Grave Mercy

Grave Mercy by Robin Lafevers Page B

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back into them.
I am too stunned to even breathe, and my arms tingle as if they have long been asleep and are only now awakening. Appalled, I pull away. “I am warm now,” I say, my voice stiff. I avoid his eyes, afraid he will see the confusion in mine. That he is good at playing the gallant is only to be expected. His kindness to me means nothing. He is kind to his horse as well. In truth, his chivalry could be a plan to lure me into a false sense of trust and security.
“I would never have asked that of you if I had known — ”
I cut him off. “I am fine.”
His eyes search my face to see if I am telling the truth. I try to shift his attention away from me. “He could tell me nothing,” I say.
"What?” Duval is clearly perplexed.
I nearly laugh at how thoroughly my discomfort has swept his purpose from his mind. “Martel told me very little.”
“A little is better than none,” Duval says, remembering. “Go on.”
I am still slow-witted from my encounter with the soul and try to decide just how much to tell him. I busy myself with removing his cloak from my shoulders. “Images. Fragments. Nothing that made much sense.” I pause; I want to clutch each bit of information to myself, gain any advantage I can over this man, but the reverend mother’s instructions still echo in my ears. “There was a fleet of ships — ”
“Ships! Describe them to me.”
When I do, he swears and begins to pace in the small clearing. “The French fleet.”
It is exactly as the abbess and Crunard have feared. Martel was trying to find port for the French so they could launch their attacks.
“Are you well enough to ride yet?” he asks. “This news adds some urgency to our journey.”
In answer, I turn and head for my horse.

Chapter Twelve
    We make Quimper just after nightfall, the bonfires in the fields lighting the last of the way as the local plowmen celebrate Martinmas. Once we are inside the city, Duval leads us to a small inn where the innkeeper clucks and fusses over us as if Duval is an honored guest. At last, dishes of braised rabbit and mugs of spiced wine are placed in front of us, and then the innkeeper retires to the kitchens. we fall on our meal in silence. Indeed, Duval has not said much since my encounter with Martel’s soul, but I can almost hear the wheels of his mind turning, much like a millstone, grinding down bits of information, until they can fit in some pattern only he can discern.
    All this silence is fine with me, as I am as tired as I have ever been, and my backside is bruised from the day’s grueling ride.
when we finish our meal, the innkeeper returns and leads us up the narrow stairs to our rooms. My chamber is next to Duval’s, but after a quick search I find no connecting door, so I relax somewhat. even so, it takes longer than it should for me to fall asleep. I can feel Duval on the other side of the thick wall, the flame of his soul bright and steady and so very different from the sisters with whom I’ve shared my nights with for the last three years.
    We are on the road the next morning before daybreak. Once we clear the town, we ride hard and do not stop until noon. In truth, I think Duval would gladly ride straight through, but the horses need the rest.
    As do I. However, I will let him think it is the horses he is coddling, not me.
while he tends to them, I stretch my legs and try to work out the stiff muscles in my back. Once our mounts are watered and settled, Duval rifles through his saddlebag and pulls out a small bundle. He tucks it under his arm and comes to stand next to me in the small patch of sunlight I have found.
It galls me that I am painfully aware of every movement he makes, from shrugging his cloak over his shoulder to pulling off his worn leather gloves. His hands fascinate me, and I remember the feel of them against my waist, along my arms. I force my gaze away.
Unaware of the turmoil inside me, Duval unwraps the bundle, which turns out to be a wedge of hard cheese.

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