Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(16)
She stares at me in silence, her milky white eyes unnerving. “Remember, true faith never comes without anguish.”
Before I can respond, she reaches into a small pouch at her waist, pulls out a handful of something — it looks to be small bones and a tangle of feathers — and tosses it on the brazier.
Flames spring to life and an acrid tang fills the room. Sister Vereda stares into the small fire as if reading the red-gold flames reflected in her unseeing eyes.
“Twenty paces, then up a staircase. Small for a man, and wiry, like the fox he resembles. The dust of Amboise clings to his boots, and a red ruby given to him by the French regent winks in his ear. Martel is his name. That is who Mortain has marqued.” The flames sputter out, and Sister Vereda’s eyes return to their milky white.
Not knowing what else to do, I curtsy. “Yes, Sister. Mortain’s will be done.”
Next, she lifts a small box from the shelf under the brazier. Her eyes may be blind, but her fingers are nimble and quick, and she opens the small leather case and pulls from it a heavy bottle. It is of deepest black, its polished surface catching small sparks of light from the embers so that it looks as if she holds a piece of night sky filled with stars.
"Even though you are not a full initiate, the reverend mother says that you are to receive the Tears of Mortain. Kneel,” she orders as she pulls the stopper from the bottle.
Keeping my eyes on the sharp, tapered point of the stopper, I kneel at her feet.
“By the grace of Mortain, I grant you Sight so you may see His will and act on it. Do you promise to obey the saint and act only when He bids it?”
“I do.”
She dips the point of the stopper into the contents of the vial, then gropes gently for my face. “Open your eyes wide, child.”
Even though I am sore afraid of that sharp wand, I do as she commands. She moves it unerringly toward my eyes, one single heavy drop hanging from the tapered end, and I pray her hand is steady.
There is a touch of warmth, then my vision blurs and all the colors and light in the small room run together. My eyes grow warmer and warmer until I fear they will burst into flames. For a moment, I am afraid she has blinded me, but then the sensation passes and the heat and the blurring cease, and I can see again. It seems to me that everything is somewhat brighter now, all the edges sharper, as if the same milkiness that clouds Sister Vereda’s gaze has been ripped away from my own.
But it is not only my sight that is different. My skin, too, has changed, and I feel the air as an almost solid thing against my arms and face. I am aware of Sister Vereda in a way I was not before; I can feel her, feel the spark of life that shines so brightly within her.
“These Tears of Mortain are a gift to those of us who serve Him,” she explains as she returns the vial to its box. “They allow us to experience life and death as He does. Now go,” Sister Vereda says. “And may Mortain keep you in His dark embrace and guide your hand with His own.”
Chapter Eight
Chancellor Crunard has claimed this chateau is nothing but a hunting lodge, but to my eyes, accustomed as they are to a poorly thatched cottage and the austere world of the convent, it looks like a palace. The only thing the nobles appear to be hunting is one another, whether for spirited gossip or furtive liaisons behind the tapestries.
The chancellor pats my arm. “Relax, my dear,” he says. “Or else they will wonder why my new paramour is scowling so.” His wry smile causes me to blush. Prettily, I hope.
“Your pardon, milord.” It had seemed a most far-fetched notion when the abbess first explained it. Surely no one would believe that I was with Chancellor Crunard in that way. But the truth is, there are many such pairings throughout the hall, older lords and nobles sporting young maids on their arms just as they sport jaunty feathers in their caps or jeweled daggers at their hips.
Our host, Baron Lombart, approaches, and Crunard introduces us. Lombart is fat and old and reminds me of the boar who used to hide in the woods near my home. I murmur some polite nicety and wonder if my new garrote would be able to slice through the thickness of his neck.
I suspect Crunard has guessed the drift of my thoughts, for he nods in the direction of the crowd. "Entertain yourself for a bit, my dear. The baron and I have business to discuss.”
It is my cue, and joy at being released surges through me. I am only too happy to let the tides and currents of the mingling nobles carry me to the edge of the room so I can slip away to my assignment.
As I move toward the door, curious glances brush against my skin. I feel one particular gaze linger too long, so I stop and pretend to make conversation with two gentlemen nearby. One of them stops talking and turns his protruding eyes to me. I give him a withering glance and continue on my way.
When I reach the doorway, no one is watching, so I slip from the room. The hallway is dark compared to the brightness of the great hall, and cool. I am glad to be away from the smell of too many bodies and warring perfumes. I count off twenty paces and am not surprised to find a wide, sweeping stairway, just as Sister Vereda predicted.
When I reach the first door at the top of the stairs, I draw into myself, as I have been taught, letting everything around me grow still, and then I cast my senses into the room beyond. The Tears of Mortain have done their job well, for I am certain there is no spark of life burning behind that door.
The next chamber is as cold and empty as the first, but when I stand in front of the third, I feel the faint trickle of life, warm and pulsing.