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 hell.”
“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.”
“Yes,” Balthazaar says. “He will.” His finger lingers against my cheek a moment before he turns and walks away.
As I watch him depart, I wonder if the hellequin are Mortain’s way of ensuring I find my way home, wherever that may be, and if Balthazaar’s words are a warning or a promise.
The next night is much the same, and I realize I have fallen into a routine with the hellequin. That unsettles me, for it speaks of acceptance, of resignation. I have become distracted by the wonder of Mortain’s grace in action, by these inhabitants of the Underworld come to life before me, and by the men’s own tragic histories.
So distracted that it takes me a full week before I wonder why we have not yet reached Guérande. That night, when Balthazaar falls back to ride beside me, I confront him. “What is taking so long? We should have reached Guérande by now.”
“We will reach Guérande,” Balthazaar says stubbornly. “We are just crisscrossing the countryside as we go. It is how we hunt, and I never said we would not hunt on the way.”
“No, but you did not explain you would take over a week to make a three-day trip either.”
He stares down at his hands holding the reins. “Is what you have waiting for you there so very important?” It is the faint, almost undetectable note of wistfulness in his voice that gives me pause. “A lover perhaps?” he continues.
“I have no lover.” I am further intrigued when I see his grip on the reins loosen—in relief? “But I do have important business I must conduct there. I did not expect to linger on the road so long.”
He looks up at my face then. “If there is one thing we hellequin have learned, demoiselle, it is that life is short and should be savored. It is best if you do not spend all your time wishing you were somewhere else. We will reach Guérande when we reach it.” And then he is gone, riding back to the front of the pack and motioning Miserere to take his place at my side.
As I watch him go, frustration and longing fill my chest, pressing heavily against my ribs. While I still want to get to Guérande and confront the abbess, the inner workings of Mortain and His world have appeared before me, almost as if He has willed it. Would it not be best to make the most of this short span of time when I am free? This is living without restraint like I have always dreamed of, even though the circumstances are far, far different then I ever imagined. Should I not just embrace this opportunity, accept that it may even be Mortain’s own hand that brought me here? Would not this depth of experience and additional knowledge give me even more fodder for my confrontation with the abbess?
And it is not as if my meeting with the abbess will bear anything but bitter fruit. In fact, there is a good chance she will do everything in her power to send me back to the convent. Back to fulfill the very destiny I am running from. And I do not yet know if I will go.
As long as I keep my true identity hidden—no more slips such as the stupid question about the marques—I should be fine. Besides, Balthazaar does not seem to be in too big a hurry to be rid of me.
Surely these are the reasons I decide not to pursue the matter further. Not because of a pair of tortured dark eyes that feel as if they brush against my soul every time they look at me.
Chapter Eighteen
THE NEXT NIGHT’S HUNT PROVES fruitless, and the hellequin’s disappointment is as heavy and ominous as an impending thunderstorm. Twice, the mood quickened, as if they had scented prey, but it came to naught. Indeed, this lack of success in finding so much as a rabbit to catch for my own small supper has cast a pall over the entire group. It is not yet dawn when we return, but none of the hellequin seem ready to retire for the night. Instead, they build a fire, a larger one than normal, and a dozen or so of them gather round. I start to slip away to leave them to their private misery, but Balthazaar calls out to me.
“Come,” he says, holding out a hand. “You have said you honor the old ways and worship Mortain. Come tell us of your faith. Mayhap it will remind us of ours.”
Unwilling to deny them this small comfort, I accept his hand. It is large and firm and feels wholly of this world, except for the faint chill that seeps through his glove. As he leads me to the fire, my mind scrambles for what to tell them of Mortain. Which words can I share without giving away my true identity?
The others make room for me, and though they are outlaws and sinners and have all manner of black hearts, their acceptance gladdens me, which is surely a hundred kinds of foolish.
I settle myself upon the hard rocky floor and stare into the flames, for they are easier to look at than the desolate faces around me. “What can I tell you? I was raised to see Mortain as the first among the Nine, for without Death, there could be no life. Just as the roots of living trees must reach down past the loam and soil to find sustenance from the Underworld, so too are we sustained by Death. Of a certainty, He has sustained me through many . . . trials.” I look up at the hellequin, at their rough, broken faces. “Although my trials were much different from yours, they were hard enough in their own way, and I would have faltered without Mortain to lend me His strength.”
Even though I am not looking at him, I can feel Balthazaar’s nearness, much as a moth senses the heat of a flame. “People fear Him—wrongly. They see punishment and starkness in Death, yet there is beauty as well. The small black beetles that burrow deep in the earth to die every winter, only to be reborn in the spring. The tree branches that turn to barren bone, yet unfurl with new leaves. Those are the promises that reside in Death.
“The Mortain I believe in is not scary or terrifying. People’s terror comes from their own fear, or tales told by the Church rather than from anything Mortain has done. People are afraid of what they do not understand, and since they have abandoned the old ways, they no longer understand Death and His true place—His true purpose—in this world.”
Only when I am done talking do I allow myself to glance in Balthazaar’s direction. His head is tilted to the side and he studies me intently, as if peering through my flesh and sinew to my soul. “You love Him,” he says, his voice filled with wonder.
I duck my head, embarrassed. “He is a god, and I but honor Him.” But Balthazaar is right: I do love Him. And in that moment, I know that I do not wish to leave His service. I want only to understand it—understand what He wants from me and trust that however I spend my life, it is His will coupled with mine, not simply the convent’s. I lift my gaze back to Balthazaar. “If you do not see Him as I do, how do you come to pledge yourself to His service?” I ask.
The silence that follows my question is as thick and heavy as the stone upon which I sit, and I fear no one will answer until, at last, Begard speaks.
“Through true remorse,” he says, staring into the flames. “In the moment of your death, the desire to redeem yourself becomes a physical thing, like a rope you can use to pull yourself back from the edge of drowning.”
Miserere shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the flickering shadows on the cavern wall. “At the moment of your death, you are filled with a fierce need to claw your way back up the very sword that pierced you and bellow that it is not over. You are not finished yet. You still need time to atone for all that you have done.”
Something at the edge of the group shifts, and I look up to find Sauvage standing there, his hand buried in the fur of one of the giant hound’s neck. “It is all those you have killed, silently looking at you with their dead, haunted eyes, that chase you back into life, willing to pay any price to avoid looking at them for all eternity.”
Silence descends upon us once more. I wish for Balthazaar to tell his tale, for I am desperate to know what sin he has committed to earn this penance. Almost as if hearing my wish, he looks up at me with a face that seems as if it were carved out of sorrow and despair. I want to reach across the distance between us and run a finger along one of his dark brows, as if in so doing I could wipe away the bleakness I see in his eyes. Instead, I pull my fingers tightly against my palm and turn my gaze to the fire.
