Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin #3)

Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin #3) Page 25

As well they should, for there are people everywhere. In truth, I never imagined so many could live in one place behind one set of walls. Or that they would want to.

And Floris was right—the city appears to be overrun by soldiers. They outnumber the townspeople by five to one, at least. Most do not seem to be on duty but merely wander the streets in groups. There is a bored, restless air to the men that makes me wonder if the sentries should not train their sights on the inside of their walls rather than outside of them.

I pull my thoughts away from the soldiers and take in Rennes itself. It is large and far grander than Vannes, although I saw little enough of that town, and in the poorest of circumstances. These cobbled streets are lined with shops and brightly painted two- and three-story timbered houses. The spire of a grand cathedral rises from the middle of the city like a beacon.

My ogling draws the notice of others—well, that and my strange attire, for while I have thrown a skirt over my leggings, I am still dressed mostly in the manner of the Arduinnites. Three soldiers lounging near a smithy eye me, and I urge Fortuna down a different street before they can think to create mischief. While I would not mind fighting them, the whole place has the feel of a pile of kindling, and I do not wish to be a spark.

When I approach the sentry at the palace, he gives me a lazy grin that I meet with a cool smile. “I am here to see the abbess of Saint Mortain.”

I enjoy it more than I should when the grin drops from his face and he stands up straighter. “Your name?”

“Tell her that Annith is here.”

He nods curtly, motions a page over from the small cluster of boys who linger just inside the door, and gives him instructions. The page, a bright-eyed boy whose mischievous grin reminds me of Audri, makes a perfunctory bow, then hurries off into the interior of the castle. I am sent to the antechamber to cool my heels, and I try not to gawk and gape as if I have just rolled off the turnip cart.

Sister Beatriz told us often of the grandeur we would encounter when our duties brought us to the ducal court, but, as I have learned again and again these past weeks, there is a difference between hearing about something and experiencing it. Sister Beatriz was no poet, so her words did not come close to painting the true picture.

The antechamber alone is as big as our chapel and chapter house combined, and it is richly appointed, with bright, colorful tapestries that do much to absorb the chill that comes in through the main doors. The wood paneling is intricately carved, and I long to run my fingers over it to feel the rich texture of the wood.

But even more dizzying is the number of people in the room, which is equal to the population of a small village. Over a dozen sentries and men-at-arms, a handful of pages, and clusters of well-dressed citizens and even more elegantly dressed nobles mingle about. This is the only thing Sister Beatriz did a fair job of preparing us for—the finery these nobles wear, for their garments are as brightly decorated and elaborate as she told us they would be. I also notice that most of them stand with their heads together, absorbed in tense conversation. Have they already heard of the French attack on Vannes? Or is there some other news that has them nervous?

I see the page scampering back to us before the sentry does, his eyes wide, his brows raised. “Her ladyship says to send Annith along immediately. I am to escort her myself.” He says this last bit with no small amount of pride.

The sentry casts a curious glance at me before nodding his head and ushering me on. I hurry to catch up to the page, who apparently does not believe in walking when scampering will do.

Now that I am actually seconds away from facing the abbess, my palms grow clammy. I marvel that I have faced—and survived—the dangers of the hellequin and the French, and yet it is the thought of this conversation that makes my hands sweat. I will not give in to this fear.

I have been blooded in my first battle, and my second and my third.

I have lived now in the real world, with all its mess and turmoil, all its wildness and all its beauty, and I can never unsee what I have seen, I can never unknow what I now know. More importantly, something deep inside me has awakened, and now that I have moved through the world fully aware, it is impossible to let myself be lulled back to sleep. Perhaps that is why the abbess held me back. Perhaps, for some reason I cannot even begin to fathom, she was afraid of this very thing.

After leading me down one main corridor, then another, the page comes to a stop in front of a thick oak door and raps smartly upon it. “It’s the Lady Annith, your ladyship.”

“Send her in.” The abbess’s voice is clear as a bell, even through the door.

“It’s Reverend Mother,” I whisper at him.

He frowns at me. “What?”

“A woman in her position is not called your ladyship, but Reverend Mother.”

His cheeks flare pink for a moment. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?” With a snort of disgust, he shakes his head and trots off down the hall. I take a deep breath, put my hand to the door, and go in.

The abbess is waiting for me in the chair behind her desk, sitting stiff and upright. Her face is pale, her nostrils pinched, the skin drawn tight across her fine features. Indeed, her barely checked fury has the weight and substance of a living thing. “Reverend Mother.” I execute a precise curtsy.

She does not bother with the formalities. “What is the meaning of this, Annith? What are you doing here in Rennes?”

“I have come to inform you that Matelaine is dead.”

The pinched anger in her face does not soften. There is no flicker of surprise or remorse or sorrow. “While I am sorry to hear that, there was no reason for you to bring the news yourself. A message would have sufficed. You are simply using this as an excuse to avoid a duty you do not wish to perform.”

