“How do you know this?”
He looks from me to Balthazaar. I follow his gaze and see Balthazaar staring at him, recognition slowly filling his eyes. He gasps out a laugh, then clutches his chest again. “Salonius.”
Father Effram bows his head. “At your service, my lord.” Then he turns to my gaping self. “I know because I was once a god as well.”
“You are—were—Saint Salonius?”
“Yes.” He turns to Balthazaar once more, his face growing serious. “And this,” he says to the man who was once Death. “Does this put right all that lies between us?”
Balthazaar stares at him a long moment, then nods. “It does.” He puts out his hand. Father Effram grasps it and closes his eyes, almost as if receiving a benediction.
Balthazaar is taken to the Brigantian convent so they may tend his wounds, but it is hard—so hard—to let go of his hand. I wish to accompany him, to stay by his side forever if need be, to ensure that this is real and will not be snatched away.
But I have others I must see to.
A truce has been made, and the Breton forces have left the safety of the city walls in order to recover our dead. Every soldier seems to know that if not for the hellequin, it would be his own dead body being carried back on a litter.
Of the fifty hellequin that rode out, twenty-eight bodies are returned to us, among them Begard’s, Malestroit’s, and Sauvage’s. Slowly, I drop to Malestroit’s side. His face is no longer filled with sorrow but with serenity. I kiss the tips of my fingers, then press them to his lips. “Goodbye,” I whisper. “And thank you. May you find peace at last.”
Sauvage too is much transformed, his terrifying ferocity replaced by a peace so deep, he is hardly recognizable.
Begard looks even younger in death, relaxed, with no pinch of regret or guilt shadowing his face. I bid him goodbye as well. Father Effram joins me, and, together, we walk among the fallen hellequin. He gives them a final blessing and I bid them each farewell.
Some bodies are not recovered, and I do not know what that means. Most of those not recovered were on the sortie to the supply wagons, including Miserere. I think of his fierce, implacable face and mourn
that he may not have found the redemption he so desperately wanted.
It is only when they have all been seen to and tended, and I confirm with my own eyes that the truce continues to hold, that I allow myself to return to the palace long enough to strip out of my blood-soaked clothes, scrub the worst of the filth from me, then head to the Brigantian convent.
I am not questioned at the convent but ushered immediately to Balthazaar’s room. It is clean and smells of pungent herbs. At the door I pause, staring at the still figure on the bed, marveling that his chest rises and falls as he draws breath. Marveling that the pallor of death has left his face and he no longer appears to have been chiseled from the whitest marble.
He is, I realize, pulsing with life.
We have done it, he and I. We not only evoked one last gasp of magic from Arduinna’s sacred arrow but managed to upend the order of the world and create a place for Balthazaar in it. At my side, hopefully, although we have not discussed that.
“It is a miracle, is it not?” I turn to find a grizzled nun standing beside me, her wrinkled face alight with wonder and awe.
“It is,” I agree.
She looks up at me, tilting her head. “Are you the one he did it for?”
Her question makes me pause, uncertain of how to answer that. Did he do it for me? Or because he was finally offered a chance? Perhaps the two things cannot be separated from each other.
Seeing my discomfort, the nun smiles warmly, pats me on the arm, then goes about her business, leaving me alone with him.
“Quit lurking in the shadows.” Balthazaar’s voice rumbles up from
the bed. “That is my role, not yours.”
I cannot help it, I laugh and go to stand beside his bed. He has a most curious expression on his face. “Are you still in a lot of pain?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, but without bitterness or distress, merely wonder. He lifts one hand and stares down at it, then looks up at me. “But pleasure too. Everything”—he looks around the room, staring at the shafts of sunlight that play upon the shadows—“everything is so much more—more delineated, nuanced. And”—he turns his gaze back to me—“exquisite.”
The warmth in his eyes almost unnerves me. I do not know what to do with a joyous Balthazaar. He takes my hand—wincing as he does so—then presses it to his lips. “I cannot believe that you have done it. Created a place for me in life.”
“We did it,” I remind him. “Not just me, but us. Together.”
He stares at me a long moment, his dark gaze unreadable, and I long to know what he is thinking. He shakes his head, as if he is not quite able to grasp it all. “No one has ever invited me to share her life before.” Then he tugs sharply on my hand, causing to me to stumble and fall onto the bed. I try to pull back, afraid to cause him more injury, but his other arm comes up around me and he shifts, making room for me beside him. Afraid I will cause him more agony if I fight him—and also because it’s where I desperately wish to be—I allow myself to be tucked up against his side.
His hand runs down my back in a long, slow caress. “The hellequin?” he asks.
I press myself closer against him, as if our closeness will diminish the sting of the words. “Most have found the peace they were looking for,” I tell him. “We recovered over half of the bodies, including those of Malestroit and Begard.”
His hand on my back stills. “And the others?”
“We found no trace of them.”
I glance up at his face as a fresh wave of an entirely different sort of pain washes across his features. “I had hoped they would all end their journeys on that field.”
