Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

I miss Fortuna already, not simply because riding her was faster than walking, but because she has been my one constant through these past few weeks. I hold on to half a hope that I might come upon her in the woods, that she might have run herself out and is now patiently waiting for me to find her. But there is no sign of her dappled gray bulk anywhere.

I have been walking nearly an hour when I hear it—a distinctive snuffling sound that is all too familiar from my recent dream. I glance behind me but see nothing. I cannot outrun a boar, but perhaps I can appear harmless enough that it will not charge. Just in case, I look to the surrounding trees for another branch I can use to pull myself to safety, but there is none within reach.

At the rustle of leaves just behind me, my heart begins beating so frantically I fear it will break one of my ribs. I quicken my pace, but if I go any faster, I will be running, and that will only inflame the creature.

In front of me, from what I estimate to be the direction of the road, I hear riders approaching. Judging from the sound, there are only four—no, three—of them, not an entire pack. And they are coming from the road. Not hellequin, then, but simple travelers. Travelers I may attach myself to until the next town.

I cannot help myself; I run, stumbling over roots, rocks, and my own feet so that I nearly tumble down the embankment to the road below. I stop, breathless, in front of the riders. We all stare at one another in a long moment of surprise.

They are women, although it is hard to tell at first for they wear no traditional garb. Their arms and legs are encased in tight leather, and their overgowns are of rough brown fur. Each has a quiver of arrows at her shoulder and a knife in her belt. There are three of them, and they rein in their mounts. “Greetings,” the middle rider says. She appears to be the oldest, as her light brown hair is shot through with gray. Her bearing is as erect and regal as if she were wearing a crown.

Before I can return the greeting, I see that they are leading a fourth horse—a dappled gray. “Fortuna!” I dodge around the others, deftly avoiding their horses’ hooves, and reach Fortuna’s side. I pat her neck and check her over for signs of injury.

“I take it you know each other?”

“She is my horse.”

“It is poor thanks to such a noble creature, to let her wander loose and riderless so that she might trip on her reins.” The speaker is tall, taller than the others and nearly as tall as Sister Thomine, who is the tallest woman I have ever met. She wears her hair in a long dark brown braid that swings as she dismounts. In that moment I realize they must be followers of Arduinna. And even though they are known to be protectors of women, this knowledge does not comfort me.

“I did not do that on purpose.” I do not try to hide my indignation. “And I did tie her reins off so she wouldn’t trip on them. But truly, I had no choice.”

The tall woman tilts her head. “What happened to you that you must abandon your horse in such a way and travel on foot?”

I stare at her, trying to decide what to tell them. Arduinnites are scarcer than hen’s teeth and I have seen one only once, and that was by accident. We’d been riding with Sister Widona on the mainland near a forest and caught a glimpse of a strange-looking woman—although we did not know it was a woman at first. Sister Widona nodded a curt greeting, then hurried us away. Once we were out of earshot, she explained that those who follow Arduinna bear no love for those of us who follow Mortain, since it was He who had robbed Arduinna of her sister.

Sister Widona’s words clang in my head like a great loud bell and I mentally kick myself that I did not think to ask just how deep that animosity went.

So what, then, do I tell her? Which is worse, being a daughter of Mortain or being some headstrong maiden who has behaved in a foolish manner? The uncomfortable thought occurs to me that I could be both.

The youngest of them dismounts and begins to approach me. I am assailed by the smell of leather and fur, and the tang of blood. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Have you been hurt?”

“I . . . no.”

The tallest one looks me over with haughty eyes. “You show no signs of a struggle.”

Judgment drips heavily from her words, and at first I find myself wishing I had injured myself more thoroughly as I climbed out of that bedamned tree. But then a small spark of anger ignites within me. I do not deserve her censure. I shrug my cloak away from my body, flash my daggers at her. “Perhaps it is because my pursuers were put off by these.”

The oldest one, still on her horse, speaks. “Do not take offense. It is our way, to help maids in distress or those who have been hurt or dishonored.”

“I do not know that casting doubts upon their honor is a way to win their trust,” I mutter, still ruffled by the tall one’s manner.

“You expect us to believe that a lone maid held off pursuers with a handful of knives?”

“Well, that and I disappeared up a tree.”

The eldest one’s lips twitch, and the youngest one smiles outright. “How do you come to be traveling on the road alone?” she asks.

“I have business in Guérande.”

“And you travel with no attendant or guard?” the tall one asks, disbelief still heavy in her voice.

The youngest one steps in front of me protectively. “Why don’t we ensure she is unharmed before we begin questioning her.” She is slighter than the others. Her voice sounds young to my ears, and I place her at a year or two younger than myself.

The tall one continues to study me with narrowed eyes and I wonder what I have done to raise her ire. “She has already said she was fine.” She begins walking toward me. When she reaches my side, she stops walking, leans her head forward, and sniffs. “You reek of man.”

“Aeva!” the younger one protests. Then, almost as if unable to help herself, she too sniffs, then frowns. “You smell of death as well,” she says, puzzled.

“Death?” I ask, both annoyed and startled.

The tall one—Aeva, she was called—wrinkles her nose in distaste. “It is the stench of the hellequin that clings to her.”

She can smell them? “That would be because it was the hellequin who were pursuing me.”

The youngest one’s lips part in surprise, but Aeva simply sneers. “Are you certain you were pursued and you are not simply a hellequin’s lightskirt?”

Even if I could not hear the thick contempt in her voice, the worried look on the youngest girl’s face would have alerted me that it was far better to be the victim of a hellequin than his lightskirt. It is not the least bit difficult to sound insulted, for I am sorely irked by their manner. “I am no one’s lightskirt.” Although not for want of trying, I realize, and I am suddenly ashamed by my actions. At the convent, we are not taught that it is wrong to lie with a man, but surely it is wrong to lie with one merely to avoid an unwanted fate.

“Then why do you reek of death?”

“I did not say I had not been close to one, only that I was not his lightskirt.” At my words, the tension in her body relaxes somewhat. “But neither was I his victim, for I escaped just before dawn and waited high in a tree for daybreak. And then I found you.”

“It was only the guidance of the Great White Boar herself that brought us here,” the oldest one says.

“I dreamed of her,” I tell them.

Aeva’s head whips around. “You lie.”

“I do not lie. I dreamed of a great boar, and that she was . . .” I cannot bring myself to say she kissed me with her great white snout, nor am I certain that is even what happened. “And she was protecting me.”

The three women exchange glances and the youngest looks pointedly at Aeva. “That does match Floris’s vision.”

My interest sharpens. “Is Floris your seeress?”

“No,” the oldest one says. “I am Floris, one of Arduinna’s priestesses. I too saw the Great White Boar last night, and she led me to you.”

Aeva studies me most skeptically, as if she is still trying to sort out how I came

to be in their midst. “Did you make an offering to Ar­duinna?” she asks.

“No. The idea never occurred to me, as I have not been raised to be familiar with her ways.”

“No matter.” The youngest one reaches out and squeezes my arm. “It is a most auspicious omen. What is your name? I am called Tola.”

She is so friendly and her blue eyes dance so cheerfully that I cannot help but smile back. “I am Annith.”