Mortal Heart (52 page)

His hands grip the iron bars. “And if so, what does that mean for us?”

I step back then. “Why should it mean anything? Why should I care at all for the man who abandoned my mother when she needed him most, who left me to be raised as an orphan, who betrayed his entire country? What makes you think there is any
us
to be considered?”

His gaze meets mine steadily. “Because I know the daughter to be a far better person than the father was, and I hope that she will see that the most recent of his crimes were committed out of love for his children.”

I stare at him a moment longer, then leave without answering his question.

The second meeting is a convocation of the Nine, called in order to hold the abbess accountable for her crimes and to determine the rightful punishment.

On the first day, a delegate from each of the Nine arrives, called to the convocation by Father Effram’s summons. The abbess from the Brigantian convent here in Rennes is the first to arrive, followed by Floris and the high priestess of Arduinna. Father Effram—I cannot quite manage to call him Salonius, for I am still not certain I believe that he is; it is just the sort of trick the gods like to play—presides over all.

The abbess of Saint Mer arrives, a wizened old woman with wild gray hair and seashells strung around her neck like jewels. She is accompanied by two girls, one on either side, both followers of Saint Mer. I try not to stare, but I have never seen the sisters of Saint Mer before and they are startling to look at.

Beast is here, representing the followers of Saint Camulos, as their rank is closely tied with their order’s hierarchy. A tall older man with dirty bare feet and a thick walking staff is introduced as the head of Saint Cissonius’s order.

Mortain himself will take his place among the Nine. When he steps into the room, silence falls, as thick as a heavy snow. All eyes turn toward him, for these are people who have devoted their entire lives in the service of their gods, yet they have never met one face to face before. One by one, they sink into deep, reverent bows, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.

“Please, rise,” he says, then makes his way to the seat that is for him. It is hard to tell in the torchlight, but it appears as if a faint tinge of pink has risen in his finely sculpted cheeks.

Two of the seats are empty. Amourna is no longer worshiped so much as her name is invoked when one is seeking true love. There is not any convent or abbey that serves her, and I cannot help but wonder if there ever was.

Dea Matrona too is not worshiped in a formal way, but instead finds her place in the homes and hearths and fields throughout our land.

Just as the Brigantian abbess calls the meeting to order, the door opens. An ancient, bent-back woman shuffles into the room, her long, gray hair nearly reaching the floor, her old homespun brown gown faded and closer to rags than a gown. She too has a staff, which she leans heavily upon. Slowly, she shuffles across the floor and takes the empty seat left for Dea Matrona.

Everyone stares in surprise, but she gestures impatiently for them to proceed.

The Brigantian nun begins speaking. “We are here for an accounting of the crimes of Sister Etienne de Froissard, who has posed as abbess of the convent of Saint Mortain for the past seven years, even though she bears none of his blood. She has wronged the gods by posing as a daughter of Mortain, and she has betrayed the trust placed in her with that position. She is also charged with endangering the girls put in her care, and has been accused of the murders of Sisters Druette, Appollonia, and Sabina.”

And so it begins, the abbess’s—my mother’s—trial. Father Effram assured me that they never sentence anyone to death, else I am not certain I would be able to get through this. For all the anger I hold for her, for all the wrong that she has done, she did it out of love and a desire to protect me. I do not know if I will ever be able to resolve the two.

“Sister Etienne, what say you to these charges?”

The abbess looks almost naked without her distinctive headdress and habit, like a magnificent hawk who has lost all her feathers. She turns and looks at me, and even now, her head is not bowed in shame or remorse. I hold my breath, wondering if she will try to pull me into it, try to paint my actions with her own motives. She will not know that I have already told the members of the convocation that I too am not of Mortain’s blood, although I did not learn of it until mere weeks ago.

But instead, she surprises me. “I accept responsibility for all that I am accused of. I would say only this in my defense: The previous abbess betrayed her duty to her young charges long before I did. I did not know of the existence of this convocation, else I might have tried to bring her before it. But I saw no other way to protect the girls. To protect my own daughter.”

