Grave Mercy

The man who approaches is tall and slender with dark eyes and fine features and is far too young to be her lover, and yet she has called him darling. He gives me a cautious, considering look, then bends to kiss Hivern’s cheek.



“Ismae, I would like you to meet my son François Avaugour. François, this is Ismae, Gavriel’s new friend.”



If he has heard tell of his brother’s “friend,” he gives no indication. He bends gallantly over my hand. “Enchanté, demoiselle. Any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine.”



I murmur some nonsense back, and Madame Hivern pats the seat next to her. “Come join us, my love.”



“But of course.” François takes the chair close to Hivern so that he faces me. “How can I resist the two loveliest ladies at court?”



I long to roll my eyes at his words, but I peer up at him through my lashes instead.



“Gavriel’s friend is not used to such polished manners, François. She has been too long in the country. You should offer to guide her through her first visit to court when your brother is tending to his other duties.”



His liquid brown eyes meet mine. “I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure, demoiselle.”



“You are too kind,” I murmur, pleased at how easily I have been pulled into the bosom of Duval’s family. They must hunger after his secrets as much as I hunger after theirs.



“My son was born and raised at court and can steer you safely through its treacherous waters.”



“But surely milord Duval will do that,” I protest.



“Duval can do what?” a deep, familiar voice asks.



“Gavriel!” Hivern’s voice is full of gaiety that is as false as her heart. "What a lovely surprise. we were just getting to know your friend a little better. She is such a charming thing.”



The warm, heavy weight of Duval’s hand settles on my shoulder and I am rendered speechless as he bends down and places a kiss atop my head.



“Dearest Ismae,” Duval says. "Whatever are you doing here? Not that it isn’t a delightful surprise.”



Merde. I have been so busy matching wits with Madame Hivern that I have not given any thought to an explanation for my presence here at court.



“She was kind enough to accept my invitation, Gavriel,” Madame Hivern says with a sly glance in my direction. “I thought it would be fun to become acquainted.”



Duval’s hand on my shoulder tightens painfully, then he removes it and gives a perfunctory bow. I do not know how he makes it look ironic, but he does. “My lady mother’s generosity knows no bounds.” Then he turns his gaze upon me. “Come, demoiselle. I am finished here.” He reaches down, grabs my elbow, and pulls me to my feet. without another look in his family’s direction, we depart.



Behind the crackle and snap of anger that burns in his eyes, I catch a glimpse of something else. Something that looks remarkably like fear.



"Was that part of your convent’s instructions?” Duval’s voice is tight with anger. “To catch the eye of my brother and offer yourself to him as well as me?”



“No, my lord, it was not,” I say primly.



But likely only because it hadn’t occurred to the abbess.



Chapter Twenty-two



Duval escorts me back to his residence himself. He says it is so I do not get lost along the way, but he does not fool me. He wants to be certain I do not circle back to the palace. when he leaves to return to court, I consider following him a second time but then realize it would be foolish, as he will likely be expecting it. Besides, I do not wish to risk running into Madame Hivern again. The thinly veiled venom of her false concern still bubbles through me, as vicious as any poison. I wonder how Duval would feel if I killed his mother, for in truth, that is what I wish to do. He might well thank me.



When I reach my chamber, I find Louyse unpacking my trunks. She turns to me, her old cheeks pink. “Oh, miss! So many lovely things you have.”



Indeed, rows and rows of the most beautiful gowns are spread about the room. I am stunned at the riches the convent has provided. Velvets and brocades and the finest silks, all in dazzling colors: deep blue, emerald green, and rich claret.



There is a sound in the doorway and I look up to find Agnez coming into the room holding a large twig cage at arm’s length. In it sits a large, rather fiendish-looking crow.



“They sent this along with the trunks, demoiselle,” Louyse explains. "We tried to put it in the stables, but it unsettled all the horses, so the ostler insisted we bring it inside. Is it a . . . pet, my lady?”



“Of a sort. Put the cage over by the window,” I tell Agnez. As she sets it on the floor, the crow squawks and lunges for her finger. She squeaks and springs back, nearly tripping in her haste to be away from the bird.



