Mortal Heart (32 page)

I ignore his dark brooding presence at my elbow and review everything I have learned about marques—about how and where they appear and the different ways in which Mortain’s daughters see them. I know that Ismae has seen marques since she was young and that they appear to her in ways that suggest the method of death. Sybella only sees them on the victim’s forehead, and she did not see that until after she was administered the Tears.

There are initiates who never see marques at all, although those are rare. That is why we rely so heavily on the seeress, and it is no small part of why I am so terrified of having that rest on my shoulders—I cannot believe that I am to be His voice in this world.

When we reach the gate tower, I put my hand out to stop the hellequin. Just as I do, two guards emerge from the door. Before I can react, the hellequin grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around so that my back is against the wall. Leaning over me, he presses our bodies together, his cloak swirling forward with the movement and wrapping itself around my legs. Then he brings his hooded head down toward mine, so close I think he plans to kiss me again, and while I am annoyed with his actions, my traitorous heart gives a small, eager leap. Just as I prepare to wrench away from him, he whispers in my ear, “Hold still.”

I curse my own loss of focus. He is right. It is one of the first lessons we learn at the convent, how to meld with the shadows. And I would have remembered it if I hadn’t been so distracted by the idea of him kissing me again. There is a good chance the sentries will not see us, and if they do, they will likely think it is merely some soldier’s dalliance.

I feel Balthazaar’s heart beating against my own as the two soldiers pass by. They are close enough that the hellequin could reach out and touch them if he wished, but they do not so much as look in our direction. When they have passed and their footsteps no longer echo on the cobblestones, Balthazaar steps away.

“I told you you would have need of me.”

I avoid his eyes as I adjust my skirts. “I could have escaped their notice equally well on my own. I have been sneaking and skulking since I was a child, and am very good at it. Now, are you ready to play your part?” It was the price I demanded if he insisted on coming with me.

“I still say you would make a better distraction than I.”

I give him a grin that is all teeth and little humor. “Yes, but I have the sleeping draft and you do not.” I give him a push, which is like pushing a stone wall. He makes certain I know this by resisting a long moment before finally choosing to step back.

I squelch the urge to reach out and kick him.

As he slips away, I keep myself from asking him what he plans to do to distract the guards. Instead, I slide along the gate-tower wall, ease myself toward the guard room, then slip inside. Torches flicker lazily in their iron sconces, causing long shadows to dance in the dim light. I move quickly to the table where the men had been sitting, their dice still lying upon its surface. Quickly, I remove the small paper of fine white powder from the cuff of my sleeve, tap a sprinkle into each cup, then pour the rest into the jug. Before I can do more than that, I hear the footsteps of the returning men.

I step back into the shadows near the corner of the room, grateful for the sputtering torch light that is barely enough to see the dice by.

And then I wait.

The men take their seats. One of them says something, laughs, then lifts his cup and takes a swig of wine. As he lifts the jug to pour himself more, his companion drains his cup and holds it out to be filled as well. Some of the tension in my shoulders relaxes and I lean back against the wall, waiting for the draft to do its work.

I do not know if it takes longer than it should or if it is just very hard to wait while crouching in the shadows. At last, their heads nod, and first one, then the other, slumps over the table, the movement causing the dice to fall to the floor.

Victory wells up within me. Now I may face Crunard.

Slowly, I turn and walk from the antechamber to the short narrow hallway beyond, then pause. There are no doors here, only grilles of ironwork, much like the portcullis. A lone man sits behind one of them. For all that he is in need of a haircut and his beard a trim, I recognize him immediately from his visits to the convent.

Feeling my eyes upon him, he looks up. Slowly, he leans back against the wall, one side of his mouth lifting in a bitter smile. “I wondered when she would send someone after me. It is not like her to waste an opportunity when one of her opponents has been weakened.”

“I am not sent by the duchess,” I tell him as I search his face for any hint of the dark smudge that I am so desperately praying for.

“I know. You are sent by the abbess of Saint Mortain.”

A
T HIS WORDS
, everything inside me grows still. “You know why I am here?”

