Chapter 42
42
K ILKARE BEGINS TO STIR AS we arrive at the market to set up shop. Soon, the scents of burned sugar and roasted meat saturate the air, and color brightens the wide thoroughfare, the stalls overwhelmed with abundance.
Within the first hour, I sell four knives. By noon, three more daggers have disappeared from my collection.
What’s surprising is how many people ask after me. Though I do not remember, it’s been months since I attended Market Day. They ask how I have been, if I am well. They inquire about my studies and ask if I will one day offer private commissions: knives, axes, swords. I’ve considered it. Thornbrook, however, comes first.
“I understand,” the local baker, Gabe, says with a smile. “But if you ever change your mind, consider me your first client.” He passes a small pastry box to me. Inside, four raspberry tarts sit like sweetened fruits, ripe for plucking.
A few stalls down, Isobel eyes my gift, her long coiled braids secured in a low tail. I select a tart, its cool white icing smearing my fingertips, and shove it into my mouth, all without breaking eye contact. She sneers, then returns to her bartering.
“Are you the abbey bladesmith?”
A short, cloaked figure approaches my table. I peer down at the visitor, frowning. “I am.”
Pushing back her hood, the patron reveals herself. I gasp and stumble back. She is short and rotund, with twiggy legs and long, knobby fingers. A shabby waistcoat hangs over a gauzy white dress. Dull, stony eyes swallow the brightness of midday. An ancient gaze, cunning despite her childlike appearance.
Fair folk. I thought they couldn’t pass through Kilkare’s iron gates, but I wouldn’t put it past them to carry enchantments that protect against iron, even salt.
My frown returns as she continues to stare. The weight of my dagger reminds me I am not without a means of defense. “Is there something I can help you with?” Surely, she would not attack me in broad daylight, though little is known about the fair folk and their motives.
The girl-woman’s lower lip pokes outward. “You do not remember me, sweet?”
“I’m sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else.” From the corner of my eye, I search for Mother Mabel. I haven’t seen her since our arrival, hours ago.
“Then it is true what they are saying,” she whispers. A lock of snowy hair brushes her chin. “You have forgotten us.”
I straighten and take a long look at the unwanted visitor who claims to know me. I think of the months I’ve lost, the knowledge drowned. “Who have I forgotten?”
“The fair folk, of course.”
One of the textile merchants across the lane crows in delight as she makes a sale. Still, I do not move. “We have met before?”
“We have. You were such a treat.” She drinks me in, head to toe, lingering on my red hair. “Are you eating properly? You look wan.” Reaching over the table, she touches my chin with a bony finger. “Who must I kill to avenge this?”
My heart thumps hard against my rib cage. She addresses me with too much familiarity for this meeting to have unfolded by happenstance. “That won’t be necessary,” I croak, easing out of range. A few patrons give the creature a wide berth, but most people are too focused on their shopping to notice. “When did we meet?” I press. “I was in an accident and don’t remember much. Were we… I mean, are we friends?”
“Not friends, but we were friendly in the months leading up to the tithe.” Then she smiles, showcasing rotting gums. “You were so innocent then. It was the most irresistible allure.”
A chill pricks my body despite the heat. The fair folk cannot tell a lie. What have I forgotten? What, exactly, did I lose?
“Were you there?” I demand, low and urgent. “Did you witness the tithe take place?” Mother Mabel has claimed I didn’t participate, but I wonder if that is true.
She has opened her mouth to respond when Mother Mabel suddenly materializes, jostling the curious creature aside. “If you aren’t buying,” she snaps, “move along.”
The girl-woman—I don’t even know her name—glares at the abbess. Her long, crooked fingers pet the fabric of her dress, black eyes dull with suspicion. “As a matter of fact, I was inquiring about this blade.” She points to a recent design. It took me weeks to complete.
“That dagger is pure iron,” Mother Mabel states. “How do you expect to wield it?” When the girl-woman does not respond, Mother Mabel inclines her head. “As I suspected. Move along.” A not-so-gentle nudge sends the creature out onto the road.
I’m frowning as Mother Mabel whirls toward me. “Brielle.” Her waspish tone carries over the crowded lane. “You must be careful with the fair folk. I do not want to see you fall to one of their scams.”
