It is not like practicing with Ismae, or even Sybella. It is not like any of the first kisses I have imagined over the years. It is far, far better and more wondrous, and yet terrifying as well, like one of the raging storms that pound against the convent walls in the winter, threatening to breach its defenses. So too does this kiss threaten something deep within me that I cannot even name.
Then, just as suddenly, he sets me away from him, leaving the entire front of my body cold and bereft and wanting more. There is a faint rustle of his cloak as he steps back from me. I long to put my fingers to my lips. To see if they feel as different on the outside as I do on the inside. Then I remember who—and what—he is. “Will you pay for that?” I ask, recalling the hellequin and their talk of the price of temptation.
“You would charge me for a kiss?”
I long to reach out and smack him—but I would have to be able to see him first. Instead, I turn toward the faint heat of the dying fire and hold my hands out over it. “No, you dolt. I was worried that giving in to temptation would extend your penance.”
There is a moment of silence before he finally speaks. “I follow you for twelve leagues, accost you in the dead of night, and you are worried about my penance?”
I sniff. “You did not accost me; I let you kiss me, make no mistake.”
For some reason, I feel certain that he smiles, although I cannot hear such a thing. I wonder briefly if it is quick and sharp or slow and easy. “Thank you for that clarification, my lady.”
His eyes linger on me—I can feel it just as surely as I could his touch mere moments ago—and I wish to hide myself from them. But any move I make would give away my situation.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks softly.
“Nothing.” I turn my back to him then, not caring how childish it might seem.
“But there is. Come here.” He reaches out and snags my chin with his fingers, and he gently pulls my face back around. I look up at where I desperately hope his eyes are.
“You are blind.”
It is all I can do to keep from reaching up and feeling my face. “How can you tell? Are my eyes scarred?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“No, they are fine.” The warmth and softness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
He leans in and I expect a kiss, but instead, he sniffs. Then sniffs again. Just when I think he will sniff a third time, he leans down and captures my lips again in an all too brief kiss. “Tell me.”
And so I do. Leaving out the part about the Tears being stolen.
As I tell my tale, I realize he listens to me in a way that few others do. I can feel him listening, and I fear he hears things I do not even know I am saying.
When I am done, he does not speak for a long while. The night is so quiet I imagine I can hear the stars passing across the sky. “Were you so very hungry to experience the world as Mortain does?” he finally asks.
And even though I fear it will hurt him, I cannot lie. “Yes.”
There is the whisper of thick wool as he shifts, and I feel his hand take mine, the cool leather of his glove smooth against my palm. “Most in your situation would simply give up, turn back.” He tugs gently on my hand, and there is a faint rustle of leaves as he sits down on the forest floor.
Since he will not release my hand, I lower myself to the ground. “I have always been willful and stubborn. It is one of my greatest sins.”
“But is it a sin? If it allows you to survive? Endure? Prevail?”
I am absurdly warmed by his words. So he will not see this, I snort derisively. “I do not know that this”—I gesture to my blind self sitting in my camp in the middle of nowhere—“qualifies as prevailing.”
He kisses my brow, and for some reason it makes me want to weep.
“For now, tonight, it is prevailing. We do not know what tomorrow will bring, but that is always the case, is it not?” He puts his arm around me and draws me against his chest.
I hold very still. “Are you going to seduce me?” I ask, although in truth, it would not be much of a seduction, as I need little convincing.
He leans in and rubs his cheek against my hair. “Would you like me to?”
Yes, I think, but do not—quite—manage to say.
He plants a kiss behind my ear, then sighs. “Alas, no.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Not when you must spend the entire day tomorrow on horseback. I am not that selfish. Not quite.”
When the full meaning of his words sink in, I blush so furiously I give off more heat than the fire, and Balthazaar laughs. Because it is only the second time I have ever heard him do so, I do not even mind—much—that it was at my expense.
“Sleep,” he whispers softly. “I will watch over you till morning, and then we can decide what to do.”
We. Not you, but we. I know I should resent that he presumes so much, but instead, I hold it close, like a promise.
“Be safe, my love,” a voice murmurs. Then I feel the press of cool lips upon my eyelids.
At the shock of his touch, I wrench my eyes open. The sun is just beginning to shine through the trees, and I swear that I can still feel the hellequin’s body against my own, the bite of the chain mail he wears sharp against my back. But when I turn to look at him, he is gone.
That is when I realize I can see. Relief surges through me, so overpowering that I am nearly dizzy with it.
In the distance, I hear the sound of galloping hooves. When I look up, I see that he has left. Confusion and hurt swell up inside, tightening my throat.
No. I will not feel any of those things for him. I will not let myself get waylaid by emotions. Not for him or for the abbess. My god’s will is my sole purpose right now. And I’m embarrassed that Balthazaar could make me forget that. I have an assignment. An assignment my very future hangs on, and I will not let Balthazaar cloud my mind.
