I want to beg her to tell me more of what being Death’s daughter might hold, but I suspect this woman does not suffer fools gladly, so I hold my tongue. I look at her blankly, not understanding what weaving has to do with Mortain. "We carry out Mortain’s will when He wishes to alter the warp and weft of life’s weave for some purpose of His own.” “How does one serve Death?” Am I to spend my life collecting bodies in the bone cart? And so we call Him saint, but as long as we serve Him, He cares not what He is called.” “One of the old gods we now call saints,” I murmur. Although in truth, Mortain is older than any saint, older even than Christ.” “You have found refuge at the convent of St. “And who exactly is us?” My whole body stills, waiting for her answer. It is the well-tempered blade that is the strongest.” “You come to us well tempered, my child, and it is not in my nature to be sorry for it. “Is that what my life has been? A series of trials to be passed?” “Did they not claim, Ismae, that you were sired by Death Himself?” She leans forward, her eyes alight with some purpose. “Yes, other than that.” Her voice is dry as bone. “You mean other than having to spend my life in the shadows, dodging blows and staying out of sight so as not to cause others undue fear?” The words are quiet but hold the power of a shout in the stillness of this room. She went to an herbwitch for poison, hoping to purge me from her womb.” “Only that my mother did not wish to bear me. I risk a glance at her face, but she is focused on what she is writing on her parchment. “Do you know the circumstances of your birth?” “So tell me,” she says, drawing a quill and ink pot close. I have never shed a tear, not throughout all my father’s beatings or Guillo’s mauling, but a few kind words from this woman and it is all I can do not to bawl like a babe. “The fault lies not with you, daughter.” She says this so gently it makes me want to cry. I feel the familiar shame rise up in my cheeks and I look down at my lap. “From what I hear he practically wet his braies in fear of you.” “Displeased him?” The abbess gives a delicate snort that makes me like her even more.
I do not know what answer she is looking for, I only know that I am overcome with a sudden desire to earn her approval. The abbess lifts her gaze from her work, and I find myself staring into a pair of eyes as cool and blue as the sea. I clutch the blanket tight around me, then sit. My footsteps echo lightly among all that space as I approach her desk.
Without looking up, she motions me toward one of the chairs. She wears a black gown and wimple, and her pale face is striking in its beauty. My eyes are immediately drawn to the woman who sits at the large desk in the middle of the room. The furnishings are simple but sturdy, and early-morning light pours in through the east-facing window. My guide opens the door and motions me inside.
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