My attention shifts to where the girl-woman vanished into the crowd. “That girl—”
“You cannot trust every traveler you meet.” Grabbing my upper arm, she steers me through the bustle of the market, dodging carts with expertise. “People will say anything to gain your trust.” When we reach a less congested area, she slows, turning to me. “I am only looking out for you. The world is not safe.”
A strange sensation passes through me. I do not believe her. Neither do I trust her.
Pulling my arm free, I respond, “I appreciate your concern.” The words taste unpleasant. Bitter, even. “Next time I will be more vigilant.”
The skin around Mother Mabel’s lips tightens. “Very good. We will return soon, so I suggest you begin packing up. Meet me at the gates within the hour. Do not be late.”
As she wanders off, I think, When am I ever?
The queasy feeling has not abated by the time we reach Thornbrook. I think of that girl-woman, a creature from the depths of Under. It is my belief that Mother Mabel knows of my connection with her and purposefully sent her away. The only question is why.
I head to my room to change for dinner. As I gather clean clothes for my bath, I spot my journal tucked alongside my garments. I haven’t written in it since… Actually, I cannot remember. There was a time when I wrote daily. This journal was my mother, my father, my friend. Unwrapping the twine holding the cover closed, I crack the spine to my latest entry.
I suppose there’s not much to say. I’ve tried to fight this feeling, but I cannot deny my heart. The truth is this: I love him. I do not know what to do.
The entry is dated five months ago.
My heart pounds so forcefully I fear it will crack a rib. This cannot be right. Me, fall in love with a man? I can count on one hand the number of interactions I’ve shared with men, and they were always in the presence of Mother Mabel. I promised my heart to the Father, yet these words suggest otherwise.
I trace the messy scrawl marking the rough parchment. If this is true, where is the man now? What is his name and what qualities did he possess that would make me rescind my vows? Weeks I have searched for answers, yet here lies a clue. I’m ready to learn what happened, though I wonder how high the cost will be.
Girding myself for what will come, I flip back to the last point in time I remember—early spring—and begin to read.
I do not know where this man has come from. I am not sure of my way forward.
I frown in puzzlement. Sparse information—too sparse. Perhaps I met him during one of our visits to Kilkare? I flip the page.
His eyes are inhumanly green, like light shining through colored glass. There is a darkness beneath the surface I sometimes glimpse. I wonder what pains him.
And the next page.
After visiting Under, I cannot trust the West Wind’s intentions. Unfortunately, I do not have a choice. Not if I want to become the next acolyte.
A breeze stirs the leaves beyond my open window. Then there is my heart, twinging with a combination of fear and inexplicable longing. The West Wind. Could this be the man I claimed to love?
Lowering myself onto the edge of my cot, I read ahead, breath held.
I am very ill. I do not know if I will survive the night.
The scrawl betrays a jittery hand. This Brielle was afraid. Desperate. I return to the previous entry. Not if I want to become the next acolyte.
As I read the rest of my journal, information begins to patch the holes of this forgotten summer season. If I’m inferring correctly, I was eligible to prove myself as an acolyte. But if Harper earned the honor instead, she must have journeyed into Under with me, whatever quest we’d been granted forcing us into the realm beneath Carterhaugh. If Harper can’t remember becoming an acolyte, what really happened in Under all those months ago?
My fingers tremble with rare fury. Slowly, I close my journal and set it on my desk.
This has Mother Mabel’s name written all over it. Only she decides what task a novitiate must fulfill to ascend, which means she knows what I do not. As for me? I have been too trusting. I have drifted through time, idle and drowsy, awaiting change. But change comes from within. I cannot expect another to whet my blade. Enough is enough.
Twilight softens the curves of the long arcade as I depart the dormitory and turn right down the cloister. I push inside the abbess’ house before courage deserts me.
Candlelight streams beneath her office door. I do not knock. It feels good to barge in and reclaim that power for myself.
Mother Mabel glances up from her desk in shock. “Brielle.” She appraises me with a critical eye: the clench of my hands, the steel in my spine, the directness of my gaze. “Did you forget something in town?”
“That’s not why I have come, Mother Mabel.” I shut the door behind me and cross the room, ignoring the empty seat I would normally occupy to receive council. Today, I stand.
Deliberately, she sets down her quill, straightens in her high-backed chair. Curtains shutter the window at her back, veiling the evening landscape. “I’m listening.”
“I want to ask you about that girl in the market, the one you sent away.”
Her bland expression doesn’t falter. “We have been over this. You cannot trust the fair folk. I am only looking out for you.”
