Mortal Heart (2 page)

For a moment, the old familiar wave of loss and longing rears up and I catch my breath at the pain of it. Among the handmaidens of Death our birth stories are our most treasured possessions, marking us as they do as Death’s true daughters. But on the day that I was born, no cuckolded husband paced nearby, no herbwitch pulled me from a cold, dead womb, nor did any hedge priest administer the last rites to a dying mother while I rooted futilely at her breast.

Or at least, I think not, for the truth is that I do not even know the day on which I was born. I do not know the manner of my birth, the name of my mother, or even if she still lives, although we think she must not, else I would not have ended up on the convent’s doorstep when I was less than a week old. Of all the women whose feet have pattered along these stone floors, I am the only one to have no inkling of the circumstances of my own birth.

It is like an itching, festering wound I have trained myself not to scratch. But some days the pain and burn of it are nearly beyond bearing. Especially when I am confronted with a cocksure nine-year-old who is blessed with reflexes so fast she has been known to snatch arrows from their flight.

Aveline keeps her attention on the holly but watches me from the corner of her eye. “Does that mean you will let me fight you sometime?”

I cannot help it—I laugh. “You think you can best me?”

She lifts one shoulder. “I think I would like to know if I could or could not.”

At her words, my smile wobbles and it is all I can do to keep from throwing my knife down in defeat. Even this
child
thinks I am no longer a match for her. I carefully avoid looking out at the ocean, just beyond the trees. It is too painful a reminder that both Ismae and Sybella have been sent to places I have not, have begun to fulfill their destinies while I am stuck here playing nursemaid to a gaggle of budding assassins.

I feel a tug at the corner of my gown and look down to find Florette standing there with wide eyes. “We did not mean to make you sad, Annith.”

“Oh, you didn’t, sweeting. I am just”—what? Feeling sorry for myself? Pining for my friends? Wishing fate had dealt me a different hand?—“eager to finish up with these branches so we can begin decorating.”

Her small face clears and she goes back to her own work while I move on to the next branch. It is hard—so hard—not to feel wasted, like a new sword that has been allowed to rust before it has ever been used. I tighten my grip on my blade, reminding myself that the abbess has assured me it is just one of Mortain’s many mysteries, why He has called the others first. If I ever come face to face with Him again, I shall ask why.

Politely, of course.

“Annith?” Aveline says.

“Hmmm?”

“Are we supposed to chop at our branches like that?”

I look down, appalled to see the gouges and scars where I have hacked my knife, again and again, against the pale silver bark of the yew. Saints! “No! Of course not. It is simply that this knife needs to be sharpened.”

She arches one of her pale red brows at me, looking far older than her nine years.

“Annith! Look!” At the sound of Florette’s shouting, I turn around to find her pointing through the small copse of trees. Is it a crow? For I have promised to pay Florette if she alerts me whenever she sees one approaching. It is our little secret. In exchange, I change the sheets on her bed when she wets it and I tell no one, although I think many of the others suspect.

I hurry to the trees, my eyes scanning the sky, but I see nothing.

“No, not in the sky, in the water. It’s a
boat.
”

I jerk my gaze down to the horizon, where I see that Florette is correct: a boat is making its way to the island. There is a quick, sharp stab of fear in my gut until I see that the boat does not bear one of the ominous black sails that portend death. “Aveline, go find Sister Thomine and Sister Widona. Tell them a night rower has arrived. Audri, you stay here with the other girls and continue gathering the greenery.”

I slip my knife into the sheath at my waist, lift my skirts, and hurry across the rocky beach to the landing. There are two men in the boat, the rower and one other—a hedge priest, I presume. A girl sits between them. She is small, small enough that I do not think she can be older than Audri or Florette. As the boat comes steadily closer, I see that her hands are tied, and a rope is around her waist, securing her to the boat.

The night rower meets my furious gaze. “You can quit yer glaring, missy. We tied ’er up only so she wouldn’t jump into the water. Thinks she’s a fish, she does.” I blink in surprise and turn to the hedge priest for an explanation.

