Ismae and Sybella have always thought that everything comes easily to me and that I enjoy a position as convent favorite. They do not know, for I never told them, how fine a razor’s edge I have spent my entire life walking, ever since I took my first few toddling steps.
To be raised in a convent full of women who are devoted to spiritual matters is a barren life for any child. But when those women worship Death and have dedicated their lives to serving Him, learning His arts, and carrying out His will, it can be a bleak and joyless existence.
So, while for Sybella and Ismae, the convent was a refuge of sorts, an escape from the horrors of their past, for me it was something else entirely. My childhood was a time of frequent and unexpected tests, usually administered when I had been lulled into a false sense of complacency—something I had been warned against, so the tests themselves were simply punishments that I deserved.
Like the time I was six years old and walking with the Dragonette on the beach in order to see the older girls off on their trip to the mainland. As soon as they were out of sight, the Dragonette picked me up and tossed me into the ocean to see if perhaps swimming came naturally to me, as it does to some daughters of Mortain. Or the time she ordered a sack placed over my head to see how long I could hold my breath (not long at all—especially since my screams sucked up the remaining air most quickly), or when she slipped her hand around my shoulders, and I thought I had finally done something to earn a sign of affection from her—only to have that hand move up and wrap itself around my neck and squeeze, to see if I could withstand such pressure as those who are born with their birth cords wrapped around their necks are sometimes able to.
I grew to dread those sessions with her, for all that they meant I was her favorite. And I hated that I could not be strong enough to accept the special favor she bestowed upon me without ruining it with my fear. There were times, many times, when I believed it would kill me. Sometimes, I even wondered if that was her intent.
If so, the Dragonette had not counted on my sins of pride and stubbornness. She did not yet understand just how firmly I could plant my feet in the ground of rebellion to prove her wrong. Or perhaps she counted on precisely that. I soon learned to make sure that even my failures were ones she would have to—at least grudgingly—admire, that showed that even though I may be flawed, those flaws would honor Mortain. I threw myself so wholeheartedly into my lessons and so thoroughly mastered my tasks that soon the sisters could find no fault with me.
If one of the other girls was a better archer, then I would sneak out in secret and practice for hours, days, weeks, until my fingers bled and my wrist was bruised from the plucking and the twanging of the bowstring. But soon the raw fingertips hardened and grew calluses and I learned to ignore the sting of my wrist. Thus I not only became the best archer among all the girls, but grew impervious to pain as well.
Eventually, the Dragonette came to know my every flaw and fault line like a mason knows his stone, and learned just how stubborn I could be. But this abbess and I have not had that sort of relationship. When I was younger, she was often off on her own assignments and duties and so did not see the full measure of my determination.
I will have to show her—remind her—that there is more to me than mere obedience and docility.
In the morning, I awake as sharp and ready as one of Sister Arnette’s finest blades and am nearly bouncing on my toes in impatience. We are to report to the archery field first thing, before the wind picks up. Perfect, for I am as skilled an archer as anyone at the convent—including Sister Arnette, who teaches us. Matelaine tries to speak with me, but I pretend I do not see her, as I have thoughts only for the challenge before us.
As we line up in front of the targets, I narrow my focus so that the world consists of only the target and the tip of my arrow. As easily as I cast Matelaine aside moments ago, I cast aside any doubts or hesitation. The time for subtlety has passed. It is a luxury I can no longer afford. My only recourse is to prove that there is no one else at the convent whose skills compare to mine. Then the abbess will have no choice but to pick me for the next assignment.
I breathe out, then release the bowstring. Even as the first arrow finds the bull’s-eye, I am reaching for the next. I release again, and again, and within a handful of minutes, I have fired all my arrows, with all twelve in a three-inch grouping in the bull’s-eye.
Breathless, I ease back to see all the other girls have ceased their practice and are watching me. “That is how you do it, girls,” Sister Arnette says with a satisfied nod in my direction. “Now, quit gawking and fire.”
