Mortal Heart

by Robin LaFevers

  “But only because you have been raised to wish it,” I say gently. “It was trained into you just as surely as dancing or embroidery. But just as those are not truly you, neither is this desire for independence at any cost.”

  She whirls on me. “Why are you so quick to surrender? To give up?” The moment she asks the question, I realize I will have to tell her who my father is, else, when she finds out, she will feel sorely betrayed and will doubt my loyalty.

  Am I being quick to surrender? Is there some weakness, some traitor blood that flows in my veins? I consider a moment. “It is not that I am so very quick to give up,” I finally say, “but rather that I do not wish to spend my life pursuing goals that others have chosen for me. If I must perish, if I must stumble and fail, then let it be in pursuit of the ideals and dreams that I hold in my own heart.”

  She stares at me a long moment. “I do not want all those deaths on my conscience,” she whispers. “Indeed, it haunts my dreams, and I fear that I will not be able to live with myself.”

  “I would have a hard time with that decision as well, Your Grace.” I take a deep breath. “In truth, killing holds little appeal for me.”

  Her head jerks up in surprise.

  “Oh, have no fear, I can fight better than most, for I am well trained, but I have never enjoyed taking life. And that was something I thought was a weakness of mine, something to be ashamed of and do penance for. I have spent my entire life praying for the strength to embrace killing.”

  “And have you received it?”

  “No. But I have learned something that I must share with you, something I have shared with few others.” I take a deep breath. “As it turns out, I was not sired by Mortain after all. I am not his daughter. My entire life has been a lie.” A bemused laugh escapes my throat. It still stuns me to say those words. “I have spent my life pursuing dreams and goals that were never mine to pursue. And one of the reasons I tell you this is that before you make a decision on the option that I have given you, you need to know the truth about not only me, but my true father.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Crunard, Your Grace. My father is Chancellor Crunard.” It is the first time I have ever spoken those words, and the sound of them echoing in the room is like a death knell for the person I have been all my life. Saying them, and to my duchess, no less, is akin to stepping out of an old skin and standing naked before the world. “There must be truth between us so you can make the best, most informed decision available to you. If I had hid my identity from you now, when you found out, you would always question my loyalty, and that would wound me greatly, for serving you has been an unexpected grace.”

  She stares at me a long moment, her eyes wide and deep with thoughts. She shakes her head with a rueful smile. “I thank you for your honesty, Lady Annith, but be assured, I trust the counsel you have given me. As you say, I understand well how we can serve in spite of our parentage.”

  Now it is my turn to give her a bemused look.

  She smiles tightly and folds her arms across her chest. “Do you know how much Breton blood I possess?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “None. Not one drop. My father was a French noble who inherited Brittany from his wife.”

  “Your mother.”

  “No.” She gives a quick, firm shake of her head. “Not my mother. His first wife, the heir to Brittany, died years before I was born. My mother was also named Marguerite, but she was Marguerite of Foix, not Brittany. So you see, the whole of my life has been a lie as well.

  “But,” she continues, “the cause of Breton independence has defined my entire life, and in that I am more Breton that most of the Breton nobles, who have been receiving bribes and payments from the French regent for years.

  “So instead, I will think of Brittany’s true people, those who have lived here since time out of mind and who have worked the land and built the castles and cathedrals and roads. Those are the lives I must weigh.”

  And just like that, I know that it is time for me to meet with the abbess once more, for we still have much that lies unspoken and unsettled between us. But it is not her, or even the convent, that I must worry about. Like the duchess, my true concern is those whose lives will be most affected—all the girls that I have loved as sisters.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  THE NEXT DAY, THE ABBESS forces me to wait for a full hour before she will see me. It is a rank display of power, and all the more pitiful for it. Luckily, it serves me well, for it allows me to run through a number of different ways the conversation can go. By the time I am finally admitted to her office, I am calm and sure of what I wish to say to her.

  “Annith.”

  She gives no greeting, but merely says my name, so I do the same. “Reverend Mother.”

  I add a shallow curtsy to maintain the pretense of respect, but it is shallow enough that she knows that’s all it is—a mere formality and devoid of the former esteem and admiration I once felt for her.

  “I am hoping you are here to tell me that you have come to your senses and will be returning to the convent immediately.”

  “On the contrary, I am here to tell you that this cannot go on. You cannot keep serving as reverend mother. It corrupts the very nature of what we do and whom we serve.”

  Her nostrils flare with irritation. “We have no choice, don’t you understand? Besides, no one except you knows or even suspects.”

  I think back to the probing glances Sister Serafina often gave me and to the openly hostile manner of Sister Eonette. “I am not sure that is true.”

  “How do you propose that we go about this?” She spreads her arms wide as if it is too big a thought to put her arms around. “How do we tell them?”

  “I do not know; it is not my sin to confess.” I meet her gaze steadily.

  She leans back in her chair, a smile playing about her lips, a smile that sends a whisper of unease down my spine. “You are every bit as culpable as I am, make no mistake.”

