Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  I feel the weight of the pages in my hand, the heft of the secrets and shame written there, the complexity of the ties that bind me to the convent. Then I turn and hurl the journal into the fireplace. As I watch, the orange and gold flames lick at the pages, making them curl in on themselves and shrink like a dying creature. I close my eyes, feel the heat of the fire against my face, my arms, my heart, and let those same flames burn away the last vestiges of shame and humiliation and mortification. They are simply scars now, like the silvery white marks around my waist, a path to show how far I have traveled in order to get where I am. But they are no longer who I am, if ever they were.

  And with that new realization comes another—I have always loved Death. Not as a father, but as a true champion, for that is how he first came to me. He showed me a capacity for love—for acceptance—that was greater than that of any human heart I had encountered.

  Even Sister Etienne, as much as she was fond of me, or perhaps even loved me, our time together was always interwoven with her need to see that I was happy. She needed me to be happy like a fish needs water to swim—and so I quickly learned to be happy when I was with her.

  Mortain’s was the only love that placed no demands upon me, the only one who loved me for simply being. His love was as unwavering and constant as the sun. It was what gave me the strength to keep going. The faith to keep trying. The hope I needed to persevere. That was him all along—whether I called him Mortain or Balthazaar, my heart knew him, recognized him.

  Filled with this new awareness, I leave the room and begin making my way to the battlements. He never saw my love as a flaw or a weakness, but instead accepted it, letting it flow into him like a stream tumbling across parched earth.

  I eased his dreadful aloneness as much as he eased mine, and I welcomed that feeling, that I had something to give him in return.

  Is that not as good a reason to love someone as any? Is that not, in fact, at the very root of why anyone loves another?

  As I reach the landing and shove open the heavy door, I have another flash of understanding. On some level, the Dragonette saw all this. She saw the special connection I shared with our god and that was why she punished and shamed me. Not because she did not believe me, but because my seeing him set me apart from her made me special in my own way rather than by her efforts.

  I walk to the far end of the catwalk, my head so full of this jumble of thoughts that I do not even see Mortain standing against the battlement until I nearly plow into him. He puts his hand out to steady me.

  “My lord! I am sorry. I did not see you. Normally, you are lurking in the corners or skulking in the shadows, not standing in plain sight.”

  His mouth quirks, ever so slightly. “I never skulk, and lurk only sometimes.”

  I shoot him a disbelieving glance, then join him at the parapet, looking out over the eastern part of the city, past the wall to the fields below. “The French army will be here tomorrow,” I tell him. “The day after, at the latest.”

  He pulls his gaze from the darkened streets and fields and turns it upon me. “I know. I can feel it, all those souls loosening from their bodies in preparation for their imminent deaths, like so much wheat making ready to loosen from the sheath. She has lost already, you know. Your duchess.”

  Although he says nothing I do not already know, it is hard to hear it from the lips of a god. “I know. She knows. We all know.” I look up and study his profile, which is as still and calm as the stone beneath my hand. “Can you see what will come to pass? Do you know what will happen?”

  He gives a single shake of his head. “No, for I am not all-seeing. Only Death is my realm, and I know well enough when it is near.”

  “Do you know who among us will live and who will die?” I cannot help but think of Duval and Beast, of stalwart Captain Dunois, trying to turn a fractious, undisciplined group of mercenaries into a cadre of men who can withstand a siege. I think of the duchess and wonder if they will let her live. And what of us? Those who serve the old gods, the convent? Will we be punished for our role in helping her?

  “Not yet. It is too soon. And even once the marque is upon someone, it is not a guarantee of death. There are too many variables, many of which I do not control. It is only when one of my daughters serves within my grace that I am able to exert some small portion of control on things.”

  Suddenly, he turns to me, his eyes burning. “You could come with me,” he says. “Come to the Underworld and be my queen.” Even as I gape in shock at this invitation, he shakes his head and turns away to look back out over the countryside. “No.” His voice is heavy with despair. “It would only force you to share my prison with me, and I will not subject you to that.”

  I can see in his eyes, even though they are averted from me, and feel from the timbre of his voice just how sorely his entrapment chafes at him. Just how thoroughly it has corroded not only his view of the world, but his view of himself.

  And that has been my gift to him. Not just now, or in the last few months, but since I was young, I have always seen him as a man and honored the gifts he brings to the world. I have loved him for those things long before I understood the nature of who he was.

  I reach out and take his hand in mine. “I would gladly share your prison, but I am not worthy of such an honor. I am bastard-born, and mortal through and through, as I have surely proven to you over and over again throughout the time we have known each other.”

  He throws back his head and laughs, surprising me. “And I am Death. Unwelcome, the thief in the night, destroyer of lives.” And that is when I see that he is in danger as well, in danger of believing all that is said of him, of forgetting his own true essence. He turns to face me, pulling me close. “Don’t you see? Your mortal heart shines like a candle flame and I, like one of those hapless black moths you used to leave as an offering, am helpless before its lure.”