And then I must wait for them to finish so I can retrieve my arrows. I repeat the performance with my second and third volley, but by the fourth volley, the wind has picked up. I misjudge its strength, and an arrow goes wide.
“That’s it!” Sister Arnette calls out. “We won’t be able to get much more practice in with this wind. Put down your bows and—”
I close my ears to her words, make some calculations in my head, then fire again. This one hits the bull’s-eye, and the next and the next. The fourth goes wide again, but only because there was a lull in the wind after I released the bowstring.
“Enough.” Sister Arnette’s voice is right next to my ear. When I turn to look at her, we are nearly close enough to kiss. “It is too windy. We’ll come back to it tomorrow.” She gives my arm an affectionate pat to let me know I have excelled. Part of me welcomes that small gesture of recognition and wishes to smile back at her in gratitude, just as I would have yesterday or the day before that. Instead, I force myself to ignore it. I want her—all of them—to see just how obedient and pliable I am not. “Truly, Sister? Will assailants stop because the wind is too great? Will Mortain unmarque our targets when a breeze blows too strongly? Would not a true assassin be able to shoot under such conditions?”
Still holding my gaze, she calls out to the others. “When you are done here, report to the stables.” There is a spark of anger in her eyes. Good, for anger is exactly what I need today to feed this hunger—this desperation—to prove myself.
“Are you trying to shame them?” she asks in a low, tight voice.
Aveline’s words of yesterday—was it only yesterday?—come back to me. “No, but how does pretending to be weak make them stronger?” With that, I turn and leave. Even as I make my way toward the stables, a small, bitter worm of regret tries to climb up my throat, but I refuse to feel bad for pointing out the folly of not training in all conditions.
The next lesson of the day goes much the same, only this time I manage to anger the even-tempered Sister Widona, something I have not ever done in all my years at the convent. Her face is white and pinched as she scolds me for driving my horse too hard and jumping him in his exhausted state, thereby risking breaking his leg and my neck. When she orders me back to the stables, I want to put my heels to the horse’s sides and canter in the opposite direction. I can feel him quivering beneath me, eager to be allowed to show his full strength and power. Like me, he has more in him, and Widona coddles him just as the abbess coddles me. It is only the threat of being barred from riding for an entire fortnight that causes me to comply, for my riding skills are one of my best arguments as to why I should be the next one sent out.
As I return to the stables—alone and under reprimand—it occurs to me that if I anger enough of the nuns, perhaps they will beg the abbess to send me out on assignment lest they be tempted to kill me themselves.
The next day, we report to the training yard for knife fighting, using wooden blades fashioned by Sister Arnette that have the look and heft of true knives. I have spent nearly the entire night going over and over the abbess’s words until my heart is raw and my muscles twitch with a desperate need to do something to avert the fate she has in store for me.
I use that sense of desperation to quicken my reflexes and rack up seventeen kills in the first quarter-hour.
Sister Thomine orders a break, then calls me aside. “Your skill i
s as fine as anyone’s I have ever seen,” she tells me. “Novice and full initiate alike.”
It is all I can do not to ask that she report this to the abbess at once. Instead, I bow my head meekly. “Thank you, Sister.”
“However, you are not the only novitiate here. You need to begin holding back or else the other girls will never have a chance to learn their skills.” Her words cause my head to jerk up in frustration, but she does not notice and gives me an awkward pat on the shoulder, motioning me back to the group.
My next opponent is Matelaine, who looks more than a little wary of me. Instead of giving her a reassuring smile, I narrow my eyes. I cannot go easy, especially not on Matelaine. Not when it appears that the abbess is contemplating sending her out so soon. In the real world, assailants will not hold back or soften their blows, so how will my doing so teach the others anything except how to be weak and die young?
I nod once to indicate I am ready. When she steps forward with a right-handed strike, I move in, and with three quick strikes I have her on the ground. I am not even breathing hard as she glares up at me.
