Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  “And do you feel the chill and despair of the Underworld, demoiselle?”

  I glance around at the hellequin whose stories I have just heard. “Of a sort,” I say quietly.

  “What?” he scoffs. “No words of demon spawn, of ambassadors of Satan himself? No stories of our cavorting across the countryside leaving sin and destruction in our wake?”

  I know he intends his sharp manner to drive a wedge between us, to push me away. But there is pain hiding behind his bitterness. It is hidden, deeply hidden, perhaps even from him, but it is there. I know because Sybella tried to keep us away in precisely the same manner when she first came to the convent. The comparison gives me pause. Is that why he feels familiar to me? “No, for I do not follow the new church, but keep to the old ways instead.”

  “What manner of maid is raised so steeped in the old faith that she is unafraid to ride with the hellequin’s hunt?”

  “Who says I am unafraid?” I counter.

  “I saw you with my men. You shared your food with them, but more than that, you saw their humanity and offered them compassion. There was no fear.”

  My gaze drifts to the hellequin around us. “Some of them frighten me,” I murmur. “Miserere, Sauvage, that hooded fellow.”

  “So how did you come to be raised in such a way that you can so easily overcome your own fears?”

  I open my mouth to answer his question, then pause, all of my senses sharpening, just as they do when I step into the training yard with Sister Thomine. When he came upon me that first night, he said he knew the manner of my upbringing and owed a debt to those who raised me. But now he is acting as if he does not know the nature of my upbringing.

  Or else he is trying to catch me in a lie.

  While it had seemed possible that the hunt could actually be pursuing me, I did not give too much credence to the thought. But now, now I must consider that possibility once more. “I am from an old family, one of the oldest in Brittany,” I tell him. “A remote branch that keeps to the westernmost regions, where many still honor the old ways. My family is one of those, that is all.”

  “But it is not.” His words cause my heart to stutter with concern. “You easily accept what some believe exists only in myth and legend. You are not only respectful of Mortain, but worshipful. Dedicated in a way that few are. Especially as the new church encroaches ever more on the old faith.”

  He is right—even those who respect the old ways are not so enamored of Mortain. I must answer him but also steer him away from any hint that I am one of Mortain’s own handmaidens. “My mother’s sister was an initiate at the convent of Saint Mortain and she has written to us often over the years, her words glorifying the work that they do there. Because of that, the members of my family more than most, have a deep connection to Him.” I glance up at him to see if this will satisfy his curiosity.

  His gaze grows heavy with intensity, as if he is trying to call forth all my secrets. “And you have never questioned your faith? Never doubted or turned your back on Him?”

  It is not his question that gives me pause but the dark undercurrent in his words, which suggests something that I cannot fully discern. Anguish? Anger? “No,” I say simply. “I have not.” It is not a lie that I tell him, for it is only my faith in the abbess that has wavered.

  We ride on, and the silence between us grows thick and weighted. Afraid he will ask more questions, I decide to ask some of my own. “Explain to me the nature of the hellequin and their duties so I may better understand them?”

  He huffs out a breath of irritation. “I am no tutor.”

  “I have heard it said that because of the hellequin’s own dark histories, they are easily corrupted by others’ will, especially those that call them back to the darkness of their own past.” I keep my voice low and fill it with all the sympathy I truly feel. “That once they stray, they are twice damned and thrust well beyond any chance of redemption or any afterlife at all.”

  “That is at the heart of it.” He rolls his shoulders, as if he would shrug off the weight of this burden. It is a surprisingly human gesture. “We are broken and damned, the midden heap of Mortain’s grace and mercy. We are tasked with collecting the souls of the wicked so they may be brought to their final judgment and wreak no more havoc upon the living.” He pauses a moment before adding, “And we also collect the lost—those who cannot find their own way to the Underworld or simply refuse to leave the world of the living.”

  “So not only a hunt,” I murmur. “But also a rescue mission.”

