Mortal Heart (8 page)

Squaring my shoulders, I step into the cellar, letting the cold of the room—and a rush of painful memories—settle over me like a mantle.

The first time I was locked in here, I was but two years old, punished for daring to cry when Sister Etienne had been sent out on assignment and I missed her.

The second time was when I’d seen the cook butcher the hen for our evening meal and so refused to eat it. I was locked in the cellar with my bowl of chicken stew and not allowed to come out until I had finished every last drop.

When I was five, I was locked in the cellar yet again, this time for balking at butchering the hen we were to have for our supper. While the other girls closest to me in age were simply scattering feed in front of the hen house or collecting eggs, the Dragonette had decided that I must begin practicing the art of killing. My hands were too small to get a decent hold on the large ax, and the lay sister who had to hold the hen still had no stomach for the task, wishing instead to do it quickly herself and be done with it. And so I faltered, whether through lack of strength or lack of will or simply because I did not understand what was required of me, I no longer remember. What I do remember was being locked in the wine cellar with the wounded chicken and forced to watch its slow painful march toward death, a much more painful death than would have been granted it had I been strong enough.

I spent the first hour sobbing in remorse-filled terror, afraid the chicken would drag itself over to me and peck out my eyes. When that did not come to pass I cried for the chicken itself, and for its obvious agony. At last my tears ran out and I simply sat with my back pressed against the cold stone wall, chilled and shivering as I watched the chicken die.

During that long, horrifying night, at some point I realized I was no longer alone. A tall, darkly cloaked man was there as well. That should have frightened me even more, seeing an unknown man in the heart of our womanly cloister, but I was so relieved at not being alone with the dead bird anymore that it never occurred to me to fear him.

He was long-limbed and graceful and dressed all in black. Even though he lowered himself to the floor next to me, there was something proud and stately in his manner. When I saw him, my hysterical dry sobbing hiccupped to a stop. He quietly took my hand in his, although my fingers were so cold I could not feel it, and sat next to me, saying nothing. But I was no longer alone, and that brought me great comfort.

I remember falling asleep eventually, leaning against his shoulder, and when the door opened in the morning, they found me sleeping soundly on the floor with my head gently pillowed by a rough hempen sack.

It wasn’t until we went to church that morning and I saw the marble statue in the sanctuary that I recognized the hooded, cloaked figure. It was Mortain Himself whose arm I’d drooled on while drifting off to sleep.

Excited by this, I could not wait until the Dragonette summoned me to her office later that day. I told her all about my nocturnal visitor. I thought she would be overjoyed by this sign of His pleasure with me, but instead, the corners of her lovely mouth turned down with disapproval. “You are lying,” she said.

“No!” I was distraught and more than a little terrified that she would think so.

“Ah, but you are, for you wish yourself to be special. I’d expected more from you than cheap lies.” Her eyes—always so shrewd and piercing and full of her confidence in me—filled with tears, and I was shamed beyond measure that I had caused her such pain. Feeling lower than the grubs that root in the convent midden heap, I fell to my knees and begged her forgiveness.

Now I cross to the wall where I once thought I’d dozed with Death. It is blocked by a stack of small barrels and kegs so that I cannot sit down and lean against it like I did those many years ago. Instead, I reach out to touch the wall, trying to resurrect that moment in my life.

But nothing comes. There is no strong visceral reaction, no sudden clearing of memory, no true answers flaring to life at the touch, and I am left hoping it was nothing more than a child’s overwrought imagination coupled with a desperate need to worm her way into a demanding abbess’s good graces.

If it was not, then I am well and truly suited to being the seeress. And as much as I love Death, I do not think that I love Him enough to entomb myself in the convent before I have even lived.

I
DO NOT SLEEP AT
all that night and instead imagine that the walls of my room are drawing closer, pressing down on me, nearer and nearer until they threaten to force all the air from my lungs.