  I step fully into his arms, and place my head against his chest, his words wrapping themselves around me. To him, my brokenness, my muddied birth, my scars—none of that defines me, it is all encompassed within the entirety of who I am, just as Death encompasses sorrow and joy, justice and mercy, and the beginnings of new life. We are all of us, gods and mortals, made up of many pieces, some of them broken, some of them scarred, but none of them the sum and total of who we are.

  I feel his heart beating against my ear, marvel that a god even has such a human thing as a heart. “It does not matter,” I say. “For there is something else I must do.”

  “What is that?”

  I take a deep breath, for I know he will not like what is coming. “Our country is beset from all sides and there is a chance that I have the power to help. So I must.”

  He pulls back and stares down at me, brow furrowed. “How?”

  “I will use the arrow—your arrow—on the French king and see if it will compel him to turn his affections toward our duchess rather than his armies.”

  He gestures to the thousands of tents stretched out before the city walls. “You will have to ride through thousands of French to do it—surely that is madness. Impossible!”

  “I think it can be done. At the very least, I have to try.” As I draw back to look at him, the sorrow and desolation I see is almost more than I can bear. I raise my hand and place it against his cheek. “Would that you could join me in my world, rather than me in yours.”

  He grows utterly still, except for his eyes, which shine with intensity. “But I have no place there, not once my unwelcome duties have been seen to.”

  I slip my arms up around his neck. “You have a place with me, in my heart, at my side.”

  He laughs, a sour, distressing sound. “You would upend the very nature of Death so that we could be together?”

  “I would, for I will no longer sit and wait patiently for my happiness to grow like some budding fruit on the limbs of a tree, but will mold it and shape it with my own hands.”

  I find Father Effram in the chapel. He has just lit fresh cand
les and is placing them under the nine niches. “Father.”

  He turns around, pleased to see me. “Annith. What brings you here so late at night?”

  “I have a question I would ask you.”

  “Another one?”

  I wince at his words, until I see that he is teasing. Even so, I can only imagine what a trial I am making of myself.

  “Oh, do not look so! I was only jesting. In truth, it is refreshing having someone to discuss these esoteric theological issues with.”

  Feeling somewhat mollified, I approach the nave. “This will be my most far-fetched question yet,” I assure him.

  He sets down the last candle and rubs his hands in anticipation, but I do not know how to frame the question. “If a god grows tired of his duties or is no longer believed in or worshiped, what paths does he have open to him?”

  Father Effram holds very, very still. “Do you know such a god as this?” he finally asks.

  Unwilling to lie to him, I shrug. “It is a question I have been thinking much upon lately, that is all.”

  His face furrows in thought, his long bony fingers reaching up to pluck at his chin. He comes to some silent decision, then takes a seat on the prayer bench and motions for me to join him. “If a god should grow weary of his burden—and some do—there is a way to set aside their godhood, if they so choose.”

  “Truly?”

  “Dear child, when Christ died on the cross, He was not only creating a way for man to become immortal and live forever in God’s kingdom, but also showing those few immortals left in the world how they could become mortal if they chose. Thus they would be able to access the kingdom of heaven if they wished. God is the maker of all things, and He would never abandon any of His creatures.”

  “So they—and those of us who worship them—are not outside His grace?”

  Father Effram gives a firm shake of his head. “No. They were always part of His plans for this mortal world.”

  “Do the gods themselves know this?”

  He nods. “Yes.” There is an ocean of sympathy and compassion in his face. “Child.” He reaches out and takes my hand in his. “Your love cannot change a man—or a god. All it can do is open a door, create a new path for him to choose. One that has not been open to him before. That is what the power of your love can offer him—all of that, and no more.”

  I look away. “I have no desire to change him, only to see him happy.”

  “I am certain your love does make him happy. Whether it will give him the courage to step through that door remains to be seen.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  TWO DAYS LATER, the planning begins in earnest. The duchess insists on being a part of it, claiming if I can make the sacrifice, the least she can do is stay informed. Ismae and Sybella are there as well, but more as moral support, I suspect, than in any official capacity. The abbess too has somehow managed to worm her way into the proceedings, and it is all I can do not to ask the duchess to order her from the room.

  Beast has invited both the Arduinnites and the charbonnerie to attend, arguing that they have skills and knowledge that may prove useful to us. The Arduinnites have only been helping with maintaining order in the city for a matter of days, and already he is impressed with them.

  It is odd, seeing them in the same room as the duchess’s formal councilors, yet it feels right that all of the country’s forces, both the old and the new, should come together to find a way to turn the tides of war from our land. In spite of the Arduinnites’ unusual dress and unrefined manner, their presence and bearing is as regal as the duchess’s, and I am proud to be one of Arduinna’s line.

  We have just sat down—the bishop as far away from the Arduinnites as he can manage, as if he is afraid they will taint his own faith just by their proximity—when the door opens. Duval whirls around to face the interloper. “I told you we were not to be disturbed.”

  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?”