Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(113)
every ill feeling I have ever felt for this man flees, and I am filled with sorrow. Sorrow that I am only now learning his true nature. Sorrow that we did not bridge this gap earlier. Sorrow that we did not let ourselves become friends.
“I would ask your forgiveness, Ismae, so I will have one less sin to linger over.”
“You have it, my lord.” And he does. I hope his heart is lighter for it.
“Good.” His mouth twitches in an attempt to smile. “Then I would also ask a favor of you.”
“Ask and it is yours.”
“Kill me.”
The stark request drives the air from my lungs. “Please,” he begs. “I would rather not linger here for a day while the crows pick at my guts.”
I look down and see that his other hand — the one I am not holding — is clutching his stomach together.
“It does not need to be a coup de grace. Any killing blow will do.”
“No, my lord,” I say.
Hope leaves his face. “It was too much to ask.”
I lift my finger to his lips and hold them still. “That is not what I meant. A hero such as yourself deserves the misericorde, and all our thanks besides. I know the duchess would wish it as well.”
He smiles weakly and squeezes my hand, but it is a feeble grip.
Unwilling to watch him suffer any longer, I take the misericorde from my waist. I bend over and press my lips to his bruised and bloodied cheek, a kiss as gentle as a mother gives her child, then put the tip of the misericorde to his neck.
His soul bursts from his body, a joyous exultation as it rushes past me and I feel as if I am awash in holy light. The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
I stand and survey all the fallen around me. I know what I must do.
I move to the closest fallen soldier next to de Lornay’s now empty body. I bend over and put the tip of the misericorde to his shoulder. In a rush of grace and gratitude, his spirit leaves his body. Once again I feel the touch of that holy light. “Peace,” I whisper as his soul departs.
I go on to the next, and then the next. As I move through the fallen, I notice something: they each bear a marque. And Death has found them even without my aid.
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.