utter shock, and the ground underneath my feet feels as if it has shifted irrevocably. “Are those truly my only choices?”
“Yes.” She stares back at me, daring me to choose the drab, colorless fate she has set out before me. She is no longer the firm, loving woman I have known all my life but the fierce, ruthless tyrant that Sybella struggled with all these years. Thinking quickly, I bow my head, as if subdued by her words.
She casts aside her sterness for a moment and leans forward. “Think, Annith! How many handmaidens do we have at the convent? And of those, only one is called to act as seeress, only one is deemed worthy of sitting at the very heart of the convent and being privy to Mortain’s wishes. You are being offered this great honor, one bestowed upon a select few.”
“Then it is not because I am flawed in some way? Or because I failed one of the Dragonette’s tests?”
She appears stricken by my words. “No! It is only that you are more worthy than most. That all your years of training and hardship and endurance have paid off in ways you had not dared to dream of.”
And even though her face is the very picture of loving concern, even though her need for me to believe her rolls off her in waves, it is impossible to trust her any longer. Not when she has just altered the shape and direction of my entire life.
Time. I must buy myself time to think.
I allow the overwhelming enormity of what has just transpired to show on my face. “This is all so much, Reverend Mother. So much more than I had ever even considered. I . . . I would like to spend some time in thought and prayer before I give you my answer. I want to be certain I can commit my full heart to what Mortain wants of me, for I will not shame the convent or myself by serving Him falsely.”
There is a brief spark of irritation, but she quickly tamps it down. “Very well. But the time I can give you is not infinite. I must know in three days so I can make other arrangements if need be.”
“I will have an answer for you by then,” I assure her, and I hope that it is true.
Chapter Seven
O NCE I AM OUTSIDE IN the hallway, I stop and lean against the wall, trying to keep panic and desolation from weighing down on me. I press my fingers against my eyes and force myself to take slow, deep breaths, but it does not help. My whole body aches, as if my very bones will burst from my skin.
I have always believed that if I did everything the convent demanded of me, I would be rewarded with my only desire in life—to go forth from the convent and serve as Mortain’s handmaiden. It is the guiding principle I have built my entire life on.
If, as the abbess has always claimed, she is my ally, then how can she foist this unwanted fate upon me?
Before anyone can see me, I make my way to the back of the convent, where the wine cellar is located. My footsteps slow as I draw near. Sybella used to laugh at me, thinking me too afraid to steal wine from the cellar. But the truth—the truth I worked so hard to conceal from both her and Ismae—was that it was not stealing, but the cellar itself that held so much terror for me. Terror born of long nights shut inside, with no scrap of blanket to warm myself or bite of food to eat. A confinement so solitary and harsh that it took me three days to find my tongue after my first night there.
Terror, I remind myself, that I used to make myself stronger, tougher. The idea that it might not have made me strong enough is unthinkable.
But in addition to all that terror, one of my moments of greatest joy occurred in that room, and I cannot help but wonder if that joy is in some way tied to the abbess’s decision to groom me as seeress.
The Dragonette quickly and harshly dismissed the event, and I came to believe what she claimed: that I had merely imagined it. I put it aside, buried it with all the other small shames and mortifications of my childhood. But now, now I wonder if perhaps it was real after all.
“Yes.” She stares back at me, daring me to choose the drab, colorless fate she has set out before me. She is no longer the firm, loving woman I have known all my life but the fierce, ruthless tyrant that Sybella struggled with all these years. Thinking quickly, I bow my head, as if subdued by her words.
She casts aside her sterness for a moment and leans forward. “Think, Annith! How many handmaidens do we have at the convent? And of those, only one is called to act as seeress, only one is deemed worthy of sitting at the very heart of the convent and being privy to Mortain’s wishes. You are being offered this great honor, one bestowed upon a select few.”
“Then it is not because I am flawed in some way? Or because I failed one of the Dragonette’s tests?”
She appears stricken by my words. “No! It is only that you are more worthy than most. That all your years of training and hardship and endurance have paid off in ways you had not dared to dream of.”
And even though her face is the very picture of loving concern, even though her need for me to believe her rolls off her in waves, it is impossible to trust her any longer. Not when she has just altered the shape and direction of my entire life.
Time. I must buy myself time to think.
I allow the overwhelming enormity of what has just transpired to show on my face. “This is all so much, Reverend Mother. So much more than I had ever even considered. I . . . I would like to spend some time in thought and prayer before I give you my answer. I want to be certain I can commit my full heart to what Mortain wants of me, for I will not shame the convent or myself by serving Him falsely.”
There is a brief spark of irritation, but she quickly tamps it down. “Very well. But the time I can give you is not infinite. I must know in three days so I can make other arrangements if need be.”
“I will have an answer for you by then,” I assure her, and I hope that it is true.
Chapter Seven
O NCE I AM OUTSIDE IN the hallway, I stop and lean against the wall, trying to keep panic and desolation from weighing down on me. I press my fingers against my eyes and force myself to take slow, deep breaths, but it does not help. My whole body aches, as if my very bones will burst from my skin.
I have always believed that if I did everything the convent demanded of me, I would be rewarded with my only desire in life—to go forth from the convent and serve as Mortain’s handmaiden. It is the guiding principle I have built my entire life on.
If, as the abbess has always claimed, she is my ally, then how can she foist this unwanted fate upon me?
Before anyone can see me, I make my way to the back of the convent, where the wine cellar is located. My footsteps slow as I draw near. Sybella used to laugh at me, thinking me too afraid to steal wine from the cellar. But the truth—the truth I worked so hard to conceal from both her and Ismae—was that it was not stealing, but the cellar itself that held so much terror for me. Terror born of long nights shut inside, with no scrap of blanket to warm myself or bite of food to eat. A confinement so solitary and harsh that it took me three days to find my tongue after my first night there.
Terror, I remind myself, that I used to make myself stronger, tougher. The idea that it might not have made me strong enough is unthinkable.
But in addition to all that terror, one of my moments of greatest joy occurred in that room, and I cannot help but wonder if that joy is in some way tied to the abbess’s decision to groom me as seeress.
The Dragonette quickly and harshly dismissed the event, and I came to believe what she claimed: that I had merely imagined it. I put it aside, buried it with all the other small shames and mortifications of my childhood. But now, now I wonder if perhaps it was real after all.
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