“I’m not interested in more of your lies.”
She stiffens. “Excuse me?”
It frightens me how quickly the demands surge forth. I am obedient Brielle, agreeable Brielle, soft Brielle, demure Brielle. Mother Mabel fashioned the mold I was poured into, but I do not have to retain this shape.
“Do you deny that you lied to me?” It takes every scrap of valor not to quail before the woman who has filled so many roles in my life. Mentor, mother, teacher, guide. I trusted her implicitly. I thought she could do no wrong.
“You are going to have to be a little more specific,” she clips. “After all, I cannot read minds.”
Fair enough. “I want to know what happened during the tithe. I know I have visited Under. I—” This, too, must be said. “I had relations with a man and gifted him my virginity.” According to my journal, I had no regrets.
Her dark eyes flare, and my fingers twitch toward the dagger at my waist. A beautiful sword hangs on the wall behind her desk. Its blade draws the warmth of candlelight inward until it seems as if the light is absorbed. I’ve never seen this sword before. I can barely tear my eyes away.
With a strained smile, she nudges her documents aside. “You must understand. Everything I do for you girls, and for Thornbrook, is to ensure there remains a refuge for those who need it. What kind of abbess would I be if I did not do everything in my power to spread His goodness, His kindness, to all?”
I’ve heard this before. Traps nestled in traps, one of distraction, another of evasion, to imbue my own thoughts with doubt.
“I wish things had gone differently, Brielle. I really do—”
“Enough.” My hand cuts the air. “You evade the issue. Do you deny that you lied to me?”
And Mother Mabel says, “I do not.”
My heart sinks, stone-like, and I retreat a step. The Abbess of Thornbrook preaches morality, truth, but she has not lived that life herself. Can I trust no maternal figures in my life?
“I want to know what happened during the summer months,” I say. “I deserve that much.”
She considers me for a long moment. I’m afraid she will deny me. It is well within her rights. “Very well.” Her hands come to rest atop the desk, fingers interlaced. “To put it simply, you entered Under without my permission. Obedience—the first of your broken vows.”
I fight the urge—the necessity—to fold forward, bowing my spine beneath her disapproval. The force of Mother Mabel’s gaze is strong, but I will not bend. “According to my journal entries, I was selected to vie for the position of acolyte, and I’m assuming your quest sent me into Under. How could I break my vows if I entered under your instruction?”
“That was not the first time you entered Under, Brielle.”
I go quiet. Under . It is a memory I can neither see nor hear nor taste, its identity obstructed behind the veil of forgetfulness.
“You were tempted by Under. I could see it in your eyes. You nearly died during the tithe. You would have, under different circumstances.”
Then it is true I was present during the tithe, though I do not remember. “How?”
“A sword.” The words tremble. “You were very lucky. It could have been so much worse.”
My attention shifts to the blade hanging from the wall, its ruby-inlaid pommel. “Who cut me down?” I was not aware that I had enemies.
A slow hiss seethes from between Mother Mabel’s thinned lips. It is another moment before she speaks. “The task I gave you and Harper was a difficult one. I asked you to seek out the fabled sword called Meirlach, which I then used to kill Pierus, the Orchid King.”
Light and shade take shape around that name—Orchid King. A ghost in my mind’s eye.
“Is that it?” I point to the sword. “Meirlach?”
“Yes. I was dueling the West Wind when you intervened. I did not see you, and by the time I realized what had happened, it was too late.” Her dark eyes meet mine. “I did,” she whispers. “I cut you down.”
She admits to maiming me, yet I feel nothing. No betrayal, no heartache. I touch the scar resting directly over my heart. “I should be dead.”
“As I said before, we nearly lost you.”
Mother Mabel continues to withhold information as she has always done, but for now, I let it pass. I’ve other matters to discuss. “Who is the West Wind?”
Again, I’ve caught her off guard. Shifting in her chair, she peers out the window, only to find the heavy drapes masking her view. Her fingers drum against the desk. “A man I believe you loved,” she says, turning back to face me. “Though it hardly matters. He is gone.”
Gone as in dead? My palm presses against my chest where the ache spreads. “What of Harper?” Because if she struggles to place her memories, were they, too, taken? “She was assigned the quest as well, but doesn’t remember.”
