Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

“When you met with the abbess, just before you left, could you tell if it was she who made the decision? Or had Sister Vereda Seen you at court?”

She shrugs helplessly. “The abbess informed me of the assignment after Duval burst into her office and confronted her. Whether Sister Vereda had seen it before then or not, I do not know.”

“Well, if it was Mortain’s decision, it is hard to argue with, but I still cannot help but wonder why. Have I displeased Him in some way? Failed in my devotion or obedience?”

“I cannot imagine that you have.”

“And yet the abbess choosing not to send me makes no more sense.”

“She has always been exceptionally fond of you,” Ismae points out.

I cannot help it—I snort. “Only because I excelled at my duties and was extremely biddable. And”—honesty compels me to admit—“because I think she felt sorry for me.”

“Felt sorry for you? Why on earth would she?” The disbelief is clear in Ismae’s voice, disbelief that anything in my sheltered life at the convent could have earned me someone’s pity.

I rise to my feet and busy myself with trying to smooth the wrinkles out of my gown. She deserves an answer, but it is so very hard to speak of those memories, to share them with anyone, that I am nearly overcome by a need to flee the room. “The previous abbess—the one our current abbess replaced—singled me out for special . . . attention.”

Ismae’s eyes narrow in concern. “What sort of attention?”

A faint hum of panic skips along my limbs, making me feel as if I have said too much already. “It is of no importance—it was a long time ago. But tell me, what of Sybella? The abbess said she was out on a dangerous mission and that I must prepare myself for the possibility that she might not return.”

Ismae’s face darkens. She pushes to her feet and begins pacing. “Oh, Annith. The abbess has done most poorly by Sybella. She has sent her back to the very family that nearly destroyed her.”

All the blood drains from my face, and I must grasp the bedpost to steady myself. Even now, I had not suspected such a gross betrayal. I had assumed there was some assignment for which Sybella’s unique skills would prove useful. But this? To return her to the source of her madness before she has fully healed?

“And her family—it is even worse than we had imagined. Annith, she is Count d’Albret’s own daughter.”

“Count d’Albret! The one who nearly raped the duchess?”

Ismae nods. “The very same. And he has a much darker history than even the most vile rumors about him reveal. Duval never trusted the man, which is why he was so against the match. But now that we have heard from Sybella’s own lips how Count d’Albret has treated his wives . . .” She shudders, then meets my gaze, her eyes stark and filled with horror. “He has killed them. All of them.”

“How many have there been?” I whisper.

“Six. The duchess would have been the seventh.”

My knees suddenly weak, I lower myself onto the bed behind me. To think of Sybella growing up in such a household, with murders being committed throughout her young life. It is truly a miracle that she was not warped and damaged beyond recovery.

It also makes the abbess’s decision to send her back all the more heinous, and anger surges through me once more. “And that’s where she is now?”

“Yes and no. Three months ago, when the duchess faced d’Albret and Marshal Rieux before Nantes, d’Albret planned a trap. It was only through the valiant efforts of her small guard that she was able to get to safety. One of those guards was the Beast of Waroch.”

“I know of him. He is rumored to be the fiercest warrior our country has ever known. And wasn’t it he who rallied the duke’s forces and allowed us to win the Mad War?”

“Yes. Precisely. And with the duchess’s marshal turning against her, she had few troops left to her. Beast’s ability to raise and motivate fighting men became even more critical to our mission. Under pressure, the abbess agreed to arrange for Sybella to free him. He was so wounded that she had to accompany him to Rennes herself.”

“Then where is she now?”

“Annith, the abbess tried to send her back to d’Albret’s household yet again! Even knowing her role in aiding Beast had been discovered, the abbess was determined to send her back.” Ismae looks away. “So I took matters into my own hands and told Beast what was going to happen.” She smiles faintly. “Then he took matters into his.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he intervene on her behalf? Because she had rescued him from the prison.”

An amused smile plays about Ismae’s lips. “Not only that. He has developed a great—fondness—for her, one that she returns, for all that she has tried to deny it. So he diverted her from that mission and took her with him when he went to give aid to the British troops at Morlaix, thus keeping her away from the abbess.”

Her expression grows stricken again. “But we received word from Beast last week. Sybella’s sisters have been threatened if she does not return to the family. She and Beast have gone back to Nantes to get them out, but so far we have heard nothing else.” She looks up at me, tears glinting in her eyes. “Oh, Annith. I am so afraid for her, so afraid of what this will cost her.”

It is all I can do not to go hunt the abbess down, and strangle her with my own hands. “What can we do? Can we send someone to help?”

She shakes her head. “There is nothing we can do that will not put her in greater danger, so now we must wait and pray.” She takes a deep breath, then sits on the stool across from me. “From the moment I was first sent out, nothing was as I had been prepared for. There was none of the black and white that the convent had used to paint the world for us. The people, the politics, the world itself, were much more nuanced, with who was right and who was wrong often simply a matter of where one stood.

“I still do not know if she purposefully withheld Duval’s identity from me when she sent me to court or if she thought I knew who he was. And Chancellor Crunard? Well, he is no longer chancellor. He now sits in a prison cell in the bowels of the palace at Guérande. Chancellor Crunard, the abbess’s liaison, had been feeding her false information for at least as far back as my first assignment, and possibly longer.”

I suddenly remember the abbess’s new habit of visiting the rookery to collect her own messages. Could that be why?

We are interrupted by a knock on the door, and two maids bustle in carrying trays of food, the smell causing my mouth to water as I realize just how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. While they set the food down on a small table, a third maid comes in carrying a dark blue gown. “Where shall I put this, my lady?”

“On the bed for now,” Ismae tells her, and once again I marvel at her composure and comportment.

When we are alone again, Ismae busies herself cutting bread from the loaf and slicing the cheese. She lifts her shoulders in an apologetic gesture. “So what you tell me does not surprise me. As I say, I have learned much here in the outside world, and very little of it makes me

inclined to trust the abbess.” She sets the knife down, as if she has just made a decision. “Annith, I have come face to face with Mortain. I have seen Him as clearly as I see you now, and He spoke with me.”

Even as her words send me reeling, they also fill me with hope. Not wanting Ismae to see my tumultuous feelings, I stand and slip the gown the maid brought over my head. For years I had thought I was the only one of His daughters to have seen Him. Even though the vision might have been a childhood fancy, it still held out the alluring promise that I was the only one to whom He had shown Himself. But if others have seen Him, then that means my own vision does not consign me to the position of seeress. “What did He say?” I finally ask.

“That He loves us.” Her voice is soft and full of wonder. “No matter how we serve Him, the depth of His love, the fullness of His grace, is far bigger than anything we can imagine. Or, apparently,” she adds dryly, “the convent.”

Ismae’s words wrap themselves around my heart, reminding me of the god I serve and my love for Him. As if embarrassed by her own words, Ismae picks up her knife and returns to slicing the bread. “Do you know the nature of Matelaine’s assignment?” she asks. “Maybe some answers lie there.”

“I was not able to overhear that part of it. All I know is that her target was in Guérande.”

“Guérande?” Ismae looks up sharply. “When was she sent out?”

“At the end of January.”

Abandoning the bread, Ismae begins pacing, stroking her chin while she thinks—a gesture I have never seen her use before. “That makes no sense,” she says, stopping in front of the window. “By that time, the duchess and her party had left the city to go appeal to Marshal Rieux and Count d’Albret in Nantes and try and heal their break from her. The only person of any import left in the city was Chancellor Crunard, and surely he would have told her that—Oh!” Her head snaps up and she looks at me. “Chancellor Crunard.”