  I frown in confusion. “What do you mean? I was a mere infant; I did not ask to be brought there.”

  She picks up a quill from her desk and examines the tip. “Do you remember the great tragedy?”

  The sinking feeling in my gut reminds me of why I have been so reluctant to confront her again. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Of course I do. We lost four beloved nuns.”

  She picks up a knife and begins sharpening the point of the quill. I want to shake her and scream at her to stop. Instead, I clasp my hands tightly together and wait for whatever is coming. “Do you also remember how, a few days before that, you and I went out for a walk and carried a small luncheon with us?”

  The sinking feeling now turns into a sick churning. “Of course I remember.” It was one of the rare special outings Sister Etienne and I were allowed.

  She finally looks up from the quill, piercing me with her cold blue eyes. “Do you remember what else we did that day, besides walk the island and picnic?”

  “We picked mushrooms,” I whisper.

  She sets the knife and quill down and folds her hands in front of her. “Exactly.”

  Dread begins to seep into my bones. “But you said they were the safe ones!”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Did I?”

  “Of course you did, or else I would never have touched them!”

  “Odd. I don’t remember that conversation.” She leans forward, face triumphant with victory. “It was you, Annith, you who picked the mushrooms that killed the nuns that day.”

  Awareness slams into me like a battering ram. “But, but if you knew, why didn’t you throw them away?”

  “I had to do something to save you from that woman. She was going to kill you. And you—obedient, besotted sheep that you were—you were just going to let her.”

  My mind reels. I had thought that learning I was not sired by Mortain was surely the worst shock of my life, but even it pales when compared to this. “And you let Sister Magdelena take the blame for it
?”

  “Sister Magdelena was old, well past her time, and she had begun to suspect, I think.”

  A fresh wave of insight crashes over me. “It was you who made Sister Vereda ill as well, wasn’t it!”

  For a moment, she simply stares at me, then inclines her head. “Yes.” Her voice softens. “But I had learned much and was more subtle. I made certain only to sicken her, not kill her. But she too had begun to question things that she Saw. Things that she did not understand. And I had orders, orders that could not come from her.”

  “Crunard was blackmailing you.”

  “Yes.” Her voice is as flat and hard as her eyes. “If I did not help him, he was going to expose me to the world. He did not know about you. I made certain to keep that from him.” She drops her head into her hands for a long moment. When she looks up again, her face is soft, pleading. “Don’t you see, sweeting? That is why I was going to have you be seeress. Together we could decide what would be best for the convent and the country and we could steer the others to fulfill those plans.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me all this?” The force of this second betrayal nearly brings me to my knees, for I had come to understand why a desperate young mother might need to take shelter. But this . . . this committing murder—and now, years later, laying it at my feet—has turned my entire world upside down. “How were you going to force me to See what you wanted?”

  “You were always biddable and obedient. At least, before Sybella arrived. You seemed to sense what others wanted or needed from you and were only too happy to provide it. I was simply going to let you continue on that course. That and help you interpret your visions and read the signs of augury.”

  “That is why you sent Sybella away so soon!”

  “She was ruining you. Corrupting your innocence and your cooperativeness. She was ruining Ismae as well,” she adds as an afterthought.

  “She was my friend. And your sacred charge, and you betrayed her for your own ends.”

  The abbess lifts her shoulders in a cold, unfeeling gesture. “She was not you, and you were all that I cared about. All that I still care about.”

  I feel sick, tainted with the stain of her sins.

  The abbess stands up and comes around to my side of the desk. She reaches out to take my hand, but I jerk it away from her. Pain flares in her eyes. “You were to be my sacrifice to Mortain,” she says. “My penance. My atonement. By dedicating you to His service, I was certain He would grant us forgiveness.”

  “But it was not your life to sacrifice to him.”

  “If not for me, you would not have had life in the first place. If not for me, that wretched Dragonette would have killed or maimed you.”

  I clench my fists in frustration. She is right. In some ways, I owe her much. But not my life. My gratitude, perhaps. And my loyalty?

  It feels as if she lost her right to that when she murdered people and tried to blame it on me. Slowly, I look up and meet her gaze. “I owe you nothing.” My voice is quiet but sure. “Any loyalty or respect I might have felt for you was lost the day you killed others and risked young girls’ safety to try and shelter me.”

  She reels back, as if my words have the force of a blow. After a moment, she puts her hands into her sleeves and returns to the other side of the desk. “Very well.” When she looks at me again, she is all business, any signs of the pleading mother gone. “Then I will give you what you have always wanted. If you say nothing of this to anyone, you can be an assassin. I will not make you seeress. I had hoped to protect you, not only your physical self, but your immortal soul as well. But if you do not care, so be it. You have only to hold your tongue.”

  I nearly laugh at how little she offers me and how far too late it comes. “No. I will never serve under you, nor carry out your wishes. I will not even maintain this charade of yours much longer.”

  Then I turn and leave the room, every belief I have ever held, about myself, the abbess, even the world, crushed beneath her crimes.

  It is time to have Father Effram call a convocation of the Nine.

