Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(78)

Ismae shakes her head. “I do not know. Annith tried and tried to see if she could learn what lies at the heart of the abbess’s dislike, but to no avail. Whatever the reason was, it was not written down on anything Annith could find.”

“It is probably in that accursed little book she carries with her always.”

“It is probably not even written down, merely some dislike that has nothing to do with anything but her own prejudices.”

“Have you heard from Annith? Is there any news of her or Sister Vereda?” It is a most hideous time for the convent’s seeress to take ill, leaving only a reluctant, untried seeress to guide us through these treacherous times.

“Yes! I received a letter from her this morning.” Ismae takes a step closer to me and lowers her voice. “Sybella, she is planning to escape from the convent.”

“Escape?” I echo, not sure I’ve heard correctly. The Annith I know would never consider something so rebellious. But more than that, I do not think it is safe for her to be alone outside the convent walls.

“Escape.” Ismae nods firmly. “She has decided she would rather leave than be locked up in the convent for the rest of her life.”

“They will go after her, you know. They will not just let her leave when they have invested so much in her training. Plus, who will they get to take her place? The next oldest novitiate is eleven-year-old Aveline.”

Ismae cocks her head, reminding me very much of Annith in that moment. “With all the skills they have given her, she should be able to evade them easily enough. Remember, most of the nuns have not been outside the convent in years.”

“True enough. But where will she go? And who will see Mortain’s wishes and report them to us?”

Ismae opens her mouth, then closes it. “I had not thought about that,” she admits. “It is possible she will join us here in Rennes and serve among the duchess’s court.”

“And run smack into the abbess herself?”

Ismae scowls. “I wish the reverend mother would go back to the convent already. I am tired of living under her critical gaze.”

“You do not have to tell me how tiresome she is.”

Ismae smiles, but there is little humor in it. “No, I do not. Now, come, let me wash the ashes out of your hair, else you’ll ruin the linens.”





I spend the next two nights scouring the city with Thabor’s men, searching in every nook and cranny to find each and every one of d’Albret’s saboteurs. I find seventeen in all, and each one of them is now closely watched and guarded by Commander Thabor’s men.

My nighttime activities have the added benefit of keeping me away from Beast and the abbess’s politics, for I must sleep during the day in order to perform this task that is so critical to the city’s—to the duchess’s—safety.

There is also great pleasure in being viewed as the hero of the quest—a role with which I am wholly unfamiliar.

On the third morning, my sauciness toward the abbess is repaid with a summons to her chamber that comes far too early. I stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed and thick-headed, and make myself ready as quickly as I can.

When I am washed and dressed and certain that no hair is out of place, I make my way to her chamber. Outside her door, I pause to take a deep breath and smooth my gown. I remind myself that I am not a green novitiate in the convent being called into the office for some minor innocent rebellion.

For they were innocent rebellions, I recognize that now. I had been plucked from my home—however dark and oppressive it was, it was the only place I’d known for fourteen years—and plopped down on an isolated rocky island that I feared was the destination of the mysterious Night Rowers, rumored ferrymen to the Underworld itself. I was in a frenzy with near madness.

That realization—that I was damaged and broken when I first met her and deserving of her sympathy, rather than her harsh judgment—fills me with a righteous anger that is completely strange to me. I raise my hand and knock on the door.

“Come in,” the abbess calls out.

I lift my chin, plant a mocking smile on my lips, then enter the room.

The abbess is retrieving a note from a crow that has just arrived. She does not look up as I enter or acknowledge my presence in any way. It is a tactic I remember well from the convent, one calculated to increase the visitor’s unease. However, her small torments are nothing compared to all I have been through in the last several months, and my mocking smile turns into one of genuine amusement.

Instead of waiting patiently—or nervously—I cross to the lone window that overlooks the inner courtyard. I do not particularly care what is out there; I know only that I do not want her to think her games have intimidated me. I glance over my shoulder in time to see her eyebrow twitch in annoyance—just once—as she continues to read the note. My objective achieved, I go back to looking out the window.

Seconds later there is an impatient rustle of paper, then the abbess speaks. “Sybella.”

Slowly I turn around and face her, the bright light coming in from the window behind me forcing her to blink. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

“Come over here so I do not have to put a crick in my neck to speak to you.”

“But of course.” I cross the room and stand before her as she settles the crow on one of the two empty perches behind the desk.