The morning brings little relief, for we are all trapped inside yet again. Today we are confined to the convent armory under the sharp-eyed supervision of Sister Arnette. Winter’s storms and damp salt air will corrode the fine steel of our weapons, dulling the blades, and mildew the soft leather harnesses and sheaths if we do not tend to them, so today we sit with crocks of goose fat and bags of fine sand, polishing every metal surface in the armory.

It is the perfect task for me—a mindless activity that requires little thought but allows for my physical restlessness. Just as the rag in my hand circles over and over the fine steel of the knife blade, so too does my mind polish the few options available to me so that they are bright and sharp and clear.

I can acquiesce to the abbess’s wishes, as I have always done. Or I can . . . What paths are truly open to me?

I try to think if I have ever heard tell of a handmaiden of Death refusing to serve or choosing to walk away. I have not, but with my newly awakened cynicism about the convent and its motives, I’m not sure the nuns would pass down such tales, even if they existed.

I could simply leave. Sneak off in the dead of night and run away.

Except I feel certain the abbess would use all the power at her disposal to bring me back.

Or perhaps, as old Sister Appollonia used to claim, Mortain Himself would send His horde of hellequin after any daughter of His who dared to defy Him. I think of Ismae’s letter and shudder.

I set down the knife I have just finished polishing and pick up another. I swipe the rag in the yellow goose fat, then dip it into the dish of fine sand.

But
am
I defying Him? That is at the root of my uncertainty. Has He asked this of me, or is it the abbess’s will?

If it is His will, am I willing to turn my back on Mortain and all He has meant to me? Forget all the times He has been there for me? My faith, my dedication to Him, is as much a part of me as my arm or my leg or my heart.

It is hard not to question my own motives, for I realize now that I have been trained since birth to blame myself as thoroughly as I have been trained to wield a blade. It is so easy for the sisters to imply that it is my obedience and willingness to surrender my will to Mortain that is being tested—but what if that is not what is being tested at all?

What if that is what they tell us so we will not question their own selfish motives?

As I set down the polished knife and pick up the next one, a wave of desire hits me, so strong that it causes my hands to tremble. I want to use this blade. All the blades here in this room. That this could be taken away from me leaves me nearly breathless.

Then an entirely new realization dawns on me, and the fingers clutching the slender stiletto’s handle grow white. What if this is a test from Mortain Himself rather than from the convent? A test for me to prove my commitment to Him, prove my unwillingness to be diverted from His plans for me?

What if, instead of surrendering, I am supposed to fight for what I want? For surely Mortain does not fashion His handmaidens into such strong weapons and then expect them to topple in the first stiff breeze.

And how am I to know which it is?

Next to me, Sarra rubs her nose with the back of her hand before reaching for another knife. “You look like you’re planning to stab someone with that, not polish it.”

Keeping the knife clenched in my hand, I look up at her and allow every bit of anger and frustration I am feeling to show in my eyes. She blinks and leans imperceptibly back.
Good,
I think, then smile, a movement so brittle it is a wonder my cheeks do not shatter.

The armory door opens just then, admitting a gust of frigid air and Sister Thomine. When she steps into the room, her gaze goes directly to Matelaine. “The abbess would like to see you in her office,” she says.

Matelaine looks shocked, then worried, and I do not blame her, but something in the way that Sister Thomine will not look at me causes an alarm to begin clanging inside me like a distant bell.

Matelaine rises to her feet and brushes back her long, bright red hair. “But of course,” she says in a contrite tone, already apologizing for any wrong she has done.

As she and Thomine leave the room, I carefully resume polishing the knife. I feel the other girls glance my way, curious that Matelaine is being called to attend the abbess. Even Sister Arnette’s gaze lands upon me, but I carefully keep my head bent and do not look up. For some reason, I think of Sybella and how she was sent back out before she had fully healed. All of us, even the nuns, could see that she wasn’t ready yet. For a while, I thought it was due to the innate skills she’d arrived with, and perhaps tinged somewhat by the fact that she and the abbess clashed from the very beginning, like an angry cat dropped amidst a pack of dogs.

