“What is it, my child? What troubles you?”
“How great a sin is it to spend your entire life pretending you are one thing, only to find out that you were not that thing at all?”
“I assume you are talking of yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What thing did you pretend to be?”
“A daughter of Mortain, sired by Him to be His handmaiden.”
“And you are not His daughter?”
“No. I have learned that I am not.”
“Ah.” He leans back in his seat. “And now you feel as if you’ve tricked everyone?” When I nod, he tilts his head and studies me. “How old were you when you came to the convent?”
“A babe.”
“Well, then.” He spread his hands wide. “It cannot be your fault at all. If the convent made that assumption and had no methods for confirming such claims . . .”
“But they were tricked. Someone knew. My mother, the abbess, for one.”
His eyes widen in surprise, and I proceed to tell him the whole sordid story. It rushes out of me in one enormous surge of relief.
When I have finished, he looks at me with a gentle expression. “Surely you must know that you are innocent in all this?”
While I wish to believe this, I cannot. I look down at my hands, which are tangled in my lap. “Not so innocent, Father, for I have killed men.”
He takes my hands in his own, forcing me to look up at him. “I believe He will understand, for even Mortain has been known to make mistakes.”
I recoil in surprise. “Surely He has not!”
“Ah, have you not heard the tale of how He took Amourna by mistake when it was really her sister He was after?”
“Well, yes, but that is just a story those who follow Salonius tell. It is not what actually happened.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No! We at the convent know what truly happened.”
“So say the followers of each of the Nine.”
I sigh in exasperation, and he holds up his hand. “I did not say your version was wrong. But think on it: Why would they tell a story about a god as feared and revered as Mortain making a mistake?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” In truth, I am in no mood for theological puzzles.
He leans forward. “To show that even someone such as Mortain is capable of making a mistake.”
“But He is a god!”
“He is a god, but not God.” He points heavenward.
I do not know what to say that. Instead, I change the subject. “One more thing, Father, and then I will leave you to your duties. Whom do those who worship the Nine answer to?”
“Their gods, of course.”
“Yes, but in matters of more earthly jurisdiction. I know there is a council of bishops who oversee the new church’s matters, but surely they do not hold authority over the Nine, do they?”
“Authority? In what way?”
“If someone must be brought to account, much like a Catholic priest might be stripped of his office, who would address such matters?”
“Are you speaking of your mother?”
“Yes.”
He leans back, sighing. “That sort of thing has not come up in a very, very long time, but when it has happened in the past, a convocation of the Nine was called to preside over and judge such things.”
“And that is?”
“A council, a convocation, attended by the heads of each of the Nine, where the matter is brought before them and they decide what punishment, if any, is to be meted out.”
“And how does one call a convocation of the Nine?”
“A message is sent to the high priest or priestess or abbess of each of the Nine, and they in turn each send a representative to attend. But again, it has not been done in years. Certainly not in my lifetime.”
“What—what would the punishment be for such crimes?” For all that I want her to be held to account, I do not think I wish for her to be put to death.
His eyes soften with understanding. “No one is beyond God’s forgiveness.” The certainty in his voice astounds me.
“How can you know that?”
He shrugs, somewhat sheepishly. “When one has made as many mistakes as I have, one becomes very familiar with the fullness of God’s grace and mercy.”
Chapter Forty-Four
AS I MAKE MY WAY from the chapel to my chambers, I am accosted by a somewhat frantic page. “Lady Annith! Lady Annith!”
His alarm is nearly infectious and I find I must hold on to my composure. “What?”
“The duchess says you’re to come at once. It’s the princess Isabeau. I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he says accusingly.
“I was praying,” I explain, then lift up my skirts and hurry after him.
When I reach the duchess’s chambers, I am shown in immediately. The duchess sits beside Isabeau. Sybella and one of the Brigantian sisters are on the other side. The girl’s skin is nearly translucent, and her breath comes in great rasping heaves. “What happened?” I ask softly.
The Brigantian nun rises and hurries to my side. “She just took a turn for the worse while everyone was in the council meeting.” Her face softens in sympathy. “It is not unexpected. It is amazing she has held on this long.”
My eyes are fixed on Isabeau as she struggles for breath. “Is there anything that can be done to ease her breathing?”
“I have used all the knowledge our convent possesses. The duchess thought—hoped—you might know of some remedy that we did not.” If the nun resents this in any way, she gives no sign. My thoughts go back to nursing Sister Vereda and what we did then. “We have more experience with poisons and wounds than with illness,” I murmur. “But I do know of one poultice that might help.”
I give her the short list of ingredients, but before she can leave the room, Sybella rises and hurries forward. “I will help her,” she says. At my questioning glance, she leans in close. “I cannot watch this,” she murmurs, her face stark white. I am taken aback for a moment until I remember her younger sister Louise suffers from a similar ailment. Once they have left, I approach the bedside.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace. I was in the chapel, praying.”
“There is no need to apologize. I am just glad they found you.” She looks up. When she sees that the Brigantian nun has left the room, she turns to me. “Ismae discovered that one of her”—she lowers her voice—“poisons eased Isabeau’s symptoms, and she often gave her a drop or two when her breathing grew painful like this. Do you know what she used? Might you have any? It does seem to ease her suffering.”