Chapter Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING, BEFORE THE sun is even up, there is a knock on my chamber door. It is a page, who informs me that the abbess insists that I attend upon her right away. The summons jolts me fully awake. As I hurry to dress, my mind runs over all the arguments I did not have a chance to make during our first meeting. I will explain to her that I know how seeresses are chosen—it does not have to be me. That it is her decision, not Mortain’s.
Then I will force her to tell me what flaw or lack she sees in me that prevents her from sending me out, and I will insist I be given a chance to fix it. If she denies there is any such thing behind her decision, then I will ask if it was she who tore the page with my name from the convent register, and if so, why?
When I am ushered into the abbess’s chambers, a sort of calm settles over me. Now that I am out from behind the convent walls, the power she has held over me for so long has dissipated, like smoke in a room once the door is opened.
“Annith.” Her cool voice reaches out across the room.
I dip a curtsy. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”
She lets the silence between us build. Whether that is because she is choosing her words carefully or because she hopes to unnerve me with her silence, I do not know or care.
To show her I am not unnerved, I glance to the crows on their -perches behind her desk. There are three perches but only two crows, and I wonder if she has sent one to the convent with news of my arrival.
“You may sit.” The abbess’s voice is tinged with a hint of warmth, which I do not trust at all.
“Thank you, Reverend Mother, but I prefer to stand.” That way she will have to strain her neck to look up at me.
Her mouth tightens slightly in annoyance before she forces all emotion from her face. “It is your choice.” She leans back in her chair and studies me. “What do you want from me, Annith? To know that I am sorry—heartbroken—about young Matelaine’s death? For of course I am. Her death pains me as does the death of any of our handmaidens. I grieve much as a mother does over her children.” Her face is soft, a look of gentle understanding in her eyes, and her brows are drawn together in an imitation of concern.
“And what of Sybella’s death? Would you have grieved for her if she had died on that mission you sent her on? A mission no seeress had countenanced?”
“Sybella is no concern of yours—”
“You are wrong.” The words fly from my mouth like small, sharp rocks. “She is one of my greatest concerns. As is Ismae and Florette and all the girls that I have been raised with. And you sent Sybella back to that . . . that monster.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t Mortain’s will that she be sent there? How can you be so certain that is not expressly why Mortain put her on this earth—to bring d’Albret down? No one else could have gotten close to him—no one else would ever have been able to gain a position of such trust.”
“But what of her trust in you? She came to us half mad with despair and grief, and she had barely healed before you sent her back into that lion’s den. And Matelaine, she had been there less than two years, not nearly enough time to have learned half of what she needed to know. And Ismae? You sent her out blind, not even telling her who she was being assigned to.”
“I did not want his identity to prejudice any conclusions she might draw.”
“And what of Ismae’s letters?”
The abbess blinks. “What letters?”
“The ones she sent to me that I never received. The one asking if I knew the antidote to a poison.”
Our gazes hold for a long moment before I lean forward and plant my hands on her desk. “You never even told her of the entirety of her gift. How she was able to draw poison from others’ skin, just like Sister Serafina.”
“I had to be certain she was able to fulfill her duties for Mortain without remorse or second thoughts. I feared that her kind heart would cause her to use it without permission, and those fears proved founded when she wrote to you.”
“You had no right to take my letters—”
“No right? What rights do you think you have but those that are granted to you by me? All that you have, the clothes on your back, the food that has filled your belly, and any rights, are at my discretion. You seem to have forgotten that.”
“I forget nothing.”
“And so I ask again, what do you want from me?”
“I want to know that you have the novitiates’ best interests at heart. That you are not picking and choosing who to send based on some whim or personal favorite.”
The abbess snorts. “Do not flatter yourself. I do not care for you that much. I have been kind to you, that is all.”
While the words she speaks have the weight of truth to them, I do not believe them all the same. She has cared more for me than for the others, for all that she wishes to deny it now. “I want an explanation for why I have not been sent out, then.”
“Must I carve it upon the skin of your arm? You have been chosen to be the convent’s seeress. Where did you think they came from if not from the ranks of our initiates? We plucked them from a magical tree?”
“Except I have had a chance to research this matter and now know that there are many others qualified to be the convent’s seeress. Anyone who is a virgin, or who is past childbearing years and swears celibacy. I am not the only one who can serve in this manner. Why are you so set on me?”
“How do you know that I am? Is not the first mission a novitiate is given one meant to prove her absolute obedience and loyalty? A task designed to demonstrate she can be trusted to carry out her duties?”
Ignoring the sudden uncertainty that twists in my belly, I tilt my head and allow a bitter smile to play about my lips. “That is most odd, because I distinctly remember you telling Sister Thomine it was precisely because I was so biddable and obedient that I would excel as seeress.”
Her eyes widen at the recognition of just how often I must have listened at her door, and the blood drains from her face. She turns to look at the papers on her desk to hide it, but it is too late. I have seen it and know that she is afraid of what I may have overheard.
“Perhaps it is not what you have, but what you lack,” she says at last.
