While their eyes are wide with terror, they also exhibit a large helping of defiance. I look around, waiting to see which hellequin will talk to them, the way it was done last night, but none of them dismount. Instead, Sauvage takes a rope from his saddle, swings it out and around and then down over the two men, capturing them. He jerks hard, yanking them off their feet, then waits. After a moment, the two rise uncertainly, glaring at the hellequin. Sauvage jerks on the rope once more, but not so hard that the men fall again, only hard enough to get them moving. Thus roped and surrounded by grinning hellequin, they are escorted to the nearest cromlech.
It is not hard to wonder where rumors of demon spawn come from.
When we reach the cromlech, the hellequin dismount. Sauvage, with Balthazaar close on his heels, shoves the men through the entrance to the cromlech, and the rest of the hunt follows. They drive them toward the door to the Underworld, where the darkness waits, beating like a pulse.
Then, surprising both me and the souls, Sauvage removes the rope. They stand free once more. “It is time for you to pass from this world to the next,” Balthazaar says.
One of the prisoners spits off to the side. “The Church says you will lead us to hell.”
“The Church is wrong. Hell does not reside beyond that door.”
“If you want me to go through there, you’re going to have to carry me yourself.”
“I will not. If you cross, you must do so by your own free choice.”
“What if I do not?”
“Then we will hunt you again and again, until the end of time, if necessary, and each time, we will bring you back to the mouth of the Underworld until you grow tired of the hunt and surrender to what must be.”
While the one man argues, the second one glances over at the blackness that fills the doorway. He must see something there that comforts him, for without so much as a word to his companion, he steps through the door.
Gaping in surprise, the other man stares after him, as if awaiting screams or cries for help. None come. The darkness that lurks in the narrow passageway seems to swell forward, almost as if reaching for him. Instead of fleeing in terror, the soul remains still, and something on his face shifts, the fear replaced by . . . wonder? Relief? He steps forward to greet the darkness willingly, even eagerly.
I look at the hellequin around me, yearning sitting heavy upon them, and for the first time, I understand the hunger I see on their faces. They cannot wait for their turn to be welcomed into their final resting place.
There are tears in my eyes when I turn and walk away, nearly ramming into Balthazaar. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, keeping my gaze downcast. “I did not see you there.” He is so close, I can feel the rise and fall of his breath. I hold myself still, waiting for him to say something.
Instead of speaking, he reaches out to capture one of the tears falling down my cheek. “Why are you crying?” His voice grows soft, intimate even, and I cannot help myself—I look up so I may see his face. “They will not be harmed,” he says gently. “It was their own fear reflected back at them, not because of something we had done.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I am just overwhelmed by the immensity of Mortain’s grace. That even if we are lost or wandering, He will find us—always, He will find us—and try to bring us home.”
“Yes,” Balthazaar says. “He will.” His finger lingers against my cheek a moment before he turns and walks away.
As I watch him depart, I wonder if the hellequin are Mortain’s way of ensuring I find my way home, wherever that may be, and if Balthazaar’s words are a warning or a promise.
The next night is much the same, and I realize I have fallen into a routine with the hellequin. That unsettles me, for it speaks of acceptance, of resignation. I have become distracted by the wonder of Mortain’s grace in action, by these inhabitants of the Underworld come to life before me, and by the men’s own tragic histories.
So distracted that it takes me a full week before I wonder why we have not yet reached Guérande. That night, when Balthazaar falls back to ride beside me, I confront him. “What is taking so long? We should have reached Guérande by now.”
“We will reach Guérande,” Balthazaar says stubbornly. “We are just crisscrossing the countryside as we go. It is how we hunt, and I never said we would not hunt on the way.”
“No, but you did not explain you would take over a week to make a three-day trip either.”
He stares down at his hands holding the reins. “Is what you have waiting for you there so very important?” It is the faint, almost undetectable note of wistfulness in his voice that gives me pause. “A lover perhaps?” he continues.
“I have no lover.” I am further intrigued when I see his grip on the reins loosen—in relief? “But I do have important business I must conduct there. I did not expect to linger on the road so long.”
He looks up at my face then. “If there is one thing we hellequin have learned, demoiselle, it is that life is short and should be savored. It is best if you do not spend all your time wishing you were somewhere else. We will reach Guérande when we reach it.” And then he is gone, riding back to the front of the pack and motioning Miserere to take his place at my side.
As I watch him go, frustration and longing fill my chest, pressing heavily against my ribs. While I still want to get to Guérande and confront the abbess, the inner workings of Mortain and His world have appeared before me, almost as if He has willed it. Would it not be best to make the most of this short span of time when I am free? This is living without restraint like I have always dreamed of, even though the circumstances are far, far different then I ever imagined. Should I not just embrace this opportunity, accept that it may even be Mortain’s own hand that brought me here? Would not this depth of experience and additional knowledge give me even more fodder for my confrontation with the abbess?
And it is not as if my meeting with the abbess will bear anything but bitter fruit. In fact, there is a good chance she will do everything in her power to send me back to the convent. Back to fulfill the very destiny I am running from. And I do not yet know if I will go.
As long as I keep my true identity hidden—no more slips such as the stupid question about the marques—I should be fine. Besides, Balthazaar does not seem to be in too big a hurry to be rid of me.
Surely these are the reasons I decide not to pursue the matter further. Not because of a pair of tortured dark eyes that feel as if they brush against my soul every time they look at me.