Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

What if that is what they tell us so we will not question their own selfish motives?

As I set down the polished knife and pick up the next one, a wave of desire hits me, so strong that it causes my hands to tremble. I want to use this blade. All the blades here in this room. That this could be taken away from me leaves me nearly breathless.

Then an entirely new realization dawns on me, and the fingers clutching the slender stiletto’s handle grow white. What if this is a test from Mortain Himself rather than from the convent? A test for me to prove my commitment to Him, prove my unwillingness to be diverted from His plans for me?

What if, instead of surrendering, I am supposed to fight for what I want? For surely Mortain does not fashion His handmaidens into such strong weapons and then expect them to topple in the first stiff breeze.

And how am I to know which it is?

Next to me, Sarra rubs her nose with the back of her hand before reaching for another knife. “You look like you’re planning to stab someone with that, not polish it.”

Keeping the knife clenched in my hand, I look up at her and allow every bit of anger and frustration I am feeling to show in my eyes. She blinks and leans imperceptibly back. Good, I think, then smile, a movement so brittle it is a wonder my cheeks do not shatter.

The armory door opens just then, admitting a gust of frigid air and Sister Thomine. When she steps into the room, her gaze goes directly to Matelaine. “The abbess would like to see you in her office,” she says.

Matelaine looks shocked, then worried, and I do not blame her, but something in the way that Sister Thomine will not look at me causes an alarm to begin clanging inside me like a distant bell.

Matelaine rises to her feet and brushes back her long, bright red hair. “But of course,” she says in a contrite tone, already apologizing for any wrong she has done.

As she and Thomine leave the room, I carefully resume polishing the knife. I feel the other girls glance my way, curious that Matelaine is being called to attend the abbess. Even Sister Arnette’s gaze lands upon me, but I carefully keep my head bent and do not look up. For some reason, I think of Sybella and how she was sent back out before she had fully healed. All of us, even the nuns, could see that she wasn’t ready yet. For a while, I thought it was due to the innate skills she’d arrived with, and perhaps tinged somewhat by the fact that she and the abbess clashed from the very beginning, like an angry cat dropped amidst a pack of dogs.

And then I remember Ismae, who had no innate skill except for the thin veil of anger she wore and her resistance to poison, and I am filled with a sudden desperation. I glance over at Sister Arnette. She is helping Loisse, who has managed to cut herself on a blade in spite of knowing better. Like a single ray of sun forcing itself through the clouds, a realization dawns—I no longer care, at least today, if I anger Sister Arnette or any of the nuns. An urgent need to know what the abbess is discussing with Matelaine drives me to my feet and pushes me toward the door.

I stop where the corridor branches off into the short hall that leads to the abbess’s private chapel, but no one is around to see, not with the bitter wind howling down the hallways like an angry wolf.

As I settle into position, I hear the murmur of voices. I recognize the abbess’s low, calm tones and Sister Thomine’s shorter, louder responses. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the low cadences so that I can understand the actual words being said.

“. . . tells me you have shown great improvement.”

“I am honored that she thinks so, Reverend Mother.”

“You should feel honored that Mortain has seen fit to bless you with such skill,” the abbess says. The reproof in her voice is mild, but it is there.

Matelaine murmurs something I cannot hear, then the abbess speaks again, this time her voice soothing, as if comforting the wound her earlier words have just made. “Because of your great improvement and your renewed dedication to your studies, you are to be rewarded with your first assignment.”

My heart slams against my rib cage like a bolting horse, driving all the air from my lungs so I cannot draw breath. When my breath finally returns, it brings with it a hot gush of anger. My ears fill with a great rushing sound and something inside me snaps. Or breaks. Or shatters. With no thought to the consequences of my actions, I throw open the door to the abbess’s chambers and step into the room.

The voices stop abruptly, and three heads turn in my direction. Two mouths, Sister Thomine’s and Matelaine’s, are open in shock, but the abbess’s is pressed into a firm, flat line. Spots of angry red appear on her pale cheeks. “What is the meaning of this?”

My entire body thrums with barely checked fury. “You cannot send Matelaine.” I step farther into the room and slam the door behind me. “You cannot.”

“Have you been listening at my door?” the abbess demands.

“This is not right. Matelaine is too young to be sent out. Too untrained. She is not ready yet.”

The abbess rises from her chair, trying to use her height to intimidate me, but I am beyond caring. “You forget your place here, Annith. Remove yourself at once to your chambers and wait for me there.”

But I have not forgotten anything. Indeed, it feels like I have finally remembered myself. Deep inside me, the alarm keeps clanging. “You cannot be serious about sending Matelaine out! She is only fifteen. She has not passed any of the tests required to be a full initiate, nor has she learned all the skills needed—”

“So are you now the novice mistress, and no one told me?”

The icy sarcasm in her voice is sharp enough to strip the flesh from my bones, but it doesn’t matter. Instead, I say what we all know is true. “I have trained longer and passed all the tests.”

“We have already spoken of this. Servi

ng Mortain is not a right, but a privilege. A privilege I grant to you, not one you can march in here and demand for yourself.”

“I thought it was a privilege granted by Mortain.”

Her head rears back slightly, but before she can respond, I continue. “I can best Matelaine in a fight, and shoot ten bull’s-eyes to her one. I can land a killing blow faster and more accurately than she can.” In spite of how it might appear to the abbess, it is no longer about what I want. I am well and truly afraid for Matelaine. “Would you send ten-year-old Lisabet next? Or Loisse? No one this young has ever been sent on assignment before, and you are surely risking her life.”

“What of Margot or Genevieve? They were but twelve years old.”

For a moment, I cannot fathom whom the abbess is talking about, and then I remember. “Are you merely placing Matelaine in the household of one of our enemies to act as spy, like you did them?” The panic in my chest lessens somewhat.

“What I do is none of your concern.”

“It is if I am to be seeress.”

I hear Sister Thomine’s sharp intake of breath, and Matelaine whips her head around to stare at me. For one hugely satisfying moment, the abbess is speechless, for she knows I am right. If I am seeress, then I will be involved in all these decisions—I will be the one to See who is to stay and who is to go. She cannot deny it.

“But not until you have completed your proper training.”

“Then Sister Vereda has Seen this?”

The silence in the room is thick and absolute. Sister Thomine turns to look at the abbess, and even Matelaine seems uncertain.

“Of course she hasn’t. Since her illness, her visions have only been of small, pointless things.”

“Then how can you send Matelaine out?”

The abbess’s mouth snaps shut, and as we stare at each other, I feel the past seven years of my life unraveling like an old rope. “You think Mortain’s business comes to a stop when one of us is ill?” she says at last.

“What if that is the very reason she has grown sick? Because Mortain wishes the convent business to cease for a while?”