Mortal Heart (11 page)

I
AM NOT ABLE TO
leave right away. There are preparations to make in order to ensure the nuns do not come after me, at least not until I have gotten well away from the coast and the main roads.

For a moment, a brief moment, I feel a pinch of uncertainty. Who will See for the convent when Vereda dies if not me? Would that not leave them as vulnerable and as blind as the seeress?

No. They can simply pick another virgin. Or better yet, one of the women past childbearing age. I have had well over a dozen lessons now and have not discerned so much as an approaching storm or what the cook will prepare for supper, let alone Mortain’s will.

I do not lull myself into believing this will be easy. I have only rarely been outside the convent walls, and have never been allowed to roam free on the open roads or wander through towns and cities unsupervised. My only experiences were the few trips Sister Thomine took us older girls on, precisely so we would have such experiences.

However, in the weeks following my discovery of the journal, I manage to put aside a small supply of provisions—an empty water skin, some hard cheeses and purloined loaves of bread, as well as a heavy gown that does not mark me as a handmaiden of Mortain. Obtaining a supply of weapons is harder, for Sister Arnette is always in her armory and most of the weapons are larger than the cheeses, and they clatter far more loudly than the gown. Poisons, too, present a challenge, for I must slip into Sister Serafina’s workshop in the dead of night and pray that there is nothing noxious brewing that could cause me harm.

Unable to decide if I am arming myself for defense or as the assassin I have trained to be, in the end, I prepare for both.

My last step is writing the letter I will pretend has come from the abbess to request my presence at her side in Guérande. Without such a message, a search party would likely be sent out as soon as my absence was discovered.

It has taken me a while to come up with a justification for the abbess’s request, as it is a complete turnabout of her plans for me.

It has also required that I become even more skilled at forging her hand. I lean back and admire the carefully scripted note.

Dear Eonette,

Now that I have seen firsthand the threats that our duchess faces, I have decided to have Annith join me at court. I believe that all of Mortain’s resources need to be brought to bear on the challenges that face our duchess if we are to have any hope of prevailing. It makes no sense to leave one of our most skilled novitiates withering behind our walls when the duchess so clearly has need of her.

I know that we must still address the issue of seeress soon, but with Vereda having made such an unexpected recovery, I cannot help but feel that Mortain Himself has bought us some time.

I fold the parchment and seal it. As the wax hardens, I pull my saddlebag from its hiding place under Sybella’s old bed. There is no one I must say goodbye to, for while I will miss the younger girls, it is not worth the risk of alerting them to my actions. I will better serve them by confronting the abbess and ensuring none of them is ever sent out before they are fully trained. If it is some misguided fondness for me that is at the heart of the abbess’s unwillingness to send me out, it is wrong and must stop. It is too gross a betrayal of the others and I will not have it on my conscience.

I take the message, crack open the wax seal, then crumple the note, as if it has been read in great haste, before tossing it on my bed. When they come looking for me in the morning, they will see the abbess’s request and assume that I was the first to read it and set out immediately. While some of the nuns might wonder why it came to me directly, others will know of my talent for ferreting out information and should not question such a thing.

Dressed in my heaviest gown, I slip into my winter cloak and take one last look around my room. The convent has yielded what few answers it had, which in turn have created only more questions. And the truth that the Dragonette’s journal pounded home with the force of a fist is that I do not owe anyone here a thing.

I sling my pack over my shoulder, running through my list of supplies one more time. There are no items I have forgotten. My hand twitches with the memory of the faceted crystal vial in Sister Vereda’s chambers, as black as night and densely heavy. Do not I have a greater need than others for such a thing if I am to be cut off from the convent’s support? Surely I must try to use every means available to better see Mortain’s will for me.

The entire convent is dark and quiet, so it is easy enough to slip unobserved to Sister Vereda’s chambers. There is the risk that with her returning skills, she will See what I intend to do, but it is one I must take. Even if she discovers my plans, she cannot yet rise from the bed, nor would anyone hear her frail voice raise the alarm, buried as she is deep in her own chambers, far from everyone else. Even so, I hope it does not come to that.

