Now, I think. Now is my chance, when everyone is busy with the souls. I slip out of my saddle onto the ground, then wait, stomping my feet as if to stay warm in case anyone should notice me.
As if I am merely stretching my legs, I saunter over to Balthazaar’s abandoned horse. The creature has grown used to my scent after our weeks riding together. Even though he tosses his mane and blows loudly, we both understand it is simply for show.
I carefully unlatch the strap that holds the saddlebag closed, glancing around as I do to be certain none of the men are watching. I reach into the saddlebag and grope blindly, certain my hands will recognize the object, for I have seen enough of it from a distance to discern the shape of it.
There! My hand closes around something long and thin. When I draw it out, I see that it is an arrow. I frown. Balthazaar does not even possess a bow.
Unease slithers across my shoulders. I turn to angle the arrow so the light of the moon falls upon it. A jolt of recognition slams through me.
It is my arrow. There is no mistaking the supple yew wood of the shaft, the black crow feathers I used for the fletching, and the single dove feather that is my own signature mark.
My heart starts to race, and slowly I bring the tip up so I may see the arrowhead itself.
It is stained dark with old blood.
My blood. Blood that I smeared upon it the night of the midwinter ceremony.
Every muscle in my body clenches. I shove the arrow into the saddlebag and begin backing away, struggling to keep my steps slow and measured.
I wait a beat, then another, before allowing myself to seek out Balthazaar’s figure. When I see that he is still with the others, gently trying to coax answers from the confused souls they have captured, I allow myself to breathe again. I have time. My snooping was not spotted. I clench my hands into fists, then open them, trying to work some of the tension from my body.
I do not know what this means, except that nothing is as it seems and I now feel myself to be in grave peril. I can only assume the arrow means the hellequin are hunting me as I originally feared, although why Balthazaar has not made a move against me, I do not know. He must be playing some long game I do not yet recognize.
Or perhaps before he could send me on to the Underworld, he found himself drawn to me and thought to take his ease. For he was drawn to me—the sparks between us crackled and snapped from our first meeting.
But then why did he reject my offer? Was it a way to use my own sin of pride against me, to rub salt into the wound of wanting him? A punishment of his own before turning me over to the judgment of Mortain?
I shake my head, trying to disentangle myself from all the questions that threaten to cloud my wits. There will be plenty of time for me to ponder my foolish mistakes once I am free. For I must escape before he connects me to that arrow or, if he has already made that connection, before he decides to move.
The good news is that the hellequin have grown fully accustomed to my presence. They trust me now and are less inclined to watch my every move as they did when I first joined them.
Morning is almost here. It is the perfect time to make my escape. I need evade capture only until daybreak. Then they will have to return to one of their cromlechs and wait until nightfall again.
I glance up at the sky and try to determine how long until dawn. Less than an hour, I think. If I do not move soon, I will be forced to spend another night with them—with him—and I do not know if I can keep my newfound knowledge hidden.
To test if anyone is paying attention to me, I remount Fortuna, then urge her to take a few steps away from the group. No one spares me a glance; they are too intent on the conversation taking place between the others.
Now. The word flares up in my mind like a beacon, and I can only hope it is a sign from some god other than the god of mistakes. In slow and careful steps, I allow Fortuna to keep drifting farther and farther from the others. Still no one notices. I urge her to the right, into the trees, an excuse of needing to relieve my bladder ready at my lips, or a claim of spotting yet another wandering lost soul. Still no one follows.
Heartened now, I let Fortuna pick up her pace, threading through the thickest of the trees, which will slow down any pursuit.
The forest is quiet all around me, soaking up the sound of our passing like a thick blanket. I must put some serious distance between the hellequin and me, but to do that I will have to gallop. Once I do, there will be no way to hide that I am attempting to escape. My heart inches up into my throat.
After a moment’s hesitation, I finally put my heels to Fortuna’s flanks and urge her to fly. And fly she does. As if she can somehow sense my own urgency, she races through the trees, dodging them nimbly. Or perhaps it is all the nights she spent riding with the hunt that have given her such speed. Either way, I am heartened, as each step takes me farther and farther away from the hellequin. From the incrimination of my own arrow. From the pain of Balthazaar’s rejection and lies.
We run for close to a quarter of an hour before I have the sense that I am being followed. I turn my head to the side, straining to hear, but my ears are full of the thudding of Fortuna’s hooves and her heavy, rhythmic breathing.
She will need to rest soon.
I glance up at the eastern sky, which is just beginning to lighten. Sunrise is not far off.
I lean low over Fortuna’s neck, grab hold of her mane, and whisper in her ear for her to run faster if she can, and if she can’t, well, then may the gods themselves help us. I find I cannot pray to Mortain, not when He may have sent the hellequin to find me. At the very least, it is like pulling Him into some sordid family quarrel.
And then it reaches me: the distant thunder of horses’ hooves. After spending weeks in the hellequin’s company, I find the sound is nearly as familiar to me as that of my own breathing.
Fortuna has no more to give. Her sides are streaked in sweat, and her lungs are heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows. I glance around, but there are no buildings, no houses, no convenient churches nearby in which to beg shelter. There is nothing but trees and forest as far as I can see. I glance up at the treetops, wondering . . .
Without pausing to think it through lest I lose my nerve, I kick my feet out of my stirrups and loop the reins loosely around the saddle horn. “Keep running,” I whisper to Fortuna. “But slow down if you must. Just lead them away from me.”
Then I reach down, grab hold of the saddle, and use it to steady myself as I slowly draw my legs up.
The ground below races by. I ignore it, and the sharp rocks and logs that lie in wait should I fail. I pull my legs under me, find my balance, and slowly begin to ease myself to a standing position, letting my body adjust to the rhythm of Fortuna’s gait.