Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(3)
Once he secures the horse, he leads me toward the beach, where a lone boat waits. The inky black ocean spreads out as far and wide as my eye can see, making the vessel seem very small.
An old sailor sits hunched in the prow. A shell bleached white as bone hangs from a cord at his neck, marking him as a worshiper of Saint Mer. I wonder what he thinks of being woken in the middle of the night and made to row strangers out into the dark sea.
The sailor’s faded blue eyes skim over me. He nods. “Climb in. we en’t got all night.” He thrusts an oar at me, and I grasp it to steady myself as I get into the boat.
The small vessel dips and rocks and for a moment I am afraid it will tip me into the icy water. But it rights itself and then the priest steps in, causing the hull to sink even lower.
The old sailor grunts, then returns the oar to its pin and begins rowing.
we reach the small island just as dawn pinkens the eastern horizon. It looks barren in the early, spare light.
As we draw closer, I see a standing stone next to a church and realize we’ve come to one of the old places of worship.
Gravel crunches under the hull of the boat as the old sailor rows right up onto the beach. He jerks his head toward the stone fortress. “Get out then. The abbess of St. Mortain be expectin’ ye.”
Saint Mortain? The patron saint of death. A tremor of unease washes through me. I look at the priest, who averts his eyes, as if looking at me is too great a mortal temptation.
Clutching the blanket close around me, I climb awkwardly from the boat and step into the shallows. Torn between gratitude and annoyance, I curtsy slightly, careful to let the blanket slip from my shoulder for the merest of seconds.
It is enough. Satisfied at the priest’s gasp and the old sailor’s cluck of his tongue, I turn and slog through the cold water to the beach. In truth, I have never flashed so much as an ankle before, but I am sorely vexed at being treated like a temptress when all I feel is bruised and broken.
When I reach the patchy grass that grows between the rocks, I look back toward the boat, but it has already put out to sea. I turn and begin making my way to the convent, eager to see what those who worship Death want of me.
Chapter Two
Two ancient standing stones mark the entrance to the convent. The chickens in the courtyard are just now beginning to stir, scratching in the dirt for their breakfast. At my approach, they cluck and flutter away.
I pause at the door, wishing I could find a corner and sleep until my head clears, but the sailor said the abbess is expecting me, and while I do not know much about abbesses, I suspect they are not fond of waiting.
My heart beats wildly as I raise my hand and knock. The heavy door opens at once, revealing a short, plain woman covered in black from head to toe. without saying a word, she motions me inside.
I follow her through a sparsely furnished room, then down an equally austere corridor that leads into the heart of the convent. My guide knocks once on a closed door.
"Enter,” a voice commands.
My guide opens the door and motions me inside. The furnishings are simple but sturdy, and early-morning light pours in through the east-facing window. My eyes are immediately drawn to the woman who sits at the large desk in the middle of the room. She wears a black gown and wimple, and her pale face is striking in its beauty.
Without looking up, she motions me toward one of the chairs. My footsteps echo lightly among all that space as I approach her desk. I clutch the blanket tight around me, then sit.
The abbess lifts her gaze from her work, and I find myself staring into a pair of eyes as cool and blue as the sea. “Ismae Rienne.”
I flinch, startled she knows my name.
“Do you know why you’re here, child?”
I do not know what answer she is looking for, I only know that I am overcome with a sudden desire to earn her approval. “Because I displeased my new husband?”
“Displeased him?” The abbess gives a delicate snort that makes me like her even more. “From what I hear he practically wet his braies in fear of you.”
I feel the familiar shame rise up in my cheeks and I look down at my lap.
“The fault lies not with you, daughter.” She says this so gently it makes me want to cry. I have never shed a tear, not throughout all my father’s beatings or Guillo’s mauling, but a few kind words from this woman and it is all I can do not to bawl like a babe.
“So tell me,” she says, drawing a quill and ink pot close. “Do you know the circumstances of your birth?”
I risk a glance at her face, but she is focused on what she is writing on her parchment. “Only that my mother did not wish to bear me. She went to an herbwitch for poison, hoping to purge me from her womb.”
“And yet you lived.” She looks up. The words are quiet but hold the power of a shout in the stillness of this room.
I meet the abbess’s steady gaze. “And yet I lived.”
“Do you have any idea what that means?”
“You mean other than having to spend my life in the shadows, dodging blows and staying out of sight so as not to cause others undue fear?”
“Yes, other than that.” Her voice is dry as bone. She leans forward, her eyes alight with some purpose. “Did they not claim, Ismae, that you were sired by Death Himself?”
I nod cautiously.
"Well and so. After many trials, you are now here.”