He nods in greeting. “It’s true. The locals sent her to Saint Mer at first, thinking she was one of theirs. But the abbess took one look at her and knew she wasn’t. Turns out, her mother drowned, but they found her in time to cut the child from her womb. Except then the father wanted nothing to do with her. Thought she’d caused the mother’s death.”

Her story, like most of the girls’ stories, twists my heart. So many mothers dead, so many daughters blamed. It is almost enough to make me glad I do not know the circumstances of my own birth. What sort of death did my mother suffer? What sins were blamed on me for daring to come into this world?

“Well, you’re ashore now, so untie her at once. What’s her name?”

The hedge priest shoots an uneasy glance at the rower as he unties her. “Melusine,” he says. The sailor lifts the sacred conch shell he wears around his neck to his lips.

When I roll my eyes, it is his turn to glare at me. “’Tis a bad-luck name, miss. Especially for us sailors.”

“It is a foolish name,” the hedge priest mutters.

Ignoring them both, I turn my attention to Melusine herself. “What do you think of your name?”

She looks up at me with eyes the exact color of the sea, and nearly as fathomless. “I like my name. I picked it myself.”

I smile. “Then I like it too. The names we give ourselves are always the best. Now, come.” I hold out my hand to her. The hedge priest carefully helps her to the bow, then over the side and onto the beach. The girl glances longingly over her shoulder to the sparkling blue water. I quickly grab her hand and pull her toward me. “You can go swimming later,” I tell her. “When it is not so cold.”

When I turn to escort Melusine back to the convent, I find a small knot of three girls watching us with large, curious eyes. Aveline arrives just then, breathless from her running. “Sister Thomine is teaching the others right now, and Sister Widona is tending to a mare who is foaling. They said you can see to the new arrival. You’ve done it often enough.”

And so I have.

I shoo the younger girls on to their next lesson a little early—comportment with Sister Beatriz. She will be annoyed, but her petty annoyances are a lesser concern than getting this newest girl settled. I do not think Melusine is injured or ill, but it is customary to have new arrivals thoroughly examined, for many come to us malnourished, beaten, or in other ways physically abused.

As I lead her down the hall, I try not to think of all the other novitiates I have escorted this way, novitiates who are even now serving Mortain in a much more glorious manner than I. I try not to think of Ismae, ensconced at court with her finery and weapons, doing the work she was born to do. I push away thoughts of Sybella, currently on her fourth assignment, with no word for well over six months. Although
I
did not escort Sybella down the hall—it took four full-grown nuns, two on either side of her, to be certain she did not injure herself or bolt.

No, I will not think of that now. I will not indulge in the weakness of doubt and self-pity. Even though the infirmary door is open, I rap softly on it so that our presence will not startle Sister Serafina. She often becomes so absorbed in her work that she forgets to eat or sleep or even, sometimes, where she is. “Sister? We have a new arrival today.”

Sister Serafina looks up from a long, complex series of tubing and flasks, a contraption of her own design she built in order to streamline her making of simples and tinctures. She peers over a coil of copper tube at us.

“Her name is Melusine, and she was mistakenly sent to the convent of Saint Mer. Apparently, she has an affinity for water.” I smile down at the girl so she will know this is meant without judgment.

Sister Serafina sets down a glass flask, wipes her hands on a linen towel, and studies Melusine. “Fond of the sea, are you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once I have placed the girl in Sister Serafina’s capable hands, I leave the infirmary to inform the abbess of our new addition.

As I draw near her chambers, I hear voices coming from within. Hoping they have gotten word of Sybella or, better yet, word of some new assignment for me, I stand near the door as if merely waiting my turn to see the abbess, then lean my ear close.

“That is dire news indeed.” It is Sister Eonette who is speaking.

“It is most unwelcome,” the abbess agrees. “And could not come at a worse time.”

“Does it not worry you for
other
reasons?” Sister Eonette puts an odd emphasis on the word
other,
an emphasis that has me pressing my ear closer to the door.

