Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin 1)

Author: Robin LaFevers

"Enter,” a voice commands.

My guide opens the door and motions me inside. The furnishings are simple but sturdy, and early-morning light pours in through the east-facing window. My eyes are immediately drawn to the woman who sits at the large desk in the middle of the room. She wears a black gown and wimple, and her pale face is striking in its beauty.

Without looking up, she motions me toward one of the chairs. My footsteps echo lightly among all that space as I approach her desk. I clutch the blanket tight around me, then sit.

The abbess lifts her gaze from her work, and I find myself staring into a pair of eyes as cool and blue as the sea. “Ismae Rienne. ”

I flinch, startled she knows my name.

“Do you know why you’re here, child?”

I do not know what answer she is looking for, I only know that I am overcome with a sudden desire to earn her approval. “Because I displeased my new husband?”

“Displeased him?” The abbess gives a delicate snort that makes me like her even more. “From what I hear he practically wet his braies in fear of you. ”

I feel the familiar shame rise up in my cheeks and I look down at my lap.

“The fault lies not with you, daughter. ” She says this so gently it makes me want to cry. I have never shed a tear, not throughout all my father’s beatings or Guillo’s mauling, but a few kind words from this woman and it is all I can do not to bawl like a babe.

“So tell me,” she says, drawing a quill and ink pot close. “Do you know the circumstances of your birth?”

I risk a glance at her face, but she is focused on what she is writing on her parchment. “Only that my mother did not wish to bear me. She went to an herbwitch for poison, hoping to purge me from her womb. ”

“And yet you lived. ” She looks up. The words are quiet but hold the power of a shout in the stillness of this room.

I meet the abbess’s steady gaze. “And yet I lived. ”

“Do you have any idea what that means?”

“You mean other than having to spend my life in the shadows, dodging blows and staying out of sight so as not to cause others undue fear?”

“Yes, other than that. ” Her voice is dry as bone. She leans forward, her eyes alight with some purpose. “Did they not claim, Ismae, that you were sired by Death Himself?”

I nod cautiously.

"Well and so. After many trials, you are now here. ”

“Trials?” I ask. “Is that what my life has been? A series of trials to be passed?”

“You come to us well tempered, my child, and it is not in my nature to be sorry for it. It is the well-tempered blade that is the strongest. ”

“And who exactly is us?” My whole body stills, waiting for her answer.

“You have found refuge at the convent of St. Mortain. Although in truth, Mortain is older than any saint, older even than Christ. ”

“One of the old gods we now call saints,” I murmur.

“Yes, one of the old gods. One not easily cast aside by the Church. And so we call Him saint, but as long as we serve Him, He cares not what He is called. ”

“How does one serve Death?” Am I to spend my life collecting bodies in the bone cart?

The reverend mother does not flinch. "We carry out Mortain’s will when He wishes to alter the warp and weft of life’s weave for some purpose of His own. ”

I look at her blankly, not understanding what weaving has to do with Mortain. She sighs and pushes away from her desk. “Perhaps some refreshment is in order. ”

I want to beg her to tell me more of what being Death’s daughter might hold, but I suspect this woman does not suffer fools gladly, so I hold my tongue.

She takes a flagon of wine and two crystal goblets from the cupboard behind her desk. She pours the wine into the goblets and hands one to me. The cut crystal is finer than anything I have ever seen, and I hold it gingerly, afraid it will shatter in my hands.

“Here at the convent, it is our job to train those who are sired by the god of death. we teach them to perform their duties quickly and efficiently. Usually, we find that He has given His daughters some special skill or art. Abilities that will aid you as you carry out His work. ”

His work. The words are ripe with possibility. I take a sip of wine to steady myself. It is sweet and crisp on my tongue.

“If I may guess a little about you?” the reverend mother asks. I nod, and she continues. “You never get sick with the ague or the chills or the flux. even the plague leaves you untouched, is that correct?”

I feel my eyes widen at her uncanny knowledge. “How do you know such things?”

She smiles. “And I know you can survive harsh beatings and heal within days. Do you also have dreams that foretell death?”

“No. ” I shake my head, sorry to disappoint her. “But sometimes I can tell when people are going to die. ”

She tilts her head to the side. “Go on. ”

I look down and study the wine in the goblet. “I can see them fading sometimes. It’s like watching a flame grow dim in a lantern. And once, I saw a mark. On the blacksmith. He had a faint black smudge on his forehead in the shape of a horseshoe. Three days later he was dead. ”

She leans forward in her chair, eager now. “How did he die?”

“He was kicked in the head by one of the horses as he worked. ”