The main door opens just then and the duchess herself comes into the room. She is very young, but she holds herself with pride and not a little arrogance. Her forehead is high and noble; her cheeks still bear the slight fullness of her youth. Her brown eyes are keen with intelligence. It would be a mistake to underestimate her, yet because of her youth, I am certain many do.
She is followed by an older noblewoman whom I can only assume is her governess, Madame Dinan. She was strikingly beautiful once, and her bones still hold the truth of that beauty even with her hair gone white. It is hard to believe she shares any blood with Count d’Albret.
Duval bows low and I sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace; Madame Dinan,” he says.
“You may rise.” The young duchess’s voice is as clear and true as a bell. She turns to the other woman. “And you may leave us.”
Madame Dinan glances at Duval. “Your Grace, I think I should stay. It is not fitting that you are alone, with no chaperone.”
“You would keep me from speaking with my own brother?” the duchess asks sharply.
“I would keep you from nothing, Your Grace, only suggest you should have a chaperone, as is fitting.”
The duchess glances at Duval, who gives the tiniest shake of his head. "We have a chaperone,” she says, indicating me. “You may leave.”
The command in her tone is unmistakable, and Madame Dinan rears her head back slightly, nostrils flaring. “Very well, Your Grace. I will wait outside.” Her unhappiness with this arrangement is palpable, but whether it is because she resents being left out or because she is truly worried to leave the duchess with her own brother, I cannot tell.
The room is quiet until she leaves, then the duchess crosses over to the fireplace and holds her hands out to the flames. "Was that necessary, Gavriel?” she says. “It is hard for her to take orders from me.”
“I understand, Your Grace.” even though he is her brother, Duval remains formal with her, and I wonder if it is for my benefit. “But I wanted you to meet Demoiselle Rienne and learn from her own mouth who and what she is. It is knowledge best kept to ourselves for a while.”
The duchess tilts her head, curiosity shining in her eyes. “You do not trust Madame Dinan?”
“Someone called this estate meeting, Your Grace, and d’Albret is her half brother.”
The duchess wrinkles her nose. “Do not remind me! She presses his suit at every turn until I fear I shall scream.”
"We will find you a better marriage, I promise,” Duval says.
She dimples prettily at this, making her look impossibly young, and her affection for Duval is plain on her face. In that moment, I am fiercely glad she has a brother to protect her from this marriage they have planned for her. It is unthinkable that she has been promised to d’Albret. Surely it cannot be Mortain’s desire to see the duchess wed to such a foul man.
Duval grabs my hand and pulls me forward. “Ismae Rienne is sent from the abbess at the convent of St. Mortain.”
The duchess’s eyebrows shoot up. “Mortain? The patron saint of death?”
“The very one, Your Grace. It is but another thing your advisors would keep from you.” Duval quickly explains the convent and its purpose.
when he is done with his explanation, she turns to me. “You are truly trained in death?”
It feels too bold to meet her gaze, so I look down at the floor. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Sit, sit.” She waves her hand and chooses a chair for herself. After an uncertain glance at Duval, who nods, I sit also.
“How do you kill a man, demoiselle?”
I am certain her advisors would be shocked if they could see the hungry curiosity in her eyes. "With a knife. Or poison. Or by strangling. There are many ways. Hundreds of them. It depends on the circumstances and Mortain’s wishes.”
She leans forward slightly in her chair, her brow furrowed. “How do you decide who to kill?”
“Yes,” Duval drawls from where he stands by the fireplace. “How do you decide who to kill?”
And there he has me, for while the rites of Mortain are closely held, if Chancellor Crunard can know of them, so can the duchess. Just as I must know what weapons I have in my arsenal in order to do Mortain’s work, so must the duchess know what tools are available to her in her struggle to maintain her country’s independence. “Your Grace, I would tell you of our mysteries, but our knowledge is sacred and revealed only to a chosen few.” I glance at Duval, indicating that he is not one of the chosen few.
when she sees where I am looking, her expression grows unyielding. “I trust my lord brother with my life,” she says. “I have no secrets from him and want him to know of these rites as well. Now tell us.”
I fair grind my teeth in frustration. Is that why he arranged this meeting, knowing she would demand answers and that I would have to give them? "We are mere instruments of Mortain, Your Grace. His handmaidens, if you will. we do not decide who to kill or why or when. It is all determined by the god.”
“You mean saint, do you not?” she asks.
I have forgotten the conventions of the Church that must be followed outside the convent. “But of course, Your Grace. Forgive me. The saint.”
She nods graciously. “How, then, does the saint inform you of His wishes?”
“One of our nuns, Sister Vereda, has a vision. The saint communicates through her, then she and the abbess direct our hands.”
“How does Chancellor Crunard fit in?” Duval asks.
“He acts as liaison to the outside world and keeps the abbess up to date on the politics at court.”
“And you have only the sisters’ word that there has been a vision?”
I turn on Duval. “Their word is above reproach. They serve Mortain.”
“He raises an interesting question,” the duchess points out. “How can you be so certain their visions are correct? How do you know they serve Saint Mortain and not their own interests? And what if they make a mistake?”
“They don’t.” I direct my answer to the duchess and do my best to pretend Duval is not in the room. “If they did not speak truly, then we would not see the marque of death on our victims and we would stay our hands.”
The duchess is intrigued by this idea. “Marque? what does that look like?”
“It looks as if the saint has dipped His finger into the darkness of a man’s soul and anointed him with it. Sometimes the marque will show how a man is to die.”