Mortal Heart
Page 19

Over the next few days, all the exhilaration and thrill of hunting gives way to the sobering fact that we have been five nights now with no luck. Balthazaar in particular takes it hard.
I am unsure as to what the absence of souls means, but the hellequin are unsettled by it. Their moods grow even darker, and the small bits of joking and camaraderie that they enjoyed have all but disappeared. Balthazaar, Miserere, and Sauvage spend long hours in conversation, conversation they are careful to keep from my ears.
Is the scarcity of souls some dire portent? A sign of the influence the new church has over our land? Or is it more personal than that—without souls to collect, the hellequin will not be able to earn their redemption?
The mood after tonight’s hunt is the grimmest yet and I find myself wishing I had some way to ease their frustration. But I do not. Indeed, I barely have the ability to ease my own sense of futility, which bubbles through my veins like one of Sister Serafina’s poisons.
While the hellequin busy themselves—somewhat morosely—with their meager evening rituals, it occurs to me how time must weigh heavily on them, with no sleep or chores or even pleasures to relieve the waiting. But I must do something to relieve the waiting or else I will twitch right out of my skin. Being surrounded by these strong, brutal men reminds me that I have skills I must keep up, skills I must keep honed as sharply as the edges of my blades.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I slip toward the back of the cromlech unobserved. While I want to be well away from the others so they cannot see—or mock—me, Balthazaar’s warning against venturing too near the threshold to the Underworld is firmly etched in my mind.
When I judge that I am well out of the view of the others, I slip my bow and quiver off my back, then roll my shoulders to loosen the muscles and joints. I have not done anything but ride for nearly two weeks. Moving through my training exercises will not only help keep my skills sharp, but also relieve the pent-up frustration I am feeling.
As I begin the familiar movements, a sense of calm settles over me, as if the exercises themselves pull me back into myself, reminding me of who and what I am. I wonder if the abbess has been informed yet of my absence, and if so, what she has done about it. If nothing else, my current circumstances afford me a most excellent cover, for she would never in a thousand years think to look for me here.
I move on to the more complex set of exercises, the ones that take all my concentration.
“Does that not work better with an opponent?” The deep, gravelly voice pulls me from the sequence, causing me to stumble.
I glance over at Miserere, who watches me, face implacable, arms folded. I reply without thinking. “But I do not wish to hurt any of you.”
Miserere’s mouth twitches, and I hear a guffaw or two of laughter.
“If you need a rock or tree to batter yourself against, he is your man,” Begard says cheerfully, almost as if he knows this from personal experience.
Miserere steps forward. There is no anticipation in his manner, or revulsion, or even resignation. He simply moves, like a boulder that has sprouted legs.
I eye him warily. I meant my words as a jest, not a challenge. However, I will not—cannot—back down. Not with all of them watching. At the very least, maybe when they see my level of skill, they will think twice before crossing me.
Just as I motion Miserere forward, a large, black glove appears on his arm and shoves him aside. “If the lady needs someone to spar with her, I will do it.” Balthazaar looks not at me but at the other men, meeting each one’s gaze and holding it for a long moment. His brows are drawn together in a thunderous ridge, and his mouth is set in a hard, unforgiving line. Unease snakes through me.
It is one thing to bash upon someone like Miserere, whom I have no hope of beating or even hurting. But fighting Balthazaar is far, far different. It feels too . . . intimate.
And then he is standing in front of me, arms relaxed at his sides. “They are all watching.” He speaks quietly, and I cannot tell if that is resignation I hear in his voice or a taunt.
“Well, then, let’s not disappoint them.” Before I have finished my sentence, I launch forward, trying to catch him off-guard. In a rapid series of strikes, I come at him, but he blocks every blow, his eyes watching me intently the entire time. Indeed, the hunger that is always there is even more present, and it is more unsettling than his strength. I allow that feeling of unease to show upon my face, then use the moment of his surprise to spin myself around to bring a resounding kick to his legs, trying to knock him off balance.
He does not budge. But the hunger deepens and an almost feral smile appears on his face, as if he thinks some primal challenge is being offered and he has decided to accept.
We are just sparring, I remind myself. Nothing more.
I try every way I know to lever my body against his, to upset his balance or cause him to shift, even a bit. But every time we touch, it feels far too much like a caress. Every time our bodies slam into each other, it feels like an unspoken promise. Is this some hellequin trick? Some spell they are able to cast with their dark natures? If so, it is a most unfair way to fight. However, no matter how much I try or from what angle I come at him, I realize I will never catch him unaware as I did that first time, and that is the only way I can best him, by getting in under his guard.
Annoyed, I rush him again, then feint to the side and spin so that I am behind him. I push myself against his body—pressing myself against him precisely as he did against me that first night we met—and get a chokehold around his neck. I feel everything inside him still, then he relaxes so that he sags into me. I am so unnerved by the sensation of it that I pause. Only for a second, but it is enough.
The next moment I am flying over his shoulder in a dizzying rush. I brace myself for my landing on the hard rock floor, knowing it will knock the wind out of me.
Except I never reach it. Instead, Balthazaar catches me and eases me back to my feet, almost as if we were dancing. My breath is coming fast now, but the bastard is not even breathing hard. And his arms are still around me. “If you wanted them watching you, they are,” he whispers in my ear. “Every move, every breath that passes your lips, has their full attention.”
