Author: Robin LaFevers

Finally, he nods. “But one of us will accompany you.”

I long to argue, but I am running out of time. “Very well. You.” I point to the one named Venois. “Come here. You will be my companion for the night.” He glances at his commander, who nods his assent, then comes to stand before me. I reach up and loosen the lacings at his throat. Even as the protest starts to form on his lips, I tousle his hair, then tug his sword belt so that it hangs askew. “You have been on a drunken revel with me through the taverns of Rennes tonight. You must look the part.”

He glances at his commander again, and the mute appeal in his gaze makes me want to slap him. Does he not realize how many men have begged me for just such an opportunity as he is being handed? I grab his arm, tuck it into mine, and begin steering us sloppily toward the tavern door.

The tavern is nearly empty at this hour; only the dregs of its customers remain. Three men slump on tables, barely holding themselves up as they sip the last of the wine from their cups. Another man sits in a corner fondling a serving maid, who is dozing in his lap. A half dozen men squat by the light of the dying fire, dicing.

I take all this in as I lean heavily on Venois and stumble us both toward a bench. Venois is stiff, and I can only hope anyone sober enough to notice will assume it is his military bearing rather than unease. A harsh shout goes up among the dicing men, and I softly jab him in the ribs. “Slouch a bit,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. “And shuffle your feet, then call loudly for wine.”

He does as I command, and an annoyed-looking serving maid nods in our direction. I gently steer Venois to a seat where I can better see the dicing men. I do not recognize any of the men at the tables, and while I do not know all of d’Albret’s men by sight, there is a certain sameness of manner that they possess—an ill-tempered, belligerent way of looking at the world—and none of those men have it.

The dicing men are my last hope to make something of the evening. I wait for the serving maid to set our wine down before us, then take a big gulp. It is watered and sour and it is all I can do not to spit it out. Instead, I force myself to swallow, then lean toward Venois. “Do you dice?”

The soldier shrugs, then downs half his wine. “Upon occasion. But mostly, I try not to.”

I wait half a beat, but he does not volunteer. Just as I open my mouth to tell him he must join the men in front of the fire, another shout goes up among them, this time accompanied by the ring of steel.

A quarrel has broken out, and my heart soars when I recognize Huon le Grande, who is nearly as large as d’Albret himself and possibly just as unpleasant. The man waving his sword at the other two, the one with the wispy beard and a large nose and only three fingers on his left hand, is Ypres. Next to him is Gilot, short and squat and mean as a wounded badger. I nearly laugh with pleasure that they are too stupid to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

I drape myself over Venois and pretend I am nuzzling his ear. “Three of the dicers are the men we seek.”

That seems to perk him up somewhat, and he plays his part with more gusto, if not more skill, as I point out which of the men are d’Albret’s.

But the night is nearly over, and the tavern keeper’s a large, hard-fisted man who kicks all of d’Albret’s men out before they can ruin his establishment. He kicks the rest of us out too, just for good measure. I am in infinite danger as I stumble out the tavern door practically on d’Albret’s men’s heels, but my disguise holds, and their gazes are bleary with drink. Venois keeps one firm hand on my elbow and the other on his own sword, giving the rowdy men no chance for an advantage. It is with a light heart that I describe them to Thabor and then watch as three of the captain’s men slink off into the darkness to keep watch over the saboteurs.

Chapter Thirty-Two

HAVING FOUND A WAY TO turn my d’Albret heritage to a good purpose, I am riding high on the thrill of the night’s success, for there is no one else in the entire city that could ferret out these men. Only me.

It is hard to trust that Captain Dunois’s and Commander Thabor’s men will watch these traitors closely now that they’ve been identified, but I cannot post myself in the garrison alongside them, so I have no choice.

I reach my chamber and am surprised but pleased to find Ismae waiting for me. I am less thrilled to see that the abbess is also waiting, her proud profile limned in light from the chamber’s hearth. As I come fully into the room, her head turns, like a hawk that has sighted prey. “Well?” she asks sharply.

I refuse to let her rob me of this night’s victory. “Good evening to you too, Reverend Mother.”

Her nostrils flare, but she ignores my gibe. “How did it go?”

“Very well. We found four of d’Albret’s men. Commander Thabor put a guard on each of them so that they will be closely followed and watched, their every movement reported, but none the wiser that we are on to them.”

The abbess nods her head but does not give me the word of praise that I crave, and it galls me mightily that I crave it. Instead, she says, “Best get some sleep so you will have your wits about you at tomorrow’s council meeting.”

Not trusting my voice, I dip my head and curtsy. Sensing the irony in my gesture, she sniffs then strides out of the room, closing the door behind her. When Ismae and I are alone, she turns to me with a look of mixed annoyance and amusement on her face. “Why must you taunt her so?”

“Me? It is she who taunts me. Not even a word of praise or thanks does she send my way.”

Ismae frowns and shakes her head. “It is true that she has always withheld any such praise or commendation of you. I wonder why.”

“Because she is a sow at heart?” I suggest, lifting my hands to take the dirty linen coif from my head.

Ismae’s mouth twitches in humor. “That must be it. Here. Let me help you.” She hurries to my side and removes the headdress, then unlaces the gown. As I step out of the rough homespun dress, I am surprised to hear myself say, “Truly, Ismae. Why does the abbess hate me?” My voice sounds young and vulnerable to my ears, so I laugh mockingly. “It has always been so and I have yet to understand it.” We clashed at the convent, but I had simply thought that was because I was her most difficult pupil and tried her patience. However, here in Rennes, after I had carried out so many of my duties in accordance with her exact wishes and still received no recognition, I realized it must be more than that.

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.

“It is good that your thoughts have turned toward protecting the duchess. That speaks well of your training.”

Not of me. Never of me. Only of the training that she and the convent are responsible for.

“Which is why I have called you here. I wish to discuss your next assignment.”

My heart skips a beat. “I had not realized I was finished with this one yet.”

She turns from the crow she’s been tending and looks me square in the eye. “You must return to Nantes. To d’Albret’s household.”

For a moment, I am not certain I have heard her correctly. Then, foolishly, I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “Surely you jest.”

Her face tightens in anger. “I do not jest. We must learn more details of d’Albret’s plans, and you are best suited to the task.”

“You realize that my ability to pose as his docile prodigal daughter disappeared the same time his prisoner did?”

“Something you did not receive orders to do,” she points out.

“Something I was unable to avoid,” I remind her, barely able to hold on to my temper. “In any case, d’Albret will never allow me back into his household. And certainly not in a position of trust where I might overhear important information. He will most likely kill me on sight.” It would not be a quick or pleasant death, of that I am certain.

“Of course you will not go back as yourself. You have proven to be a master of disguises. We will dress you as a servant, which will give you an excuse for lingering at doors.”

I long to shake her by her slender shoulders and then slap her cold, calm face. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? D’Albret watches everyone and has others watch them as well. He has already killed over half the servants at the palace simply because he suspected they were loyal to the duchess. He would never let an unknown servant into his household.”