think I will be escaping tonight—or this morning, I correct myself, adjusting to the upside-down rhythms of the hellequin.

  I long to get up and explore. To be this close to the Underworld, to Mortain, has me nearly restless with a longing to peer into His realm and see what mysteries I may discover. It is hard to be so close to answers and yet be unable to pursue them. But it is possible the answers might not be to my liking. Perhaps Mortain has sent the hellequin after me, and if I poke my nose in His domain, He might spot me Himself.

  Besides, Balthazaar’s warning still rings in my ears, and even if it did not, I am not foolish enough to go cavorting among all these rough men. Many of them still watch me—I can feel the weight of their gazes as they alight upon me, much like the wings of the small dark moths I use to chase as a child. There is a wildness here—everyone is a collection of hard broken edges and sharp prickly spines. Wholly bathed in sin, and still seeking redemption in spite of it. It puts my own smaller sins in perspective and makes me proud to serve a god who is so forgiving.

  Then another thought comes to me—perhaps Mortain has answered my prayer. At the start of my journey, did I not pray for His guidance and protection? What if He has given it to me—in the form of His hellequin? It is a startling thought and makes me fully aware of just how hard it is to determine if one’s prayers have been answered.

  After my flight from the convent, the gallop through the night, and minimal sleep, I am well and truly exhausted. I do not even bother to eat but simply lay out my bedroll, then collapse upon it. Sleep overtakes me before I can so much as kick off my boots.

  Some hours later, I come awake. Pale fingers of daylight penetrate the darkness of the cave, but I cannot tell what time it is. I blink in confusion, trying to get my bearings, and realize someone is next to me. I freeze. Every muscle in my body tenses—not in fear, but in anticipation. Moving as little as possible, I reach for the knives at my wrists. When my hands are firmly wrapped around their handles, I turn and look.

  It is Balthazaar, sitting on the floor with his back against the earthen wall. He is so close to me that his hip almost touches my shoulder. My grip on the knives loosens. Annoyed at the faint feeling of comfort his presence brings me, I allow myself a small, private defiance and roll my eyes in the darkness. “You’re smothering me,” I whisper under my breath.

  “I’m guarding you.”

  My head whips around. He was not supposed to hear that; indeed, I barely heard it. “Can’t you guard me from farther away?”

  “No.” Not so much as a muscle moves; he does not open his eyes, and I cannot even see his lips forming the word.

  “I thought you said I’d be safe here.”

  “And so you are. Because I am guarding you. Go back to sleep—we don’t ride for hours yet.”

  I struggle to get comfortable again, but the cave floor is hard and my bedroll thin. �
�Don’t you need to sleep?”

  “I was sleeping. Until you woke me. And if you’ll stop talking, I will sleep some more.”

  For some reason I cannot explain, as I finally begin to drift off to sleep, I can feel a faint smile tugging at my mouth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WHEN I WAKE, THE FIRST thing I notice is the growling of the hounds. I sit up quickly and turn toward the sound. The hellequin with the spiked vambraces is fighting—no, playing with?—the hellhounds. Either that or they are trying to kill him.

  An older man with sorrowful eyes sits by one of the small fires next to the lanky youth I saw last night. The older man appears to be teaching the younger one how to do something with a knife. Many of the hellequin sit around such fires, oiling their harnesses or sharpening their weapons.

  “It gives them something to do with their hands.” I nearly jump at the deep voice behind me. When I turn, I find Balthazaar still leaning against the wall, watching me with a heavy-lidded gaze. “They do not use their weapons any longer. They are simply pieces of their past they carry with them.”

  “Do they not need sleep?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Which means that, despite what he said, he does not either, yet still he chose to sit by me through the night. I pray that I did not drool or snore. To cover up my embarrassment, I speak, although rather more tartly than I intend to. “I am sorry if I delayed your departure.”

  “You did not. We won’t leave until night has fallen, so we were stuck here whether you slept or not.”

  Unsure what to say to that, and acutely aware of his eyes on me, I pull my saddlebag closer. I reach inside, rummage for something to stick in my empty belly before it begins rumbling. My hand closes around one of the round, hard cheeses, and I pull it from the pack. I break it in two, then begin pulling the wax from one half. Like a ripple moving across a pond, the quiet hum and murmur around me ceases. When I look up, I see that nearly all the hellequin are watching me.

  “Cheese,” the lanky youth says, somewhat wistfully.

  He is so very young that it is hard to imagine what he could have done to earn time with the hellequin. Discomfited, I glance at Balthazaar. “Do they not eat either?”

  He shakes his head. “Hellequin do not require food, but we can eat it if we like. For many, it is either a painful or pleasant reminder of our mortal years.”

  Suddenly my throat closes up and my hunger evaporates. Not knowing what else to do, I take the second half of the cheese and hold it out to the boy. “Would you like some?”

  He looks at me with equal parts disbelief and longing, then cuts a questioning glance to Balthazaar. Whatever he sees there reassures him. He leaps to his feet, crosses the distance between us, then reaches out hesitantly to take the cheese. I only wish I had enough to give all of them, for the face of every man here holds some measure of hunger, although what exactly they hunger for, I will likely never know. “Thank you,” the boy says. He stares down at the cheese as if it were a sparkling jewel as he hurries back to his place by the fire. However, instead of shoving the cheese in his mouth as I expected, he breaks off a small piece and hands it to the older man who had been showing him how to carve wood. Other hellequin begin crowding near, and he breaks off more and more pieces, handing them out until all he has left is one bite of cheese. He pops it in his mouth, savoring it as he chews.