  Chapter Fifty

  THREE DAYS LATER, I am in the solar with the duchess and her ladies in waiting. They are stitching, but I find I cannot sit still. I feel as if every bone in my body has been taken out and put back in in the wrong place, and I must relearn how to move, to think, to act. I try to be subtle about it, but the duchess keeps glancing in my direction, looking as if she is about to say something then changing her mind. I am supposed to offer her protection and comfort, not disturb her with my restlessness. I have just decided that, propriety be damned, I will tie myself to one of the chairs in order to keep still when there is a commotion just outside the door. The duchess and I exchange glances, then I move in that direction, my hands reaching for my weapons. Just as my blades clear their sheaths, Duval comes through the door. His eyes are bright and tension runs through his body like a bow that has just been drawn. He glances at my knives, nods in approval, then turns to the duchess. “Ismae has returned,” he says, and it is impossible not to love him a little for the relief that colors his voice. “She wishes to speak with you immediately.”

  The duchess has already risen to her feet and is handing her embroidery to one of her attendants. “Shall we call the other councilors?”

  “Yes.”

  Duval sends a swarm of pages off to collect the others, then together, the three of us make our way to the council chambers. When we arrive, we find Ismae already there. She has not taken the time to change from her traveling gown. “Your Grace.” She sinks into a low curtsy.

  The duchess puts out her hand and helps her rise. “I am glad you are safely returned to us,” she says.

  “As am I. I only wish I had better news to bring you.” Before she can elaborate further, the rest of the councilors begin filing into the chamber. The bishop and the abbess arrive together, a most disconcerting sight, and I cannot help but wonder if she has decided to try to curry his favor in preparation for the accusations I will soon be making.

  When Sybella arrives and sees that Ismae is safe, her lips curve in pleasure, but she says nothing as she comes to stand beside me at our post behind the duchess’s chair. She nudges my elbow with her own, whether in joy at Ismae’s return or simply to annoy the abbess, I do not know. One never knows with Sybella.

  When everyone is seated, Duval motions to Ismae. “Tell us what you have learned.” His face is tense and grim and I wonder if she has already told him what transpired in private.

  “The French hold the city of Nantes easily enough—there is no resistance.” She glances apologetically at the duchess as she says this. “I was not able to get into the palace proper. They have double guards posted at every entrance, and everyone who comes through the doors must be vouched for by at least two others. They are taking no chances. They closed the gates to the city shortly after I got there and are not letting anyone out. There were also reports that they were going to post checkpoints along the northern roads.”

  “They did,” Duval says. “They were able to intercept our scouts so that the army’s arrival caught us by surprise.”

  “Just as I arrived in Rennes this morning, the French troops showed up in front of the city gate. I was one of the last they let through, and the gates were shut and bolted behind me.”

  “And so it is official, then,” Duval mutters. “We are besieged.”

  “With no help is on the way,” Chalon adds. Duval looks as if he wishes to kick him.

  Slowly, the duchess turns to me. Her dark eyes are haunted and in them I can see that she has turned over and over my suggestion. Winning the heart of the king of France is the only way to wrest some victory from defeat and save her people. “I think I would like you all to hear what Lady Annith has to say.”

  There is a moment of stunned silence and the councilors exchange surprised glances, as if they are trying to remember who Lady Annith is.

  The duchess continues. “We have one last option, one that Annith
brought to my attention only a short while ago. It is . . . far-fetched, to put it mildly, and I do not know if it can be done, but I would have her tell you, so we may at least discuss it. Lady Annith?”

  I take a deep breath and tell the Privy Council of the last of Arduinna’s arrows that I possess and what I believe we may use it for. I direct most of my tale to Ismae and Duval, for they will be the easiest to convince.

  As I had presumed, the rest of the council is skeptical of the plan. The bishop in particular looks both scornful and indignant. “But she has already married the Holy Roman emperor,” he protests.

  “By proxy,” Duval points out.

  Father Effram places a hand on the bishop’s arm, reining in his protests. “And it is not uncommon for the pope to grant annulments when the need for political expediency is great.”

  “That is true,” the bishop reluctantly concedes.

  Montauban and Captain Dunois are more polite in expressing their doubts over the plan. It is only Duval who seems truly heartened. He has learned of the old gods through Ismae, so he understands their power more than the most. Only then, when I know I have his support, do I allow myself to look at the abbess. Her gaze is fixed on me, her rage etched in grim lines on either side of her mouth. If it were not for the presence of the council, I am certain she would fly across the table and strike me.

  In the end, all on the council agree that it is worth trying, although the only reason the abbess does so is so that her lone objection will not be noted.

  The rest of the council meeting turns into a planning session, for it is no small thing to work one’s way into the heart of fifteen thousand French troops, locate their king, then shoot him with an arrow. Not to mention get back out again.

  “She cannot go on foot.” Duval gives a firm shake of his head. “It could take her days to walk through the encampment, allowing them far too much time to detect her. But more importantly, she would have no means of escape, for once the king has been hit, his guard will swarm her like flies.”