It is not until I have released the last soul from the battlefield that I see a tall, dark figure standing under the nearby trees. I try to get a better look, but the light is failing now and I cannot be sure if I truly see something or if it is just one of the lengthening shadows. But no. Something — someone— is there, and he has been watching me move from one body to the next.
He is tall and cloaked all in black. And still. He holds so very, very still. My hand does not move to my knife, for I now recognize His presence, a light, lingering chill and the faint scent of freshly turned earth. with my heart thudding painfully in my chest, I rise to my feet, my gaze never wavering as I walk toward Death.
“Daughter.” His voice is like the rustle of autumn leaves as they fall from dying trees.
“Father?” I whisper, then fall on my knees and bow my head, every particle of my being trembling. I am afraid to look upon His face, fearing His wrath, His retribution for all the wrongs I have committed, from loving Duval to disobeying the convent to releasing these fallen men’s souls.
And yet, in this copse of trees, with the shadow of Death so close, I feel neither wrath nor retribution. I feel grace. warm and flowing like a river, it pours over me. I am awash in grace and cannot help but raise my face to it as I would to the sun. I want to laugh as it rains down on me, ripples through my limbs, cleanses them of fatigue and self-loathing. I am reborn in this grace, and suddenly, I can do anything.
I feel Him kiss my brow, a chill weight on my forehead. In this kiss is absolution, yes, but understanding as well. Understanding that it is He that I serve, not the convent. His divine spark lives within me, a presence that will never leave. And I am but one of many tools He has at His disposal. If I cannot act — if I refuse to act — that is a choice I am allowed to make. He has given me life, and all I must do to serve Him is live. Fully and with my whole heart. with this knowledge comes a true understanding of all the gifts He has given me.
And then I know. I know why Duval was able to rise from his deathbed long enough to send Fran?ois to Rennes, and I know how to save him from the poison.
If it is not too late.
Chapter Fifty-two
I gallop like the wind. It is as if Mortain has blessed my horse and lent wings to his feet. I have no idea what I will find, what further mischief Chancellor Crunard will have wrought, but even if I am mistaken about Duval, I will have the opportunity to face Crunard, and that is worth much.
My mount may ride as if he is a winged messenger of Death, but in actuality, he is not, and I must stop for the night so that both of us may rest. I choose a clearing next to a stream within sight of a small stone cottage. I walk the horse to cool him, then let him drink from the brook.
I try to rest as he does, but I cannot. I can hardly accept this gift I’ve been given, although I dare not question it for fear my doubts will cause it to evaporate. Instead, I focus on the sense of unending possibilities I had when in the presence of Death and hold on to that.
In the morning, I am up with the birds and we are off again. I am a light load for my horse, accustomed as he is to long marches with heavily armed knights, so we reach Guérande in excellent time.
I rein in just outside the city. The gates are open, and people are coming in and out. No one seems to be subjected to any extra scrutiny. even so, I cannot bring a warhorse through the gates; that would raise unwelcome questions. In the end, I leave him with one of the cottagers who live outside the city, giving him a handful of coins to keep the horse safe for me.
And promising him retribution if he does not.
As we make our transaction, his wife stands in the corner of the yard where she had been taking her laundry from the line. I throw in an extra two coins and my own fine gown in exchange for the homespun dress she has hanging there.
I slip out of my own clothes, eager to be free of the convent’s finery. As I step into the rough brown garb, something inside me shifts. I am no longer a creature of the convent but my own true self, naught but a daughter of Mortain.
Leaving the trappings of the convent behind, I depart from the cottage on foot dressed as the peasant I am. I keep only the weapons.
The guards at the gate hardly glance at me as I pass into the city. These are not guards I have seen before, but as I have passed through the gates only a handful of times, that means nothing. They do seem to be paying closer attention to those who are leaving rather than to those who enter.
My heart races as I move through the city. I long to break into a run and hurry to Duval’s side, but that would draw far too much notice. Instead, I force myself to walk sedately and keep my head down, as a modest serving woman would. But it is hard. So hard.
I approach the palace from the back, where the kitchen deliveries are made. I pause long enough to grab a basket of cabbages from a wagon and then carry it inside. No one pays me any heed — truly all my actions seem god-touched — and I slip into the palace unobserved.