The Brigantian nun turns to Mortain, her manner becoming slightly nervous, as if she is not certain how this should all proceed in front of a true god. Or a former god. “Do you wish to handle this matter personally, as is your right?”

Mortain shakes his head. “No, I would leave it to the convocation to decide and will respect its decision.” In truth, he is not nearly as angry at the abbess as I am, for he feels that without her, he would never have had me, and for that, he has told me, he will forgive her much.

“Very well. We shall withdraw to discuss sentencing—”

Her words are interrupted by a sharp, single rap on the floor. It is the old crone. Everyone turns to stare.

“I claim her as ours,” she says. “She has proven herself such a devoted mother, let her serve the Great Mother awhile. Ten years.”

Everyone glances around somewhat uncertainly, as no contact has been made with those who serve Dea Matrona in quite some time. Indeed, I think they all thought that she too had begun to fade from this world.

“Are there any objections?”

There are not. And so it is decided.

As the convocation breaks up, the various abbesses and priests pause long enough to greet one another and exchange a few words. It is not often they are all in the same room, and there is the sense that they have much they would like to discuss. A handful approach Balthazaar, wanting to see this miracle made flesh.

I stand off to the side, watching. Forgotten for the moment, the abbess makes her way over to me. We stare at each other. She has grown thin these last few days, and her face is drawn. “I am sorry,” she whispers. As I stare into her hollow, gaunt face, it feels like the first true thing she has said to me in years. I nod, acknowledging her words. She looks down at her hands. Her nails are ragged and bitten to the quick. “I would ask one last indulgence, if I could.”

I do not know that I have it in me to grant her anything, but I keep my voice level. “What is it?”

“May I hold you? Just once before I go, for I have not been able to do so since you were three years old. If I could have one wish before I die, it would be that.”

Her request sneaks in under my guard and lands a painful blow, reminding me sharply that for many years, she was nothing but a young mother trying to be with her child. “Yes,” I whisper. Slowly, as if unable to believe in it, she awkwardly wraps her arms around me, then pulls me close. I am not quite able to allow myself to relax into her embrace, but I do not resist, either. Some small, tentative thing passes between us. She gently kisses my brow, then reluctantly pulls away. “Will you ever forgive me?” she asks softly.

That small, tentative thing pulses inside me. “I will try. That is all I can promise. I will try.”

She starts to leave, then stops. “May I come see you? When my sentence is served?”

I stare at her a long moment before I say, “Yes. But do not come back to the convent. Send word instead, and I will meet you.”

Her eyes widen at my mention of the convent, and I see a hundred questions in them, questions about what I will do next, where I will go, and who I will be with. But our time is up. Dea Matrona’s priestess is at her side, her ancient clawlike hand reaching out and pulling at the abbess’s sleeve. “Come” is all she says. With one last look at me, the abbess leaves.

T
HE DAY OF THE BETROTHAL CEREMONY
dawns clear and sunny, as if God and His Nine are all as happy about this day as we are. A feeling of joy lies over the city, relief to be celebrating an impending marriage rather than a crushing defeat and untold deaths.

The cathedral is nearly empty as the duchess and the king of France pledge their vows. Only the privy councilors are in attendance, along with one French advisor and the French regent herself. I study this woman who was behind so much of the hostilities between our countries and wonder what drove her.

The duchess does her best to ignore the regent. I do not think they will ever be close.

Ismae, Sybella, and I are also in attendance. The duchess invited Mortain as well, but this made the poor bishop so nervous that Mortain declined.

Once the ceremony is concluded, the royal party turns their attention to signing the marriage contract and the peace treaty between Brittany and France. The three of us are not needed for that.

Just as she did when we were forced to attend chapel services back at the convent, Sybella begins whispering in church. “Ismae, are you still able to see marques?”