Her mouth twitches in suppressed distaste. “Harper must focus on her duties as a newly appointed acolyte. I thought it better that she not be weighed down by her past transgressions. Those who participate in the tithe remember nothing from that night, as you are aware. I do not wish my charges to recall the horrors I myself witnessed for seven long years. But Maria managed to acquire a special tonic that cleanses the mind , as she says. Harper was equally tangled in the West Wind’s web. In removing both your memories, I had hoped to give each of you a fresh start.”
“You had no right,” I snap.
“I am sorry, Brielle. I truly am.” She smooths her palms down the front of her gold stole. One end bears a long line of stitching, as though from a recent tear. “Your experiences changed you, and I would not see you return to that confused, conflicted woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“You turned your back on the Father.”
The blow lands exactly as she intended it to. But I do not flinch.
Mother Mabel is wrong. I did not turn my back on the Father. It was she who turned her back on me.
In a cool, detached manner, she goes on, “You claim to have had relations with a man, but purity, both of mind and body, is required to become an acolyte. I cannot in good conscience allow you to ascend.”
Then that door is officially shut.
I expected grief, its sundering wave, but my feet remain on solid ground. She has barred me from the opportunity of taking my final vows, but the truth is I no longer desire to give myself fully to the Father. Pieces of me, and of my life, yes, but a world awaits me beyond Thornbrook’s walls, and I can’t wait to explore it.
“I understand,” I reply calmly. “For what it’s worth, I believe you’re doing what you feel is right, even if it is misguided. I regret to inform you that I will not be joining you for evening Mass.”
She pauses with her hand on the Text. Even before she speaks, I sense her disapproval, like a whiff of rot sweeping into the room. “I do not follow. Are you feeling poorly?”
“No, Mother Mabel.” It is easy to feel small in her presence, this woman who sits nearest to our god, but I do not cave beneath her will as I once did. “I must pack, for I am leaving Thornbrook.”
She opens her mouth, closes it after a moment of indecision. “Is there a reason why you feel the need to leave us? Is your connection to the Father not what it once was?” She does not give me the opportunity to defend myself. “Even though you are no longer a Daughter of Thornbrook, I understand this is your home. I will make an exception and allow you to remain at the abbey, should you continue your duty as the bladesmith.”
Someone needs to continue forging blades, is that it? Mother Mabel has lied to me, but that is neither the whole of it, nor the root. “Truth be told, I feel I have outgrown the abbey.”
Her hand curls atop the tome. “In what way?”
I have wounded her pride, as I knew I would. “Mother Mabel—”
“Have I done something to offend you, Brielle?”
The unease I’ve tried to stymie revives at full force. I knew informing the abbess of my decision would not be easy, but I underestimated how powerful an influence she has been in my life. A small part of me still craves her approval.
“No, Mother Mabel. I’ve only realized that my views of the faith no longer align with those of Thornbrook.”
Her eyebrows snap together over her hawkish nose. “I see.” She takes me in, seeking out any crack or fault or doubt. “When did you decide this?”
I do not make this decision lightly. Since my recovery, I have questioned my place at Thornbrook. I’ve asked myself those trying questions. Who am I? What, above all else, do I want? Learning of the abbess’ betrayal solidifies this choice.
“When I decided does not matter,” I say. “My mind will not change.”
“What will you do out there? Where will you go?” Tension pulls her voice taut, and the skin around her mouth whitens. “The world is not kind to women.”
Does she think so little of me and my accomplishments? “It will take time to get my bearings,” I say, the words edged, “but I’m not without a plan.”
The journey to Kilkare will take the day. I’ll then contact my old swordsmithing mentor. I’ve no doubt he will hire me. After a year or two, hopefully my wages will enable me to open my own shop.
“Do you hear yourself?” she argues. “You have no money, no means to build a life. Once you leave Thornbrook, I will no longer be able to protect you.”
I lift my chin. “Is it my protection you care for, or control?”
Her nostrils flare. Her spine straightens. It is answer enough.
Blowing out a breath, I unclench my fists at my side. Perhaps that was unfair. I believe Mother Mabel cares for her charges. I was given a home and a purpose when I had none. “You do not need to worry about me.”
“Brielle—”
“Thank you,” I say, “for putting a sword into my hand. That is something I will never be able to repay you for.”
“You can repay me,” she grinds out, “by remaining here, where I can keep you safe.”
Keep me safe. Keep me small. There is no difference in my eyes.
“I am going out into the world, Mother Mabel,” I state, heading for the door. “It’s past time that my life begins.”