Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  “It is not impossible,” Ismae points out with a glance in Sybella’s direction. “She could easily post as a laundress or camp follower and go unnoticed.”

  “Not and make her way through thousands of French soldiers.”

  “Sybella did it.”

  “Briefly, and only to collect information. And while the army was just arriving and in disarray.”

  “We are trained to stealth and cunning.” Ismae’s voice holds a note of gentle reproach. “You do Annith a disservice by not trusting in her abilities.”

  Duval turns to me. “My apologies, Lady Annith, for it is not you I do not trust, but the fifteen thousand French soldiers. With that many men, there is just too great a chance you would be noticed, and your disguise will afford you little protection if you draw enough soldiers’ interest.”

  “Sybella and I could go with her.”

  Duval snorts. “So you can gut every soldier who propositions you and leave a trail of dead bodies in your wake? I do not think that will help her go unnoticed.”

  Beast clears his throat—somewhat delicately, given his size. “Must it be her that shoots the arrow?”

  Duval glances at me in question. My hand slowly drifts up to the back of my neck, my fingers seeking out the small mark that I have never seen. “Yes,” I say. “It must.”

  “Why not one of the Arduinnites?” The abbess’s voice is pitched high, shrill even.

  I turn and look at her coldly. “To what purpose? I can ride as well as they can, shoot as accurately as any of them. What do we gain by asking them?”

  “Your life,” Duval says gently.

  I know he means well, that he has only my safety in mind, so I work to keep my voice level. “I am done sending others out to risk their lives while I sit safely behind. I will do this.” Besides, of all the great dreams I once had, of serving the gods, of making some contribution, this is now the only way I can do that.

  “Very well. So Annith going by foot is out, as is sending others. No, Ismae.” Duval puts his hand up to forestall further argument. “The trick will be getting mounted riders through the encampment. Even a small group would be immediately noticed.”

  “What if we just sent a full mounted guard and punched through the camp like a battering ram, clearing her a path to the king?” Beast says, and Sybella looks as if she will stride across the room and clout his thick head. “If we sent enough men, there should be some left to get her safely back.”

  “Except,” Captain Dunois points out, “how will you get any mounted men out of this city without their being noticed? For once they are seen, the French archers will pick them off. Or send a matching force to fight them.”

  We all grow silent, for that is indeed the biggest problem. Getting enough of a force—getting anyone—out undetected.

  Duval sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. “Well, this will not be decided tonight. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “Aye.” Captain Dunois’s voice is heavy with disgust. His face is nearly gray with fatigue, and my heart goes out to him. “There is a problem with the mercenaries.”

  “What now?” Duval says in disbelief. “Dare I hope that they are killing one another?”

  “No, but their numbers have dwindled all the same. It is the French, my lord. They have been in contact with the mercenaries.”

  “How? All the entrances to the city are well guarded.”

  “With this.” Beast dumps something heavy on the council table. It is a rolled-up ladder made of leather. “The French threw this up and over the wall, then climbed in.”

  Duval looks as if he would like to strike something. “And to what purpose?”

  “Aware of our empty treasury, the French have offered the mercenaries their back pay, as well as a bonus if they agree to leave the city.”

  Duval looks as if he will be ill. “Double—no, triple—the perimeter watch.” He grimaces. “How many of the mercenaries have taken them up on their offer?”

  “Nearly a third.”

  There is a long moment of silence as that number sinks in. “Well, at least when the food stores get low, there will be that many fewer mouths to feed.”

  But for all the bright polish he tries to put on it, it is a grim blow indeed.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  WHEN THE COUNCIL MEETING is dismissed, Sybella and I are granted permission by the duchess to excuse ourselves from her service long enough to attend to Ismae as she refreshes herself from her travel. Upon reaching our chambers, we find that a tub has already been set up, and the water is still steaming. I help Ismae undress while Sybella pours three goblets of wine. She waits until Ismae has stepped into the tub, then hands me one. Over the rim of her goblet, she looks at me with her probing gaze. “How do you come to know so very much about Arduinna’s arrows?”

