Ismae and Sybella have always thought that everything comes easily to me and that I enjoy a position as convent favorite. They do not know, for I never told them, how fine a razor’s edge I have spent my entire life walking, ever since I took my first few toddling steps.
To be raised in a convent full of women who are devoted to spiritual matters is a barren life for any child. But when those women worship Death and have dedicated their lives to serving Him, learning His arts, and carrying out His will, it can be a bleak and joyless existence.
So, while for Sybella and Ismae, the convent was a refuge of sorts, an escape from the horrors of their past, for me it was something else entirely. My childhood was a time of frequent and unexpected tests, usually administered when I had been lulled into a false sense of complacency—something I had been warned against, so the tests themselves were simply punishments that I deserved.
Like the time I was six years old and walking with the Dragonette on the beach in order to see the older girls off on their trip to the mainland. As soon as they were out of sight, the Dragonette picked me up and tossed me into the ocean to see if perhaps swimming came naturally to me, as it does to some daughters of Mortain. Or the time she ordered a sack placed over my head to see how long I could hold my breath (not long at all—especially since my screams sucked up the remaining air most quickly), or when she slipped her hand around my shoulders, and I thought I had finally done something to earn a sign of affection from her—only to have that hand move up and wrap itself around my neck and squeeze, to see if I could withstand such pressure as those who are born with their birth cords wrapped around their necks are sometimes able to.
I grew to dread those sessions with her, for all that they meant I was her favorite. And I hated that I could not be strong enough to accept the special favor she bestowed upon me without ruining it with my fear. There were times, many times, when I believed it would kill me. Sometimes, I even wondered if that was her intent.
If so, the Dragonette had not counted on my sins of pride and stubbornness. She did not yet understand just how firmly I could plant my feet in the ground of rebellion to prove her wrong. Or perhaps she counted on precisely that. I soon learned to make sure that even my failures were ones she would have to—at least grudgingly—admire, that showed that even though I may be flawed, those flaws would honor Mortain. I threw myself so wholeheartedly into my lessons and so thoroughly mastered my tasks that soon the sisters could find no fault with me.
If one of the other girls was a better archer, then I would sneak out in secret and practice for hours, days, weeks, until my fingers bled and my wrist was bruised from the plucking and the twanging of the bowstring. But soon the raw fingertips hardened and grew calluses and I learned to ignore the sting of my wrist. Thus I not only became the best archer among all the girls, but grew impervious to pain as well.
Eventually, the Dragonette came to know my every flaw and fault line like a mason knows his stone, and learned just how stubborn I could be. But this abbess and I have not had that sort of relationship. When I was younger, she was often off on her own assignments and duties and so did not see the full measure of my determination.
I will have to show her—remind her—that there is more to me than mere obedience and docility.
In the morning, I awake as sharp and ready as one of Sister Arnette’s finest blades and am nearly bouncing on my toes in impatience. We are to report to the archery field first thing, before the wind picks up. Perfect, for I am as skilled an archer as anyone at the convent—including Sister Arnette, who teaches us. Matelaine tries to speak with me, but I pretend I do not see her, as I have thoughts only for the challenge before us.
As we line up in front of the targets, I narrow my focus so that the world consists of only the target and the tip of my arrow. As easily as I cast Matelaine aside moments ago, I cast aside any doubts or hesitation. The time for subtlety has passed. It is a luxury I can no longer afford. My only recourse is to prove that there is no one else at the convent whose skills compare to mine. Then the abbess will have no choice but to pick me for the next assignment.
I breathe out, then release the bowstring. Even as the first arrow finds the bull’s-eye, I am reaching for the next. I release again, and again, and within a handful of minutes, I have fired all my arrows, with all twelve in a three-inch grouping in the bull’s-eye.
Breathless, I ease back to see all the other girls have ceased their practice and are watching me. “That is how you do it, girls,” Sister Arnette says with a satisfied nod in my direction. “Now, quit gawking and fire.”
And then I must wait for them to finish so I can retrieve my arrows. I repeat the performance with my second and third volley, but by the fourth volley, the wind has picked up. I misjudge its strength, and an arrow goes wide.
“That’s it!” Sister Arnette calls out. “We won’t be able to get much more practice in with this wind. Put down your bows and—”
I close my ears to her words, make some calculations in my head, then fire again. This one hits the bull’s-eye, and the next and the next. The fourth goes wide again, but only because there was a lull in the wind after I released the bowstring.
“Enough.” Sister Arnette’s voice is right next to my ear. When I turn to look at her, we are nearly close enough to kiss. “It is too windy. We’ll come back to it tomorrow.” She gives my arm an affectionate pat to let me know I have excelled. Part of me welcomes that small gesture of recognition and wishes to smile back at her in gratitude, just as I would have yesterday or the day before that. Instead, I force myself to ignore it. I want her—all of them—to see just how obedient and pliable I am not. “Truly, Sister? Will assailants stop because the wind is too great? Will Mortain unmarque our targets when a breeze blows too strongly? Would not a true assassin be able to shoot under such conditions?”
Still holding my gaze, she calls out to the others. “When you are done here, report to the stables.” There is a spark of anger in her eyes. Good, for anger is exactly what I need today to feed this hunger—this desperation—to prove myself.
“Are you trying to shame them?” she asks in a low, tight voice.
Aveline’s words of yesterday—was it only yesterday?—come back to me. “No, but how does pretending to be weak make them stronger?” With that, I turn and leave. Even as I make my way toward the stables, a small, bitter worm of regret tries to climb up my throat, but I refuse to feel bad for pointing out the folly of not training in all conditions.
The next lesson of the day goes much the same, only this time I manage to anger the even-tempered Sister Widona, something I have not ever done in all my years at the convent. Her face is white and pinched as she scolds me for driving my horse too hard and jumping him in his exhausted state, thereby risking breaking his leg and my neck. When she orders me back to the stables, I want to put my heels to the horse’s sides and canter in the opposite direction. I can feel him quivering beneath me, eager to be allowed to show his full strength and power. Like me, he has more in him, and Widona coddles him just as the abbess coddles me. It is only the threat of being barred from riding for an entire fortnight that causes me to comply, for my riding skills are one of my best arguments as to why I should be the next one sent out.