Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  Father Effram bows his head. “At your service, my lord.” Then he turns to my gaping self. “I know because I was once a god as well.”

  “You are—were—Saint Salonius?”

  “Yes.” He turns to Balthazaar once more, his face growing serious. “And this,” he says to the man who was once Death. “Does this put right all that lies between us?”

  Balthazaar stares at him a long moment, then nods. “It does.” He puts out his hand. Father Effram grasps it and closes his eyes, almost as if receiving a benediction.

  Balthazaar is taken to the Brigantian convent so they may tend his wounds, but it is hard—so hard—to let go of his hand. I wish to accompany him, to stay by his side forever if need be, to ensure that this is real and will not be snatched away.

  But I have others I must see to.

  A truce has been made, and the Breton forces have left the safety of the city walls in order to recover our dead. Every soldier seems to know that if not for the hellequin, it would be his own dead body being carried back on a litter.

  Of the fifty hellequin that rode out, twenty-eight bodies are returned to us, among them Begard’s, Malestroit’s, and Sauvage’s. Slowly, I drop to Malestroit’s side. His face is no longer filled with sorrow but with serenity. I kiss the tips of my fingers, then press them to his lips. “Goodbye,” I whisper. “And thank you. May you find peace at last.”

  Sauvage too is much transformed, his terrifying ferocity replaced by a peace so deep, he is hardly recognizable.

  Begard looks even younger in death, relaxed, with no pinch of regret or guilt shadowing his face. I bid him goodbye as well. Father Effram joins me, and, together, we walk among the fallen hellequin. He gives them a final blessing and I bid them each farewell.

  Some bodies are not recovered, and I do not know what that means. Most of those not recovered were on the sortie to the supply wagons, including Miserere. I think of his fierce, implacable face and mourn

  that he may not have found the redemption he so desperately wanted.

  It is only when they have all been seen to and tended, and I confirm with my own eyes that the truce continues to hold, that I allow myself to return to the palace long enough to strip out of my blood-soaked clothes, scrub the worst of the filth from me, then head to the Brigantian convent.

  I am not questioned at the convent but ushered immediately to Balthazaar’s room. It is clean and smells of pungent herbs. At the door I pause, staring at the still figure on the bed, marveling that his chest rises and falls as he draws breath. Marveling that the pallor of death has left his face and he no longer appears to have been chiseled from the whitest marble.

  He is, I realize, pulsing with life.

  We have done it, he and I. We not only evoked one last gasp of magic from Arduinna’s sacred arrow but managed to upend the order of the world and create a place for Balthazaar in it. At my side, hopefully, although we have not discussed that.

  “It is a miracle, is it not?” I turn to find a grizzled nun standing beside me, her wrinkled face alight with wonder and awe.

  “It is,” I agree.

  She looks up at me, tilting her head. “Are you the one he did it for?”

  Her question makes me pause, uncertain of how to answer that. Did he do it for me? Or because he was finally offered a chance? Perhaps the two things cannot be separated from each other.

  Seeing my discomfort, the nun smiles warmly, pats me on the arm, then goes about her business, leaving me alone with him.

  “Quit lurking in the shadows.” Balthazaar’s voice rumbles up from

  the bed. “That is my role, not yours.”

  I cannot help it, I laugh and go to stand beside his bed. He has a most curious expression on his face. “Are you still in a lot of pain?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says, but without bitterness or distress, merely wonder. He lifts one hand and stares down at it, then looks up at me. “But pleasure too. Everything”—he looks around the room, staring at the shafts of sunlight that play upon the shadows—“everything is so much more—more delineated, nuanced. And”—he turns his gaze back to me—“exquisite.”

  The warmth in his eyes almost unnerves me. I do not know what to do with a joyous Balthazaar. He takes my hand—wincing as he does so—then presses it to his lips. “I cannot believe that you have done it. Created a place for me in life.”

  “We did it,” I remind him. “Not just me, but us. Together.”

  He stares at me a long moment, his dark gaze unreadable, and I long to know what he is thinking. He shakes his head, as if he is not quite able to grasp it all. “No one has ever invited me to share her life before.” Then he tugs sharply on my hand, causing to me to stumble and fall onto the bed. I try to pull back, afraid to cause him more injury, but his other arm comes up around me and he shifts, making room for me beside him. Afraid I will cause him more agony if I fight him—and also because it’s where I desperately wish to be—I allow myself to be tucked up against his side.

  His hand runs down my back in a long, slow caress. “The hellequin?” he asks.

  I press myself closer against him, as if our closeness will diminish the sting of the words. “Most have found the peace they were looking for,” I tell him. “We recovered over half of the bodies, including those of Malestroit and Begard.”

  His hand on my back stills. “And the others?”

  “We found no trace of them.”

  I glance up at his face as a fresh wave of an entirely different sort of pain washes across his features. “I had hoped they would all end their journeys on that field.”

  “I know. What will happen to them now?”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it and frowns. “I do not know. I am not sure what will happen to any of them now. Do we know yet if the arrow worked?”

