Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

I have a father. And brothers, though they are all most likely dead. Family.

The realization worms into me as I move through the palace corridors, trying to find my way back to my chamber, a place where I can be alone with my thoughts as the full weight of the abbess’s treachery begins to settle over me.

She stole so much from me. With the choices she made, she took one life and gave me instead . . . an imprisonment. Memories of my early years in the convent fly through my head like a flock of disturbed crows, each one dark and unsettling. All those special sessions with the Dragonette. All those harsh punishments when I failed her tests. And the abbess—Sister Etienne—stood idly by.

No. Honesty forces me to admit that is not precisely true. She often did intervene, when she could. Slipped me bread or cheese when I had been denied supper. Snuck a candle to me so I could light the darkness of my punishment. She was often the one to unlock the door when it was over so she could fuss over me a bit and be certain I was all right.

Oh, how surprised she must have been when her imagined refuge turned into such a series of labors and trials! Her well-laid plans for the two of us collapsing under the weight of the Dragonette’s spiritual ambition.

That thought causes my steps to falter as I realize—fully realize—how very hard that must have been for her. To have the haven she’d sought turn into such a grim reality. One she was just as powerless to alter as she would have been had she remained outside the convent. Her sanctuary where the two of us need never be parted turned into a nightmare.

Is that why she wished me to be seeress? So we would still never need to be parted? How did she envision that future? Did she honestly think she could nudge and shape my visions to suit herself?

Or . . . another motive occurs to me. Perhaps it was her fear for my safety that controlled her actions. Her fear that, since I was not sired by Mortain, I would be vulnerable as I enacted His will in the world. Or mayhap she was concerned for my immortal soul.

But it matters not, for what she did was wrong. Doubly so when she sacrificed others such as Sybella and Matelaine to keep me safe. She is not the injured one here, no matter how she might try to present herself thus.

The closer I get to my chambers, the more I realize that I am unable to face Ismae and Sybella in my current state, and my feet change course, taking the next passageway out of the main corridor. Because I am tempted to hang my head in shame at the lie I have been a part of, I force myself to hold it high and squarely meet the glances of any of the passing nobles or courtiers who look at me. They do not know. Not yet.

But they will soon enough.

I cannot fathom how I am to exist in this world without my role as Death’s handmaiden to give shape and purpose to my life. I feel as useless and unformed as wine without a cup.

And when it is learned who my father is? I may well be tossed into the dungeon beside him.

No. Ismae would not let that happen. She would tell them that I had no knowledge of any of this. But will they believe her?

The pain of it all twists inside me so that I must stop and grip the wall for support. And yet, even through the mists of the pain, I have to look down to be certain my legs are still attached to my body, for I can scarcely feel them any longer.

I force myself to resume walking—faster—as if I can escape the awareness the abbess has handed me. Before long, I find myself standing at the foot of the stairs that lead to the battlements, drawn there, just as those metal shavings found themselves drawn to the lodestone.

Yes, the pain inside me howls. Go to Balthazaar. He has lived with a similar pain for hundreds of years. Surely he will know what to do with it.

With no one to see, I lift my skirts and take the stairs two at a time, welcoming the strain it causes in my legs. When I reach the top, I am breathless and trembling, but that has nothing to do with my climb. I step outside into the cold, not surprised to see that night has fallen. Indeed, it feels as if entire lifetimes have passed in the space of the last hour.

Every single thing I have ever believed about my life is naught but a lie. That thought writhes through my mind—through my entire body—like a serpent. Nothing, not one thing is true. The girls I have called sisters all my life are not of my blood. Not even Ismae and Sybella. I am not the first and most skilled among a special cadre of His chosen handmaidens, but some blatant impostor slipped into His nest while He was not looking.

Every prayer I have ever uttered to Him rears up in my mind, filling me with mortification. Shying away from the pain of that, I search the shadows that pool along the stone walls. Anger begins to simmer through me when I do not see him, and I focus on that rather than my despair. The one time I wish him to be here, he is not. I want to put my head back and roar out a demand that he appear, but even in my current state, I cannot bring myself to be that bold. Instead, I begin walking along the length of the battlement in the opposite direction of the sentries. “Balthazaar?” I whisper into the darkness.