  I quickly down half the wine. “I have learned some things. About the abbess and the convent. And myself.”

  Sybella and Ismae exchange a glance, then Ismae motions for Sybella to hand her the soap. “Do go on,” Sybella says. “We are listening.”

  How do I begin? What part of this tale will lead the most cleanly into the full story? “I found out why the abbess has refused to send me out on assignments and why I have been picked as seeress.”

  Unable to meet their curious faces, I look down at the goblet I hold in my hand and rub my fingers over the finely chased silver etchings. The faint splashing of the water in the tub grows silent. Afraid my courage will fail me, I say the words in a rush. “It is because I am not sired by Mortain.”

  “Sweet Jésu,” Sybella mutters.

  “There is more,” I warn them, then take a deep breath. “The abbess is my mother.” I do not stop there, but keep going, much like one takes bitter medicine quickly so that it may be over with as soon as possible. “Crunard, my father. He had been blackmailing her with exposure in order to bend the convent’s will to his own wishes.”

  There is a faint splash as Ismae rises from the tub and grabs a towel. “Oh, Annith!” she whispers.

  “And even that is not all,” I say ruefully. “The abbess had been poisoning Sister Vereda to make her too sick to See what was afoot. Seven years ago”—my voice falters—“seven years ago, she poisoned three nuns, including the old seeress and the former abbess, in order to stage a silent rebellion.”

  “She is even more ambitious than I gave her credit for.” There is a note of begrudging admiration in Sybella’s voice.

  I shake my head, feeling sick all over again. “It was not ambition. It was protection. She was trying to protect me.” I look over at Ismae. “Do you remember I told you about the former abbess making my life more difficult than that of most of the other novitiates?”

  “I remember you wouldn’t say much about it.”

  But now, now the words come pouring out of me, like ill humors from a festering wound that has been lanced. “They called her the Dragonette. She was beautiful in the way that a venomous spider is beautiful. She caught your eye with her sharp edges and distinct markings.” I glance up at Ismae. “Do you remember the test the reverend mother gave you the first day you arrived at the convent?”

  Dressed in her shift now, Ismae slowly lowers herself onto the bed. “With the poisoned wine. Of course, I could never forget.”

  Sybella sets down her goblet quickly. “What poisoned wine?”

  “It was a way for her to test whether I was immune to poison or not,” Ismae explains.

  “I was given that test when I was but four years old,” I say.

  Ismae nearly comes up off the bed in her indignation. “Four?”

  I nod. “I learned later that the test is never administered without some indication that the novitiate might be immune to poison. I had never demonstrated any such potential, but it did not matter. The Dragonette was determined to find all my hidden strengths and talents, then mold them to perfection in order to glorify both Mortain and herself.”

  “Sweet Jésu,” Sybella mutters
again.

  I try to smile, but my lips will not obey. “Precisely. The first ten years of my life were one long test, a never-ending trial during which I had to be ever sharp and ever vigilant.

  “That’s when I first began listening at doors—in the hopes that I could catch some hint or warning of what I was to be subjected to, and thus prepare myself. It is also, I suspect, why I became so very good at reading people, then doing what they wanted before they even asked. I had so few tools for survival. I had to use everything at my disposal.” The abbess’s words—obedient and biddable—still sting. “They are not traits I am proud of, but they did allow me to survive.

  “Sister Etienne—for that was what she was called before she became the abbess—was the one bright spot in my life. She was my champion when I was young. Always saving me a bit of bread when I had been forced to go without supper. Letting me out of the wine cellar earlier than my punishments called for. Only now, with the knowledge that she was—is—my mother, can I understand how she must have suffered along with me.”

  “No.” Sybella shoves to her feet and begins pacing the room. Her face is so fierce and holds such rage that I fear she would strike the abbess dead if she were in the room with us. “She did not suffer like you did—not even close, for there was nothing preventing her from taking you and fleeing in the middle of the night, which is what she should have done.”