“You mean other than Sister Vereda’s illness leaving us Sightless at a time when our young duchess is fending off angry suitors and trying to keep the French from sweeping in and claiming our duchy as their own? When our country is threatened by civil war and risking outright invasion?” The reverend mother’s voice is drier than the week-old bread we feed the pigs. My thoughts fly immediately to Ismae and Sybella and countless others out in the world. Without a seeress, how will we guide their hands? This will leave them exposed and instructionless when they can least afford to be.

“I should not have to point out to you that it is rare enough for one of Mortain’s handmaidens to take ill, even one as old as Sister Vereda. Does that not hint at some—”

“Enough!” The abbess’s voice slices through the air, cutting short the words I was so breathlessly waiting to hear. “You are not to share your doubts or concerns with anyone. Have Sister Thomine sent to my office immediately.”

There is a long, heavy pause that is finally broken by Sister Eonette. “But of course, Reverend Mother.” Her voice drips with sarcasm so sharp it is almost mockery. I expect the abbess to take her to task for it, to slap her or order her to do penance for showing such disrespect, but she does not.

The soft tread of Sister Eonette’s footsteps approaching the chamber door spurs me to action. Quickly, before she exits, I scamper down the hall, then begin walking toward the office so I am a good six paces away when Sister Eonette steps out. She glances at me. “She has a meeting with Sister Thomine,” she tells me.

“Is Sister Thomine in there already?” I ask innocently.

“No, I am to fetch her.”

“I will only take a minute.” I give her a quick, cheerful smile meant to appease her, but she simply jerks one shoulder in an annoyed shrug. “Very well, but I warn you, she is not in good humor this morning.”

“Thank you for the warning, Sister.”

She nods curtly, then brushes past me to fetch Sister Thomine. With my head swirling full of questions, I rap softly on the abbess’s door.

“Come in.”

It has taken me well over five years to be able to enter this office without my heart racing in fear. I am pleased that today all I must fear is that the abbess will sense my curiosity.

“Annith!” The abbess puts down her quill. Even though she smiles, it does not reach her eyes, and her skin is pulled tight with worry. “What a lovely surprise. Have we a meeting today that I forgot?”

“No, Reverend Mother,” I say as I curtsy. “I just came to inform you that a new girl has arrived, sent from the abbess at Saint Mer.”

“Ah, yes. The abbess had written to me of her.” She reaches for a small pile of correspondence and removes a letter from the top. “Her father thought her cursed and wanted nothing to do with her, so she was raised by her mother’s sister, until that woman died giving birth to her own child. Her name is Melusine.” The abbess wrinkles her nose at that. “An altogether frivolous and silly name.”

“The child chose it herself,” I explain. “Perhaps an attempt to grasp the very things that others feared her for and remake them as something lovely and mysterious.”

The abbess looks up at me. “You are most likely correct, and very kind to have thought of that. She may keep it, then.” She leans back in her chair. “You have such a deft touch with newly arrived girls, I wonder if we should have you serve as our novice mistress. At least until you are called by Mortain.”

We have not had a novice mistress in years, not since the abbess herself—then known as Sister Etienne—held that position under the former abbess, whom we called the Dragonette.

She arches her brow, her mouth quirking in rare humor. “Since you look as if you have just swallowed a cup full of verjuice, I gather that you are not much pleased by that idea.”

“While I do enjoy helping with the new girls, I fear that if I were to focus solely on that, my other skills and reflexes could easily grow dull so that I would not be ready when Mortain’s call did come.”

It was the abbess who kept me from despair when Ismae was sent out and I was once more left behind. She assured me it could have nothing to do with my skills or dedication, for who was more skilled or dedicated than I? Clearly, it was some whim of the god. She was certain He was saving me for something extraordinary.

“Very well, then. But from what I hear, you have surpassed many of your teachers in their fields.”

I cannot help but savor her praise. Not because she is stingy with it—she is not—but because I so desperately need it to fill the hole that opened up inside me the day Ismae was chosen over me.

Perhaps fearing the praise will go to my head, the abbess changes the subject. “And how are preparations for midwinter coming along?”

“Aveline and Loisse have both grown so much that they need new white cloaks, but Sister Beatriz is taking care of that. She has assured me they will be ready by the midwinter ceremony.”