Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

one to keep her head and move us forward when others were wont to wail and wring their hands.

Sister Eonette’s veiled insinuations have plucked at my long-held vigilance, and seeing the abbess’s distress causes every muscle in my body to grow tight. The need to know what is afoot is like a small hungry creature yapping at my heels.

I quickly check the hallway to be certain no one is coming, then dart into the short corridor hidden behind a tapestry of Saint Arduinna pointing her silver arrow at the dark, cloaked figure of Mortain. It leads to the small, private chapel that opens into the abbess’s office. Few know about it, and I only learned of it because once, when I was five years old and locked in the wine cellar as punishment, I had overheard Sister Appollonia and Sister Magdelena discussing it, neither of them realizing my big ears were merely one thick door away.

It is a habit I developed when young, collecting secrets like a miser collects coins. I would never have survived my years with the Dragonette if I had not read every scrap of paper that crossed my path, listened at every door, and peered through every keyhole, trying to determine what she expected of me so I could meet those expectations as soon as possible and avoid the painful consequences of disappointing her.

Even though the Dragonette has been dead these last seven years, I have not been able to cast the habit aside. But, just like a miser with his coins, I have no intention of ever parting with any of these secrets. Instead, I use them to soothe the raw and chafed places of my soul and remind myself that others at the convent, others with skills more remarkable than my own, also possess human flaws.

I push aside the tapestry that hides the chapel door, then carefully lift the latch and let myself in. I settle into position just as a sharp rap sounds on the abbess’s office door. “Come in.” The abbess’s voice is faint but distinct.

Both Ismae and Sybella possess the ability to sense the presence of others, even when a door or a wall stands between them. It is yet one more gift that I lack. However, I have learned to compensate by growing adept at recognizing the nuns without seeing them. Sister Beatriz has a light tread, as if dancing on the balls of her feet, while Sister Widona moves so silently, one almost feels her movement rather than hears it. Sister Serafina drags her left foot every so slightly, and Sister Thomine is a great stomper, with loud, sturdy steps that can be heard four rooms away. Unless she is fighting—then she is as silent as the wind and as deadly as an arrow.

“You sent for me, Reverend Mother?” I hear Sister Thomine say.

“Close the door, please.”

A faint click of the latch as it is closed, then quiet. “How are Matelaine and Sarra coming along in their training?”

There is a long pause that makes me think that whatever Sister Thomine was expecting, this was not it. “Well enough,” she says at last. “Sarra is skilled and competent, but also lazy and unwilling to push herself. Matelaine has less natural talent, but is far more committed. Unfortunately, her unique skills do not aid her in her tasks. Why do you ask? They are young yet. Surely the next one to be sent out is Annith?” I wish to hug Sister Thomine for giving voice to the thoughts in my head.

“Sister Vereda has taken ill.” The abbess’s words are clipped. “She is too ill to See for us anymore. I think Annith may be called upon to take the seeress’s place.”

At first, the words do not make sense to me—it is as if the abbess has begun speaking in some foreign tongue I have never heard. Or as if the thick wall between us has inexplicably distorted her words. But a faint trembling begins in my gut and spreads throughout my limbs, as if my body understands the words before my mind does.

“But Annith is our most skilled novitiate in years. Frankly, I am surprised you sent Ismae out before her, as Ismae had been here only three years and Annith has trained her entire life. Why would we waste those skills by having her be seeress?”

I hold my breath, waiting to hear the answer.

“I do not remember putting you in charge of such decisions.” The abbess’s voice is as tight as a newly stretched drum skin. “Annith has excelled in every task we have set before her. There is no reason to think that augury will be any different.”

There is a short pause before Sister Thomine speaks again, this time so softly I can barely make out the words. “But will she welcome that fate? Again, she has trained since she was a babe to be an instrument of Death. Indeed, I believe that is what allowed her to survive her years with the Dragonette—”

“Enough!” The abbess’s voice cracks across the room like a whip. “She is obedient and accommodating and always has the convent’s best interests at heart. She will do as she is told. See to it that Matelaine’s and Sarra’s training is increased so they will be ready if we must send them out. For too long we have focused on training the eldest novitiates and have not spent enough time training the others.”