“Perhaps even better than you do.”

His words prick at something uncomfortable in me. “What do you mean?” That I must ask this question rankles me, but my need to know what hidden web is being woven is greater than my pride.

He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant gesture. “It means that I understand better than you why you have been sent. You think you are on Mortain’s business, but you are not. You are here on hers.”

I force out a laugh and hope it does not sound as false to his ears as it does to mine. “You are facing death, my lord. It is not surprising that you would say anything you can think of to stay my hand.”

He shifts then, rises to his feet. Good! If he comes closer to the light, mayhap I will see a cursed marque. I silently raise my bow.

He ignores the arrow pointed straight at his chest and stands just on the other side of the iron bars. “Did she tell you why I must die?”

“You betrayed the duchess, did everything in your power to hand our kingdom over to the French regent. I do not think there is much to explain.”

“Your fellow handmaiden chose not to kill me once. Perhaps she knew something you did not?”

My heart twists painfully. “Matelaine?”

He frowns slightly. “No, Ismae. When she first discovered I was the one behind the plots here at court, she chose not to exact justice. Have you asked yourself why?”

Even though there is hardly any room, I take a step closer. “No. I was too busy trying to puzzle out why you had killed the second handmaiden sent after you. Surely you recognize that now, in addition to your crimes against the kingdom, you have committed crimes against Mortain.”

His frowns deepens and he appears genuinely puzzled. “A second handmaiden?”

I laugh again. “Playing dumb will not help you, not when I stand here with an arrow pointed at your black heart.”

He spreads his hands wide, as if giving me a clear shot at his chest. “If you think I am eager to cling to this life when all I have ever cared for is gone—my family, my lands, my honor—then you are sadly mistaken.” Crunard grips the bars with his hands. “I welcome death,” he whispers.

“Then you shall have it,” I whisper back. But even though every fiber of my being wishes to see this man dead for what he did to Matelaine—and to the duchess—I find I cannot release the arrow.

He leans forward. “Do you see one of your precious marques on me?”

Shock travels along my bones that he would know of such things. “It is probably hidden by your clothing.” I motion with the bow. “Strip.” While I am eager to see if he bears a marque, I am equally eager to wipe the smug certainty from his face.

There is a whisper of movement to my left as I feel Balthazaar unfold himself from the shadows, and I wonder how long he has been there. He leans close enough to whisper in my ear. “Let me have him.”

Scowling, I turn my arrow on him. “He is mine.”

Balthazaar holds his hands up in a placating gesture and slips back into the shadows. I return my attention to Crunard and watch as he pulls off his doublet, then unlaces his linen shirt and pulls it over his head. His chest is still broad with muscle, even though the hair upon it has gone white. But there is no marque.

Before I can respond to that stark fact, the hellequin grabs my arm and pulls me aside, out of Crunard’s hearing. “
Do
you see a marque on him?”

“No,” I admit, making no effort to hide my disgust. Hopefully, his accursedly sharp hearing will not pick up on the despair I feel—that even with the Tears, I do not possess this most basic of skills.

“Have you seen all you need to see?” Crunard’s dry voice cuts through my thoughts. “For it is cold and damp and I would rather not catch a fever and die that way. Better for you to simply kill me with your arrow now. It would be a far more merciful death.”

“You assume that you deserve mercy,” I snap, “when I am sure of no such thing. And yes, you may put your clothes back on.”

While he dresses, I ponder my options.

I cannot say with utter certainty that Crunard is meant to die. If Mortain Himself or the duchess’s justice demands it, that would be one thing, but I do not trust the abbess’s word that he must die. Especially with the unsubtle insinuations Crunard is throwing around.

I huff out a sigh. “Very well.” At Balthazaar’s eager look, I give him a shove, releasing some of that frustration on him. “No, you will
not
hunt him,” I say. “But I will take him back to Rennes to face the duchess’s justice, and she can decide his fate. Unless Mortain marques him on the way. Then I will kill him.”

The hellequin studies me a moment and then gives a single nod. “So be it,” he says.

