Chapter Five
WRAPPED IN OUR CEREMONIAL CLOAKS made of thick white wool, we file out of the courtyard just past midnight. Nearly all of us are in attendance, from the youngest to old Sister Claude, who shuffles along beside Sister Serafina, holding on to her arm so that she will not trip and break her aging, brittle bones. In our right hands we carry a lit torch so that we may see the path that lies ahead, and in our left, we hold our offerings to Mortain.
Many of the younger girls carry small cakes from the convent kitchen, ones they piously chose to offer to Mortain rather than eat. Little Audri plans to offer her shoes, which would be more impressive if we did not all know how much she hates to wear them. I suspect the abbess will have one of us collect the shoes after the ceremony. Melusine brings a pearly pink shell from the sea. Matelaine carries the letters her parents have sent her—letters she has read aloud to us a hundred times, as we are all jealous of her two living parents. She is an oddity among us, for her parents—even her false father—see her as a joy rather than a burden and have sent her here to the convent for the opportunities it affords her, not because she is feared or hated. In truth, I am impressed by the depth of her offering.
I have brought an arrow. One that I made with my own hands and the one that flies truest. I intend to aim tonight’s offering directly at Mortain Himself so that my prayers will be certain to reach Him.
Midwinter is my favorite time of year, a time when Mortain feels closes to us. Once, when I was a child, He was this close to me always. Whether because of my youth, my dire need of Him, or because the terror of those years was simply so strong that it parted the veil between our worlds, I do not know. But I miss it. It is like a faint hunger that gnaws at my heart rather than my belly.
And while I am not terrified like I was as a child, I do feel lost and confused, afraid I will be pushed down a path I’ve no wish to take. Now more than ever, I need His guidance.
The dim light of the pale moon casts everything in shades of black and silver. Our processional is accompanied by the crashing of the waves against the rocky shore and the moaning of the wind, which whips at our cloaks so that they flap like the wings of the crow Sister Widona carries in a twig cage.
As we make our way through long-dead scrub grass and jagged boulders covered with lichen, I think upon the many tales of the ill-fated love between Mortain and Amourna and why winter comes to our land. Each of the nine bishoprics of Brittany has its own tale of how Mortain did—or did not—capture the fair Amourna. In the land where the patron saint of travelers was born, it is said that Death traveled far and wide looking for a love that would survive even His dark realm. He thought He’d found it in Amourna, but in the end, the love she bore Him was too fragile to survive Death, and thus He travels the land, mourning for her.
The followers of Saint Brigantia claim it was Mortain’s quest for full knowledge of life that led Him to seek Amourna out and open His heart to her, for how can one truly understand life without knowing love?
Those who have dedicated themselves to Saint Mer say that Death gazed upon the goddess of the sea and was smitten, but He could not follow her to her realm, nor she to His, so He settled for Amourna, who mourns being a second choice for all eternity.
In those places where Saint Salonius, the god of mistakes, is well loved and worshiped, they say that it was all a mistake, some trick of fate. Some even claim that Salonius himself had a hand in it.
Those who still honor Dea Matrona claim that Death was once Matrona’s consort, and life and death were one. But with the coming of the new god, she cast Death out in order to find a place in the new church. Thus scorned, Death turned to her daughter Amourna for comfort, and it is not Matrona’s sorrow that causes winter to blow its harsh winds over the land but her jealous heart.
It is only the followers of Saint Arduinna who have nothing to say on the matter, for while their goddess was there and surely they know what truly happened, out of respect for both Arduinna’s sister and her mother, they choose not to contradict either story.
The true story—the one we learn here at the convent—is that Death came upon Amourna and her twin sister, Arduinna, in a meadow, and that He was instantly taken with Amourna’s loveliness. Mistrustful of the way Mortain was looking at her sister, Arduinna drew her bow and let fly one of her sharp arrows, which pierced Mortain’s heart. But not even a goddess can kill the god of Death. He simply plucked the arrow from His chest, then bowed and thanked her for reminding Him that love never comes without cost. Surprised by His demeanor, she consented to let her sister ride with Him to His home.
The rest of the world believes that winter comes because either Dea Matrona or Amourna is mourning her loss. We who worship Mortain know that neither is true. We know that when the night is at its longest and darkness reigns, Mortain journeys back to our world from His own, and winter follows on His heels simply because it is His own true season.
Tonight’s ceremony feels different from all the ones that have come before, as if I am walking along the edge of some knife I cannot see. On one side lies the future I have always dreamed of, serving Mortain as an instrument of Death in the world of men. If that comes to pass, I will never be part of our midwinter celebration again. None of the other initiates have ever returned for it, and that thought brings me great sadness.
On the other side of the blade lies the future I do not wish for myself—that of seeress. And even if that should come to pass and I must remain on this island all the rest of my days, I will still not ever take part in this ceremony again.
Either way, it is the last time I will make this walk, and the night is made bittersweet because of it.
At last we reach our destination—the door to the Underworld itself. The dark gaping mouth is capped by a large flat stone that stands upon other stones, each taller and wider than a man and each planted deep in the earth so that the chamber disappears into the small hill. Smaller stones mark the pathway leading to the entrance.