“I know. What will happen to them now?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it and frowns. “I do not know. I am not sure what will happen to any of them now. Do we know yet if the arrow worked?”
I am relieved to have good news to share with him. “We know that they have called a truce and that the hostilities have ceased, at least for the moment. I would like to think that is at the command of the king as he decides how best to follow the direction his heart now points him in.”
In the silence that follows, I can hear Balthazaar breathing, a faint, ragged sound. I long to ask him about us, what will happen with us now. We had spoken of how to live without each other but had not dared to dream of what we might do if our bold gamble worked. “Have you given any thought to what you will do now that you are free?” I say.
“As long as you are at my side, I care little. Except . . .”
“What?”
He shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “At some point, I would like to meet my daughters, to see them face to face and somehow be a part of their lives.”
In that moment, I realize that if I was not already besotted with him, I would fall in love all over again. I rise up on my elbow and stare down at his face, losing myself in those eyes that now hold far more light and hope than bleakness. “Then that will be where we go first.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
TWO DAYS LATER, THE DUCHESS is holding court in the great hall. It is sparsely attended, for the entire city holds its breath, waiting to see what the French will do. Of course, the citizens do not know of the arrow and our hopes for it, but they did witness—or heard tell of—the skirmish, and they wonder what it portends.
It is the first time I have attended the duchess since we rode out into the French encampment, as she had given me leave to tend to Balthazaar and his injuries.
Sybella and Beast are at the Brigantian convent this morning, spending some well-deserved time with their families. Ismae and Duval are playing chess while the rest of us pretend not to watch, for he is trying to teach her and she is most impatient. She does not care for his being so much better than she is at the game, and she spends most of it glaring at him.
Just as Duval captures Ismae’s second bishop and says, “Check,” one of the sentries comes hurrying into the hall, his face pale, his eyes wide. I step closer to the duchess, my hands going to my knives. Their game forgotten, both Ismae and Duval rise to their feet. “What’s happened?” Duval asks.
“We have a visitor.” The messenger clears his throat. “It is the French king.” The disbelief in his voice is mirrored on all our faces.
“How big is his party?”
“Only fifty archers, and he is bearing the flag of truce.” The man clears his throat again. “And a rose.”
Smiling, Duval turns to the duchess, who is smoothing her gown and straightening her headdress. “Your Grace?” For the first time since I have known him, his voice is filled with hope. It makes him sound younger than he normally does.
“If he is here to see us, then by all means, show him in.” She and I exchange a glance.
The bemused sentry retreats, and we all wait, hope filling the room like birdsong.
The French king enters the hall with only a handful of his guard. My first impression is that he is smaller than I thought, and my next is that he is simply but elegantly dressed. He is not handsome in any sense of the word, but his eyes are kind. The duchess curtsies to him, for he is higher in rank. “Your Majesty.”
He bows. “At last we meet face to face,” he says. Then more gently: “I am sorry to hear of your recent loss.” To my surprise, there is true sorrow in his eyes; this is no pretty courtier trick but genuine compassion.
“Isabeau is sorely missed, Your Majesty.”
He glances around at the few courtiers in the hall. “I wonder if we could speak privately.”
“But of course.” She dismisses all her courtiers except Ismae and me, and the king in turn dismisses his guard. After that, he motions her to one of the window casements, and together they move to take a seat.
His voice is pitched low, but I have had much practice listening at doors.
“I would put these hostilities behind us if we can.” He is perfectly still, except for his fingers, which fidget with his hat. That is when I realize that he is not speaking to her as a king, but rather as an equal, which does credit to his nature. “The truth is, I have come to admire the sharp mind and fierce spirit behind my noble opponent, and now that I am here, well”—he looks discomfited, as if flattery does not come easily to him—“I had not expected such a fierce and ardent defender of her people to be as lovely as yourself.”
As he speaks, something inside me relaxes, for those are the words of a potential suitor rather than a conqueror. The duchess blushes prettily and bows her head, and something swells deep within me. She has been pursued by men and rulers of all sorts, and not one has approached her as a suitor rather than a political ally. Mayhap there will be love in her future after all.
I draw a little farther away to give them their privacy.
They talk for nearly an hour, and when they are finished, the duchess asks that I let the courtiers back in. As I do, I see that their numbers have doubled. News of the king’s arrival has spread quickly. Duval is one of the first back in through the doors, with Captain Dunois and Chancellor Montauban following close behind.
When everyone has assembled, the duchess looks bashfully at the king, who nods kindly at her. She stands with her full regal bearing and surveys the nobles and attendants who have gathered. Briefly, her eyes rest on me, and she winks. It is all I can do not to whoop with relieved laughter.
“We have an announcement to make. His Majesty the king of France and I have discussed the future of our great countries and find that we have more in common than we have differences. We have decided to resolve those remaining differences through marriage.”
A cheer goes up from everyone in the room: for having averted a disastrous conflict, for old differences put aside, and for the duchess having managed to thread this needle with love rather than war. As I look at both their faces, I realize it is indeed a triumph of the heart.