“I don’t know,” Ismae confesses, then looks around the few gathered in the cathedral. “No one here bears one, and I have not seen anyone marqued since . . . since three days ago, but perhaps it is simply because no one is ready to die just yet. And you? What of your gifts?”

Sybella nods. “I am still able to sense people’s nearness, as always.”

I smile. “Well, that is good, then, that your gifts did not disappear along with Mortain’s godhood.” I did not wish to be the reason they no longer had their abilities. “Which means the girls back at the convent will likely still have their gifts and abilities as well.”

At my mention of the convent, Sybella pounces. “Is the rumor true? Will you be returning to the convent?” She does not sound surprised.

“Yes.”

“But why?” Ismae asks. “You could not wait to leave.”

How do I explain this to them? “I wanted to leave the suffocating restrictions and the painful memories that the convent held. But now, now that everything has changed, I want to go back and remake the convent into what it was originally intended to be—a place with life as well as death, with joy as well as solemn duty.”

“But won’t you be bored?”

I laugh. “No, for I am not like either of you. I do not relish killing. I am good at it, but I do not find any purpose in it.”

“And you think you will find a purpose in returning to the convent?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “I want to show the others that they have choices, that their lives are theirs to live. I know it is not nearly as glamorous as what you two will be doing, but it is what I feel compelled to do—to put the convent back as it is supposed to be.”

“What does all this mean for Mortain’s daughters?” Ismae asks. “How will we be able to serve him?”

“I do not know,” I admit. “Mayhap it will be no different from serving the duchess or any liege lord.”

“And what of the convent and the duties it performs?”

“Again, I do not yet know. That is something we will figure out as we go.”

Sybella smiles in her sly, wicked way. “Balthazaar will be going as well?”

“Yes, he wishes to meet his daughters. And put right what has gone off course.”

“And with Mortain at your side, who will say you nay?”

My lips twitch into a smile. “True enough. Just because he is newly mortal does not mean that death will cease or that people will come to accept it or even that political events will not require intervention. But what about you?” I turn to Sybella. “I heard the duchess say that you are going to the French court with her?” I am still hoping I have heard that incorrectly.

Sybella smiles. “She will need someone to insinuate herself among all those long-faced French nobles that cling to her betrothed’s robes like flies. Someone to report to her who can be trusted and who cannot. And she has agreed to foster my sisters at her court, which will afford them the best protection I can find against our brother.”

“And what of Beast?”

“He is going as well, to serve as the captain of the queen’s guard.”

I am happy for her, and I try to smile, but she will be so far away.

“Oh, do not pull such a sad face! It will only be for a few years. I reckon I shall return right about the time Sister Beatriz will have to retire from her duties. I think I would make a most excellent womanly-arts teacher, don’t you?”

I cannot help it, I laugh, as does Ismae. “The Nine save us,” she says.

“The Eight, now.”

“No, it is still the Nine. They did not change it when Amourna removed herself, and neither will they for Mort—Balthazaar. Bah! I cannot decide what to call him now.”

“Just do not call him Father, and I will be happy,” Ismae mutters.

“And you.” I turn to her. “You will be close, so you must come visit once in a while.” She and Duval will be staying in Rennes—Duval will be overseeing the duchy while his sister takes her place on the French throne.

“Oh, I shall. I may even let Duval come just so he can storm around the halls, for old times’ sake.” And thus everyone is accounted for, I think.

No, not everyone. My thoughts go again to the hellequin. Those who died on the field before Rennes that day have found both the redemption and peace that they so desperately sought. But what of the others? Those who did not ride out that day, or those whose bodies were not found? Did they too find their deserved reward? Or do they, even now, still ride on, trapped on some eternal hunt?

The next morning, Mortain and I set out on our own journey, one that will take us back to the convent. He has healed unnaturally fast.

As our horses prance and sidestep in the fresh morning air, I send him a glance. “I will not call you Mortain for all the rest of our lives. It will feel too much like being wedded to a god.”