  His lips twist in scorn. “Do not decorate it with flowers and hang a ribbon on it, demoiselle. We are not noble or gallant men. We have sworn ourselves to this service, but the honor that binds us to it is a tenuous thing at best.”

  “Says the evil hellequin who saved me from his own men.” I watch him closely to see if he has any reaction to being reminded of the deal he made with me.

  He stares at me for a long moment, but there is no flash of remorse or recognition or, indeed, anything at all.

  “How are you chosen?” I ask, unwilling to endure the silence any longer.

  “We volunteer. It is one last chance to atone for the darkest of our sins.” He looks up and squints through the trees as if he has spotted something fascinating up there. “We must move among the temptations of our mortal flesh each and every day. And each and every day, we must say yes to our continued penance, even as new temptations greet us with each setting sun. We must choose, not once, but again and again, in each hour that passes, to walk this path.” He turns to look at me and I am struck by the brief glimpse of hunger I see in his gaze. “And there are many temptations.”

  Me, I realize dizzily. He considers me a temptation. And yet, he offered to hide me among his own men.

  Or did he? What if, in truth, he suspects who I am and wishes to keep me close until he can find out for certain?

  A short while later, the hounds begin to bay, and a ripple of excitement runs through the hellequin, as palpable as the night breeze on my face. Dark, feral grins break out as they kick their horses to a gallop. Their mounts seem to draw on some otherworldly reserves, and they surge forward, giant hooves pounding the earth beneath their feet until it sounds like a hailstorm.

  Fortuna follows. Indeed, it is as if the wildness and ferocity of the other horses is some scent or eldritch sickness that she herself has caught. As I lift my face to the dark night, I wonder if I too might catch it.

  The hounds bay again, this time sending a cascade of goose flesh down my arms. In front of me, the hunt splits into two, like water before a rock, spreading out, then encircling something. No—someone, I realize, as one of the riders shifts his position. Actually, several someones.

  We have stopped in a small clearing surrounded by gnarled trees bent by the wind, their weighty branches drooping to the ground like long green beards. Now that the riders have stopped moving, my eyes are drawn to the three men inside the circle. Or rather, not men but something more otherworldly than that, for they do not seem solid or truly mortal—their edges are blurred somewhat and all the color leached from them, like a gown left to dry in the sun too long.

  These cornered men show no defiance, only fear. Now that the men are surrounded and have no means of escape, the hellequin draw in close. But, much to my surprise, the hellequin are almost gentle with them, not so much pursuing them as herding them, urging them forward with their horses.

  We continue on, but much more slowly, so that the men on foot may keep up.

  It does not take long for us to reach a cromlech. It is not the same one we slept in last night, but another, even larger one, and I cannot help but wonder just how many there are. Balthazaar dismounts near the entrance, as do Malestroit and Begard. Once we are inside, the hellequin gently herd the souls to the threshold to the Underworld. The souls stand rigid and terrified. It is Malestroit who speaks first. “You do not wish to linger here on earth past your season.”

  The souls try to scramble bac
k from the gaping darkness that seems to reach for them, but the hellequin press too close. “We’re not going through there,” one of them says. “We know what awaits.”

  “Do you?” Balthazaar asks gently.

  “Hellfire and damnation. Demons gnawing on our flesh for centuries” is the soul’s answer.

  Begard steps forward, his cheerful face creased with earnestness. “No. It will not be like that. Let me show you.”

  The soul looks from Begard to Balthazaar. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we will let you go, and you will be free to wander, lost and alone. And after you have wandered some more, we will find you and bring you back to this place, where once again you will be given a choice.”

  “Here. I will go first,” Begard says, and he steps through the doorway, the darkness in the opening so absolute that it appears to consume him.

  One of the souls stares after Begard hungrily, and with no more words or arguments, he follows him through the door. The other two seem to lose their resistance and stumble forward, almost as if they welcome the pull of that which they feared was lost to them.

