“I’m calling a halt for the night,” my rescuer says.
A faint grumble begins among the other riders, building into a growl of discontent.
“But there is at least another hour until dawn!” A tall, lanky youth speaks. He is loose-limbed and fairly bouncing in his saddle, so I assume he was not accustomed to riding before becoming a hellequin. His most riveting features are his easy smile—unusual enough in this group—and his eyes, which are like those of a child who is convinced that everyone has gotten a larger sweetmeat than he has.
A third man, who wears fine armor and is strikingly handsome but for the fact that his eyes seem to hold nothing but emptiness, shoots me an unreadable glance. “It is because of her, isn’t it?”
Slowly, my rescuer turns and looks at the speaker, his manner so chilled that I am surprised frost does not appear on the ground beneath his horse. “It has nothing to do with her. It is because there is nothing out there. If you had not been so caught up in your riding, you would have realized the hounds have not brayed in hours.”
That quiets most of them, although one lone voice in the back is still grumbling, reminding me of nothing so much as a petulant child. “Stay here, and do not speak to anyone,” my rescuer orders me, then rides off to deal with the malcontent. That is when I realize he is not just one of the hellequin, but their leader.
As I wait, the nearest hellequin drift closer. I do not see them move, but become aware that there is less space between us than before. In addition to the giant, the armored knight, and the lanky youth, there is an elegant, sharp-featured man whose face is tinged with the unmistakable arrogance of nobility. He is an exceptional horseman and carries a well-wrought sword at his side and wears fine leather gloves.
To my other side is another truly terrifying figure. He is just as tall as the first giant, who now sits to my right, and even broader across the shoulders. He wears spiked vambraces and an armored breastplate, and in his left hand he carries a mace. His horse wears an armored faceplate, the only one of the hellequins’ horses to do so. It gives him a most unnerving air. Just looking at him calls to mind the hacking of limbs and the scent of blood, and it is all I can do not to shudder.
They say nothing but study me intently, some with hunger and others with dispassion. I force myself not to fidget, but Fortuna, sensing my unease, grows restless beneath me.
Just as I decide it would be safer to move than to obey my order to stay put, the giant to my right, the one with the long hair, speaks. “You’ve nothing to fear. No one will harm you.” He grunts in what can only be disgust. “Not with Balthazaar’s scent all over you.”
His words bring a hot flush of embarrassment to my face and I want to explain how his scent came to be all over me, but that desire wars with the command not to speak with any of the men. Then righteous indignation flares and I want to throw my true identity before them all like a gauntlet and tell them I am one of Mortain’s own and they’d best treat me with respect.
Except, if they are hunting for me, it would be beyond foolish to dangle my identity in front of them like raw meat before a wolf. Instead, I swallow my pride—which burns mightily as it goes down—and try to look like the sort of woman who would allow a man (a hellequin!) to make her his. To distract myself, I turn my attention to the rest of the hunt. While dawn is still a way off, the sky has begun to lighten enough that I can see the whole of them somewhat better than before.
They number between sixty and eighty, all of them men. Some look like outlaws and brigands, unkempt and bearing every manner of weapon. Others are concealed in darkness, their black cloaks and hoods the only things giving them form and substance. A handful of the riders are striking in their beauty, looking almost like the fallen angels the Christian priests speak of. Some look like fallen warriors, rough, scarred, and gruff of manner.
My rescuer—Balthazaar, the giant called him—comes riding back to my side just then, and it is the first time I am able to get a good look at him. He is breathtakingly handsome in a dark, almost broken way. He wears his hair long, and his jaw and nose are strong and sharp, as if chiseled of the finest marble by a master stonemason. His eyes are deep-set and so dark they look like pools of night without so much as a star shining from within their depths. Even more intriguing, there is something vaguely familiar about him. Although I know I have never seen him before in my life, there is some thread of recognition, a hidden connection between us, as unwelcome as it is unnerving.
He looks up just then and catches me staring. I long to glance away, to hide the boldness of my perusal. Sister Beatriz says that is the first step in the complex dance of ensnaring a man with one’s charms, but I do not wish to ensnare him—or even have him think that is my purpose—so I raise my chin in defiance and leave my gaze on his face.
“It is too late to turn back.” The left corner of his mouth tightens in what could be either amusement or annoyance.
“I’ve no wish to turn back. I merely wished to see what manner of man I had thrown in my lot with.”
Without even moving, he does something so that his great black horse takes a step toward me, then another, crowding Fortuna so that she must back up or be trampled. “And have you passed your judgment? Detected the reek of sin and evil and found us lacking? Condemned us all over again in the court of your mind?”
I meet his gaze steadily, doing nothing to hide my irritation. If he—if they—are hunting me, I cannot afford to show fear and act like prey. “No. I myself know something of darkness and sin and am not so very quick to judge others.”
Balthazaar turns from me to the small crowd that has formed around us. “Be gone,” he growls.
They all scatter except for the longhaired giant, who lingers a moment, giving the other man a long, hard look. “It is not fair. To the others.” His voice is so deep, it seems as if it rises up from the ground beneath our horses’ hooves. “She is too great a temptation to them.”
Balthazaar does his thing with his horse so that it tries to crowd the other man, but it is like trying to crowd a mountain. “This is no country jaunt, Miserere. It is meant as penance and atonement. Being surrounded by temptation is part of the indenture.”
The giant stares a beat longer. “There is temptation, and then there is taunting.” His impersonal gaze flickers over me once more, then he turns and rides away, his horse managing to send a shower of dirt our way as they depart.