My heart pounds so loudly that I can scarce hear the abbess’s dismissal of Sister Thomine, and the sound of the office door closing feels so distant it could have come from the bottom of the sea. I grasp for the solid wall behind me, then slowly lower myself to the ground. What does she mean? How can she possibly—I put my hands over my face and scrub it, trying to restore my wits.

In all my seventeen years at the convent, it has never occurred to me that being seeress was a path open to any of us. Although, thinking upon it now, I realize the seeresses must come from somewhere. But I’d always assumed it was a position given to a nun when she was too old to perform other duties. Or—well, the truth is, I have not thought about it much at all.

And why would I? I have never shown any skill or affinity for scrying or augury. Nor have I ever been taught such things. I look down at my hands, surprised to find that they are still shaking. I clench them into fists.

The abbess cannot be serious. She herself said that I was one of the most skilled novitiates ever to have walked the convent’s halls. It cannot possibly be Mortain’s will, for if so, why would He have given me these talents? These skills?

For the first time in over seven years, I find myself wondering what the Dragonette would think of this if she were still alive. No, I do not need to wonder. I know—she would never have considered such a thing. It would be like fashioning a weapon and using it to stir a pot.

I do not even know if the abbess means this to be a great honor or a punishment.

No, not a punishment, but a tempering. That is what the Drag­onette would have called it, her voice ripe with her palpable desire to create of me a perfect weapon, one whose existence would glorify Mortain.

Only now it appears this weapon is to be locked away, never to be used for the purpose for which she was intended.

I slip out of the chapel and being walking down the hall. I must come up with a plan. Find some way to dissuade the abbess from acting on this notion of hers. As I turn the corner, I stumble upon a small clutch of the older girls huddling and whispering among themselves. At my approach, their gazes fix on me like hungry crows on a gobbet of meat.

Merde, but I do not wish to speak with them now. Not with the abbess’s threat still buzzing in my head like angry hornets, for this news has upended me as thoroughly as one of the lay sisters empties a bucket of wash water.

My long years of training rise up and take over, and I shove my distress and confusion behind a veil of piety and obedience. “Girls,” I murmur in a near perfect imitation of the abbess.

Sarra grits her teeth; she hates me most when I act thus, but Mat­elaine and Loisse greet me warmly.

“Do you know what all the furtive meetings with the abbess were about?” Matelaine asks as she and Sarra fall into step beside me.

It galls me to have to pretend that they know something I do not, but I smile brightly at her. “No, I missed the fuss. What was it about?”

Sarra lifts one eyebrow and places a mocking hand upon her chest. “Do not tell me that we know something that Saint Annith does not?”

In a movement that shocks me, my hand snakes out and

grabs her wrist. “Call me saint again and you will see just how saintly I am not.” My voice is low and filled with anger that has little to do with her.

The begrudging admiration I see in her eyes surprises me almost as much as my own actions. I let go of her hand and take a deep breath. Everyone thinks that my goodness comes easily to me, that it hardly counts because I do not struggle with it, but I do. Just like rosary beads run through a priest’s fingers, so does a litany of goodness run constantly through my head: Be strong, be certain all your actions glorify Mortain, show no weakness, allow your will to bend before others’.

It is especially appalling to be called a saint when I fear that my being so obedient is the very trait that threatens to alter the entire course of my life. I force my voice back to cheerfulness. “Now, you’d best fill me in so that I may know it too.”

Sarra’s smugness disappears and is replaced by sullenness. “I do not know what it was about, only that there was a fuss. I was hoping you would have the details.”

“No, but give me a day or two and I am certain I can ferret them out.” And with that, we reach the refectory, where we put our spat aside lest the nuns notice it and get involved.

Chapter Two

ALONE AT LAST IN MY room, I give myself over to the thoughts I have held in check all through supper. There must be a way to convince the abbess I am not suited for the task she has in mind for me. That it is not the best use of my skills—skills I acquired through hard work and steel-willed determination, despite the cost to myself. Skills I was promised would be used to glorify Mortain and do His work, not be sent to fester in the dark, musty closeness of the seeress’s chambers.

The abbess said nothing about Seeing being one of Mortain’s blessings or gifts that He gives to us—she said only that it could be taught, and that I would not mind because I was obedient and biddable and had the convent’s best interests at heart. But it is to Mortain that I owe my faith and dedication, not her, although she might well be forgiven for thinking that.