  And then they are gone, swallowed up by the darkness. In the moment of stillness that follows, the mood around me shifts almost imperceptibly. It takes me a moment to recognize that it is a feeling of accomplishment. The hellequin are eager to do their task, not just because it earns them redemption, but because it affirms there is rest for all souls—eventually.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AFTER ONCE AGAIN STICKING to me like a leech as I slept, Balthazaar completely ignores me once I am awake. Indeed, it is as if I have somehow contracted the plague and he is afraid of catching it. Which leads me to wonder just how many physical ills hellequin are vulnerable to. I shall have to ask him. If he ever gets close enough for me to speak with him again.

  After very little preparation—I am the only one who bothers with such comforts as a bedroll and food—we are off, moving out into the night like an undulating serpent across the grass. We ride, slowly at first but gaining speed with each moment that passes until we are galloping into the cold night air. For a moment—just a moment—I give myself over to the sheer pleasure of being out in the world once more, lift my face to the night breeze and simply enjoy the pleasure of being alive and moving to fill my skin. A part of me cannot help but admit to the thrill to be had in such unrestrained wildness, riding faster than the wind itself, the entire pack moving like one graceful entity.

  Spending so much time in the antechamber of the Underworld gives one an entirely new appreciation of life.

  Again Balthazaar rides in the van and assigns his minions to watch over me. Either we do not set as grueling a pace as last night or I have already grown accustomed to it. We ride in silence but for the pounding of the horses’ hooves. There is a buoyancy, a rush of something akin to joy, for all that it is naught but joy’s thin, darker cousin, that drives home for me why the hellequin relish these rides. Not only does it bring them that much closer to redemption, but it allows them the chance to be free from the confines of their daily prison.

  I too am glad to be free of the cromlech, for it disturbs me as much as it fascinates me. It is easy to feel one’s spirit become dampened, quiet, as if it is making ready for the final journey to the Underworld.

  Besides, since I do not know if Mortain hunts me or not, it seems foolish to tarry on His doorstep.

  And yet, what choice do I have? A lone woman, even one of Mortain’s own, cannot go against so many any more than a leaf can swim upstream. So like a leaf in a stream, I will let myself be carried along in the hellequin’s current and hope that it will take me where I wish to go. Eventually.

  The trees on either side of us brush by, seeming to give way before our approach. The sharp bite of winter still hangs in the air and our breath comes out in puffs of small, white clouds, giving the riders an altogether otherworldly appearance.

  Balthazaar falls back to ride beside me, and as if by some silent agreement or command, the others disperse. He says nothing. Does not so much as look at me, but simply rides at my side, his demonic horse crowding me and Fortuna.

  As we journey in silence, his moodiness seems to fall away from him so that by the time we slow to give our horses a break, he looks far less forbidding. Relieved, I finally allow myself to ask one of the scores of questions clattering in my head. “How could you tell the souls you caught last night were only lost and not wicked? Do you see marques, like daughters of Mortain do?”

  He brings his head around and pierces me with a fierce gaze. “How do you know of the marques? That is knowledge only those who serve Mortain should have.”

  Merde. In my eagerness for answers, I let my fool tongue run away with me. “Do not be angry. My mother’s sister meant no harm in telling us. She was just awed by the gifts and mercy Mortain bestows upon the world and those who serve Him that she could not contain herself.” I hold his stony gaze for a moment, and then another, to impress upon him that I am telling the truth.

  When Balthazaar finally looks away, I allow myself a silent sigh of relief, then quickly change the subject. “Can you coax a soul to follow you while it is still in its mortal body?”

  “Only Mortain can do that.”

  “Have you ever seen Mortain?”

  His scowl deepens, and I cannot help but wonder what fault he finds with this question. “Yes. I have seen Him, but He is the god of Death, not some knight to be swooned over.”

  “I am not swooning over Him! I have heard stories all my life and want to know what is true and what is not.”