After I beat Matelaine once more, and Sarra twice, Sister Thomine orders me out of the yard for the afternoon. I keep my head held high as I leave, and remind myself that strength is nothing to be ashamed of.
My redoubled efforts in my training lessons have borne rich fruit, for not only have I demonstrated that no one else is equal to my skill, I have rebelled openly enough that reports of my behavior should make their way back to the abbess and have her reconsidering whether I will be so compliant with her every wish.
While I feel certain that the abbess will quickly see the error of her decision once the nuns’ accounts begin to trickle in, it is always best to approach a problem from two sides.
If Sister Vereda were not ill, they would not need me to be their new seeress. Therefore, I must do all in my power to ensure that Sister Vereda recovers.
Chapter Three
SISTER SERAFINA HAS BEEN OVERWORKED ever since Ismae left, as Ismae was the only other one here who was able to handle poisons with no ill effects. With the additional nursing duties she must perform for Vereda, Serafina will be truly buried by all her tasks. It is logical enough that she will need some help.
But if I simply show up and announce my willingness to help, word of it might get back to the abbess, which would not only raise her suspicions but confirm her belief that I am willing to do anything that is asked of me—no matter that it is not what I have trained for. The trick will be to provoke Sister Serafina into ordering me to help so it will not seem like my idea at all. I assure myself that is the reason for my subterfuge and not this overwhelming need that dogs my every step to be precisely the opposite of obedient and helpful.
I pause just outside the infirmary door. As I listen to the clink and tinkle of glass flasks and a lone voice muttering, my mind casts about for some demand that will trigger her ire so forcefully that she will be quick to punish me with extra chores.
I think of the older nun’s dear face, her sallow skin and plain features, and the small vanity that has her paying young Florette to pluck the dark hairs that have begun to sprout from her chin, hairs that her aging eyes can no longer see.
And that is when I know what will annoy her the most.
I close my eyes and try to muster the callousness I will need for this, for I am loath to cause Sister Serafina any pain. But surely hers will be a small pain when weighed against an entire lifetime spent shut inside the seeress’s chambers.
Besides, as the Dragonette used to work so hard to impress upon me, an assassin has no use for a soft heart. Ruthless, she always urged me. You must be ruthless. With that reminder, I rise up on my toes, make my steps light and dainty, and prance into the room. “Oh, there you are, Sister!”
Sister Serafina looks up from the herbs she is chopping and frowns at me. At her elbow, a kettle sits over a small flame, and faint beads of perspiration cover her upper lip. “Who is looking for me now?”
I pretend I do not notice her tone. “Just me.” I lift a hand to my cheek and frown. “I have come to ask if you could make a special wash for my face. Sister Beatriz says my complexion is not as smooth as it should be to pass for a noble lady at court.” Sister Beatriz has said no such thing to me, but she has said it to poor Loisse.
Sister Serafina shakes her head in disgust and keeps chopping. “I do not have time for such frivolities, and surely neither do you.”
For a moment my resolve falters. Should I not just confide in her? Would she not sympathize with my plight? After all, it was she who first saw, then subsequently tended, the wounds on my body, even when she had been ordered to leave them alone so that Mortain’s own will could guide the healing process. Her hands were gentle and her tongue mercifully silent of questions as she carefully cleansed and then treated the lacerations. Even more admirable, she has never once brought it up or presumed any special confidence between us, nor even allowed herself to glance toward the scars she once tended with so much compassion.
But it is too big a risk. Just because she did me a great kindness years ago does not mean she has sworn herself to secrecy on my behalf. “Is it frivolous to make myself perfect in Mortain’s eyes so He will use me for His work?” I allow my true concern to show on my face.
“You are already perfect, child,” she says, her voice flat.
I turn to an empty polished metal basin on her worktable and angle it so that I may see my own reflection. “Then why have I not yet been chosen?” The distress in my voice is no subterfuge—it comes straight from my heart.
