The old man comes to the door wrapped up in his cloak and carrying a lantern to light the way to the stable. Not sure what I am supposed to do, I follow him. At least until he turns and arches one of his own thick, white eyebrows at me. Pretending I do not see it, I swing my travel bag off my shoulder, set it on the ground, and begin rummaging through it, looking for one of my small leather pouches.
When I find it, I draw out a pinch of salt to leave as an offering to Saint Cissonius. He is the patron saint of both travelers and crossroads, and I feel most assuredly as if I am staring at some sort of unseeable crossroad, unable to discern the true path ahead of me. As I sprinkle the salt onto the earth beneath my feet, I whisper a brief prayer and ask Mortain Himself to guide me on this journey.
The old man returns just then. When I see that he is leading my favorite horse, Fortuna, my impatience with him leaks away, and I smile. “She is my favorite.” I run my hand down her silky black mane.
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Why d’you think I brought her?”
It occurs to me that all of us at the convent should pay closer attention to this man, who sees far more than he lets on. “And I thank you for it.”
He grunts, then helps me secure my bag to the saddle before cupping his hands and holding them out for me. I accept the boost and, stepping lightly, throw my leg over Fortuna’s back, then settle into the saddle and draw up the reins.
My bow is within easy reach and my quiver of arrows is at my back. I do not expect trouble, but neither am I afraid of it. In truth, I am eager for whatever the road may hold, knowing I am more than able to meet the challenge.
Once I am on a horse that can outrun pursuit, the tension across my shoulders eases and I realize I did not believe that I would be able to escape undetected. But I am not a child any longer, and am more than able to pit my wits against any of the older nuns’. Nor are they still able to easily frighten me with their tales of the dreaded hellequin pursuing any who dare to defy Mortain.
The clear sky holds, and the moon is just past its fullness, providing plenty of light for me to see by. Fortuna is well rested and fresh, prancing in the crisply cold night air, her breath coming out in small white clouds.
As we set out, I quickly become aware of how different the world is at night. For one thing, there are infinite shades of gray, from palest silver to nearly black. And while I have ventured onto the mainland before, it has always been with others from the convent. I have never been as utterly alone as I am in this moment. There is no one to order me about or tell me what to think or how to behave. There is no one to say I must turn this way or that. No one to cast me disappointed looks when I fail to do as they wish. Nor do I have to bear the weight of those unspoken wishes.
There is a sensation—a lightness—in my chest, something I have never felt before, and I cannot decide if it is disagreeable or pleasant. Part of me wishes to poke at it, examine and sift through its meaning. Instead, I urge Fortuna to a canter and look to my future rather than my past.
The nearest village is only three leagues from the coast, but traveling in the dark it takes me the rest of the night to reach it. Some jaunty c**k crows to greet the morning, and smoke from a dozen chimneys rises up, pale smudges against the dawn. Even though my bones ache with fatigue and my eyes are gritty with the need for sleep, I decide to keep riding. Unreasonable as it is, my fear of being followed is so great that I could not sleep, or even rest, if I allowed myself to stop.
I see almost no one on the road other than a man hauling a wheelbarrow full of firewood. A woman sits with her spindle in a doorway, watching a young child feed the chickens. In the fields to either side of me, tillage has begun. One lucky man has two oxen yoked to his plow, but I pass many more farmers too poor to afford any such beasts. Instead, they simply strap the yokes to their own shoulders. With the recent storms, it is muddy, backbreaking work, and I do not envy them. I think of the widowed farmer the abbess threatened to give me to, and my blood simmers in anger all over again.
My mind keeps going back to the choices before me and how to honor both my own desires and Mortain’s. I have always hoped to live in accordance with His will, but for the first time I begin to fear I will be forced to make a choice between His will and mine. If being seeress is truly His wish and not the abbess’s, if He truly wants from me what I cannot bear to give, then I will have to choose one over the other. The mere thought of that makes my heart feel as if it is being ripped in two.
Besides, it is hard to reconcile that sort of Mortain with the one I have known all my life. The one who comforted me and encouraged me, the one who accepted every gift I offered Him, whether it was the small black moths and beetles I found or my childish attempts to master some new skill in His name. I cannot believe that He would reject the gifts I wish to place in His service and demand of me things that fill me with dread and foreboding.
But if it does turn out to be Mortain’s will, what then?
Will I continue to dedicate my life to Him as I have always imagined—even if that service requires me to spend the rest of my days in a living death?
I do not know the answer to that question, and that frightens me nearly as much as the abbess’s plots.
I make the town of Quimper just as night is falling and am one of the last allowed through the city’s gates before they close. The guard takes one look at the attire that marks me as one of Mortain’s and hastily waves me through. Quimper, while a large town, is close enough to the coast—and the convent—to keep faith with the old ways. Or at the very least to have a healthy respect for them. More importantly, it is easy to lose oneself in a town of this size, and it makes the job of those pursuing me just that much more difficult.
I stop at an inn, where the innkeeper’s wife fusses over me like a mother hen. It is all I can do not to point out to her that I am an assassin trained, but the fire she sits me in front of is warm, the cup of wine she thrusts in my hand is spiced, and her ministrations are soothing. I am normally the one doing the fussing, so this is a novelty for me.
The next morning I sleep far later than I intend and do not wake until the sun is high in the pale wintry sky. Cursing myself for the lost time, I slip into the extra gown I brought, the one that does not mark me as Death’s handmaiden. Thus dressed, it will be easy enough for me to blend in with the other townsfolk, and my passing through will be less easily remembered should anyone from the convent ask after me.
Once I leave the town of Quimper behind me, I alternate between galloping and walking Fortuna, wanting to put as much distance as possible between me and the convent without exhausting my horse.