When there is no answer, I continue down to the farthest corner, where the catwalk disappears into a guard tower. I turn and look out over the battlements to the city below. I long to pray, but I no longer even know to whom I should direct my prayers. Salonius, the god of mistakes, perhaps?

There is a faint whisper of sound behind me. My heart lifts in hope as I whirl around, and there he is. “You came.”

“I have always been here,” he says. “Waiting.”

My spirits rise at the faint goading in his voice. I fold my arms and take three steps toward him. “Well, you need wait no longer. Here I am.” Then I reach out, put my hands against his chest, and shove. Caught off-guard, he stumbles. I push again, and again, until he is up against the wall. He looks down at me, his face a mask of confusion.

“You’ve wanted me since the night when you first happened upon me. Well, now I am giving myself to you.” I have denied myself so much in the belief that I owed my life to others, but that belief is gone now. If I am nothing other than the most ordinary of mortals, then I may as well roll in the full slop of life.

I want Balthazaar’s arms around me, his lips upon mine. I want to feel something other than this howling nothingness that screams through my soul.

I reach up and wrap my arms around Balthazaar’s neck, rise up on my toes, then plant my lips on his. Or try to.

“Wait.” He pulls away, staring down at me as if I have sprouted antlers. “What is it you want?”

I stare at him steadily. “You. Me. Entwined.” I want him to make me forget. Make me remember. Make me feel extraordinary in this new, mortal way that is all that is left to me.

When he continues to hesitate, I grow incensed. How dare he change his mind now, when I have decided this is what I want? “But if you are not man enough, there are thousands of soldiers wandering the city. I’m sure one of them will oblige.” I turn to leave, holding my breath to see if he will let me go, exalting when he reaches out and grabs my arm. He spins me around so that my back is against the wall. He is angry now. I respond by leaning into it, by letting his fury ignite my own and using it to warm the chill at the very heart of my being.

“Something’s changed you.”

“Yes.” Something has changed me, but it has also freed me. I feel a frantic bubble of laughter rising in my throat. I have always felt torn in two by my opposing desires—to live my own life, or to serve Mortain as He wills it. Well, I have only my own life to liv

e now. And what I want—in this moment—is to feel. I want to feel something new and forbidden. I want to feel powerful in some way—as I do when Balthazaar looks at me with heat in his eyes. I want to feel the full force of that heat on my lips, my hands, my entire body. I reach for him again and this time he does not stop me. Slowly, I bring my lips up to his.

“I do not want to take you against the wall.” His lips brush against mine with each word, his gaze boring into me as if plumbing my depths to see what is hidden there.

“But I want to be taken against the wall.” I nibble at his lips in the same way I would a sweetmeat. I welcome the bite and chafe of the rough stone against my back.

“You’re angry . . .”

“It’s nothing to do with you.”

“But what if you regret this?”

I pull far enough away that I can glare at him. “For a spawn of the Underworld, you have far too much honor.”

He does not look away but instead waits patiently for my answer.

I sigh. “Trust me, on the long list of regrets I might have, this would be near the bottom.” To convince him, I begin unlacing my gown.

He grabs my hands to still them, but this time he pulls me away from the wall. With my hands still wrapped in his, he leads me down the battlement.

As we draw out of the shadows, I am tempted to keep my head down in case one of the sentries should see us. Except my action shames no one but me, and I am not ashamed of what I am doing. It is perhaps the only thing I am not ashamed of right now. It feels as if it is one of the most honest things I have ever done.

It is comforting, this new knowing where my boundaries lie. Before, it was as if I were still forming, waiting for the edges of my self to fill in. But now I know that this is it. The sum and total of who I am and who I will ever be is already contained within me.

Balthazaar pauses outside a narrow door, listens, then opens it. It is a storage room of sorts, full of extra weapons and unused armor. It is, I think, the perfect place.