And then I remember Ismae, who had no innate skill except for the thin veil of anger she wore and her resistance to poison, and I am filled with a sudden desperation. I glance over at Sister Arnette. She is helping Loisse, who has managed to cut herself on a blade in spite of knowing better. Like a single ray of sun forcing itself through the clouds, a realization dawns—I no longer care, at least today, if I anger Sister Arnette or any of the nuns. An urgent need to know what the abbess is discussing with Matelaine drives me to my feet and pushes me toward the door.

I stop where the corridor branches off into the short hall that leads to the abbess’s private chapel, but no one is around to see, not with the bitter wind howling down the hallways like an angry wolf.

As I settle into position, I hear the murmur of voices. I recognize the abbess’s low, calm tones and Sister Thomine’s shorter, louder responses. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the low cadences so that I can understand the actual words being said.

“. . . tells me you have shown great improvement.”

“I am honored that she thinks so, Reverend Mother.”

“You should feel honored that Mortain has seen fit to bless you with such skill,” the abbess says. The reproof in her voice is mild, but it is there.

Matelaine murmurs something I cannot hear, then the abbess speaks again, this time her voice soothing, as if comforting the wound her earlier words have just made. “Because of your great improvement and your renewed dedication to your studies, you are to be rewarded with your first assignment.”

My heart slams against my rib cage like a bolting horse, driving all the air from my lungs so I cannot draw breath. When my breath finally returns, it brings with it a hot gush of anger. My ears fill with a great rushing sound and something inside me snaps. Or breaks. Or shatters. With no thought to the consequences of my actions, I throw open the door to the abbess’s chambers and step into the room.

The voices stop abruptly, and three heads turn in my direction. Two mouths, Sister Thomine’s and Matelaine’s, are open in shock, but the abbess’s is pressed into a firm, flat line. Spots of angry red appear on her pale cheeks. “What is the meaning of this?”

My entire body thrums with barely checked fury. “You cannot send Matelaine.” I step farther into the room and slam the door behind me. “You cannot.”

“Have you been listening at my door?” the abbess demands.

“This is not right. Matelaine is too young to be sent out. Too untrained. She is not ready yet.”

The abbess rises from her chair, trying to use her height to intimidate me, but I am beyond caring. “You forget your place here, Annith. Remove yourself at once to your chambers and wait for me there.”

But I have not forgotten anything. Indeed, it feels like I have finally remembered myself. Deep inside me, the alarm keeps clanging. “You cannot be serious about sending Matelaine out! She is only fifteen. She has not passed any of the tests required to be a full initiate, nor has she learned all the skills needed—”

“So are you now the novice mistress, and no one told me?”

The icy sarcasm in her voice is sharp enough to strip the flesh from my bones, but it doesn’t matter. Instead, I say what we all know is true. “I have trained longer and passed all the tests.”

“We have already spoken of this. Serving Mortain is not a right, but a privilege. A privilege
I
grant to you, not one you can march in here and demand for yourself.”

“I thought it was a privilege granted by Mortain.”

Her head rears back slightly, but before she can respond, I continue. “I can best Matelaine in a fight, and shoot ten bull’s-eyes to her one. I can land a killing blow faster and more accurately than she can.” In spite of how it might appear to the abbess, it is no longer about what I
want.
I am well and truly afraid for Matelaine. “Would you send ten-year-old Lisabet next? Or Loisse? No one this young has ever been sent on assignment before, and you are surely risking her life.”

“What of Margot or Genevieve? They were but twelve years old.”

For a moment, I cannot fathom whom the abbess is talking about, and then I remember. “Are you merely placing Matelaine in the household of one of our enemies to act as spy, like you did them?” The panic in my chest lessens somewhat.

“What I do is none of your concern.”

“It is if I am to be seeress.”

I hear Sister Thomine’s sharp intake of breath, and Matelaine whips her head around to stare at me. For one hugely satisfying moment, the abbess is speechless, for she knows I am right. If I am seeress, then I will be involved in all these decisions—I will be the one to See who is to stay and who is to go. She cannot deny it.