Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (бесплатная регистрация книга .TXT) 📗
“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.”
The abbess inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. That she is so visibly annoyed gives me hope that she is taking my words to heart.
She shoves her hands into her sleeves and crosses to look out the window. I stay where I am and try to mask the fact that I am seething inside.
“Very well, then,” she says. “I will send you back with but one purpose: to get close enough to kill d’Albret.”
Sweet Mortain. Does she truly think I will fall for that twice? “While I have longed to do that very thing, Reverend Mother, does it not go against every precept you have ever taught me? For he is not marqued. Unless”—I pause as a thought occurs to me—“has Annith seen it?”
The abbess’s lips thin, and she removes her hands from her sleeves. For a moment, I think she will strike me. “What do you know of Annith? Have you been corresponding with her while in Nantes? That was strictly forbidden.”
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 naked 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 Jesu, not Ismae! D’Albret’s anger that Ismae thwarted his attack on the duchess in the hallway at Guerande 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 Guerande. 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?