I carefully crack open the door. The room is as dark as the Underworld itself, with naught but a faint red glow here and there from the charcoal in the braziers. The old seeress’s breathing is deep and even, so I slip inside and quietly shut the door behind me. I pause a moment to let my eyes adjust.

Once I have gotten my bearings, I slowly move across the room, watching the floor carefully to be certain I do not trip or stumble or make any unexpected noise. It takes me but twelve silent steps to reach the shelf. I glance once more at the sleeping seeress, listening to the deep, sonorous rumble of her breathing, then turn and reach for the vial.

As my hand closes around the dark crystal, I am surprised once again at how heavy it is. I know little of the Tears of Mortain, for it is one of those mysteries that only true initiates are supposed to be privy to, but I have heard stories. Whispered tales and hints of rumors. The Tears are said to enhance our ability to see and experience life in order to better imitate how Mortain is able to see and experience life. They are supposed to correct for our human inadequacies, whether by making it easier to sense life behind closed doors or by allowing us to better see His marques. I lift the stopper to reveal the long, crystal wand that ends in a sharp point. A single drop of the Tears hovers on the tip. I take a deep breath and slowly lift the stopper to my face. I force my eye open, but before I can place the drop of Tears in it, Sister Vereda snorts in her sleep. The sound startles me so that my hand holding the stopper jerks and the drop splashes onto the bodice of my gown. I freeze, wondering if the old woman will wake. There is a long moment of silence, then her loud breathing resumes.

As I replace the stopper in the crystal bottle, I decide to take the Tears with me. Not only so that I may use them when needed, but also so that I can ensure that the nuns will not send anyone else out on assignment while I am gone. Surely they would not send one of the novitiates without the Tears of Mortain to aid her.

Once the Tears are secured in my pack, I take a deep breath, turn, and begin carefully making my way out of Sister Vereda’s chambers. I shift my hips to avoid the corner of one table, then shift again to avoid the stand that holds a charcoal brazier. By the time I reach the door, I am damp with sweat and coiled tighter than one of Sister Thomine’s whips. Out in the hallway, I lean against the wall and calm my thudding heart. It is not Sister Vereda’s chambers that cause it to race, but the enormity of what I am about to do. But what other choice do I have?

The day I have dreamed of for as long as I can remember has finally come—I am leaving the convent. Not in a triumphant march to do Mortain’s bidding, as I have always imagined, but on a determined search for answers. I will find the abbess in Guérande and make her tell me precisely why she insists I be seeress despite the many others who could fulfill those same duties. If it is not something personal, then it must be a flaw or lack of mine, and I will force her to tell me what it is, not hide behind half-truths and lies. Because once I know what that flaw is, I can fix it. I can change that part of myself, as I have so many times before.

I
T IS A TERRIFYING THING
to cross the sea at night, but I tell myself it is exhilarating. There is nothing but the glimmer of moonlight to steer by, and the sharp salt-scented breeze from the sea whistles past my ears, bringing a faint spray to my face. And while my arms are strong from long hours spent at weapons training, they are not accustomed to rowing and so begin to ache after the second hour. Or what I judge to be the second hour, for it is hard to tell. Exhilarating, I remind myself. This is what freedom feels like, and it is exhilarating.

After a long while, I begin to worry that I have missed the mainland altogether and am merrily rowing out to the open sea. I wipe the sweat and salt spray from my eyes and peer into the darkness in front of me. There are no lights to guide me toward shore, no cooking fires or candles or torches. I stop rowing and tilt my head to the side. It is hard to hear over the thudding of my own heart and my ragged breathing, but I think I detect a faint sound of waves breaking. And where waves are breaking, there will be land. Hopefully, it will be the smooth beach I am aiming for and not the jagged rocks and shoals of the southernmost coastline. With a quick prayer to Mortain, I adjust my heading to the north and resume rowing.

Soon, the sound of the waves becomes different, more of a gentle lapping with a hollow ring to it—the sound of water against the wooden hull of a boat. A labored sigh of relief escapes me as I muster one more burst of energy.