As the head of our order, the abbess goes first, planting her lit torch between two of the rocks, then kneeling at the opening to Mortain’s realm. She places her offering there—I cannot see what it is, no matter how I crane my neck—then bows her head in prayer. When she rises, Sister Eonette goes next, followed by each of the other nuns. Sister Claude is last, and when she is finished with her prayer, it takes not only Sister Serafina but Sister Thomine as well to help her to her feet.
Then it is the novitiates’ turn. As the oldest among us, I have the honor of going first. All my life, I have only ever wanted to serve as His handmaiden. Now more than ever, it is important He knows that. That He be reminded of that.
As I step forward, I press my fingers against the sharp point of the arrow, sucking in a breath as it bites into my flesh. When I feel the faint dampness of my own blood, I let it drip onto the arrowhead, careful not to let any of the older nuns see. Something tells me they would not approve.
As I kneel before the door to Mortain’s realm, I bow my head. Please, Mortain, I pray. My life is Yours to command, but if it please You, I would use my skills and gifts in Your service rather than simply sitting in a small room.
When my prayer is finished, I lay my arrow down atop the other gifts there. As I do, the night breeze shifts, bringing with it an eddy of cold air from the barrow that feels as if it reaches out to caress my face. In that moment, I am certain He has heard me.
Satisfied, I rise to my feet and join the others.
Chapter Six
AFTER THE MIDWINTER CELEBRATION, THE black storm clouds move in from the north and envelop our island, bringing with them howling winds and stinging rain. It feels as if Mortain has come forth from the Underworld with a year’s worth of unshed tears.
I am feeling hopeful, but wary and nervous as well, for while I know Mortain received my offering, I also realize I have made a grave—perhaps even fatal—error in my strategy. In my desperation to get Sister Vereda well, I have managed to confirm the abbess’s belief that I am wi
lling to do whatever is needed to serve the convent, and I do not know how to undo that. I wish that I could unravel time and replace my actions with different ones, but that is not possible. And so I wait. And fret. I am filled with a nearly unbearable tension, as if my body is a bow being drawn taut by the hand of fate.
When the clouds clear long enough for a crow to get through with a message, I try to haunt the rookery. But the abbess is always there first, as if she is watching even more closely than I am. It cannot be an accident, this new habit of hers to collect the messages herself, and I cannot help but wonder what it means.
What I truly need are some days of vigorous training to shed some of my tension, but the weather does not allow for that. Instead, Sister Beatriz arranges a mock ball so we may practice our dancing, but I am distracted and clumsy and manage to step on Sarra’s toes—twice—until she pinches me in retaliation.
This season, whose gifts have always calmed me and brought a renewed sense of purpose to my life, now holds only questions and uncertainty.
Sister Vereda is slowly growing stronger and some days I wish to storm into her chambers and pepper her with questions—on her visions, how she was chosen, and how she lost her sight. Finally, afraid I will go mad, I make my way to the armory. Sister Arnette is not only our weapons mistress but our smith as well. Surely she has something—anything—that needs the pounding of her smith’s hammer. I would even settle for horseshoes or cooking pots.
That is where Matelaine finds me, one week after the midwinter ceremony. “Annith?”
I look up from the dented vambrace I am planishing. “Yes?”
“The abbess is asking for you.”
Everything inside me grows still and I carefully set the vambrace and hammer down on the bench. “Did she say what she wanted?” Matelaine gives a quick shake of her head, and thoughts of Ismae and Sybella bring me to my feet. “Have there been any crows this morning?”
“No,” she says, the word allowing my heart to calm somewhat.
Somewhat, but not altogether. “Has she met with Vereda?” I try to keep my voice casual, but it is of little use, for Matelaine knows what I am hoping for.
“Not that I have heard, but then, I would not necessarily know.”
We exchange a glance, and she reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I will pray she has an assignment for you,” she whispers, then leaves me to make my way to the abbess’s office alone.
I stand outside the abbess’s chambers and try to compose my features into an expression of calm. I remind myself that this means nothing; I am often called to her office. It is most likely some new task she needs help with—taking inventory of convent supplies or checking on the seeds we have stored for the early-spring plantings.
When I have both my hope and my worry well in hand, I reach out and knock.
“Come in.”
The abbess sits at her desk, a pile of correspondence at one elbow, the large convent ledger in which she records all the assignments at the other. When I see that book, my heart gives another flutter of excitement. “You asked to see me, Reverend Mother?”
She looks up at me and sets aside the letter she was writing. “Ah, Annith. Yes, I did. Please come in. Sit down.” I have not seen her much of late, as she has been busy in her office writing missives that she sends out at the merest lull in the winter storms.
“The midwinter ceremony went well. Thank you for arranging that.”
“It was my pleasure to be of some small help, Reverend Mother.”
“I know. That is one of your best qualities, Annith. Your willingness to step in and do what must be done, cheerfully and with great skill. Sister Serafina says that Sister Vereda continues to do much better, thanks in large part to your help in nursing her.”
