Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(66)
Author: Robin LaFevers

I am so surprised by this outburst that I do not even think to say anything but the truth. “No, Reverend Mother! I have not spoken with her—even by note—since I left the convent.”

Slowly, with visible difficulty, the abbess reins in her temper and turns back to the window.

“How can d’Albret not be marqued after all that he has done?” she asks, as if Annith’s name was never mentioned. “Perhaps you simply cannot see it. Or perhaps you have not looked hard enough. Perhaps your fear has made you weak and overcautious.”

Anger spurts through me and I fight hard to tamp it back down. It will not do to lose my temper in front of her. “He is not marqued. Believe me, I checked often. I saw him in all his na**d glory just two days before I left Nantes.”

“It seems to me there is a good chance it has appeared since then,” she says stubbornly.

That is when I realize she will not take no for an answer. She is doing everything in her power to force me back into the little box of her making. The moment has come in which I must choose between the convent’s little box, or stepping fully away from everything I have ever known. I try one last approach. “If I do as you ask, I might be able to get into the palace, and I might even get to d’Albret himself, but I will never get out alive. Those loyal to him will see to that.”

Even as I speak the words, I can see in her eyes that she already knows this. That is when it hits me: all I have ever been to her is a tool, a tool so damaged that she does not mind if it gets utterly destroyed.

“We are all asked to make sacrifices in our service to Mortain. And you in particular have wished for death ever since you first arrived at the convent. Perhaps this is Mortain’s way of answering your prayers.”

Her words pierce my heart like sharp black thorns, and the familiar darkness and despair threatens to overwhelm me. Has she ever been so willing to sacrifice any other novitiate for Mortain’s cause? No, for her cause, for this is about bringing glory and recognition to the convent—to her.

But, I realize, there is a freedom in having so many of my secrets exposed—it gives her far less power over me. “Perhaps I am no longer fit for Mortain’s service, Reverend Mother, for I will not go back.”

Her head rears as if I have slapped her. Odd that as little as she thinks of me, she did not see this defiance coming. Her pulse beats angrily in her neck, and she turns again to stare out the window. Already I am feeling lighter, wondering just where I will go and who I will be once I am free of both the convent and d’Albret.

She draws a deep breath, then turns back to face me. I do not understand the faint gloat of victory I see in her eyes. Until she speaks. “Very well. Then I will send Ismae.”

Sweet Jésu, not Ismae! D’Albret’s anger that Ismae thwarted his attack on the duchess in the hallway at Guérande still burns hot and bright.

D’Albret does not know of my hand in that or I would not still be alive. “You cannot send Ismae.” I keep my voice calm and unconcerned, as if I am merely pointing out a flaw in her plan rather than trying to save the life of my best friend. “For one, d’Albret has seen her. Her face is permanently etched in his mind after she foiled his plans in Guérande. The man is unearthly in his ability to see through disguises and subterfuge.”

The abbess is not fooled by my calm demeanor. She has well and truly snared me in her trap and knows it. “We have many ways of creating a disguise. We can cut her hair, change its color, stain her skin. We can have her looking old and haggard in a matter of hours.”

“D’Albret would never allow anyone into his presence, even a servant, who offended his eye so greatly.”

Even if they did not recognize her and kill her outright, they would use her most poorly, simply for the sport of it. “I still think he would recognize her. And do not forget, many of his retainers have seen her at Duval’s side. If by some small chance d’Albret himself were to miss her, one of his retainers would be all too eager to point her out to him, to gain favor.”

The abbess folds her hands and rests her chin upon her fingers. “Ah, that is too bad, for it would be a most excellent solution.” Her words chill me, for I do not expect a capitulation so soon. However, her next words turn the blood in my veins to ice. “Perhaps it is time to send Annith on her first mission. D’Albret has never seen her; no one outside the convent has ever seen her, and she is our most highly skilled novitiate ever.”

She may as well send a lamb into a wolves’ den, for while Annith’s skill is great, she is also wholly good and could not even begin to guess what tricks and deceit they would use upon her. Is the abbess so ruthless that she would consign Ismae or Annith to certain death? She must be bluffing.

She must.

But am I certain enough to stake my friends’ lives on it?

A cool calmness settles over me, and I meet the abbess’s impersonal gaze. “That will not be necessary, Reverend Mother. I will go.”

Her face relaxes slightly. “Excellent. I am pleased to see you know where your duty lies.”

“When do I leave?”

“Within the next day or two. I will know more after this afternoon’s council meeting.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

DIZZY AND NUMB, I STUMBLE toward my chamber, desperate for solitude.

It appears all roads lead to d’Albret in the end. Whether I run at him in anger or run away from him in fear, the road will always curve back to him.

Why did I think I could escape? When I first realized I would need to travel with Beast, I knew there was no escape, merely a postponement of the inevitable. But then, once here, I was stupid enough to let hope slip in, even knowing it was merely the gods mocking me.

I had forgotten a lifetime of hard-won lessons in a matter of days.

Clearly I am fated to meet my death at d’Albret’s hands. The real question is, will he meet his at mine?

For that is all that is left to me: to strike quick and sure and true and make utterly certain he dies before me.

Or is it? What would happen if I simply walked away? Surely Duval could protect Ismae. My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the chamber door. Afraid Ismae has heard of my meeting with the abbess, I hurry to open it, dismayed to find Beast glowering in the hall, arm still raised to knock.

Every word I have ever known flees my head and I stare open-mouthed. He is no longer tinged with gray or green, and his hair has been trimmed. He leans on a cane, but other than that, he appears to have gotten here under his own power.