I smile. “Well, that is good, then, that your gifts did not disappear along with Mortain’s godhood.” I did not wish to be the reason they no longer had their abilities. “Which means the girls back at the convent will likely still have their gifts and abilities as well.”
At my mention of the convent, Sybella pounces. “Is the rumor true? Will you be returning to the convent?” She does not sound surprised.
“Yes.”
“But why?” Ismae asks. “You could not wait to leave.”
How do I explain this to them? “I wanted to leave the suffocating restrictions and the painful memories that the convent held. But now, now that everything has changed, I want to go back and remake the convent into what it was originally intended to be—a place with life as well as death, with joy as well as solemn duty.”
“But won’t you be bored?”
I laugh. “No, for I am not like either of you. I do not relish killing. I am good at it, but I do not find any purpose in it.”
“And you think you will find a purpose in returning to the convent?”
I shrug, embarrassed. “I want to show the others that they have choices, that their lives are theirs to live. I know it is not nearly as glamorous as what you two will be doing, but it is what I feel compelled to do—to put the convent back as it is supposed to be.”
“What does all this mean for Mortain’s daughters?” Ismae asks. “How will we be able to serve him?”
“I do not know,” I admit. “Mayhap it will be no different from serving the duchess or any liege lord.”
“And what of the convent and the duties it performs?”
“Again, I do not yet know. That is something we will figure out as we go.”
Sybella smiles in her sly, wicked way. “Balthazaar will be going as well?”
“Yes, he wishes to meet his daughters. And put right what has gone off course.”
“And with Mortain at your side, who will say you nay?”
My lips twitch into a smile. “True enough. Just because he is newly mortal does not mean that death will cease or that people will come to accept it or even that political events will not require intervention. But what about you?” I turn to Sybella. “I heard the duchess say that you are going to the French court with her?” I am still hoping I have heard that incorrectly.
Sybella smiles. “She will need someone to insinuate herself among all those long-faced French nobles that cling to her betrothed’s robes like flies. Someone to report to her who can be trusted and who cannot. And she has agreed to foster my sisters at her court, which will afford them the best protection I can find against our brother.”
“And what of Beast?”
“He is going as well, to serve as the captain of the queen’s guard.”
I am happy for her, and I try to smile, but she will be so far away.
“Oh, do not pull such a sad face! It will only be for a few years. I reckon I shall return right about the time Sister Beatriz will have to retire from her duties. I think I would make a most excellent womanly-arts teacher, don’t you?”
I cannot help it, I laugh, as does Ismae. “The Nine save us,” she says.
“The Eight, now.”
“No, it is still the Nine. They did not change it when Amourna removed herself, and neither will they for Mort—Balthazaar. Bah! I cannot decide what to call him now.”
“Just do not call him Father, and I will be happy,” Ismae mutters.
“And you.” I turn to her. “You will be close, so you must come visit once in a while.” She and Duval will be staying in Rennes—Duval will be overseeing the duchy while his sister takes her place on the French throne.
“Oh, I shall. I may even let Duval come just so he can storm around the halls, for old times’ sake.” And thus everyone is accounted for, I think.
No, not everyone. My thoughts go again to the hellequin. Those who died on the field before Rennes that day have found both the redemption and peace that they so desperately sought. But what of the others? Those who did not ride out that day, or those whose bodies were not found? Did they too find their deserved reward? Or do they, even now, still ride on, trapped on some eternal hunt?
The next morning, Mortain and I set out on our own journey, one that will take us back to the convent. He has healed unnaturally fast.
As our horses prance and sidestep in the fresh morning air, I send him a glance. “I will not call you Mortain for all the rest of our lives. It will feel too much like being wedded to a god.”
“Merely a former god. And you will only have to bow to me a little.” His smile is as quick and welcome as a glimpse of sun in the dead of winter.
“Ah, you may be a former god, but you are only a newly made mortal, and I have had far more experience at being mortal than you.”
He blinks in surprise. That I have had more experience than him in anything had not occurred to him. I cannot help it. I laugh as the wonder of the moment fills me. Our lives. They will—finally—be ours to live as we choose. Filled with our hopes and dreams and, yes, our heartaches as well. But they will be ours.
We will love freely. Laughter shall echo down the halls of the convent. And we will fight our enemies—fiercely—when needed, for as surely as winter follows summer, it will be needed.
But for now, I cannot wait to share with those whom I once called sisters all that I have learned. I will teach them how to think for themselves and not simply reflect back to the world what it wishes from them. They will be strong not only of body, but of mind and heart. And most important, I will teach them how to love, for in the end, that has been the greatest weapon of all. It has proven stronger even than Death.