  We are saved from further arguing when the hounds begin to bay. Within moments, the entire hunt picks up its pace. Our path takes us darting between trees and leaping over streamlets, galloping past newly tilled fields and small stone cottages with the windows tightly shuttered and the doors barred.

  The hounds’ braying grows even more frantic and Sauvage takes the lead. I do not know if it is because he is the most terrifying or if it is simply his turn. Instead of going farther into the woods, the hunt veers to the left. That is when I see the two men—souls. They are racing toward the wayside cross that sits where our path intersects with the main road.

  The hunt increases its speed, the hounds pulling ahead, teeth bared. Their manner is so different from last night that I can only assume that their prey is different as well. Not innocent, perhaps, but wicked.

  The riders in the front of the pack, led by Sauvage, get out ahead of the souls, effectively blocking their path to the stone cross. Their hope of sanctuary cut off, the souls stop running and turn to face the arriving hellequin. The hounds do not lunge at them, as I feared they would, but instead hang back, milling about the horses’ legs, growling as they keep their feral gazes fixed on their quarry.

  While their eyes are wide with terror, they also exhibit a large helping of defiance. I look around, waiting to see which hellequin will talk to them, the way it was done last night, but none of them dismount. Instead, Sauvage takes a rope from his saddle, swings it out and around and then down over the two men, capturing them. He jerks hard, yanking them off their feet, then waits. After a moment, the two rise uncertainly, glaring at the hellequin. Sauvage jerks on the rope once more, but not so hard that the men fall again, only hard enough to get them moving. Thus roped and surrounded by grinning hellequin, they are escorted to the nearest cromlech.

  It is not hard to wonder where rumors of demon spawn come from.

  When we reach the cromlech, the hellequin dismount. Sauvage, with Balthazaar close on his heels, shoves the men through the entrance to the cromlech, and the rest of the hunt follows. They drive them toward the door to the Underworld, where the darkness waits, beating like a pulse.

  Then, surprising both me and the souls, Sauvage removes the rope. They stand free once more. “It is time for you to pass from this world to the next,” Balthazaar says.

  One of the prisoners spits off to the side. “The Church says you will lead us to hel
l.”

  “The Church is wrong. Hell does not reside beyond that door.”

  “If you want me to go through there, you’re going to have to carry me yourself.”

  “I will not. If you cross, you must do so by your own free choice.”

  “What if I do not?”

  “Then we will hunt you again and again, until the end of time, if necessary, and each time, we will bring you back to the mouth of the Underworld until you grow tired of the hunt and surrender to what must be.”

  While the one man argues, the second one glances over at the blackness that fills the doorway. He must see something there that comforts him, for without so much as a word to his companion, he steps through the door.

  Gaping in surprise, the other man stares after him, as if awaiting screams or cries for help. None come. The darkness that lurks in the narrow passageway seems to swell forward, almost as if reaching for him. Instead of fleeing in terror, the soul remains still, and something on his face shifts, the fear replaced by . . . wonder? Relief? He steps forward to greet the darkness willingly, even eagerly.

  I look at the hellequin around me, yearning sitting heavy upon them, and for the first time, I understand the hunger I see on their faces. They cannot wait for their turn to be welcomed into their final resting place.

  There are tears in my eyes when I turn and walk away, nearly ramming into Balthazaar. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, keeping my gaze downcast. “I did not see you there.” He is so close, I can feel the rise and fall of his breath. I hold myself still, waiting for him to say something.

  Instead of speaking, he reaches out to capture one of the tears falling down my cheek. “Why are you crying?” His voice grows soft, intimate even, and I cannot help myself—I look up so I may see his face. “They will not be harmed,” he says gently. “It was their own fear reflected back at them, not because of something we had done.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “I am just overwhelmed by the immensity of Mortain’s grace. That even if we are lost or wandering, He will find us—always, He will find us—and try to bring us home.”