Mortal Heart

Page 26

It is only two maidservants bearing a copper tub. I leave them to fill it and go to stare out the window, their gentle prattle falling over me like a soft rain.
The abbess may well try and force me to return to the convent, silent and in disgrace, but I will not go back. Not like that. Indeed, I can see no way I can ever return to the convent, for the abbess will not let me return in victory, and I refuse to do so in defeat.
“Does my lady wish assistance with her bath?” It takes me a bewildered moment to focus on the maid’s voice.
“No, thank you. I can tend to it myself.” Once I am alone, I step out of my skirt, then remove the leather leggings I wore under it, wrinkling my nose. The abbess is right; I do reek.
I slip out of my shift, check to make sure the linen towel and small pot of soap are within reach, then lower myself into the steaming water. I try to quiet my mind, to simply be satisfied that I am here. I have made it to Rennes and presented my grievances to the abbess. Considering all the dangers and detours I have faced on this journey, I have achieved far more than I had ever hoped for.
I turn to the business of scrubbing away weeks’ worth of travel. When I am done, I step out of the tub and reach for the linen towel. I am nearly dry when I realize the only clean gown I have to wear has been wadded up in my satchel for well over a month. I grimace at the idea of donning the wilted, wrinkled thing—especially having seen all the finery worn at court—but there is nothing for it. I cannot prance about in naught but a linen towel.
I have just slipped my one clean shift over my head and tugged it into place when there is a small commotion at the door. Expecting the abbess to come in and resume her earlier argument, I whirl around just as it is thrown open. It is not the abbess, but—
“Ismae!” My entire body lights up like a candle, and before I know what I am doing, I cross the room and throw my arms around her.
She takes a moment to shut the door behind her with her foot, then hugs me back. “It is you. The page kept insisting he had escorted someone named Annith, and I kept insisting he must be mistaken.”
Keeping her hands firmly clasped on my arms, she pulls back to study me. She is the same Ismae, but different too. There is an ease to her face and manner, but a new sharpness as well. “I take it by your warm greeting you are not angry with me?”
“No!” I hug her once more, savoring the warm, solid feel of her in my arms, safe and alive and unharmed, then force myself to release her lest she think I have turned into a clinging vine. “Angry with you? Why ever would I be angry with you?”
“When you did not answer my last two letters, I thought perhaps the abbess had told you of how I had veered from the course she had set for me.”
“But I answered the last letter I received from you. It was the one asking about lovers. Were there more after that?”
“Yes. Did you not receive the message I wrote begging you to tell me the antidote to Arduinna’s snare?”
Her question punches me like a fist, for it could only mean that the abbess confiscated the letters. “No, but surely you know the antidote? It is one of your gifts!”
Ismae looks down at her hands as if she still cannot believe it. “I do now, but I did not know until it was nearly too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Oh! We have so very much to catch up on! But first, what are you doing here? How did you get here? And does the abbess know?”
I roll my eyes and grimace. “Oh, she knows. And is most upset, which is not unexpected. As for the rest, it is a long and complicated story.”
She studies me a moment longer, then gives my arms a squeeze. “Go. Sit. I will see some refreshment is brought and you can tell me your long and complicated story.”
“I would like that,” I say. As Ismae goes to the door and gives instructions to someone outside, I take my gown from the satchel and pull it over my head. Ismae turns around just then and grimaces. “You cannot wear that. Not in that state.” As she yanks the door open once more and calls to the servant to bring a fresh gown from her chamber as well as the refreshments, I marvel at the changes in her. Not just the physical changes, although those are marked, but the changes in her very manner, how she moves though the world and talks to others. The hesitant girl who was always waiting for permission and unsure of her station now has the bearing and confidence of one of our most experienced initiates. She is a full-fledged handmaiden of Death and living the life I have always imagined for myself. The joy I feel at seeing her once more dims slightly at my own uncertain future with the convent. “You’ve changed,” I say when she returns from the door.
She smiles. “As have you.” We both sit, and her polished demeanor falls away as she leans forward, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Did you truly leave the convent against the abbess’s wishes?”
“I did. Oh, Ismae. There is so much to tell you of, and very little of it good. Matelaine”—my voice gets stuck in my throat and I can hardly get the words out—“Matelaine is dead.” Much to my surprise, I feel tears form, tears I have not been able to shed since I saw the younger girl’s body. I swipe at my cheek, needing to get the rest of it out. “The abbess refused to send me out, refused to even consider it, and instead sent Matelaine, and now she is dead.”
“But she was only fifteen!”
“I said as much to the abbess, but she closed her ears to my arguments and instead told me I was to be the convent’s seeress.”
“But that makes no sense! You have not shown any talent for visions, not since I’ve known you. Not to mention you are the most skilled of all of us.”