“That’ll be all,” Louyse says to her sharply, although it isn’t really the girl’s fault.



with one last suspicious glance at the crow, Agnez quickly takes her leave. Louyse shakes her head. "Will you want help dressing?” At my blank look, she adds, “Before you go to court tonight?”



“Perhaps in an hour or so, thank you.”



She pauses at the door. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Two letters came with the trunks. They’re on the table over there. And the smallest of the trunks is still locked. They do not appear to have sent a key. would you like me to send up one of the footmen to break it?”



“Let me see what the letters say before I decide.”



“Very well, milady.” She dips a curtsy, then departs, leaving me alone with a very ill-tempered crow who is trying to shred his cage with his wicked-looking beak.



I hurry to the table and pick up the first letter. even though I recognize the reverend mother’s handwriting, I turn the note over and examine the seal. Annith has a wealth of tricks for opening correspondence, and she has taught me the signs to search for if I suspect tampering, but I see none of them on this seal. It is the same black wax the convent always uses, smelling faintly of licorice and cinnamon, and it is all in one piece, with no smaller, thinner layers to indicate it has been resealed. Satisfied, I tear open the seal, hoping for a new assignment. There are so very many here at court whose throats I would happily slit.



Dearest Daughter,



I hope this finds you well and adjusting to life at court, and I trust your training at the convent is serving you well.



Sister Vereda casts her bones into the flames daily, searching for guidance, but has Seen nothing yet. When she does, I shall send a message. However, if your heart and eyes are open to Him, He will no doubt guide your hand.



Remember that you are also our eyes and ears at court. Report to me all that you learn, no matter how small a thing it may seem.



In addition to gowns and finery, we have sent a small trunk of the tools and supplies your service to Mortain will require. Vanth bears the key.



Yours in Mortain,



Abbess Etienne de Froissard



My hand crushes the note and in my frustration I cast it into the fire. These are not the instructions I was hoping for. waiting, waiting. Always more waiting. Had they taught us to wait as well as they taught us to kill, I might be better at it.



Sighing, I pick up the second letter. It is from Annith.



Dearest Sister,



I would be lying if I didn’t allow how jealous I was at all your new finery. The entire abbey stitched and sewed, altering the gowns to Sister Beatriz’s exacting measurements so they would fit you and do the convent proud. Although how they will reflect on the convent when your association with us is secret, I know not, and Sister Beatriz only told me to stitch faster when I pointed that out.



I am near to bursting with curiosity to hear how court is, how many you’ve killed since you left, and all the other details. I think Reverend Mother suspects I am sore put out that you have been given this task and not me. She has assigned me to work closely with Sister Arnette so that I will not feel left out, but of course, it does no good.



Write me when you can so I can see with my own eyes how you fare, else I shall surely die of boredom. Still no word from Sybella.



Your sister in Mortain,



Annith



When I finish the letter I ache with homesickness, not for the convent but for Annith and her sharp, clever mind. I would dearly love to put all that I have learned before her and see what she makes of it. I briefly consider writing it all down, then realize Vanth could not possibly carry all the pages it would require.



Instead, I hurry to the cage and see that the crow has a small packet affixed to his left leg. eyeing him warily, I reach into the cage, crooning in a soothing voice — only to wrench my hand back as he snaps at it with his sharp beak.



“Stop that,” I scold. “’Tis my key, not yours.” I try again, this time moving more quickly, and pluck the packet from his ankle. His vicious beak just misses my fingers and jabs futilely against the cage. “Traitor,” I chide.



I unwrap the packet, and a small gold key on a chain falls into the palm of my hand. Grasping it, I hurry over to the trunklet and fit the key into the lock. I lift the lid and bite back a laugh of pure pleasure. The trunk contains daggers of all sizes: a large anlace to wear against my back, a small easily hidden dirk, a long thin stiletto to slip into the top of my stocking, a needle-like stylet for the base of the skull, and a tangle of leather sheaths so that I may keep them all close at hand. There is a plain garrote as well as one hidden in a fancy bracelet. Sister Arnette has also included a small crossbow, no bigger than the palm of my hand. The quarrels are honed to a fine point.