Her words are like a slap. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have no gifts, no special skills, nothing that would be of any use to Mortain in the execution of His wishes. Augury can be taught. The sorts of gifts the other novitiates possess cannot. However”—she leans back in her chair again and lifts a folded message from her desk—“this latest turn of events should please you greatly. In spite of your lack of true gifts, I will have to send you out on assignment after all. It will give you a chance to prove yourself. To convince me I was wrong to waste you as seeress.”
And there it is: everything I have ever wanted, everything I have trained and fought for, only now I do not trust it. “You will have to forgive me if I seem less than grateful, for I find it hard to have confidence in such an order—now, at this time.”
“You have asked me for an explanation, and I have given you one. I use the tools Mortain gives me in the manner best suited to their gifts. Matelaine, for all her youth, had inherent gifts that made her more valuable in her service to Mortain than you. But she is gone now and all the others are too young, as you have so movingly pointed out, so there is no one left but you.” She tilts her head. “I thought you were willing to do anything to prove your ability to serve Him in just such a manner?”
Her faintly mocking tone sets my teeth on edge. “It is too late to catch me with that trap. Besides, the duchess has requested I assist her in caring for Isabeau, and I cannot turn my back on a command from my sovereign.”
Her face tightens in annoyance. “That was a request, not a command, and likely made just as a favor to Ismae to give you something to do. And as Sybella is back, she can assist Isabeau in your stead.” Then she arches her brows at me in such a way that causes all the muscles along my neck and shoulders to clench in apprehension. “Besides, the man to be killed is not only a proven traitor to the crown but also the man responsible for Matelaine’s death.”
And just like that, I am hooked like a fish. And she knows it. Even so, I try to feign indifference. “And who is this proven traitor to the crown?”
“Chancellor Crunard. Or, I should say, the former chancellor Crunard.”
I glance at the empty perch behind her desk. “Has Sister Vereda Seen this?”
“Yes.” Our gazes meet, and I think of all the times I thought she was telling the truth only to learn later that she had lied. There is no way I can take her word on this.
“Why? According to Ismae, he has been sitting in a prison for months. What possible threat could he pose now?”
“Someone is communicating our movements, positions, and strategies to the French. We know that Crunard has close ties with them and can only assume he is using some bribed guard in Guérande to get word to them of our activities.”
“Yes, but how is he getting word of the duchess’s plans? He is no longer in her confidence.”
“Perhaps there is yet another traitor. I do not know, I know only that we are to make every effort to halt the French. Are you willing to do this?”
“What if I do not see a marque? What then?”
“I told you. Sister Vereda has Seen it. Kill him anyway.”
Back in our chambers, Ismae looks at me with worried eyes. “I think it is a bad idea.”
I glance away and begin folding some of the clothes I will take. “Not if I am aware that the abbess is up to something,” I point out.
Sybella moves away from the window. “You do not fully understand her motives.”
“I understand enough to know she does not have my best interests at heart.”
“But why?” Ismae asks. As if she is unable to keep still, she reaches out and begins helping me fold. “Why would you go, knowing that?”
I look over at Sybella. “Why did you ride out to meet d’Albret?” I ask softly.
She stares at me a long moment, then gives a curt nod. “Well and so. It is something you have to do.”
“Precisely. I must do it for Matelaine’s sake.” And my own, although I do not tell them that. The abbess has all but taunted me with my own deficiencies, and I feel poised for a battle of wills. I am fully prepared for that. I am not prepared to stand down or walk away or turn my back on the only destiny I have ever wanted.
Ismae stops folding my extra gown. “Have you acquired the ability to see marques since I left? For if not, how will you know if he is intended to die?”
I shrug and avoid answering her question by asking one of my own. “Did you search Crunard thoroughly? Mayhap he bore one that was hidden beneath his clothing.”
“It is too bad we do not have the Tears of Mortain here with us,” Sybella says. “For surely that would solve our problem.”
I open my mouth to tell her that we do have the Tears, but something keeps me from uttering the words. I don’t want them to know that I am small enough to have stolen something so precious from the convent. “Do you think the duchess will mind my absence? I tried to tell the abbess that those duties would prevent me from going, but she dismissed it.”
Ismae shakes her head. “The duchess and Isabeau will be fine. It is you I am worried about.” She sets the folded gown down in my bag, then crosses her arms across her chest, clearly uneasy. “Crunard is as wily as an old fox and cares nothing for his honor or any cause. Everything he has done has been for love of his sole remaining son.”
“Do we know if this son is still alive?” Sybella asks. “Crunard failed in the task the French regent set for him and has been imprisoned. Have we any reason to think the French regent has not killed him as she said she would?”
Ismae opens her mouth, then closes it again. “I do not know,” she finally admits, “but I would like to think she would not kill an innocent man.”
Sybella rolls her eyes. “There is a reason you are Mortain’s mercy and I am not.”
“It is one thing to hold him for ransom,” Ismae says. “Quite another to execute him outright.” Then she grimaces. “Let us hope she has been too busy plotting her other moves against Brittany.”