“Except for the convent,” I whisper.
He nods. “The convent remembered me as I was, as well as small pockets of people here and there. Enough to sustain me, albeit in a reduced existence. To ease my loneliness, I sought a wife—”
“Amourna.”
“No. Not Amourna. Arduinna.”
I suck in a breath. “So it was a mistake.”
“Yes. A horrible, tragic mistake that ended so disastrously, I resolved to simply be with those mortal women who invited me into their beds. But those moments were always fleeting and did little to ease the loneliness that grew inside me. If not for my daughters, who maintained a faint thread of connection with me through their worship, I think I would have gone mad.
“Then, into this grim existence, a new heart opened up to me, as unexpected and surprising as a rose blooming in the dead of winter. This heart was not praying for deliverance or offering herself to me rather than her loutish husband. This heart simply belonged to a small, pure soul, one who brought a glimmer of joy to me once more.
“One day, this soul cried out in terror, and she was so open to me that I heard her. I, who had not been invited into anyone’s life in centuries, had a purpose. And so I went to her, and being with her eased that great loneliness in my soul in a way that lying with all those other women had not. So even as I comforted her, she comforted me. Even as she was nourished by our connection, I was fed as well. For a short span of time—months? Years? I do not know—I was not lonely.
“And then, it stopped. As if a door had been slammed in my face. And once again, I knew despair.”
“I was that soul,” I whisper.
He turns to face me, his eyes bleak with his painful memories. “Yes. You filled a hole that I had all but forgotten about.”
“But I was only five years old.”
He shrugs. “In the world of spirit, where I most often reside, a soul—and the light it shines—is utterly removed from such things as age. I did not know you were a child until I came upon you in the cellar, and then it was too late. I was caught. You prayed and chatted with me constantly, and I did not have the strength to let go of the gift that you offered. It was like bread to a starving man.
“Then later, when that barrier came up between us, it was as if the sun had fallen from the sky, and my existence became even more miserable than before because you had reminded me of all that I missed.”
“And yet,” I say, remembering those long hard years, “you never abandoned me. Even when you thought I had turned my back on you, you did not turn your back on me.”
He turns away, as if embarrassed. “But then you sent me your arrow, and I could not understand why you would do such a thing. It felt like a taunt, and it enraged me, filling me with equal parts hope and fury, and I could not tell what you truly wished from me.
“I had not decided what I would do about it, but I carried the arrow with me. I carry it still,” he says.
“I know. I saw it. That’s why I ran away from the hunt. I thought the hellequin had been sent to punish me for having left the convent without your permission.”
He looks taken aback—almost affronted—that I would think such a thing.
“I am sorry. It was a threat the nuns used with us when we were young, and I believed them.”
“You never needed my permission. You were always free to come and go as you pleased.”
“But that is not what they teach us,” I murmur.
He frowns, distracted by my words, but continues his tale. “And then one night, while I was leading the hunt, there you were. Standing with your back to a tree, making ready to take on the entire hunt if need be. Looking at you opened old wounds.” He clenches his hands into fists. “I hated that I could be made to want again.” He lifts his face to the stars, as if he is too embarrassed to look at me. “I wished to understand the nature of you, the why of you. And so I decided to take you with me.”
“If I recall, I came willingly.”
He tilts his head. “Somewhat. Although I would have insisted either way. I had lost you for long years and was not about to do so again, not until I was ready to set you aside.”
My stomach drops all the way to my toes at his words. “And are you?” I whisper. “Ready to set me aside?”
His eyes burn into me. “No.” After a long moment in which I must look away under the intensity of that gaze, he whispers, “So, what happened? Why did you shut the door and stop letting me in like that?”
“I told someone I had seen you. And I was punished for it, told I was lying, making things up. And so it became my secret, something that I shared with no one. But I was eventually caught out—and punished.” Brutally, but I do not tell him that, nor do I tell him the nature of the punishment, for it shames me still. “Shortly after that, the abbess who made my life so harsh died, and fear was no longer my constant companion. I did not feel as if I constantly walked the razor’s edge between life and death, and so my need for you lessened.” But also, the cost of opening myself to him had proved too great. “With the new abbess, I had been given a new chance, and I did not wish to risk making the same mistake.”
He reaches out and takes my hand in his own, gripping it firmly, as if he could pull me out of the dark confines of my memory. “And thus at a young age you became acquainted with the limits of Death and His power.” He closes his eyes, but not before I glimpse the anger and regret that fills them.
When he opens them again, he looks to the sky. “Dawn is coming.”
I am not ready to leave. There is still so much we must talk about. “When will I see you again?”
He holds very still, as if hope is some fragile thing he must coax forth bit by bit. “Would you like to?”
“I would. I am not done with trying to understand what is between us.”
He smiles then, and bows, then disappears into the shadows.
Chapter Forty-Six
“THE NEWS IS NOT GOOD.” Captain Dunois’s face is gray—with exhaustion or worry, I cannot tell. Perhaps both.
Duval glances at the duchess. “You do not need to be here, you know. We can handle this for you, at least for a little while longer.”
“No.” She gives a firm shake of her head. “I will not abandon my responsibility and let the hard decisions be made by others.”
Duval motions to Sybella. “Tell us.”
“There are fifteen thousand troops outside Rennes.” A gasp goes up around the room; no one expected that many. “It looks as if the bulk of them will be camped south of the city, with maybe a third of their forces in the north.”