I bring my arms up suddenly to break his hold, then leap away, annoyed that I am only able to do so because he let me. We are still close, too close, I realize, but before I can step back, he speaks once more. “What was your intent with this sparring of yours? To entice them? To entice me?”
At his accusation, a hot flush of mortification floods my body, for I was not trying to entice anyone. I reach out and shove him—hard—surprised when he gives way. “If that is the case, then it is their fault and not mine. I wished only to keep my own skills honed.” I follow up with another shove, which he again allows. “Simply because your thoughts are base does not mean I must accept the taint you would lay at my feet.” And then, realizing he is no longer as guarded as he was, I sweep my leg wide, knocking his out from under him, satisfied when he lands flat on his back in the dirt.
Holding my head high, I turn and begin walking to my bedroll. The other hellequin say nothing, but they move out of my way.
“If you so much as snicker, I will kill you all,” I hear him tell the others.
None of them laugh, but my own lips twitch in satisfaction.
It takes me a long while to fall asleep, as fury and embarrassment simmer in my limbs. However, I must do so at last because the next thing I know, I come awake. Even though it is unseasonably cold, I am warm, blissfully warm. Someone must have built a fire nearby. Except there is no red glow or light flickering against the cave wall. That is when I realize there is something solid at my back. Slowly, I turn over to find Balthazaar stretched out on the floor beside me. He is lying flat, the entire length of his side pressed up against me, his hands propped under his head. “Go back to sleep,” he mutters.
“You are making me too hot,” I mutter back.
“I am keeping you from freezing.”
“I do not need your help.”
He does not respond, but he does not get up and leave either. Deciding I am too tired to insist, I force my mind away from the complex, infuriating man beside me. Just as I am drifting off to sleep, he speaks again, so softly I cannot be certain it is not a dream.
“I am sorry. You make me ashamed of what we are, of what little we can offer you, and I lashed out at you when what I really wanted was to punish my own dark thoughts.”
Then, softer than a melting snowflake, something brushes against my cheek—his finger, I realize. It is a shockingly gentle gesture and dissolves what little anger I still harbored. I could not stay angry at him any more than I could stay angry with Sybella when she lashed out at us when the pain inside her became too great to bear. I do not know what personal demons Balthazaar struggles with, but I know pain when I see it.
When next I wake, two things occur to me with sudden clarity. Indeed, the ideas are so simple that I am sheepish I did not think of them before. Surely it was the shock of finding myself among the hellequin that so addled my wits.
But no longer.
I could take Balthazaar as a lover. If I am no longer a virgin, that will put an end to this seeress nonsense the abbess keeps insisting on.
Besides, I cannot help but feel as if riding with the hellequin is doing more to serve Mortain than sitting with Sister Vereda in some stone chamber. I could have a role here with these men. I am able to lighten their mood, to ease their despair just a tiny bit. What if I could be a glimmer of light on their long, dark quest for redemption?
Perhaps that is even why Mortain led me into their path.
The next night, when Balthazaar lies down next to me, I turn my entire body so that I am facing him. He grows so still, it is as if he has become part of the stone floor upon which we lie. I say nothing, hoping he will instinctively know what I want, but he makes no move, does not even, I think, breathe. Merde.
“Balthazaar?”
There is a faint sigh—a movement or exhalation, I cannot tell. Slowly, as if approaching some wild, untamed creature, I reach out and lay my hand upon his chest. His muscles bunch up beneath my fingers, and, almost as if against his will, his head turns toward mine. When our gazes meet through the darkness, it is as intimate as a touch and my heart begins to beat more deeply.
“What are you doing?” His voice is strained and hardly sounds like his own.
“I thought we could . . .” I stop and swallow. Now that the moment is upon me, I fear my nerve will fail. I close my eyes and remember the look on his face when we were sparring, remember the way his hands lingered on my body. “I know you desire me. I . . . I can see it when you look at me.” For all of Sister Beatriz’s lessons, I am doing this wrong, and a slow, hot flush of embarrassment washes over me.
He grabs my hand in his, and the feel of his na**d fingers against mine sends a shock all the way down to my belly. We have rarely touched, and then only when he was wearing gloves. He brings my hand to his mouth and presses his lips upon it. A brief, fleeting gesture that is all too soon over. Then he tucks my hand under my chin. “This is not what you want. Not truly.” His voice is gruff and filled with an aching loneliness, a loneliness that I know I can ease.
“But it is.” I reach for him again, only this time I let my fingers drift up to his hair and touch the soft, dark strands of it. “I want to be with you,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes for a long moment and leans into my touch. My heart lifts, thinking this means he will agree. But then he pulls himself away and puts an arm’s length of distance between us. “That is not allowed.” His voice is rough, as if the words are being dragged along shards of glass. “And even if it were, you are too young, too good, to pledge yourself to the road I must travel. To pledge yourself to me.” Then, before I can argue further, he rises to his feet and strides away, leaving me cold and alone in the dark.
When I wake, Balthazaar is not at my side, and my heart plummets as I remember last night. Sitting up, I cast a casual glance around the cave, trying to locate him.