The souls try to scramble back from the gaping darkness that seems to reach for them, but the hellequin press too close. “We’re not going through there,” one of them says. “We know what awaits.”
“Do you?” Balthazaar asks gently.
“Hellfire and damnation. Demons gnawing on our flesh for centuries” is the soul’s answer.
Begard steps forward, his cheerful face creased with earnestness. “No. It will not be like that. Let me show you.”
The soul looks from Begard to Balthazaar. “And if I refuse?”
“Then we will let you go, and you will be free to wander, lost and alone. And after you have wandered some more, we will find you and bring you back to this place, where once again you will be given a choice.”
“Here. I will go first,” Begard says, and he steps through the doorway, the darkness in the opening so absolute that it appears to consume him.
One of the souls stares after Begard hungrily, and with no more words or arguments, he follows him through the door. The other two seem to lose their resistance and stumble forward, almost as if they welcome the pull of that which they feared was lost to them.
And then they are gone, swallowed up by the darkness. In the moment of stillness that follows, the mood around me shifts almost imperceptibly. It takes me a moment to recognize that it is a feeling of accomplishment. The hellequin are eager to do their task, not just because it earns them redemption, but because it affirms there is rest for all souls—eventually.
Chapter Seventeen
AFTER ONCE AGAIN STICKING to me like a leech as I slept, Balthazaar completely ignores me once I am awake. Indeed, it is as if I have somehow contracted the plague and he is afraid of catching it. Which leads me to wonder just how many physical ills hellequin are vulnerable to. I shall have to ask him. If he ever gets close enough for me to speak with him again.
After very little preparation—I am the only one who bothers with such comforts as a bedroll and food—we are off, moving out into the night like an undulating serpent across the grass. We ride, slowly at first but gaining speed with each moment that passes until we are galloping into the cold night air. For a moment—just a moment—I give myself over to the sheer pleasure of being out in the world once more, lift my face to the night breeze and simply enjoy the pleasure of being alive and moving to fill my skin. A part of me cannot help but admit to the thrill to be had in such unrestrained wildness, riding faster than the wind itself, the entire pack moving like one graceful entity.
Spending so much time in the antechamber of the Underworld gives one an entirely new appreciation of life.
Again Balthazaar rides in the van and assigns his minions to watch over me. Either we do not set as grueling a pace as last night or I have already grown accustomed to it. We ride in silence but for the pounding of the horses’ hooves. There is a buoyancy, a rush of something akin to joy, for all that it is naught but joy’s thin, darker cousin, that drives home for me why the hellequin relish these rides. Not only does it bring them that much closer to redemption, but it allows them the chance to be free from the confines of their daily prison.
I too am glad to be free of the cromlech, for it disturbs me as much as it fascinates me. It is easy to feel one’s spirit become dampened, quiet, as if it is making ready for the final journey to the Underworld.
Besides, since I do not know if Mortain hunts me or not, it seems foolish to tarry on His doorstep.
And yet, what choice do I have? A lone woman, even one of Mortain’s own, cannot go against so many any more than a leaf can swim upstream. So like a leaf in a stream, I will let myself be carried along in the hellequin’s current and hope that it will take me where I wish to go. Eventually.
The trees on either side of us brush by, seeming to give way before our approach. The sharp bite of winter still hangs in the air and our breath comes out in puffs of small, white clouds, giving the riders an altogether otherworldly appearance.
Balthazaar falls back to ride beside me, and as if by some silent agreement or command, the others disperse. He says nothing. Does not so much as look at me, but simply rides at my side, his demonic horse crowding me and Fortuna.
As we journey in silence, his moodiness seems to fall away from him so that by the time we slow to give our horses a break, he looks far less forbidding. Relieved, I finally allow myself to ask one of the scores of questions clattering in my head. “How could you tell the souls you caught last night were only lost and not wicked? Do you see marques, like daughters of Mortain do?”
He brings his head around and pierces me with a fierce gaze. “How do you know of the marques? That is knowledge only those who serve Mortain should have.”
Merde. In my eagerness for answers, I let my fool tongue run away with me. “Do not be angry. My mother’s sister meant no harm in telling us. She was just awed by the gifts and mercy Mortain bestows upon the world and those who serve Him that she could not contain herself.” I hold his stony gaze for a moment, and then another, to impress upon him that I am telling the truth.
When Balthazaar finally looks away, I allow myself a silent sigh of relief, then quickly change the subject. “Can you coax a soul to follow you while it is still in its mortal body?”
“Only Mortain can do that.”
“Have you ever seen Mortain?”
His scowl deepens, and I cannot help but wonder what fault he finds with this question. “Yes. I have seen Him, but He is the god of Death, not some knight to be swooned over.”
“I am not swooning over Him! I have heard stories all my life and want to know what is true and what is not.”
We are saved from further arguing when the hounds begin to bay. Within moments, the entire hunt picks up its pace. Our path takes us darting between trees and leaping over streamlets, galloping past newly tilled fields and small stone cottages with the windows tightly shuttered and the doors barred.
The hounds’ braying grows even more frantic and Sauvage takes the lead. I do not know if it is because he is the most terrifying or if it is simply his turn. Instead of going farther into the woods, the hunt veers to the left. That is when I see the two men—souls. They are racing toward the wayside cross that sits where our path intersects with the main road.
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.