The world tilts dizzily as I am assailed by an entire host of conflicting emotions. Joy, that Sybella has clearly found such peace and happiness. Relief, that yet another one of His handmaidens has seen Him, thus removing the possible significance of my own brief sighting years ago. But I am also filled with a nearly unbearable sense of loss. My seeing Him is no longer a sign of any uniqueness on my part. Not only that, but my two friends have been given roles as His instruments here on earth, whereas I have yet to receive a single order from Him.
The knock at the door pulls me from my self-pity, and a bevy of maidservants enter, carrying a tub and kettles full of steaming water. As they bustle about their duties, I turn my mind to the puzzle of the convent. It is a relief to see that Ismae and Sybella are plagued by the same doubts and concerns that I have, but they are willing to walk away from it. I do not see how I can abandon Florette and Lisabet and Aveline and Loisse to the abbess’s machinations. Besides, Ismae and Sybella each have something—someone—to walk to.
A sudden pang of loss twists sharply in my side, and an image of Balthazaar’s dark, brooding eyes fills my mind. I should not miss him so. Not only is he likely hunting me, but his long penance hints at crimes too terrible to speak of. He is a creature of the Underworld, trapped on his path to redemption for who knows how long. There is no future for us, and even the present puts me in jeopardy. And yet I do miss him. He fits so comfortably into the contours of my own silences and doubts.
When the tub is finally full, Ismae dismisses the maids and the room is once again silent. She turns to Sybella. “Enough of such small talk. I want to know how your mission went.”
A cloud passes over Sybella’s face, then she slips her arms out of her gown and lets it fall to the floor. She pulls her shift over her head then walks to the tub. I marvel at how easily she moves in her nakedness; she always has.
“Tell us,” Ismae says once she has settled in the water.
Sybella’s eyes grow bleak and she busies herself with the soap and sponge. “It is done,” she says. “Count d’Albret is as good as dead—would be dead, but Mortain Himself refused to accept him into the Underworld, a promise He made to my mother and others whom d’Albret has killed. D’Albret’s black soul has been sundered from his body, which will wither and rot like a corpse for Mortain Himself only knows how long. So the duchess is safe from him.”
“And you?”
I do not understand the gentleness in Ismae’s voice, for Sybella has never been squeamish and I cannot imagine why she would be racked with regret. But Sybella’s smile looks so fragile that I fear she might shatter.
“I will be fine. I got to my sisters in time, so they are safe. But Pierre is still alive and will no doubt take up the d’Albret mantle.”
Ismae frowns in puzzlement. “I thought Julian was the next eldest?”
“He was, but he too is dead.” For a moment, she looks like the old Sybella, brittle and damaged, but then her face settles into a determined look. “However, the d’Albret plans will not stop with their death. They have been negotiating with the French camped but a few leagues from Nantes for some time. I do not know the full extent of their plans, but if they are allying themselves with the French in any way, it cannot be good for the duchess.”
Ismae purses her lips in thought while Sybella dunks her head under the water to rinse the soap from her hair. “Could they simply have been playing both sides against the middle, or perhaps using false promises to hold the French at bay?”
“Anything is possible, but we should prepare for the worst just the same. Now, enough talk of my grim duty. I want to hear of Annith’s adventures and how she comes to be in Rennes in spite of the abbess’s wishes.” She rises up out of the water, reaches for the linen towel, and begins to dry herself off.
And so I find myself telling my story for Sybella while she dresses. By the time I am done, she is smiling at me with pride, as if she herself had been responsible for my daring. Which—I realize with a jolt of understanding—she partially is. In giving me love, Ismae and Sybella have given me strength.
“And what did our fair abbess say when she found you here, under her very nose?”
“She was as furious as you’d expect, but it seemed that there was more than just anger there. I want to say fear, except that emotion is not one I would ever ascribe to her.”
“Nor I.” Ismae gives a firm shake of her head. “But when I told her of my meeting with Mortain, told her that I believe the convent, at least some of the time, misunderstands His wishes, she grew furious with me, and I too thought there was fear lying at the heart of it.”
“What?” I stare at her in alarm. “The convent misunderstands Mortain’s will? Why do you think such a thing?”
Her gaze softens. “After seeing so very much death in this world, death not directed by the convent, I have come to learn that everyone who dies bears His marque, and that the marque alone does not indicate that someone must die at one of our hands. Every man who died on the field in front of Nantes bore a marque, and of a certainty, I was not meant to kill them all.”
Her words strike the very breath from my lungs and all I can do is stare at her as my mind struggles to make sense of this, to find a way to make it fit in with the precepts that I hold so dear. “Maybe that is why the seeress is so important?” I finally suggest. “Because that is the only way to tell which of those marqued are meant to die at the convent’s command?”
“That is what I had hoped as well, but I received orders after you informed me that Sister Vereda had fallen ill, and if those orders did not come from one of her visions, then whose visions did they come from? Yours?”
I shake my head. “It was not mine, for I have not yet Seen a thing. Certainly nothing I would be willing to stake a man’s life upon.”
There is another knock on the door—in truth, there is no end to the comings and goings here at court. Ismae hurries over to open it, then talks quietly to whoever is there.
I turn to where Sybella is drying her hair by the fire. “Why were you so angry when you first saw me?”
She closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. “I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t that I was not happy to see you.” She focuses intently on rubbing the wet strands of her hair with the towel. “The abbess said that if I would not return to d’Albret’s household and feed her information as required, then she would send you in my stead.” She looks up at me then, her entire face glowing with intensity. “I could not risk that. You are too good and pure. I could not have you tainted with the stain of my family. I could not bear that.” It is as near to a declaration of love from Sybella as I have ever heard, and I hold it close, trying not to feel slighted that she doubted I could handle myself in such a situation, a situation I have trained for longer than she.