Mortal Heart

Page 34

A short while later, I spy a small copse of trees near a scattering of large, moss-covered boulders. The trees are thickly canopied and would afford some shelter if the clouds return, while the boulders will help shield me from view of the road. There is even a small streamlet on the far side of the copse. Thus decided, I dismount and lead Fortuna to the water and let her drink. I am pleased to see there are some fresh green shoots of grass nearby that she can graze upon.
Once I have removed her saddle and tack, I rub her down thoroughly and settle her near the grazing area. Then I must look to my own needs before the light fails altogether. By the time I have a small fire built, darkness has settled. My stomach rumbles with hunger, but when I pull my saddlebags closer, it is not the food that my fingers search for. They dig deep, down into the very bottom, where the small vial of Tears is cushioned by the calfskin-bound journal.
I pull out the heavy bottle, unwrap the cloth around it, and find myself staring into the dark black crystal, the reflected flames of the fire leaping and dancing in its faceted depths.
I think of all the handmaidens who have gone before me, who have had their senses opened to Mortain’s will so they could see the world more as He saw it. Surely, few of them could have needed to see His will as desperately as I do now, with not only Crunard’s life hanging in the balance, but my own future with the convent as well.
I carefully lift the stopper, revealing a long, thin wand of crystal. I dip it into the Tears, then slowly pull it all the way out. I set the vial down on one of the rocks surrounding the fire and bring the crystal wand up to my eye. I pause to say a small prayer. Please, Mortain, let Your will be clear to me so that I may better serve You. I hold my eyelid open with my free hand, then tap the dropper once.
The Tear falls in, heavy and cold. Even as I fumble to dip the wand in the vial again, a burning begins. Forcing my right eye open, I repeat the procedure, shuddering at the cold heavy feel of it.
The burning is stronger now, growing instead of receding. It burns so brightly that it turns the inside of my eyelids red, as if I am staring at the sun through closed eyes. I bite my lip and wait for it to pass.
But it does not. I feel the first trickle of panic as the sensation moves from my eyes to my forehead, then creeps along my skull and works its way down my neck so that even my throat throbs.
I lift my hands to rub the pain away, then stop, not knowing if that will make it better or worse. Instead, I clench my hands into fists and pray that the feeling will cease.
I do not know how long it takes—when one is in pain, every second feels like an hour—but eventually the sensation begins to lessen and I risk opening my eyes.
I blink, and blink again. I lift my hand and bring it close to my face, then hold my breath and blink a third time.
I cannot see a thing.
No. That cannot be. I lift my hands and press them gently against my closed lids, as if I can rub the blackness away. But when I open my eyes, I still see nothing but more blackness. My heart begins to race, thudding loudly in my chest. Perhaps it is only temporary, a strong reaction to the sacred Tears. For all I know, every novitiate who has been administered the Tears has felt this.
Except . . . if that were true, surely there would have been some rumor of it. Besides, Ismae was administered the Tears only a short while before she left with Chancellor Crunard on her second assignment. If it affected her sight thusly, it cannot have been for long.
Before I can take any comfort from that, a new thought occurs to me, one so galling that my limbs begin to tremble.
What if this is the wrong bottle?
It is entirely possible, for there is no label on it, and Sister Vereda’s room was a mad jumble of odds and ends. It looked like the bottle I had heard so much about, but there was nothing except my own willful defiance to lead me to that conclusion.
Or could it be yet another test? I wonder. Please, Mortain, no. I have passed enough tests to choke an ox; surely there is no need for further proof of my dedication.
Or perhaps . . . My thoughts stumble and stutter, rearranging themselves in an entirely new formation. Could the abbess have gotten hold of the Tears and altered them in some way? I have rarely been in my chambers, and she has free access at the palace. Likely no one would even note her coming or going as she pretended to meet with her handmaidens in their room.
She is plainly dead set against my serving Mortain as an assassin, but would she have resorted to such brutal tactics?
I snort, answering my own question. Of course she would. We have crossed a new line in our relationship.
Afraid I will be sick, I plant my hands on my knees and bend over, fighting to take in great big gulps of air. I wish, desperately, to move, to stand up, to pace, to do something, but I am afraid of losing my bearings. I close my eyes and the panic ebbs somewhat, as if my body is comfortable with being sightless as long as my eyes are closed.
What now? What does this mean for my journey to Guérande?
Indeed, what does it mean for my very life? Now I will have no choice but to sit behind the stone walls of the convent in that dark tomblike chamber for all the rest of my days.
No.
The word swims up from inside me like some ancient fish from the bottom of the deepest part of the sea. No. I will not sit here like a bump in the road, waiting for the abbess to come fetch me and escort me back to the convent, an obedient brood mare for her precious, endless visions.
I have tasted freedom and can never relinquish control of my life to others again.
But how can I go forward if I cannot see?
One step at a time. The words seep into my awareness like rain into parched ground, calming me somewhat.
Instead of allowing myself to despair, I will simply have to pray that my sight returns in the morning.
I grope along the boulder on my right until my hand comes into contact with my saddlebag. I walk my fingers along its bulk until they touch the thin leather straps and the cold metal of the buckles that hold my bedroll in place. It is easy enough to remove it from rest of the pack. I close my eyes again so I may concentrate on remembering my surroundings. I had secured Fortuna just beyond the northernmost tree. The other trees spread out in a half circle from there. Clutching the bedroll in front of me like a softly padded shield so I do not break my nose if I miscalculate, I begin counting out the steps to the next tree, pleased when I feel the rough bark under my palms only two steps farther than I thought.
My sense of smell is stronger, whether from the Tears themselves or simply because I cannot see, I do not know, but I find that helps me as well, the sharp pungent scent of the sap guiding me to the next tree, a mere four steps ahead. Good. I am far enough away from Fortuna that she will not accidentally stomp on my head as I sleep.
Keeping the tree at my back, and the heat of the fire in front of me, I lower myself to the ground. With all the grace and precision of a performing bear, I clear away rocks and branches before unrolling the woolen blanket. When that is done, I sit back on my heels. Although the night is cold, perspiration trickles along my body from my efforts.
I am back from the road and hidden enough from view, and there is no moon tonight. Even so, I pray to Mortain, asking Him to let the darkness conceal me.
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 c**k 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.