Mortal Heart

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.”



Chapter Thirty-One



ON MY WAY OUT OF the city, I see small groups of Arduinnites patrolling the surrounding countryside. One of the women waves, but she is too far away for me to tell if it is Tola or Floris. I know it is not Aeva, for she would never condescend to be so friendly to me. I pretend I do not see the woman waving, for I do not wish to stop and talk with her, not with my duties to Mortain sitting so uneasily upon my shoulders. Especially if Aeva is with them.



It is twenty-six leagues to Guérande, a two days’ hard ride, and I see no reason not to push. Even though I do not trust the abbess, a small part of me is thrilled to finally be doing what I was trained for. This will be no simple fight such as with the French soldiers in Vannes, for I will be acting as Mortain’s true handmaiden.



There are few villages or towns on the road between Rennes and Guérande, and it is sparsely traveled, especially with the threat of French invasion hanging over the country. Fortuna is well rested from her time in the stables and we do not need to stop often. The distance flies by. Luckily, the days have grown longer, if not warmer. I pull my cloak more tightly around me and glance overhead at the threatening storm clouds, hoping the rain will hold off one more day.



I do not know what to expect in Guérande. It is likely that the abbess is setting some trap—but if so, is it for me or Crunard?



If it is for me, then at least I am not going into it unaware. Not only do I have more training than Matelaine, but thanks to the events of recent weeks, I have far more experience as well. Experience in the falseness of the human heart and the many ways it can lie.



The burning question is, why would the abbess now give me that which she has withheld so long? There is a possibility, although a remote one, that it is precisely as she claims: there is no one else, I am at hand, and Sister Vereda has Seen it.



Or, more likely, is it because I now have something to hold over her and she thinks I will quietly forget about Matelaine’s death if she gives me what I have always wished for.



If so, she will be sorely disappointed.



It is my fervent hope that I am being sent now simply because I have passed whatever test Mortain set before me. Mortain—not the convent. I have stood nose to nose with the hellequin and held my own; I have fought beside those who serve Arduinna and done our convent proud, in spite of the history and animosity that lays between our two orders; and, perhaps most importantly, I have a much broader view of Mortain’s gifts and how they affect us all.



Surely my actions have proven beyond all doubt how fully committed I am to Him. Not to the current abbess, who was so kind to me years ago, and not to the Dragonette, who offered me a warped bargain in exchange for a home, safety, a sense of belonging. But to Him.



Tired of these weighty thoughts, I turn my mind to all the weapons I carry and entertain myself by reviewing the many ways I know how to kill. I wonder which one I shall use on Crunard.



I have a supply of poison that I can use in small doses to disable any guards. I wear a braided silver cuff that doubles as a garrote and carry five knives, which are concealed within my skirts and sleeves, as well as my beloved bow. I feel certain that if this is a kill sanctioned by Mortain, then I will feel none of the uncertainty or hesitation I have felt in the past, for I will be engaged in my own god’s work.



If Crunard is truly the one to have killed Matelaine, avenging her death seems justifiable, at least to me, but I realize I do not know how Mortain Himself feels about vengeance. It never came up in our lessons.



Certainly if Matelaine had realized her life was in danger, she would have been well within her rights to defend herself, but this cold, calculated desire for revenge I hold in my heart feels much more human than divine. The whole issue is made even more complex by all that I have learned from Ismae and Sybella; so many guilty have not been marqued, and so many innocent have been. Surely that suggests that Mortain’s will is not easily discernible, or even recognizable.



Who should pay for Matelaine’s death, Crunard or the abbess?



And then I remember I will not be going into this blind. I have the Tears of Mortain with me. I smile, realizing I will be able to discern Mortain’s will after all. It is all I can do not to stop right there and administer the Tears in the middle of the road, but I force myself to keep going. There will be time enough when I stop for the night.



When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, I realize I must either come upon a village soon or pitch camp. I travel another half a league, hoping for a lone inn or farmhouse where I can pass the night, but there is nothing. I glance up at the sky once more, relieved to see that the gray clouds have blown to the north. As I turn my gaze back to the road, a flock of crows launches from one of the nearby trees, a hundred black wings rising into the sky, flapping their wings in unison like the folds of a single cloak.



At the sight of them, I am suddenly reminded of Balthazaar, and a wave of remorse washes over me. I was so eager to ride out that I completely forgot my promise to meet him again on the ramparts.



On the heels of my remorse comes a surge of ire. I did not invite him to follow me to Rennes, and surely I do not owe him an accounting of my whereabouts. It was his choice to come, and it is not my responsibility to look to his comfort. Besides, I had thought we were done with each other, that I would never see him again.



And yet, I cannot argue away the small thrill of joy I felt when I did see him again. And while it saddens me to think that my thoughtlessness might add to the despair that already haunts him, it is not my concern, no matter how often I see his face when I close my eyes at night or how much I miss his silent, brooding presence skulking nearby. Mortain’s work and the abbess’s plotting are what I must focus on now.

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