Does she sense my dishonesty? Yes, I won Meirlach, but when the time arrived, I insisted Harper take ownership of the sword instead. Anyway, if the position was supposed to be mine, why pit me against someone else?
“Well.” She sighs and folds her hands atop her desk. “There is always next year.”
Next year. It rings hollowly. Will I have to complete another soul-destroying quest to prove my worth? The thought tires me.
My attention shifts to Meirlach. The ruby-inlaid pommel winks like a fiery eye.
Mother Mabel notices the direction of my gaze and smiles. She appears more relaxed in the weapon’s presence. Reassured, even. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is.” A true work of artistry. The fuller is the straightest I have seen, the rounded groove extending the length of the blade.
“Meirlach has been in the Stallion’s possession for a long time. So long, in fact, that its existence passed into myth.” Opening a drawer in her desk, she pulls out the Text. “Admittedly, I was not aware of its existence until my captivity. An unfortunate, if fortuitous, turn of events.”
My skin prickles in sudden awareness. Rarely does Mother Mabel speak of that time. In all my years as a novitiate, I have only heard her mention it once.
“Seven years,” she whispers, “and all I had was the Text. The Book of Change was my salvation. It told me of Meirlach. It reminded me all was not lost. Days after I learned of its existence, I met another prisoner, a mortal man who was an adept swordsman. He taught me how to wield a blade. He reminded me I was strong. I vowed to continue my training once I returned aboveground, and I have.”
I’m arranging pieces of information into a natural flow. Seven years may have passed in Carterhaugh, but how many lifetimes did Mother Mabel experience in Under, trapped in the strange enchantment of the realm? At some point, Mother Mabel visited the Grotto. She also escaped with her life. Whatever she stole from the Stallion, it wasn’t Meirlach. Perhaps she was unable to outwit it. I communicate these thoughts to the abbess.
“Brielle.” The sound is caught firmly between fondness and exasperation. “Are you suggesting I lacked the cunning needed to steal Meirlach? If so, I don’t appreciate having my shortcomings pointed out. You should know better.”
I am twenty-one years of age, yet in this moment, I feel like a child.Know better.I have weathered this chiding before. “I apologize, Mother Mabel.”
She sighs. “No, you’re right. I was unable to take Meirlach from the Stallion. That is why the acquisition is so vital. With this blade”—she sweeps an arm toward the weapon—“we can guarantee our protection.”
Something she did not have when the Orchid King stole away those three novitiates decades ago. We, as women, must go to greater lengths to protect ourselves. To work twice as hard as any man but reap only half the rewards.
“Is that why you sought the Father?” I ask. “For protection?”
Silence.
Tucked into my lap, my hands bunch, sweaty skin growing warmer with every heartbeat. I’ve overstepped. Mother Mabel’s bristling gaze is evidence enough. “I apologize—”
“To an extent,” she clips out. “I grew up poor, Brielle. Very poor. We lived in a one-room hut on the outskirts of Aranglen. I never knew my father, not really. He left my mother days following my brother’s birth.
“It was a difficult life, as you can imagine. When I was a girl of fourteen, my brother took ill following an unusual cold snap, then my mother.” Though her face tightens, she maintains composure. “They were dead within the month, and I was orphaned, with no prospects for work.”
I had no idea. “I’m so sorry.”
Her nostrils flare, and she holds up a hand. “Do not pity me. We all face trials in life. Those just happened to be mine.”
I stare at the abbess, a mortal woman who has not aged since her escape from Under decades ago. Whatever words of comfort I might offer, she does not want them.
“Luckily,” she goes on, “a woman noticed me wandering the market one evening and brought me to Clovenshire—Aranglen’s abbey. I began as a novitiate. Two years later, I took my final vows. I stayed as an acolyte for another decade, deepening my relationship with the Father. Following my thirteenth year at the abbey, I was elected Abbess of Thornbrook. I’ve been here ever since.”
It makes perfect sense that Mother Mabel would climb the ranks. Those of us abandoned by the world must work hard to put down roots. “Do you ever consider returning to your old life?”
“By the Father, no. Who would I turn to? Where would I call home? Those who do not have His will in their lives… I pity them.” The tips of her fingers skim the Text’s leather cover with reverence. “They are lost, as I was, as you were.”
I’m not so sure. Kilkare’s residents do not seem lost. They are mothers and painters and carpenters and bakers and merchants andbrothers and believers. Most welcome the Father in their lives, though not to the same extent as the Daughters of Thornbrook. It is enough for them.
Mother Mabel leans back in her chair, studying me. “Is that what you want, Brielle? To go out into the world and leave us?”
“N-no,” I breathe, horrified by the thought. “Of course not.” My heart thuds, but I’m uncertain where the fear stems from. “It was a curiosity, nothing more.”
She nods, appeased. “Thornbrook is your place. It will always be your place.”
My place, but not my home. I do not miss the distinction.