It occurs to me that he too could have been a test, sent by Mortain. I reach down and begin collecting my bedroll. If he was, then I am getting heartily sick of these tests. If Mortain does not understand my dedication by now, then surely there is nothing more I can do that will prove it to Him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ALONE, I APPROACH THE GATE to Guérande, the looming height of the two towers on either side of it making me feel small and insignificant. The guard manning the gate eyes me as I pass, and I take a coin from my purse and toss it to him. “Which is the best inn for the night?” I ask.
“The Hammer and Cross, if they’re not full up.”
I glance around to the nearly empty streets. “Would they be?”
He shakes his head. “Few enough travelers right now. There should be rooms available.”
“Thank you.”
Guérande is a smaller town than Rennes, with fewer people and less bustle—at least, at this time of night. A lone woman hurries down the street with her market basket. Two merchants walk side by side with their heads bent close in conversation.
The inn is a sturdy stone building set back slightly from the street. A wooden sign painted with a picture of a blacksmith’s hammer and Saint Cissonius’s cross hangs above it. As I steer Fortuna into the courtyard, a stable boy no older than Florette hurries forward to take the reins. “Take especially good care of her,” I tell him as I dismount. “She has ridden hard these last two days.”
When I enter the inn, I am engulfed by the scents of roasting meat, smoke, wine, and the fresh rushes on the floor. The innkeeper, a thick man built like a bear and nearly as furry, looks up at my arrival. His head and face are covered in coarse brown hair, and his cheeks are reddened from his work. His eyes are wary, but not unkind. He wipes his hands on his leather apron and comes to greet me. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for a place to pass the night. Possibly two. Have you room?”
“Aye. If you’ve coin.”
“I do.” I pull two from the purse at my waist and hold them out to him.
The wariness leaves his eyes as he plucks the coins from my fingers. “Would you like some supper as well?”
“I would, thank you.”
After a satisfying meal in the common room, I retire to my chamber, fully expecting to drop into sleep like a stone into a river. But instead, I toss and turn restlessly.
It is not, I tell myself, because I miss the hellequin.
The next morning I am up early, grab some bread and cheese from the common room, then venture out into the streets of Guérande. They are much busier now, with people scurrying everywhere about their business. It is easy enough to blend in with the crowd. I pause and admire a ribbon seller’s wares, pretend to consider purchasing one of the scrawny chickens at the market, but all the while I am forming a map of the city in my mind. The cathedral acts as my true north as I get a feel for the streets of the city and the gates that they lead to. When all of that is firmly fixed in my mind, I make my way to the palace and spend the rest of the day committing the entrances, the exits, and the comings and goings of the sentries to memory. I will return tonight, under the cloak of darkness, and do what must be done.
Back at the inn, I have an early supper, then retire to my room and wait. When it is three hours after nightfall, I carefully arm myself with every weapon I possess, slip the vials of poison into the pouch at my waist, and sling my quiver over my shoulder. I carry it lower than is comfortable, but this way it will be hidden by my cloak.
As I make my way down the narrow staircase, I realize that the common room is quiet—unnaturally quiet. I lighten my footsteps on the stairs to make as little noise as possible and draw one of the knives from its sheath. When I reach the landing, I slowly ease into the main room.
The innkeeper is holding a blacksmith’s hammer and scowling at the front door. Following his gaze, I see a tall, darkly cloaked figure glaring back, the reek of the Underworld rolling off him like a mist from the sea and filling the entire room with darkness and foreboding.
I blink, wondering briefly if hellequin can be summoned merely by allowing oneself to think of them.
“Let me through.” Balthazaar’s voice is deep and low and altogether threatening.
“You’re not coming into my establishment.” The innkeeper makes the sign of the cross with his right hand. He holds the handle of the hammer in a loose grip with his other hand and hefts it over his shoulder.
Muttering an oath, I shove my knife back in its sheath and hurry forward, my mind scrambling for some way I can pour oil on these troubled waters. “My lord?” I make my voice young and light and breathless. “I told you I would come to you.” I am hardly even aware of what I am babbling, I know only that I must create some distraction that will keep these two from coming to blows.
Slowly taking his gaze from the bristling innkeeper, Balthazaar looks at me, an entire thunderstorm of emotion roiling in his eyes. I glance nervously around us, then lower my voice, as if ashamed. “I . . . I did not wish to meet you here. In front of others, my lord,” I whisper. As I drop my gaze and pick at my skirt, I see a look of understanding—and disgust—flare in the innkeeper’s face, but the tension across his shoulders lessens somewhat and he lowers the hammer a fraction of an inch.
“You know this man?”
“Oh, yes!” I step forward to subtly insert myself between the two men. Giddy—I would be giddy if I were meeting a lover. I stare up at Balthazaar with open admiration. If I did not think that the blacksmith’s life hung in the balance, I’m fairly certain I would sicken myself. “I am ready to leave, my lord.”
He stares down and blinks, his dark eyes unreadable. He nods once, grabs my arm, then hauls me toward the door.
I link my arm through his and snuggle up against him so that it will look more like he is escorting me and less like he is hauling me off to be ravished or dragged to the Underworld. “I will be back shortly,” I call to the innkeeper.