When I finally feel the slight crunch of rocks under the hull, I fling the detested oars from me, only too happy to be done with them. If not for my leather gloves, my palms would be blistered and shredded from the bedamned things.

With the boat firmly on the beach, I stand on the seat and leap as far clear of the shallows as I can, then turn back and grab the prow of the boat to pull it up farther onto the beach so the tide will not carry it away. I cannot help but note that my arms are as weak and feeble as newborn lambs.

I could head for the stable, saddle one of the horses myself, and simply ride off, but I fear it would raise doubts as to the legitimacy of my summons to the abbess’s side. It seems more convincing to wake the night rower and demand assistance, just as if I were on a genuine convent assignment. After all, I have saved him the hard work of rowing. The least he can do is saddle my horse. Besides, I don’t wish to be mistaken for a horse thief.

I approach the small cottage and rap sharply at the door. It does not take long for the old caretaker to open it—he is accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night to row boats across the sea. “Eh?” He peers up at me.

“I need you to saddle a horse.”

He stares at me a long moment, and I force myself not to fidget. “Haven’t seen you out alone before, have I?” he finally says.

Annoyed that he would notice such a thing, I merely arch a brow at him. “Is it part of your duties to question my comings and goings?” The truth is, I would not put it past the abbess to arrange such a thing.

“Eh, don’t bite my head off, missy. Let me get my coat and a lantern.” He disappears back into his cottage, and I turn and look out at the sea, relieved that there is no sign of pursuit, although surely the earliest they would notice my absence would be after the second morning bell.

The old man comes to the door wrapped up in his cloak and carrying a lantern to light the way to the stable. Not sure what I am supposed to do, I follow him. At least until he turns and arches one of his own thick, white eyebrows at me. Pretending I do not see it, I swing my travel bag off my shoulder, set it on the ground, and begin rummaging through it, looking for one of my small leather pouches.

When I find it, I draw out a pinch of salt to leave as an offering to Saint Cissonius. He is the patron saint of both travelers and crossroads, and I feel most assuredly as if I am staring at some sort of unseeable crossroad, unable to discern the true path ahead of me. As I sprinkle the salt onto the earth beneath my feet, I whisper a brief prayer and ask Mortain Himself to guide me on this journey.

The old man returns just then. When I see that he is leading my favorite horse, Fortuna, my impatience with him leaks away, and I smile. “She is my favorite.” I run my hand down her silky black mane.

He shoots me a sideways glance. “Why d’you think I brought her?”

It occurs to me that all of us at the convent should pay closer attention to this man, who sees far more than he lets on. “And I thank you for it.”

He grunts, then helps me secure my bag to the saddle before cupping his hands and holding them out for me. I accept the boost and, stepping lightly, throw my leg over Fortuna’s back, then settle into the saddle and draw up the reins.

My bow is within easy reach and my quiver of arrows is at my back. I do not expect trouble, but neither am I afraid of it. In truth, I am eager for whatever the road may hold, knowing I am more than able to meet the challenge.

Once I am on a horse that can outrun pursuit, the tension across my shoulders eases and I realize I did not believe that I would be able to escape undetected. But I am not a child any longer, and am more than able to pit my wits against any of the older nuns’. Nor are they still able to easily frighten me with their tales of the dreaded hellequin pursuing any who dare to defy Mortain.

The clear sky holds, and the moon is just past its fullness, providing plenty of light for me to see by. Fortuna is well rested and fresh, prancing in the crisply cold night air, her breath coming out in small white clouds.

As we set out, I quickly become aware of how different the world is at night. For one thing, there are infinite shades of gray, from palest silver to nearly black. And while I have ventured onto the mainland before, it has always been with others from the convent. I have never been as utterly alone as I am in this moment. There is no one to order me about or tell me what to think or how to behave. There is no one to say I must turn this way or that. No one to cast me disappointed looks when I fail to do as they wish. Nor do I have to bear the weight of those unspoken wishes.