The memory of Matelaine and her cold, still body lying on the hard wooden planks of the bone cart rises up, twisting my heart until it bleeds anew. My hands clench into fists and I shove them into my skirt so she will not see. “No. A simple message would not have sufficed, for I wanted to look you in the face when I accused you of being responsible for her death. It is because of your negligence and stubbornness that she is dead.”

A gasp escapes her lips—one sharp intake of breath that lets me know my words have reached her. “What do you mean?”

As the raw wound of Matelaine’s death reopens, all the hot, bitter pain comes flowing out. “You sent her out before she was ready. You knew it was too soon; Sister Thomine warned you. I warned you, but still you sent—”

“Silence!” Her voice cuts through my words like a knife. She places both hands flat on the desk and pushes herself to her feet. “How dare you? How dare you come in here screeching like a fishwife, berating me!”

I take a step toward the desk, enjoying the way her eyes widen in surprise. “I dare because Matelaine cannot do it herself. You have betrayed her, betrayed the sanctuary and trust between the convent and its novitiates, and I would know the reason why.”

“Trust! Let us speak of trust and how you have disobeyed me outright. You have left the convent and your duties without permission. Have you given no thought to the others whom your actions might place in jeopardy? Have you given any thought at all to leaving the convent with no one to See Mortain’s will? It is I who accuse you of betraying my trust.”

I dismiss her accusations with a curt wave of my hand. “I have no gift for Seeing and you know it. Why did you send Matelaine when she was not ready? What is the true reason you held me back?”

The abbess closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she is calmer, less angry. She smiles then, a coaxing, beatific smile. It feels as if she is casting out a sticky net, hoping to entrap me with her beguiling ways. But it is poisoned bait she offers—I recognize that now. “Dear Annith. While I admire your loyalty to those you care about, you must understand that as abbess, I have duties far above any one individual’s safety or comfort. I must use all the resources available in the best way possible to ensure Mortain’s will is done. You know that. It is just your disappointment and envy talking.” Her voice is gentle, sympathetic even, and it wraps itself around me in an attempt to lull me back to sleep.

For a sharp, painful moment, I miss a world where everything made sense. “I was disappointed, envious even, but now that is only a small part of what I feel. By not sending me out when I should have gone, you have given me a role in Matelaine’s death, and to atone for that, I will see you held accountable for your deeds.”

She is the first to look away. She tries to hide it in a gesture—she casts her hand wide, as if in exasperation, but her eyes shift, and I know this small victory is mine. “Do you truly think I treat the novitiates any differently than abbesses throughout the centuries have? Do you think the Dragonette would have flinched from using what tools were at hand?”

“Your methods may be kinder, but what you have done is a betrayal all the same. At least with the Dragonette, we would not have been fooled by a false sense of kindness and regard. We were not tricked into believing she had our best interests at heart.”

Except for me. I had been that stupid and blind, and even now, I still don’t know if the Dragonette cared for me more than the others or hated me beyond reason.

The abbess’s lips press flat and her pupils grow small, two small black pinpricks in orbs of blue silk. “Is this how you thank me for all those years of kindness to you? For all that I have done on your behalf?”

“I do not want your kindness if the cost is others’ lives. Even if you are willing to pay such a price, I am not.” And that is at the heart of it. The rottenness at the core of her fondness for me.

She holds her hand up, as if warding off a blow. “Enough. I do not have time to bring a wayward novitiate to heel. There are too many real problems that threaten to destroy the very fabric of our country and our faith. I have half a mind to strap you to a cart and have you hauled back to the convent.” She is quiet a long moment and I wonder if she sees something in my face that makes her reconsider such an action. “But for now,” she continues, “I will have you escorted to chambers, where you will remain until I come for you.”

She steps from behind her desk and brushes past me. I wonder what she would do if I reached out and grabbed her sleeve and demanded she answer me. My hand twitches, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

She jerks open the door to call for a page.

“Where are Ismae and Sybella?” I ask.

At my question, she freezes, then slowly turns to face me. “Ismae is here, attending the duchess. Sybella . . . Sybella is out on an assignment. In fact, I must prepare you—it is possible she will not return. Even if she were to survive the task Mortain has set for her, her own death wish has been heavy upon her of late, and I cannot vouch for what she might be thinking.”

A new wave of fury swells up within me, but before I can act on it, the page arrives. Ignoring me, she turns to him. “See that Lady Annith is given a chamber in the western wing, then tell the maids to arrange a bath.” She turns back to me and rakes her searing gaze over me. “You reek of poorly tanned leather and wood smoke.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

ALONE IN THE CHAMBER AND feeling as boneless as an eel, I lower myself onto one of the short stools.

I did it. I faced the abbess and called her to account. The very core of my being is a-tremble with the ramifications of that.

Ever since I was a child, I knew in my marrow that if I did not wish to be cast from the only home I had ever known—to lose the only small crumbs of affection I had ever received—then I had to do and be exactly what the nuns wished.

And now I have sent everything tumbling madly into disarray.

The knock on the door nearly causes my heart to fly out of my chest. Gripping my skirt in my fists, I stand up, raise my chin, and hope that the tangle of emotions I am feeling will not show on my face. “Come in.”