  I am relieved to have good news to share with him. “We know that they have called a truce and that the hostilities have ceased, at least for the moment. I would like to think that is at the command of the king as he decides how best to follow the direction his heart now points him in.”

  In the silence that follows, I can hear Balthazaar breathing, a faint, ragged sound. I long to ask him about us, what will happen with us now. We had spoken of how to live without each other but had not dared to dream of what we might do if our bold gamble worked. “Have you given any thought to what you will do now that you are free?” I say.

  “As long as you are at my side, I care little. Except . . .”

  “What?”

  He shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “At some point, I would like to meet my daughters, to see them face to face and somehow be a part of their lives.”

  In that moment, I realize that if I was not already besotted with him, I would fall in love all over again. I rise up on my elbow and stare down at his face, losing myself in those eyes that now hold far more light and hope than bleakness. “Then that will be where we go first.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  TWO DAYS LATER, THE DUCHESS is holding court in the great hall. It is sparsely attended, for the entire city holds its breath, waiting to see what the French will do. Of course, the citizens do not know of the arrow and our hopes for it, but they did witness—or heard tell of—the skirmish, and they wonder what it portends.

  It is the first time I have attended the duchess since we rode out into the French encampment, as she had given me leave to tend to Balthazaar and his injuries.

  Sybella and Beast are at the Brigantian convent this morning, spending some well-deserved time with their families. Ismae and Duval are playing chess while the rest of us pretend not to watch, for he is trying to teach her and she is most impatient. She does not care for his being so much better than she is at the game, and she spends most of it glaring at him.

  Just as Duval captures Ismae’s second bishop and says, “Check,” one of the sentries comes hurrying into the hall, his face pale, his eyes wide. I step closer to the duchess, my hands going to my knives. Their game forgotten,
both Ismae and Duval rise to their feet. “What’s happened?” Duval asks.

  “We have a visitor.” The messenger clears his throat. “It is the French king.” The disbelief in his voice is mirrored on all our faces.

  “How big is his party?”

  “Only fifty archers, and he is bearing the flag of truce.” The man clears his throat again. “And a rose.”

  Smiling, Duval turns to the duchess, who is smoothing her gown and straightening her headdress. “Your Grace?” For the first time since I have known him, his voice is filled with hope. It makes him sound younger than he normally does.

  “If he is here to see us, then by all means, show him in.” She and I exchange a glance.

  The bemused sentry retreats, and we all wait, hope filling the room like birdsong.

  The French king enters the hall with only a handful of his guard. My first impression is that he is smaller than I thought, and my next is that he is simply but elegantly dressed. He is not handsome in any sense of the word, but his eyes are kind. The duchess curtsies to him, for he is higher in rank. “Your Majesty.”

  He bows. “At last we meet face to face,” he says. Then more gently: “I am sorry to hear of your recent loss.” To my surprise, there is true sorrow in his eyes; this is no pretty courtier trick but genuine compassion.

  “Isabeau is sorely missed, Your Majesty.”

  He glances around at the few courtiers in the hall. “I wonder if we could speak privately.”

  “But of course.” She dismisses all her courtiers except Ismae and me, and the king in turn dismisses his guard. After that, he motions her to one of the window casements, and together they move to take a seat.

  His voice is pitched low, but I have had much practice listening at doors.

  “I would put these hostilities behind us if we can.” He is perfectly still, except for his fingers, which fidget with his hat. That is when I realize that he is not speaking to her as a king, but rather as an equal, which does credit to his nature. “The truth is, I have come to admire the sharp mind and fierce spirit behind my noble opponent, and now that I am here, well”—he looks discomfited, as if flattery does not come easily to him—“I had not expected such a fierce and ardent defender of her people to be as lovely as yourself.”

  As he speaks, something inside me relaxes, for those are the words of a potential suitor rather than a conqueror. The duchess blushes prettily and bows her head, and something swells deep within me. She has been pursued by men and rulers of all sorts, and not one has approached her as a suitor rather than a political ally. Mayhap there will be love in her future after all.

  I draw a little farther away to give them their privacy.

  They talk for nearly an hour, and when they are finished, the duchess asks that I let the courtiers back in. As I do, I see that their numbers have doubled. News of the king’s arrival has spread quickly. Duval is one of the first back in through the doors, with Captain Dunois and Chancellor Montauban following close behind.

  When everyone has assembled, the duchess looks bashfully at the king, who nods kindly at her. She stands with her full regal bearing and surveys the nobles and attendants who have gathered. Briefly, her eyes rest on me, and she winks. It is all I can do not to whoop with relieved laughter.

  “We have an announcement to make. His Majesty the king of France and I have discussed the future of our great countries and find that we have more in common than we have differences. We have decided to resolve those remaining differences through marriage.”

  A cheer goes up from everyone in the room: for having averted a disastrous conflict, for old differences put aside, and for the duchess having managed to thread this needle with love rather than war. As I look at both their faces, I realize it is indeed a triumph of the heart.

  For the next three days, while the duchess and King Charles come to know each other, the duchess’s councilors and a delegation from France sequester themselves in the privy chamber and wrestle over the details of the marriage contract. The king is of no help, for whatever point of contract the duchess’s advisors insist on, he agrees to, until his own advisors throw up their hands in disgust. I think once more of Arduinna’s last arrow and all that it has bought us.