The sharp metallic tang of my weapons is more welcome than the finest perfume.



But the trunk is deep and holds a second compartment. when I remove the top tray, there is the faint tinkle of glass vials. I pick up a small bottle, its contents the color of the cold winter sky. Mortain’s caress, a most pleasant, merciful poison that fills its victims with a sense of euphoria and well-being. I set that bottle on the floor and reach back into the trunklet. There is the deep amber of heretic’s lament, a quick-acting poison for those wishing to avoid the excruciating pain of being burned at the stake. A short, squat bottle of thick glass holds the rust-colored scourge, a poison designed with Mortain’s harshest judgment in mind: it eats away at the victim’s insides and is rumored to be as painful as martyr’s embrace. I recognize the blood red of dark tears, which causes the lungs of the victim to fill with fluid until he drowns, and the muddy green of St. Brigantia’s bane, so named because Brigantia is the goddess of wisdom and this poison does not kill its victims but instead eats all the knowledge from their brains, leaving them babbling simpletons with no memory of who they are.



In the very bottom of the trunk sit three carefully wrapped cream-colored candles, no doubt scented with night whisper. Beside those is a small box filled with white pearls, each one containing enough vengeance to fell a grown man. Last, there is a small earthenware jar of honey-colored paste nestled in the corner: St. Arduinna’s snare, a poison that is used for rubbing on surfaces so it can be absorbed through the skin.



I am now as well stocked as the convent itself. Much relieved, I quickly repack the trunklet and lock it. I slip the thin gold chain around my neck and tuck the key into my bodice, out of sight.



If I hurry, I will be able to write the abbess a letter and dispatch Vanth before I must dress for the evening.



Dear Reverend Mother,



It is exactly as you and Chancellor Crunard said: There is much afoot here at court, and very little of it good. Someone has gone over the duchess’s head and called a meeting of the Estates. The duchess has no choice but to face her barons under the watchful eye of the French ambassador. Anything they decide will be immediately reported back to the French regent.



Furthermore, the English king is refusing to send aid. The only bright spot is that Duval has been approached by a lord who keeps his identity hidden but claims to have a solution to offer our duchess. I will report more on this once the meeting has taken place.



One other incident of note. Duval and I were attacked upon our entry into the city. The men’s blades were coated in poison, so it was no mere robbery. (And I am saddened to report that Nocturne fell victim to their treachery.)



I pause for a moment and run the feathers of the quill along my chin as I consider whether to tell the abbess of Duval’s nightly visits so she will see that I am not shirking my duties. I fear if I do she will write back wanting more detail, so I say nothing.



I have met our duchess and can clearly see the hands of the saints upon her. Truly, they have chosen well, for she is wise and strong beyond her years. Honesty compels me to tell you that she appears to trust Duval completely and values his counsel above all others’.



I eagerly await your next orders and pray that Sister Vereda will See some way I may be of service to my god and my duchess.



Sincerely,



Ismae



The next letter is much easier to write. I know Annith will find a way to read the letter to the abbess, so I do not waste time repeating what I have already written there.



Dear Annith,



I wish someone had thought to tell me Duval was one of the duke’s bastards! You might mention to Sister Eonette to include the bastards’ names when she speaks of them. It would prevent future misunderstandings.



I saw Sybella! There was a mob of people trying to enter the city when we arrived, and she was among them. She did not speak to me, but I was much relieved to see her alive and well. Alas, I have seen no marques. Soon, hopefully!



Your sister in Mortain,



Ismae



The duchess is in attendance at court tonight, so Duval takes me to be formally introduced. She is surrounded by her ladies in waiting, the local prelates, and her advisors. I am surprised to see that d’Albret is with the duchess. No — not with her, but staying close, much like a wolf stalking a rabbit. She sits, rigid and tense, looking pointedly away from him, her face pale. She looks like a young child trying to pretend a monster from a hearth tale has not just sprung to life beside her. It is Madame Dinan who chats gaily with d’Albret, ignoring her young charge’s acute discomfort.