  “Perhaps she was afraid they would come after us? We have all heard stories of how they send the hellequin to punish disobedient novitiates. Mayhap she simply thought those tales were true.”

  “So what brought this all to a boil?” Ismae’s voice is gentle, a calming counterweight to Sybella’s anger.

  “It was a new punishment the Dragonette devised.” I do not tell them I was punished because she caught me one day leaving small offerings for Mortain at the doorway to his realm or that she heard me chatting with him in spite of my continued promises to her that I no longer believed I had really seen him.

  “It was a cilice, a small silver chain into which sharp thorns had been affixed, meant to be worn around the skin at my waist.” I still remember the shame I felt as she lifted the skirt of my gown, exposing my lower body, and slipped the chain around my waist. Remember the bite of pain of each thorn as it pierced my flesh.

  Ismae’s hand flies up to her lips. My own hand drifts to my stomach, and the scars that still encircle it. “It festered and grew foul, so that I was sent to the infirmary. Sister Serafina was the one who tended to me, her hands gentle and her manner calm. But I think she must have told Sister Etienne, for she found out, and soon after that, she and I had one of our special outings. We were to have a picnic and collect wildflowers. While we were out, we also gathered some mushrooms for the convent stew pot.

  “Only, they were poisonous. She had told me they were safe, which is the only reason I picked them. But they were poisonous, and she let me pick them, and somehow she got them past the cook and slipped them into the pot. Three nuns died that evening, then Sister Magdelena, the old poisons mistress, killed herself, thinking it was she who had made the error.

  “She used me to poison them.” Even now, the enormity of that betrayal forces all the air from my lungs and I feel as if I will never be able to draw a full breath again.

  Suddenly, Ismae is at my side, taking my hands in hers, chafing them. Sybella’s arm snakes around my shoulders and she pulls me close to her. “No,” she whispers fiercely. “Don’t you dare think you had anything to do with that. It was not you, not even a little bit, it was all her.”

  I close my eyes and bask in the solace they offer. “I know it with my mind, but my heart—my heart is still bruised and sick with it.”

  Sybella gives my shoulders once last squeeze—so hard it is almost painful—then begins pacing again. “I shall kill her,” she says at last. “Clearly, she does not deserve to live. Clearly, she is not serving Mortain or even the convent—”

  “But is she marqued?” Ismae asks quietly. “For unless a marque has appeared in the last hour, or exists under her gown, I have not seen it.”

  Sybella’s face grows white with frustration, then she tosses her head. “It doesn’t matter. I shall kill her anyway.” And though she does not mean it—at least, I do not think she does—her saying it brings me great comfort. I take a deep breath and let myself feel the absence of the weight of all the secrets I have been carrying.

  Well, not all the secrets. “There is more,” I offer shyly.

  Sybella gapes at me, looking so comical that I must tamp down a desire to laugh. “More?” she says.

  “I also have a lover.”

  Sybella stares at me a long moment, then whoops out a laugh while Ismae has a turn at gaping at me. “I thought so, but then you said nothing, so I was uncertain.”

  A smile catches at my lips. “I knew that if anyone could guess, it would be you.”

  “But when have you had time to take a lover?” Ismae asks. “And where?” She looks around the room we have shared as if searching for signs of our stolen moments.

  “You have not asked me who,” I point out.

  “I’m not sure we can bear to learn of it,” Ismae says faintly.

  “He is a hellequin.” They both stare at me, struck beyond speech. “Or so I thought. Until I learned that he was only masquerading as one. It is actually Death Himself whom I have taken to my bed.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  BOTH ARE SPEECHLESS for a long moment. Then Sybella huffs out a sigh and runs her hand through her hair. Ismae simply continues to stare. “Is this a jest of some sort?” she asks weakly.