  Deep in the bowels of the castle, in a room tucked well away from observers, another series of meetings is held. The first of these is a private meeting between Crunard and me. In the rush of all that has happened, I had nearly forgotten about him, for he is still so new in my life, it is hard to remember I have a father.

  I find him sitting in his cell, thinner than when I last saw him, and with the lines of fatigue etched more deeply in his face. When he sees me, he leaps to his feet and strides to the bars. “You are safe!”

  “I am safe.” I tilt my head. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

  “The guards—there have been rumors, stories flying about you riding out, but no one could give me any details.” He appears to rein in his emotions somewhat. “I was worried for you, that is all.”

  “I appreciate your fatherly concern, but as you can see, I am fine. I do come bearing news, however. The duchess and the French king are to be married.”

  His eyes widen. “He agreed?”

  “With a bit of persuasion, yes. But more importantly, she has agreed, and he appears to care for her, and there will be peace.”

  Crunard closes his eyes. “Peace,” he says, the word bittersweet with all that he has lost.

  I cannot help it then—I step forward, my voice gentling. “I come to bring you a boon. The duchess, as a sign of her appreciation for my help in this matter, has agreed to investigate the whereabouts of your son—my brother—herself. She will seek him out or learn what has happened to him, and if he is still alive, she will have him safely returned to Brittany. She has given her word.”

  Some of the grayness leaves his face, and his mouth twists in a sour smile. “And he can find me here, rotting in a prison for dishonoring us all.”

  “The duchess is in a forgiving mood,” I tell him. “She has already pardoned many of those who crossed her. Perhaps she will pardon you as well.”

  His hands grip the iron bars. “And if so, what does that mean for us?”

  I step back then. “Why should it mean anything? Why should I care at all for the man who abandoned my mother when she needed him most, who left me to be raised as an orphan, who betrayed his entire country? What makes you think there is any us to be considered?”

  His gaze meets mine steadily. “Because I know the daughter to be a far better person than the father was, and I hope that she will see that the most recent of his crimes were committed out of love for his children.”

  I stare at him a moment longer, then leave without answering his question.

  The second meeting is a convocation of the Nine, called in order to hold the abbess accountable for her crimes and to determine the rightful punishment.

  On the first day, a delegate from each of the Nine arrives, called to the convocation by Father Effram’s summons. The abbess from the Brigantian convent here in Rennes is the first to arrive, followed by Floris and the high priestess of Arduinna. Father Effram—I cannot quite manage to call him Salonius, for I am still not certain I believe that he is; it is just the sort of trick the gods like to play—presides over all.

  The abbess of Saint Mer arrives, a wizened old woman with wild gray hair and seashells strung around her neck like jewels. She is accompanied by two girls, one on either side, both followers of Saint Mer. I try not to stare, but I have never seen the sisters of Saint Mer before and they are startling to look at.

  Beast is here, representing the followers of Saint Camulos, as their rank is closely tied with their order’s hierarchy. A tall older man with dirty bare feet and a thick walking staff is introduced as the head of Saint Cissonius’s order.

  Mortain himself will take his place among the Nine. When he steps into the room, silence falls, as thick as a heavy snow. All eyes turn toward him, for these ar
e people who have devoted their entire lives in the service of their gods, yet they have never met one face to face before. One by one, they sink into deep, reverent bows, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.

  “Please, rise,” he says, then makes his way to the seat that is for him. It is hard to tell in the torchlight, but it appears as if a faint tinge of pink has risen in his finely sculpted cheeks.

  Two of the seats are empty. Amourna is no longer worshiped so much as her name is invoked when one is seeking true love. There is not any convent or abbey that serves her, and I cannot help but wonder if there ever was.

  Dea Matrona too is not worshiped in a formal way, but instead finds her place in the homes and hearths and fields throughout our land.

  Just as the Brigantian abbess calls the meeting to order, the door opens. An ancient, bent-back woman shuffles into the room, her long, gray hair nearly reaching the floor, her old homespun brown gown faded and closer to rags than a gown. She too has a staff, which she leans heavily upon. Slowly, she shuffles across the floor and takes the empty seat left for Dea Matrona.

  Everyone stares in surprise, but she gestures impatiently for them to proceed.

  The Brigantian nun begins speaking. “We are here for an accounting of the crimes of Sister Etienne de Froissard, who has posed as abbess of the convent of Saint Mortain for the past seven years, even though she bears none of his blood. She has wronged the gods by posing as a daughter of Mortain, and she has betrayed the trust placed in her with that position. She is also charged with endangering the girls put in her care, and has been accused of the murders of Sisters Druette, Appollonia, and Sabina.”

  And so it begins, the abbess’s—my mother’s—trial. Father Effram assured me that they never sentence anyone to death, else I am not certain I would be able to get through this. For all the anger I hold for her, for all the wrong that she has done, she did it out of love and a desire to protect me. I do not know if I will ever be able to resolve the two.