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.
“We lock the doors at the third bell and do not open them again till morning. If you’re not back by then, do not bother.”
“Thank you! I will be back before the third bell rings.” And then we are at the door. Balthazaar flings it open, shoves me out into the night, and shuts it behind us. Before I can berate him for creating such a scene, he presses me up against the wall, lowers his head, and captures my lips with his.
The force of it fair steals my breath and for a moment, I can do nothing but stand there and reel. Taking advantage of my inaction, he wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer, as if even the small space between us is too much. Luckily, the movement brings me back to my senses, and I—less forcefully than I should—shove him away. “What are you doing here?”
He stares down at me, and I must force myself to look away for fear I will lose myself in that gaze once again. “Were you not acting my lover just then?”
I glance around to see if anyone has witnessed our display. Luckily, we are alone in the courtyard, most likely because his enormous black stallion is tossing his head and pawing at the ground like the creature from the Underworld he is. “Yes, you lummox, but only so you and the innkeeper would not come to blows. Now, get off me. I have work to do.” I want to ask him why he left me and where he went, but refuse to let those questions pass my lips. Lips that still feel the press of his upon them.
“I finished my work in Nantes,” he says.
My head snaps up and I half fear he has read my mind.
“That is what I am doing here.”
I push away from the wall. “What business did you have in Nantes?”
“A new hellequin has been sworn to our service.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Because lies fall as easily from his lips as ripe fruit from a tree, I press further. “What sins is he seeking redemption from?”
“He was overcome with lust for his own sister, and yet died trying to protect her. In his moment of death, he begged for a chance to redeem himself, and so it has been granted.”
“So that is why you left with not so much as a by-your-leave.”
His voice softens. “I said goodbye.”
So. That was no dream, then. I study him suspiciously. “You left not even knowing if my sight had returned.”
“But it had.”
And how could he know that? “Be safe, my love,” a voice murmurs. Then I feel the press of cool lips upon my eyelids. I scoff at my suspicions. Hellequin have no such powers. It was but a coincidence. My body finally adjusted to the power of the Tears, that is all. “Well, I am fine now, as you can see. And I have work to do.”
“I will accompany you.”
Merde, that is all I need, him looking over my shoulder. “You will not! My work is meant to be done in private.”
“As is mine, and yet you witnessed it for nearly three weeks.”
“At your invitation.”
“Besides, what if you go blind again? Or lose your hearing? Or power of speech? Then you will need my help.” There is a faint note of smug satisfaction in his voice.
I nearly shove him again in frustration, but then I see how the spark of humor lights up his eyes, lifting the despair and making them nearly human. And just like that, my anger dissipates. “Very well. But you must do as I tell you.”
He places a hand on his chest. “Always.”
I roll my eyes.
Crunard is being held in the northeast gate tower. As we head through the nearly deserted streets of Guérande, I keep a careful eye out for the city watch. Beside me, the hellequin moves as quietly as a wraith. Indeed, the shadows of the night seem to pool around him, as if his very presence attracts them. It is most unsettling and it takes every ounce of training I have to push it out of my mind and concentrate on the task at hand.
I am ready for this. I have spent my entire life preparing for this moment, this chance to serve Mortain. Instead of sitting walled up in some suffocating tomb using nothing of who I am to serve Him, now every skill I possess, every bit of intellect, every moment of training, will be brought to bear on this task, and in doing this, I will dedicate my life to His service.
If He will have me.
I do not know what I will do if the life I want is denied me, but the thought is less bleak now than it once was. I tell myself that has nothing to do with the hellequin at my side. Or if it does, it is only because I have learned through him just how far Mortain’s grace and mercy can extend.
I ignore his dark brooding presence at my elbow and review everything I have learned about marques—about how and where they appear and the different ways in which Mortain’s daughters see them. I know that Ismae has seen marques since she was young and that they appear to her in ways that suggest the method of death. Sybella only sees them on the victim’s forehead, and she did not see that until after she was administered the Tears.
There are initiates who never see marques at all, although those are rare. That is why we rely so heavily on the seeress, and it is no small part of why I am so terrified of having that rest on my shoulders—I cannot believe that I am to be His voice in this world.
When we reach the gate tower, I put my hand out to stop the hellequin. Just as I do, two guards emerge from the door. Before I can react, the hellequin grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around so that my back is against the wall. Leaning over me, he presses our bodies together, his cloak swirling forward with the movement and wrapping itself around my legs. Then he brings his hooded head down toward mine, so close I think he plans to kiss me again, and while I am annoyed with his actions, my traitorous heart gives a small, eager leap. Just as I prepare to wrench away from him, he whispers in my ear, “Hold still.”
I curse my own loss of focus. He is right. It is one of the first lessons we learn at the convent, how to meld with the shadows. And I would have remembered it if I hadn’t been so distracted by the idea of him kissing me again. There is a good chance the sentries will not see us, and if they do, they will likely think it is merely some soldier’s dalliance.
I feel Balthazaar’s heart beating against my own as the two soldiers pass by. They are close enough that the hellequin could reach out and touch them if he wished, but they do not so much as look in our direction. When they have passed and their footsteps no longer echo on the cobblestones, Balthazaar steps away.
“I told you you would have need of me.”
I avoid his eyes as I adjust my skirts. “I could have escaped their notice equally well on my own. I have been sneaking and skulking since I was a child, and am very good at it. Now, are you ready to play your part?” It was the price I demanded if he insisted on coming with me.
“I still say you would make a better distraction than I.”
I give him a grin that is all teeth and little humor. “Yes, but I have the sleeping draft and you do not.” I give him a push, which is like pushing a stone wall. He makes certain I know this by resisting a long moment before finally choosing to step back.
I squelch the urge to reach out and kick him.
As he slips away, I keep myself from asking him what he plans to do to distract the guards. Instead, I slide along the gate-tower wall, ease myself toward the guard room, then slip inside. Torches flicker lazily in their iron sconces, causing long shadows to dance in the dim light. I move quickly to the table where the men had been sitting, their dice still lying upon its surface. Quickly, I remove the small paper of fine white powder from the cuff of my sleeve, tap a sprinkle into each cup, then pour the rest into the jug. Before I can do more than that, I hear the footsteps of the returning men.
I step back into the shadows near the corner of the room, grateful for the sputtering torch light that is barely enough to see the dice by.
And then I wait.
The men take their seats. One of them says something, laughs, then lifts his cup and takes a swig of wine. As he lifts the jug to pour himself more, his companion drains his cup and holds it out to be filled as well. Some of the tension in my shoulders relaxes and I lean back against the wall, waiting for the draft to do its work.
I do not know if it takes longer than it should or if it is just very hard to wait while crouching in the shadows. At last, their heads nod, and first one, then the other, slumps over the table, the movement causing the dice to fall to the floor.
Victory wells up within me. Now I may face Crunard.
Slowly, I turn and walk from the antechamber to the short narrow hallway beyond, then pause. There are no doors here, only grilles of ironwork, much like the portcullis. A lone man sits behind one of them. For all that he is in need of a haircut and his beard a trim, I recognize him immediately from his visits to the convent.
Feeling my eyes upon him, he looks up. Slowly, he leans back against the wall, one side of his mouth lifting in a bitter smile. “I wondered when she would send someone after me. It is not like her to waste an opportunity when one of her opponents has been weakened.”
“I am not sent by the duchess,” I tell him as I search his face for any hint of the dark smudge that I am so desperately praying for.
“I know. You are sent by the abbess of Saint Mortain.”