Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin #3)

Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin #3) Page 11

I turn my attention to the bottom cabinet. This one contains a number of small drawers and cubbies stuffed with more letters and old correspondence, some small coins, and half-used sticks of sealing wax. At the very bottom is a large drawer. I take a deep breath as I open the drawer, letting it out when I finally see the prize I have been looking for—the large leather-bound ledger that contains the record of every one of Mortain’s handmaidens as far back as the first days of the convent.

I grasp the book with both hands, carry it over to the window, and set it on the sill.

The pages are old and yellowed and some so fragile I fear they will come apart under my fingers. Gingerly, I turn each page, marveling at the old script, so ornate as to be nearly unreadable.

I keep turning the pages, looking for dates that correspond to my arrival at the convent. Finally, nearly three-quarters of the way through, I see July 1472 scrawled atop a page. I run my finger down, past entries for July, August, and September, then quickly turn the page, but the next one is dated January of 1473. That cannot be correct. I arrived in the fall of 1472, toward the end of October. I turn back a page, but the last date is still September 1472.

How can that be? According to the ledger, I have never existed at all.

Perhaps the dates are out of order. I bring the heavy book up closer to my face and tilt it toward the moonlight. A leaf is missing. It appears that the page that holds all the answers I seek has been carefully torn from the book.

My pulse quickens, for is not the fact that the page is missing a sort of answer in itself?

To be certain, I hurry back to the drawer, thinking perhaps the page had simply come loose and fallen out, but no, the drawer is empty except for a large flat box. It is of some dark, glossy black wood, and I turn it over and over in my hands but can find no lid, no seam, no catch, no way of opening it. But it is heavy, and something inside moves when I shake it.

My hands tingle with excitement, for it must be something truly important to be enclosed in a box that cannot be opened. As enticing as that is, the box likely does not hold the answers that I seek, so I put it aside and resume my search for some record of my arrival.

I move to the bottom right cupboard and give a small gasp of delight when I find a neat row of small, calfskin-bound black books. I pull one out, flip it open, and am pleased to see the abbess’s elegant writing covering the vellum. As my eye moves across the words, I realize that it is a recording of the day-to-day operations of the convent. I turn a few more pages, and when my eye is caught by the name Melusine, I quickly read the abbess’s summary of her arrival. Surely that means all our arrivals would be noted in these journals as well as in the main convent ledger.

I pluck the fifth one from the end, and when I open it I see that the handwriting is not that of the current abbess but a bolder, more precise script. I glance at the dates: 1470 to 1475. With trembling hands I turn the pages, skimming the words until my own name jumps out at me. Clutching the journal to my chest as if the words might disappear before I can read them, I hasten back to the window so I may have the full light of the moon.

1472

Today the night rower delivered a small babe, a tiny wrinkled thing that cannot be but a handful of days old. According to the hedge priest and the herbwife who delivered the child, the girl was sired by Mortain, but the priest and the herbwife did not know who the mother was or could even name her. The night rower’s son’s wife has recently lost a babe and will be glad for the work as wet nurse. Thus does our Lord Mortain provide for even the least and smallest of His creatures.

1474

The child called Annith grows apace and is apparently healthy. At two years of age, it is not too early to begin her training. Indeed, she will be most fortunate among us, for few are given the opportunity to begin walking in Mortain’s path at such a tender age. Besides, the novice mistress coddles her too much and will make her soft. Best to train any softness out of her as early as possible so she may be as perfect for Mortain’s service as we can make her.

1475

The child cried and sobbed and made a terrible fuss over being parted from Sister Etienne. As punishment, she has been locked in the cellar until she is willing to sleep in her own bed in the dormitory with the other girls without fussing. I will show her that she does not need anyone to survive and that it is unwise to form such attachments. I shall have to think of some punishment for Sister Etienne as well, for she is almost as distraught as the child.

1475

It took three days to break the child, which, were it not so inconvenient for us all, would speak admirably of her will and spirit. We will take that raw stuff and mold it into a truly remarkable weapon for Mortain’s use.

1475

The child cried inconsolably when two of the barn cat’s kittens died. We explained to her that death was nothing to be afraid of, but when she would not listen to reason, more extreme measures were called for. She was locked in the wine cellar again, with the two dead kittens, in order to prove to her that she had nothing to fear from death. When she was finally quiet, she was let out. Sister Etienne said she did not speak for two entire days. Let us hope that means this lesson has been fully impressed upon her.

A hot sickness churns in my stomach, then crawls up my throat and spreads down through my arms. It is one thing to have such memories locked away in one’s head where they are subject to one’s own doubts and the softening of time. It is quite another to have them so coldly recorded upon a page, with no regret or admiration or anything to indicate the true torment of what I suffered.

I swallow convulsively as a wave of old familiar fear rises up in my throat. But I feel something new as well, something dark and unexpected. Anger. No, not anger, I realize as my heart hammers and my skin feels as if it will erupt into flames. Fury.

Outrage that the awful terror of my young life is laid out so casually, as if the abbess were reporting how many lambs the ewes dropped in the spring.

Fury at the sheer callousness and cruelty and harshness of the punishments doled out to me when I was younger even than little Florette.

I want to fling the book from me, throw it into a fire and burn it to ash, but I also want to clasp it tight as proof of what I have endured. What I have survived.

