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.
Ismae and Sybella have always thought that everything comes easily to me and that I enjoy a position as convent favorite. They do not know, for I never told them, how fine a razor’s edge I have spent my entire life walking, ever since I took my first few toddling steps.
To be raised in a convent full of women who are devoted to spiritual matters is a barren life for any child. But when those women worship Death and have dedicated their lives to serving Him, learning His arts, and carrying out His will, it can be a bleak and joyless existence.
So, while for Sybella and Ismae, the convent was a refuge of sorts, an escape from the horrors of their past, for me it was something else entirely. My childhood was a time of frequent and unexpected tests, usually administered when I had been lulled into a false sense of complacency—something I had been warned against, so the tests themselves were simply punishments that I deserved.
Like the time I was six years old and walking with the Dragonette on the beach in order to see the older girls off on their trip to the mainland. As soon as they were out of sight, the Dragonette picked me up and tossed me into the ocean to see if perhaps swimming came naturally to me, as it does to some daughters of Mortain. Or the time she ordered a sack placed over my head to see how long I could hold my breath (not long at all—especially since my screams sucked up the remaining air most quickly), or when she slipped her hand around my shoulders, and I thought I had finally done something to earn a sign of affection from her—only to have that hand move up and wrap itself around my neck and squeeze, to see if I could withstand such pressure as those who are born with their birth cords wrapped around their necks are sometimes able to.
I grew to dread those sessions with her, for all that they meant I was her favorite. And I hated that I could not be strong enough to accept the special favor she bestowed upon me without ruining it with my fear. There were times, many times, when I believed it would kill me. Sometimes, I even wondered if that was her intent.
If so, the Dragonette had not counted on my sins of pride and stubbornness. She did not yet understand just how firmly I could plant my feet in the ground of rebellion to prove her wrong. Or perhaps she counted on precisely that. I soon learned to make sure that even my failures were ones she would have to—at least grudgingly—admire, that showed that even though I may be flawed, those flaws would honor Mortain. I threw myself so wholeheartedly into my lessons and so thoroughly mastered my tasks that soon the sisters could find no fault with me.
If one of the other girls was a better archer, then I would sneak out in secret and practice for hours, days, weeks, until my fingers bled and my wrist was bruised from the plucking and the twanging of the bowstring. But soon the raw fingertips hardened and grew calluses and I learned to ignore the sting of my wrist. Thus I not only became the best archer among all the girls, but grew impervious to pain as well.
Eventually, the Dragonette came to know my every flaw and fault line like a mason knows his stone, and learned just how stubborn I could be. But this abbess and I have not had that sort of relationship. When I was younger, she was often off on her own assignments and duties and so did not see the full measure of my determination.
I will have to show her—remind her—that there is more to me than mere obedience and docility.
In the morning, I awake as sharp and ready as one of Sister Arnette’s finest blades and am nearly bouncing on my toes in impatience. We are to report to the archery field first thing, before the wind picks up. Perfect, for I am as skilled an archer as anyone at the convent—including Sister Arnette, who teaches us. Matelaine tries to speak with me, but I pretend I do not see her, as I have thoughts only for the challenge before us.