  When we ride out that night, Balthazaar takes the van and the rest fall in behind him. The only exceptions are Miserere and two other hellequin who have been assigned to ride at my side. One is the lanky youth—Begard, he is called—and the other his companion of earlier, a former stonemason they call Malestroit. They are my protection, Balthazaar claims, but I cannot help but wonder if their true purpose is to prevent my escape.

  Although he need not worry about that. Not yet. I am watched much too closely. Not only out of suspicion, but because I am something new. A diversion. Mayhap even a reminder of what they have lost. I see that in Malestroit’s sorrowful eyes every time he looks at me.

  However, not all hellequin feel that way. Some cast bitter glances in my direction, as if it pains them to have me in their midst. Still others wear expressions of awe and try to draw near, as if my presence offers them some hope or plucks some chord of fond memory.

  It is all most disconcerting, frankly.

  As Fortuna canters through the forest surrounded by the hunt, trees tower on either side of us, obscuring the moon. We ride so fast I dare not look up at the stars for fear I will fall off my horse and be trampled. Not to mention that the roads chosen by the hellequin are rough and little used, often barely more than wagon ruts.

  When the path opens up again, I find that the cluster of hellequin around me has grown. Miserere keeps to my left and Malestroit to my right, but others press in close.

  “You have drawn a crowd, milady.” Begard’s voice is cheerful, as if I should be proud of such an accomplishment.

  “So it appears,” I murmur, suddenly very glad for Balthazaar’s caution.

  “There is no need to fear. Most are not as terrifying as they seem. You’ve met Miserere.” The boy glances to the giant who rides silently beside us and lowers his voice in an exaggerated manner. “He is not nearly so frightening as he looks.”

  Unable to help myself, I too glance at Miserere, who stares straight ahead and pretends we do not exist. “I fear I may need more than your word on that for me to believe it,” I say.

  Miserere’s grim mouth twitches. I would like to believe it is in amusement, but it is most likely in annoyance. Or anger.

  Begard ignores him and continues with his prattle. “Malestroit here used to be a stonemason. He’s teaching me to whittle.”

  “Gives him something to do with his hands besides steal things from others,” the stonemason explains. “A bad enough habit among the living, but especially stupid when surrounded by men such as these.”

  Begard looks sheepish. “I am—used to be—a thief,” he says by way of explanation. While I am not surprised that he is a thief, I am surprised that such a small crime would earn him a place with the hellequin. To turn the subject from him—and his discomfort—I ask ­Begard who the second giant is.

  “You must mean Sauvage.” The boy gives a mock shudder. “He does frighten me. A little.” He lowers his voice in earnest now. “He was a follower of Saint Camulos. He was called the Butcher of Quimper and became so overcome by battle lust that he destroyed entire villages. He has ridden with the hunt for at least two hundred years. Or so it is rumored. Mostly he keeps to himself.”

  “Or the hounds,” Malestroit adds. “He does have a fondness for the hounds.”

  “Surely that speaks well of him,” I say. “What of the man with the fancy armor and sharp features? Over there.” I tilt my head in his general direction, unwilling to point and draw attention to myself.

  Begard’s young face is like a map, his expressions informing me just as thoroughly as his words how he feels about the men with whom he serves. “That is Maligne,” he says sullenly. “I don’t like him. He is cruel.”

  “Only because you tried to steal his knife,” Malestroit points out. “He is not inclined to forgive that.”

  Begard ignores this and whispers to me instead. “He swore an oath to the duke of Brittany during the first war of succession, then broke it. He is one of the forsworn.”

  “Ah.” I had always known it was a terrible thing to break an oath, and I cannot help but wonder if I have broken some similar oath—albeit unknowingly—in leaving the convent.

  Beside me, Miserere shifts on his horse and leans forward to scowl at Begard. “If you’re going to tattle on everyone else’s sins, boy, be sure to tell your own.”

  Begard squirms in his saddle, then looks down to study the reins he holds in his hands. “I was a thief,” he says.

  “So you said. This seems hard penance for such a crime,” I point out gently.

  He grows even more miserable. “I . . . I lured a merchant an
d his wife to an isolated road so I could rob them. The merchant, he fought back, and I ended up killing him.”

  Perhaps to distract attention from the younger boy, or perhaps as part of his own personal vow of penance, the stonemason speaks quietly into Begard’s melancholy silence. “As for me, I accidentally beat my only son to death in a fit of drunkenness.” His face is haggard with the memory, and clearly his own guilt and regret are worse than the punishment of riding with the hunt.

  Unable to look at his sorrow-ravaged face any longer, I glance over to Miserere and wonder what sins he has committed. To my surprise, I find him looking at me. “I was an executioner,” he says, his gaze never wavering from my own. “With nearly a hundred deaths on my hands.”

  “That seems hardly fair, as they were deaths sanctioned by the law.”

  “They are still deaths,” he says, looking away.

  “Begone! All of you!”

  I jerk my head around at the sound of Balthazaar’s voice. He has left the lead and moved to my right, where Malestroit had been. “You are not nursemaids. You have duties to attend to.”

  I wonder if Miserere minds very much being called a nursemaid and sneak a glance at him. By the pained look on his face, I can see that he does.

  The others fall back, but Balthazaar says nothing as we ride side by side. His gaze searches the trees, as if he suspects there are souls lurking just beyond his reach. “I suppose I should ask what you know of the hellequin,” he finally says.

  “Far more than I knew an hour ago,” I murmur.

  “The boy talks too much.”

  “On the contrary, I found it most helpful.”

  “You are not avoiding my question, are you?” The weight of his gaze presses heavily on me, like a pile of stones.

  “I know they are the souls of the damned who have pledged themselves to serve Mortain in order to earn their redemption.”

  “You know more than most, it seems.”

  “It is also said that when they ride out at night, they bring the chill and despair of the Underworld with them.”