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.”