Proof of what is truly owed me.

The Dragonette’s calm, passionless words drive home just how much was demanded of me as a child in order for me to earn my place at the convent. That feeling has chased me all my life—that I am a flawed and imperfect vessel.

My cooperation—no, my full and utter capitulation to their desires—was the price I had to pay for survival. It was a bargain as binding as any contract, for all that it was a silent one. I pledged to do all that she asked of me, agreed to rise to the challenge of all her bedamned tests—and in return, I would be allowed to serve as handmaiden to Mortain.

I have earned that destiny. By right of all that I have endured, I have earned this. Such was the silent contract between the Dragonette and me, sealed in my own blood and pain and terror, and no one, certainly not the current abbess, can change the terms of that bargain.

I slip the journal into the pocket of my apron and turn to the cabinet directly behind the abbess’s desk. It is nearly morning, and I am out of time. My heart hammering in my chest, I return the convent ledger to the drawer. I lift the box to return it as well, then pause, weighing its heft in my hands. To someone who collects secrets, the box is too great a temptation to leave behind. Besides, perhaps whatever it holds is important enough that I can use it as some form of leverage.

Chapter Twelve

I AM NOT ABLE TO leave right away. There are preparations to make in order to ensure the nuns do not come after me, at least not until I have gotten well away from the coast and the main roads.

For a moment, a brief moment, I feel a pinch of uncertainty. Who will See for the convent when Vereda dies if not me? Would that not leave them as vulnerable and as blind as the seeress?

No. They can simply pick another virgin. Or better yet, one of the women past childbearing age. I have had well over a dozen lessons now and have not discerned so much as an approaching storm or what the cook will prepare for supper, let alone Mortain’s will.

I do not lull myself into believing this will be easy. I have only rarely been outside the convent walls, and have never been allowed to roam free on the open roads or wander through towns and cities unsupervised. My only experiences were the few trips Sister Thomine took us older girls on, precisely so we would have such experiences.

However, in the weeks following my discovery of the journal, I manage to put aside a small supply of provisions—an empty water skin, some hard cheeses and purloined loaves of bread, as well as a heavy gown that does not mark me as a handmaiden of Mortain. Obtaining a supply of weapons is harder, for Sister Arnette is always in her armory and most of the weapons are larger than the cheeses, and they clatter far more loudly than the gown. Poisons, too, present a challenge, for I must slip into Sister Serafina’s workshop in the dead of night and pray that there is nothing noxious brewing that could cause me harm.

Unable to decide if I am arming myself for defense or as the assassin I have trained to be, in the end, I prepare for both.

My last step is writing the letter I will pretend has come from the abbess to request my presence at her side in Guérande. Without such a message, a search party would likely be sent out as soon as my absence was discovered.

It has taken me a while to come up with a justification for the abbess’s request, as it is a complete turnabout of her plans for me.

It has also required that I become even more skilled at forging her hand. I lean back and admire the carefully scripted note.

Dear Eonette,

Now that I have seen firsthand the threats that our duchess faces, I have decided to have Annith join me at court. I believe that all of Mortain’s resources need to be brought to bear on the challenges that face our duchess if we are to have any hope of prevailing. It makes no sense to leave one of our most skilled novitiates withering behind our walls when the duchess so clearly has need of her.

I know that we must still address the issue of seeress soon, but with Vereda having made such an unexpected recovery, I cannot help but feel that Mortain Himself has bought us some time.

I fold the parchment and seal it. As the wax hardens, I pull my saddlebag from its hiding place under Sybella’s old bed. There is no one I must say goodbye to, for while I will miss the younger girls, it is not worth the risk of alerting them to my actions. I will better serve them by confronting the abbess and ensuring none of them is ever sent out before they are fully trained. If it is some misguided fondness for me that is at the heart of the abbess’s unwillingness to send me out, it is wrong and must stop. It is too gross a betrayal of the others and I will not have it on my conscience.

I take the message, crack open the wax seal, then crumple the note, as if it has been read in great haste, before tossing it on my bed. When they come looking for me in the morning, they will see the abbess’s request and assume that I was the first to read it and set out immediately. While some of the nuns might wonder why it came to me directly, others will know of my talent for ferreting out information and should not question such a thing.

Dressed in my heaviest gown, I slip into my winter cloak and take one last look around my room. The convent has yielded what few answers it had, which in turn have created only more questions. And the truth that the Dragonette’s journal pounded home with the force of a fist is that I do not owe anyone here a thing.

I sling my pack over my shoulder, running through my list of supplies one more time. There are no items I have forgotten. My hand twitches with the memory of the faceted crystal vial in Sister Vereda’s chambers, as black as night and densely heavy. Do not I have a greater need than others for such a thing if I am to be cut off from the convent’s support? Surely I must try to use every means available to better see Mortain’s will for me.

The entire convent is dark and quiet, so it is easy enough to slip unobserved to Sister Vereda’s chambers. There is the risk that with her returning skills, she will See what I intend to do, but it is one I must take. Even if she discovers my plans, she cannot yet rise from the bed, nor would anyone hear her frail voice raise the alarm, buried as she is deep in her own chambers, far from everyone else. Even so, I hope it does not come to that.