  “No, it is the truth.” Then I tell them of the night Isabeau died and the small boon I asked of the hellequin, and how that in turn led to me learning his true identity.

  “But—but he is our father,” Ismae says.

  My heart sinks as I realize I was right; this has the power to cause a divide between us, a divide that the revelation of my parentage did not. “Your father,” I point out. “Not mine.”

  “The duchess came within a handbreadth of marrying my father,” Sybella reminds Ismae. “And I did not think any less of her for it.” Sybella’s voice is calm and free of any judgment. Of course, with her own family’s twisted past, she would have the easiest time understanding.

  A new wave of horror crosses Ismae’s face. “Are you going to marry Death?”

  “Marry him?” My laughter is tinged with mania.

  Sybella’s face softens with sympathy. “Do you carry his child?”

  “No!” My hands drift to my stomach. “At least, I do not think so.” Indeed, I had not even considered that, although clearly that is at the heart of his relationship with women.

  “I’m sorry, Annith.” Ismae gets up from the bed to stand in front of the fire. She puts her hands out toward the flames, as if they have grown cold suddenly. “It just feels so . . .”

  “Overwhelming?” I offer.

  “Yes, but also unbelievable. Twisted. Like some cautionary tale of long ago. I feel like a snake must when he has accidentally swallowed a goat and is struggling to digest it.”

  Sybella stares past Ismae into the flames. “I am beginning to think that love itself is never wrong. It is what love can drive people to do that is the problem. And this particular love is far less misplaced than some,” she says dryly. “Besides”—her voice turns thoughtful, as if she is considering all the complex knots that must be untangled—“I am certain that the rules governing human hearts do not govern how the gods may love. We have only to think of the old tales to know that. Even better,” she adds with a twinkle, “consider how furious the abbess will be.”

  That surprises a laugh out of me, and she joins in. Ismae does not, but she does smile, which gives me hope. Sybella reaches out and pinches her cheek. “Do not be such an old wart. Does it not make perfect sense that our beloved Saint Annith has captured Death’s heart? Who else among us could have done so?”

  I roll my eyes. “Afte
r all that I have told you, you should realize just how poor a fit the title of saint is when applied to me.”

  Her face grows serious once more, filling with sincerity. “I think you deserve it now more than ever,” she says.

  I let her words wash over me, as healing as one of Sister Serafina’s balms. “Thank you,” I whisper, unable to stop the tears that spring to my eyes.

  “Oh no. Do not start leaking. Ismae, come over here and hug her so we can all pretend it never happened and get on with our lives.”

  Ismae’s gaze meets mine as she moves away from the fire. “Of course I am amazed and admiring of all that you have been through.” When she reaches me she wraps her arms around me and holds me close. “As you say, it is all just a little overwhelming.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. As long as I know they are still my friends, as long as I know that our connection cannot be broken, I shall be fine.

  Once they leave to see to their other duties, I go to stand before the fire, feeling once again as if I have been completely upended and remade anew, when in truth, I have barely caught my breath from the first time my life shattered before my eyes.

  But this—this is different. This is no shattering, but rather some great knitting together of the broken pieces into a stronger whole.

  I feel cleansed, not only of sin—but of artifice. I am stripped down to nothing but my raw self. As uncomfortable as it makes me feel, there is freedom in it as well, for there is no place left for others’ expectations and desires of me to hide. The worst things that I could have ever imagined have happened.

  I turn and stare at my saddlebag, tossed carelessly in the corner. Slowly, I cross the room and kneel beside it. I reach in, down to the very bottom of the pack with the crumbs of hardened cheese, and retrieve the small calfskin-bound journal that I took from the abbess’s office: the Dragonette’s accounting of me, my childhood, of all the things she did to me, and all the ways I failed and showed my weakness. I have not read all of it, but I do not have to. I lived it. I remember. But I am not that child anymore. My younger self served me well, as well as any child in her circumstances could have. But I have new strengths and skills that I can rely on.