My mind spins furiously, devising a plan. It will be easy enough to get Crunard free of his prison. Harder to get him out of the city. I turn to Crunard, who is watching us both with hungry eyes. “As you heard, you will be coming with us. But if you make one noise when you should not, make any attempt to escape, I will cheerfully kill you, then drag your body back to the abbess and the duchess. Is that clear?”

He nods. “Most clear, demoiselle.”

In the end, I decide that moving quickly is better than sitting around devising the perfect plan. I slip back out to the antechamber and the two drugged guards, remove the key from the jailor’s belt, then return to Crunard’s cell. As I fit the key into the lock, I pause, for some reason reminded of the old tale of the girl whose curiosity drove her to open a box that let loose all sorts of evils upon the world. I too feel as if I am on the brink of answers, answers that have the power to move through my life like a storm surge. I cannot help but wonder what will be left when I am on the other side.

“Come along,” I tell him, slipping one of my knives into my hand where he can see it. “And quietly.”

He nods, then steps out of his prison slowly, as if unable to believe I will not slam the door in his face. I turn to Balthazaar. “Tie his hands behind his back.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Crunard reluctantly turns around. As the hellequin tends to that, I close the door, lock it, then toss the keys inside. At his raised eyebrow, I shrug. “It will give them something to puzzle over.” Then I grab Crunard’s arm and shove him in front of me. Balthazaar falls into step behind us like a sinister shadow.

Crunard spares one glance at the two guards slumped over the table, their dice on the floor. “Did you kill them?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie, hoping he will think me ruthless and therefore be less inclined to attempt escape. “Now, hush and act the contrite prisoner, or I will kill you as well.”

My plan, such as it is, is to pretend we have been charged with transferring the prisoner to Rennes, where he is to stand trial for his crimes. All the lessons on subterfuge and lying that have served me so well at the convent will serve me equally well here. Or so I hope.

As we reach the landing, I pause, listening for the sentries. Still only two, I think. Very well. I glance over at the hellequin. “You are my escort, provided to me by the duchess herself.”

He raises one darkly arched brow, then nods. I draw a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, then step outside.

At once, the two sentries spring to attention, raising their weapons in spite of their surprise. “Halt!” the taller one cries, his eyes widening when he recognizes Crunard.

I scowl at them, letting the men know just how much they annoy me. “Delay us at your own risk,” I warn.

They glance at each other.

“We are sent to bring the prisoner to Rennes to stand trial for his crimes. If you detain us, you are delaying the duchess’s own business.”

Finally, unable to help himself, the taller one asks, “How did you get in there?”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “We walked right past you, and you can be certain your lack of attention to your duties will not go unmentioned.”

The shorter one glances down at my hand—the one that does not hold the knife. “Do you have orders of some kind?” It may be my imagination, but I think I detect a new note of respect in his voice.

I shove Crunard a short distance from me so they can see my attire. “Do you dare to question one of Mortain’s own?”

The taller guard crosses himself, the superstitious gesture grating on me, but the shorter guard gives a small bow.

“Besides, the guards below had no problem letting us through. Perhaps you should consult with them.”

They pause a long moment, then finally relent. “Very well, demoiselle,” the taller one says. “You may be on your way. I have no wish to keep this traitor from his rightful punishment.”

I nod regally. “In the name of Mortain, I thank you.”

As we step out of earshot of the guards, I feel the hellequin lean in close. “You take great pleasure in throwing that name around, don’t you?”

I swat at him, disappointed when I miss hitting his long nose. “You may go now. I have no more need of your services.”

“Not a chance,” he says, and I fear I can hear amusement in his voice. “Besides, you will need assistance getting him back to Rennes. In truth, you will need assistance getting him out of the city, no?”

And though I wish to argue and tell him he is wrong, I am not willing to jeopardize my prisoner for my pride. “I could manage on my own, but if you insist on hanging about, then you’d best make yourself useful. Return to the inn and collect my saddlebag from my room and then get our horses. If you could find a third horse, that would be most beneficial.”