Chapter Thirty-Two
I AWAKEN WITH THE GROUND beneath me rumbling like thunder in the far distance. I glance up at the sky to see if storm clouds have formed, cursing when only black nothingness greets me.
Slowly, I stand up. Fortuna snorts and stomps her foot. Another noise follows the first, the screech of an owl perhaps, or the cry of some small creature whose life has just been cut short.
The thundering grows louder and I hear Fortuna tossing her head and whinnying. That is not thunder, but horses. My heart slams against my ribs—the hunt.
I cock my ear, straining to hear better. No. Just one horse. A lone traveler, then. Although why anyone would be galloping so hard in the dead of night, I do not know. But if he is in such a hurry, he will likely pass by without seeing my camp. Especially now that the fire is dying.
I wait, poised in the darkness, listening carefully, surprised when the rider does not pass but instead turns off the road and heads in my direction. Quickly, I grope with my right hand until it closes around an arrow, then I snag my bow with my left. Slowly, I rise to my feet, keeping all my senses pinned on the approaching rider.
The hooves grow even louder as they draw near and I cannot help but wonder if it is my fear that makes them seem so loud or simply my hearing compensating for my lack of sight. Either way, I nock an arrow to my bow and wait.
When the horse explodes into the copse, it is all I can do not to release the arrow, but I will have only one shot—I’d best wait until I am certain I can make it count.
With a great blowing of breath and heaving of lungs, the horse barrels to a stop just outside the ring of boulders that surrounds my campsite. I hear the creak of a saddle and the swish of leather as someone dismounts. I consider calling out for him to identify himself, then realize I do not wish to give away my position or the element of surprise.
There is a crunch of heavy boots on the forest floor, and my skin draws tight across my bones as I wait.
His scent reaches me first: the rich clean scent of earth and spring leaves accompanied by the faint whiff of leather and horse. “Balthazaar?” His name comes out part whisper and part prayer.
He does not answer me with so much as a grunt. I have never felt so vulnerable, so wary of where I am to place my feet. It is as if the world itself is now some huge trap I must carefully navigate. Because that so infuriates me, I lift my loaded bow and point it in his direction. His footsteps stop.
“What?” he asks. “What is wrong?”
The sound and timbre of his voice wraps itself around me and I give in to the sweet relief that flows through my limbs.
Do I tell him? No, not until I know why he is here. “I am just surprised to see you. That is all. Why are you here?”
“You said you would return. That you would meet me on the battlements. And instead, you ran away. Again.”
Though his voice thrums with his anger, it does not quite hide the faint note of pain that resides there as well. “And so you hunted me down?”
“No.” He sounds vaguely outraged. “I had business nearby.”
I cannot decide if my heart quickens with joy or apprehension. “You followed me.”
“I do not follow; I hunt.”
The sound of his voice is closer, but as I listen for the rustle of his boots upon the forest floor or the crunch of a twig under his boot heel, there is nothing. The man moves as quietly as a wraith, with no clank of weapon or creak of armor to help me pinpoint his location.
It is hard to pretend to keep my eyes focused on him when he moves so quietly, but I do not wish him to know that I am blind. I feel foolish and silly and would rather keep this secret from him. “I do not understand you. Sometimes I cannot tell if you hate me or wish to devour me.”
“Both,” he whispers, and I can feel the heat of him draw closer.
I open my mouth to tell him he is standing too close, but instead I find myself saying, “I am glad you are here.”
He grasps my arms with his hands—hard—and pulls me even closer so that our bodies touch and I can feel the swish of my skirts as they tangle around his legs.
“What spell have you cast over me that I have no choice but to gallop after you across the countryside like some lovesick hound?”
My heart tumbles excitedly at his words. “I thought you said you were not hunting me?”
“Hunting. Following.” Disgust at himself is thick in his voice. “Either way, I will have none of it.” He gives me a little shake with each word, as if he can throw off the hold he claims that I have over him. And then, without any warning at all, he presses his lips against mine.
As his mouth covers my own, I find myself reeling, as if I have been tipped backward and am falling, falling, so that even the stars in the sky are spinning. His lips are warm and soft, the unrelenting pull of his desire for me as strong as the pull of the waves against the sand.
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.