Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

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.

It has been months since I’ve done this, but the movements come back to me easily. I match my rhythm to that of the horse, finding my balance, and gripping tightly with my feet.

Then I wait for the perfect branch. One that will be low enough that I can reach out, grab it, then lever myself up onto it.

I remain in a half crouch while we pass scores of trees, but their branches are all too high or too narrow or not thick enough.

The sounds of the hunt are louder now. Soon they will be within sight, and once they are, my trick will not be of any use. I utter a quick, desperate prayer to Mortain: I know they are Yours, but so am I. Please do not let me be chased down like a hunted deer.

A dozen strides later, right after a slight bend on the path, I see a thick, low-hanging branch. I have no time to think, to consider, to judge if it will work. It must work. I straighten my legs, reach up, then brace myself as the jolt of the contact reverberates through my body. Then my legs are dangling in the air and I see Fortuna continue to run on without me.

There is no time to congratulate myself. I hoist myself up onto the branch, swing my legs sideways, then wrap them around the limb and shimmy toward the trunk. I reach it and pull myself to the far side just as the first of the hellequin come into view.

It is Sauvage, riding in the van, his face compressed in single- minded intent. I press my entire body flat against the tree and watch them stream beneath me, surprised to see Balthazaar bringing up the rear.

His hood is pulled close, so I cannot see his face. Even so, there is a grimness, a ferocity about his manner that makes my heart clutch painfully. He is not your concern, I tell myself. He has made that perfectly clear.

I wait, holding so still I scarcely allow myself to draw breath. Only when I can no longer hear even the echo of their hoofbeats do I let myself draw a lungful of air. They did not find me. There is a chance—a small one—that Fortuna will be able to outrun them without the weight of a rider on her back. And if not, well, they will not hurt her, for she is nothing to them. Even so, I will probably never see her again. Someone might find her, take her for his own. It is possible she might return to the night rower’s stables; I have no idea how strong her homing instincts are.

Then I remember my saddlebag and the journal hidden deep inside, as well as the Tears, and the strange black box. I cringe to think of the convent learning what I took with me. Even worse is the idea of those things falling into some stranger’s hands: the local prelate, a landed yeoman, or some random innkeeper who finds Fortuna nibbling at his oats. But it cannot be helped.

Slowly, I lower myself so that I am sitting on the base of the branch with my back to the tree’s wide trunk. Now that the hellequin have passed, all my muscles are trembling, as if finally acknowledging the danger I was in. Or perhaps they are merely exhausted.

I glance once more at the eastern sky, which is now tinged with definite shades of gray and pink. Dawn has arrived. I make myself comfortable and settle in to wait.

I must doze, for a dream comes to me.

I dream of a great, white boar. In my dream I am lying on the forest floor in a bed of decaying leaves. I am cold and my body aches, and I am unable to sleep. At first, I hear a snuffling noise, as if some great creature has laid its snout near the ground to inhale all the ripe forest scents. But a moment later, I understand—the creature is searching for something.

It is searching for me.

A feral, gamy tang fills my nostrils, and my heart catches in my throat, for by the sound of it, it is a huge thing. I start to push myself up, meaning to run, but I realize I must grow still instead. I hug the ground, hoping the creature will not find me. But still it snuffles and searches. My heart beats so hard with fear that I am certain it will pound its way out of my chest. Or that the creature will hear it.

Boars this size are rare, and white boars rarer still, for they are sacred to Arduinna.

Closer it draws, and closer. I can feel the heat from its body now, feel the faint moisture of its breath as it leans closer, closer. Like a frightened child, I keep my eyes closed and shiver on the forest floor, unable to face my fate.

Then a coolness surrounds me, and before I can think to pull away, the press of lips upon my own shocks me into consciousness. A low, deep voice thrums near my ear, pulling me from the fog of sleep: ?

?You will be safe now.” I jerk awake, nearly toppling from my precarious shelter in the tree.

Chapter Twenty

I GRAB MY BRANCH and hold on tight until the fog of sleep clears. I blink my eyes and see that dawn has broken, sending long pale arms of sunlight streaming in all directions. My ears fill with the soft sounds around me: the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush and the faint beginning of birdsong. Day is well and truly here, and there are no signs of the hellequin.

I remember my dream and a shudder of misgiving moves through me. Were those the press of his lips I felt?

Dreamed, I correct, not felt. I lift my fingers to my mouth, remembering the distinct feel and weight of those lips. The voice said I would be safe now even as it filled my mind with visions of boars. Was it some trick? Some dark hellequin skill, an ability to insert dreams into their victims’ minds?

Or only my own fevered imagination, awash in my fears?

I shove the disturbing thoughts away and rise to my feet, clutching a branch so I do not tumble to a painful death after I have worked so hard to escape.

The hellequin said we were only a few leagues north of Vannes, a large town with thick sturdy walls. But I have no horse. That makes it easily a two-day walk—if I’m lucky. I hold still for another moment, checking for the sound of galloping horses or snuffling boars, but hear nothing. I climb down the tree, careful not to tear my gown so that it will not be wearable, as it is now the only one I possess.

When my feet are firmly on the ground, I pause and find my bearings. If I keep the rising sun on my left, I will be heading south and should reconnect with the main road. I strike out quickly. With my lack of absolute certainty that the hellequin cannot ride during the day and my newfound fear of boars, I am determined to find the road as soon as possible.