“I know it is hard for you with both Sybella and Ismae having been sent out. But your time will come.”
In spite of the old nun’s words, a hot prickly feeling rises up in me and I want to shout at her that it might not come, it might never come if the reverend mother has her way. Terrified by this surge of unfamiliar anger, I bow my head and speak softly. “But surely I must do everything in my power to be ready for that moment.”
Sister Serafina presses her lips together and chops faster. Acting as if I cannot sense her mounting annoyance—indeed, a great thick ox would be able to sense her mounting annoyance—I move closer and peer over her shoulder. “What are you mixing? Is that mallow and comfrey? Those make a fine wash to improve the complexion, do they not?”
The old nun stops chopping and slams her knife down on the table. “I do not have time to hold your hand, nor offer you pretty comfort or useless potions. Surely there is something better you can do with your time. Other skills you can perfect besides your vanity.” She wipes her hands on her apron and pours more water into her small bubbling kettle.
I let my shoulders slump. “But what would you have me do? I am like a fifth wheel on a cart. I am skilled in the use of every weapon in Sister Arnette’s armory; I can best Sister Thomine in a fight as often as she can best me; my archery skills are better than anyone else’s here; and I can ride a horse bareback, backward, or standing up.”
Sister Serafina cocks her head, eyes alight with curiosity. “Standing up? I thought only the followers of Arduinna knew how to do that trick.”
“No. Sister Widona taught me.” I let a plaintive whine creep into my voice. “There is nothing left for me to do. Even Sister Beatriz has taught me every dance, every means of seduction. Why, she has even taught me how to—”
“Enough!” Sister Serafina holds up her hand, halting my words. Surely it was a Mortain-inspired strategy, turning to the one subject that makes her most uncomfortable—the skills of seduction they teach us.
She dumps the handful of herbs she has chopped into the kettle of boiling water. “Very well,” she says. “If you have mastered everything they have to teach you, I have some things you have yet to learn.”
I take an eager step toward her. “You will give me more poison lessons?”
She snorts. “I have already taught you everything I can about poisons. To learn any more, you would have to be immune
to them, and you have not acquired that skill, have you?” She turns and looks at me sharply, as if almost hoping it were true.
I shake my head and sigh, fighting down a familiar pang of jealousy at Ismae’s most practical and rare of gifts. “Alas, no.”
“So I will teach you my other skill. Nursing.”
I look at the row of empty beds. “But we have no patient.”
“Ah, but we do. Here.” She shoves the empty metal basin at me, then picks up a tray covered with small pots of salves and piles of herbs. “Follow me.”
Of all the duties the nuns perform here at the convent, those of the seeress are the ones I know the least about. Sister Vereda does not join us at meals, nor participate in our feasts or celebrations. She does not teach us any lessons or train us in any skills. It is as if she does not exist. The only time a handmaiden meets with her is if she is going on assignment and Sister Vereda has Seen it. Since I have not yet been sent out, I have never met with her.
Old Sister Druette, who was seeress before Vereda, was just as mysterious, although far more terrifying. She was known to stand at her door, peeking out into the hallway, ready to grab or pinch a passing novitiate when she wanted something. Most of us did everything we could to avoid walking down that corridor.
I follow Sister Serafina down the hall that leads to the inner recesses of the convent and struggle to keep my footsteps firm and brisk. Dread begins to seep into my bones, an awareness that when I step into Sister Vereda’s chambers, I could be staring into the face of my own fate.
No. Surely as soon as the seeress can See again, the abbess will put away this idea of hers.
Once we reach the thick oaken door that leads to the seeress’s chambers, Sister Serafina shifts the tray she carries, lifts the latch, and slips inside. I try to follow, but my feet will not obey. They are stuck fast, as if they have been entangled in some invisible web.
Mortal Heart Page 3
