On the heels of my remorse comes a surge of ire. I did not invite him to follow me to Rennes, and surely I do not owe him an accounting of my whereabouts. It was his choice to come, and it is not my responsibility to look to his comfort. Besides, I had thought we were done with each other, that I would never see him again.
And yet, I cannot argue away the small thrill of joy I felt when I did see him again. And while it saddens me to think that my thoughtlessness might add to the despair that already haunts him, it is not my concern, no matter how often I see his face when I close my eyes at night or how much I miss his silent, brooding presence skulking nearby. Mortain’s work and the abbess’s plotting are what I must focus on now.
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.