Chapter Eighteen
THE NEXT NIGHT’S HUNT PROVES fruitless, and the hellequin’s disappointment is as heavy and ominous as an impending thunderstorm. Twice, the mood quickened, as if they had scented prey, but it came to naught. Indeed, this lack of success in finding so much as a rabbit to catch for my own small supper has cast a pall over the entire group. It is not yet dawn when we return, but none of the hellequin seem ready to retire for the night. Instead, they build a fire, a larger one than normal, and a dozen or so of them gather round. I start to slip away to leave them to their private misery, but Balthazaar calls out to me.
“Come,” he says, holding out a hand. “You have said you honor the old ways and worship Mortain. Come tell us of your faith. Mayhap it will remind us of ours.”
Unwilling to deny them this small comfort, I accept his hand. It is large and firm and feels wholly of this world, except for the faint chill that seeps through his glove. As he leads me to the fire, my mind scrambles for what to tell them of Mortain. Which words can I share without giving away my true identity?
The others make room for me, and though they are outlaws and sinners and have all manner of black hearts, their acceptance gladdens me, which is surely a hundred kinds of foolish.
I settle myself upon the hard rocky floor and stare into the flames, for they are easier to look at than the desolate faces around me. “What can I tell you? I was raised to see Mortain as the first among the Nine, for without Death, there could be no life. Just as the roots of living trees must reach down past the loam and soil to find sustenance from the Underworld, so too are we sustained by Death. Of a certainty, He has sustained me through many . . . trials.” I look up at the hellequin, at their rough, broken faces. “Although my trials were much different from yours, they were hard enough in their own way, and I would have faltered without Mortain to lend me His strength.”
Even though I am not looking at him, I can feel Balthazaar’s nearness, much as a moth senses the heat of a flame. “People fear Him—wrongly. They see punishment and starkness in Death, yet there is beauty as well. The small black beetles that burrow deep in the earth to die every winter, only to be reborn in the spring. The tree branches that turn to barren bone, yet unfurl with new leaves. Those are the promises that reside in Death.
“The Mortain I believe in is not scary or terrifying. People’s terror comes from their own fear, or tales told by the Church rather than from anything Mortain has done. People are afraid of what they do not understand, and since they have abandoned the old ways, they no longer understand Death and His true place—His true purpose—in this world.”
Only when I am done talking do I allow myself to glance in Balthazaar’s direction. His head is tilted to the side and he studies me intently, as if peering through my flesh and sinew to my soul. “You love Him,” he says, his voice filled with wonder.
I duck my head, embarrassed. “He is a god, and I but honor Him.” But Balthazaar is right: I do love Him. And in that moment, I know that I do not wish to leave His service. I want only to understand it—understand what He wants from me and trust that however I spend my life, it is His will coupled with mine, not simply the convent’s. I lift my gaze back to Balthazaar. “If you do not see Him as I do, how do you come to pledge yourself to His service?” I ask.
The silence that follows my question is as thick and heavy as the stone upon which I sit, and I fear no one will answer until, at last, Begard speaks.
“Through true remorse,” he says, staring into the flames. “In the moment of your death, the desire to redeem yourself becomes a physical thing, like a rope you can use to pull yourself back from the edge of drowning.”
Miserere shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the flickering shadows on the cavern wall. “At the moment of your death, you are filled with a fierce need to claw your way back up the very sword that pierced you and bellow that it is not over. You are not finished yet. You still need time to atone for all that you have done.”
Something at the edge of the group shifts, and I look up to find Sauvage standing there, his hand buried in the fur of one of the giant hound’s neck. “It is all those you have killed, silently looking at you with their dead, haunted eyes, that chase you back into life, willing to pay any price to avoid looking at them for all eternity.”
Silence descends upon us once more. I wish for Balthazaar to tell his tale, for I am desperate to know what sin he has committed to earn this penance. Almost as if hearing my wish, he looks up at me with a face that seems as if it were carved out of sorrow and despair. I want to reach across the distance between us and run a finger along one of his dark brows, as if in so doing I could wipe away the bleakness I see in his eyes. Instead, I pull my fingers tightly against my palm and turn my gaze to the fire.
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.