I clasp my hands in front of me to keep my desperation from showing. “She is doing much better, Reverend Mother. She is having visions daily now. She saw that Melusine would be swept into the sea and would swim out safely. She saw where the barn cat had her kittens, and she has predicted with great accuracy when the clouds will break and the crows get through, as well as precisely how many messages will arrive.” Except once, when she missed her count by one, but I do not mention that.
The abbess slips her hands inside her wide sleeves and smiles at me with such fondness and pleasure that in that moment, I am certain—certain—she will finally grant me my heart’s desire.
“That is why, after much thought and prayer and discussion with the other nuns, I have decided that you will begin training with Sister Vereda immediately so you may take her place as seeress when her aged body finally stops working once and for all.”
Her words are like a physical blow, sending all the air whooshing painfully from my lungs. “Please, no!” I whisper.
Her smile evaporates as quickly as my hopes. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, Reverend Mother, while I am eager to serve Mortain, I do not think I can do it as seeress.”
The abbess frowns at my words, but I cannot tell if it is in annoyance or simply puzzlement. “For a girl as dutiful and devout as yourself, I would think it the perfect existence.”
“No, Reverend Mother. It would not be.”
A brief flash of pain appears in her eyes, as if somehow my not wanting to be seeress has hurt her, but it goes so quickly I am hardly certain I have seen it. “Come, Annith. We always knew you were destined for something special—what is more special than being the seeress, the most unique among all the handmaidens? You will not be interacting with Mortain through intermediaries like the rest of us, but will instead be His voice in the world.”
Every word she utters is like a long bony finger wrapping itself around my heart, squeezing until there is no hope left within it. “Reverend Mother, I have spent my entire life training for one thing—to be Death’s handmaiden and carry out His will here on earth. At no time have I ever felt called to the duties that Sister Vereda performs.”
Her lips thin and her nostrils flare with irritation. “You are young and do not yet know what Mortain truly desires of you.”
I realize now, now that it has been taken away from me, that the only thing that kept me from despair all these years was the belief that one day I would finally be able to get off this island—this place where I have had to guard every thought, hide every true feeling, and weigh every gesture. It was the promise of having a life of my own—away from the convent—that fueled my determination to excel at everything they threw at me.
That gives me the courage to speak freely. Or foolishly. “How do you know this is what He wants? Surely, if Sister Vereda had Seen such a fate for me, she would have made some mention of it as I sat by her bed day after day for the last fortnight, would she not?”
“Are you questioning me?” The abbess’s voice is so forbidding and full of steel that I am reminded of Sybella’s insistence that she is not the kind paragon she appears but a cold ruthless adversary one should be wary of crossing.
“No, I am questioning Mortain’s will.” That suddenly seems far less frightening than questioning hers. “I cannot believe I am the best choice for this job. Does it not take a lifetime of training to be able to do what Sister Vereda does? I have only ever trained to kill.”
“Except the god has other plans for you.”
“Then why has He not allowed me to peer into the future as Sister Vereda does? For I assure you, He has not given me any such gifts.”
Ismae and Sybella used to tease me and claim that I was able to see the future, for how else was I always able to block their blows and slip away seconds before a door was opened or a curtain pulled back? But having a good sense of timing and quick reflexes is a far cry from being able to See the future, let alone See Mortain’s will—a cold trickle of dread seeps into my marrow, and goose flesh erupts along my arms. Unless . . . does this abbess know my secret? The Dragonette promised she would never speak of it, but what if she had and now this abbess knows and that is behind the plan to make me the new se
eress?
When the abbess speaks again, her voice is quiet, gentle even. “Annith, you need to understand. This is Mortain’s will for you. You must either obey or be cast out. Surely you’re not saying you would rather leave us than serve in the manner that is asked of you?”
Once again, I cannot quite grasp what she is saying. “I cannot be sealed up in that room,” I whisper. She of all people should know that. I do not wish to let her down, but I fear I will wither and die if I must do as she asks.
Her face is so full of poignant regret that it pierces my heart. “If that is how you feel on the matter, we can make other arrangements.” Relief, giddy and sweet, fills me. Until she speaks again.
“There are any number of men who would be only too happy to take you to wife. You are so good with the younger girls, and I am certain there is a widowed farmer looking for someone to care for his children. There always is.”
I stare at her in utter shock, and the ground underneath my feet feels as if it has shifted irrevocably. “Are those truly my only choices?”
“Yes.” She stares back at me, daring me to choose the drab, colorless fate she has set out before me. She is no longer the firm, loving woman I have known all my life but the fierce, ruthless tyrant that Sybella struggled with all these years. Thinking quickly, I bow my head, as if subdued by her words.
She casts aside her sterness for a moment and leans forward. “Think, Annith! How many handmaidens do we have at the convent? And of those, only one is called to act as seeress, only one is deemed worthy of sitting at the very heart of the convent and being privy to Mortain’s wishes. You are being offered this great honor, one bestowed upon a select few.”
“Then it is not because I am flawed in some way? Or because I failed one of the Dragonette’s tests?”
She appears stricken by my words. “No! It is only that you are more worthy than most. That all your years of training and hardship and endurance have paid off in ways you had not dared to dream of.”
Mortal Heart Page 5