I decide to say nothing just yet of my youthful visions, as I do not know if they are important. “It does not make any sense. It is a betrayal of the covenant the convent makes with the novitiates—that they will be properly trained and prepared before being sent out, or else they are just fodder.” I take a deep breath, relieved immeasurably to have shared all this with someone I trust. “And that is why I am here—to insist she face the tragedy her actions have caused and hold her to account before she starts sending even younger girls out, because clearly she will not send me.” I look down at my hands, which are twisted in my lap.
Ismae shakes her head. “I have never understood why I was sent to the Breton court and you were not.”
“Perhaps Mortain knew that your poison gifts would be needed?” I am not certain I believe that, but it cannot be discounted as a possibility.
Ismae nods slowly. “Perhaps.”
“When you met with the abbess, just before you left, could you tell if it was she who made the decision? Or had Sister Vereda Seen you at court?”
She shrugs helplessly. “The abbess informed me of the assignment after Duval burst into her office and confronted her. Whether Sister Vereda had seen it before then or not, I do not know.”
“Well, if it was Mortain’s decision, it is hard to argue with, but I still cannot help but wonder why. Have I displeased Him in some way? Failed in my devotion or obedience?”
“I cannot imagine that you have.”
“And yet the abbess choosing not to send me makes no more sense.”
“She has always been exceptionally fond of you,” Ismae points out.
I cannot help it—I snort. “Only because I excelled at my duties and was extremely biddable. And”—honesty compels me to admit—“because I think she felt sorry for me.”
“Felt sorry for you? Why on earth would she?” The disbelief is clear in Ismae’s voice, disbelief that anything in my sheltered life at the convent could have earned me someone’s pity.
I rise to my feet and busy myself with trying to smooth the wrinkles out of my gown. She deserves an answer, but it is so very hard to speak of those memories, to share them with anyone, that I am nearly overcome by a need to flee the room. “The previous abbess—the one our current abbess replaced—singled me out for special . . . attention.”
Ismae’s eyes narrow in concern. “What sort of attention?”
A faint hum of panic skips along my limbs, making me feel as if I have said too much already. “It is of no importance—it was a long time ago. But tell me, what of Sybella? The abbess said she was out on a dangerous mission and that I must prepare myself for the possibility that she might not return.”
Ismae’s face darkens. She pushes to her feet and begins pacing. “Oh, Annith. The abbess has done most poorly by Sybella. She has sent her back to the very family that nearly destroyed her.”
All the blood drains from my face, and I must grasp the bedpost to steady myself. Even now, I had not suspected such a gross betrayal. I had assumed there was some assignment for which Sybella’s unique skills would prove useful. But this? To return her to the source of her madness before she has fully healed?
“And her family—it is even worse than we had imagined. Annith, she is Count d’Albret’s own daughter.”
“Count d’Albret! The one who nearly raped the duchess?”
Ismae nods. “The very same. And he has a much darker history than even the most vile rumors about him reveal. Duval never trusted the man, which is why he was so against the match. But now that we have heard from Sybella’s own lips how Count d’Albret has treated his wives . . .” She shudders, then meets my gaze, her eyes stark and filled with horror. “He has killed them. All of them.”
“How many have there been?” I whisper.
“Six. The duchess would have been the seventh.”
My knees suddenly weak, I lower myself onto the bed behind me. To think of Sybella growing up in such a household, with murders being committed throughout her young life. It is truly a miracle that she was not warped and damaged beyond recovery.
It also makes the abbess’s decision to send her back all the more heinous, and anger surges through me once more. “And that’s where she is now?”
“Yes and no. Three months ago, when the duchess faced d’Albret and Marshal Rieux before Nantes, d’Albret planned a trap. It was only through the valiant efforts of her small guard that she was able to get to safety. One of those guards was the Beast of Waroch.”
“I know of him. He is rumored to be the fiercest warrior our country has ever known. And wasn’t it he who rallied the duke’s forces and allowed us to win the Mad War?”
“Yes. Precisely. And with the duchess’s marshal turning against her, she had few troops left to her. Beast’s ability to raise and motivate fighting men became even more critical to our mission. Under pressure, the abbess agreed to arrange for Sybella to free him. He was so wounded that she had to accompany him to Rennes herself.”
“Then where is she now?”
“Annith, the abbess tried to send her back to d’Albret’s household yet again! Even knowing her role in aiding Beast had been discovered, the abbess was determined to send her back.” Ismae looks away. “So I took matters into my own hands and told Beast what was going to happen.” She smiles faintly. “Then he took matters into his.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he intervene on her behalf? Because she had rescued him from the prison.”
An amused smile plays about Ismae’s lips. “Not only that. He has developed a great—fondness—for her, one that she returns, for all that she has tried to deny it. So he diverted her from that mission and took her with him when he went to give aid to the British troops at Morlaix, thus keeping her away from the abbess.”
Her expression grows stricken again. “But we received word from Beast last week. Sybella’s sisters have been threatened if she does not return to the family. She and Beast have gone back to Nantes to get them out, but so far we have heard nothing else.” She looks up at me, tears glinting in her eyes. “Oh, Annith. I am so afraid for her, so afraid of what this will cost her.”