第6章 The Nun of the Hills

The monastery was not what Edward expected. He had imagined a place of stone and silence, of prayer and discipline. What he found was a crumbling complex of buildings half-consumed by ivy, with a chapel whose roof had partially collapsed and a garden that had grown wild and untamed. The nuns who lived there were few in number—only three, he learned—and they were old, their faces lined with age and their eyes bright with intelligence that had not dimmed despite the passage of time. Sister Agnes was the eldest, a woman of perhaps seventy with silver hair and a face that was both kind and severe. She received Edward in the chapel, sitting on a stone bench beneath the broken roof, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. You have the crown's mark, she said. It was not a question. Edward touched his chest instinctively. What mark? She smiled, a sad, knowing smile. You do not feel it yet, but it is there. The crown has marked you, Edward of Northgate. It has chosen you for a purpose, and that purpose will demand everything you have. Who are you to call me by my name? I am a keeper of knowledge, she said. I have read the old texts. I know the legends. And I know what the crown means. It is not merely a relic, Edward. It is a key. It opens doors that have been sealed for centuries, and it reveals truths that have been hidden from men. What truths? That blood is not destiny. That legitimacy is not inherited but earned. That the world is not what it seems. She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. Your father sought the crown because he knew you existed. He knew that you would one day come to claim it, and he knew that the crown would reveal the truth about your mother, about her family, about the secret that your half-brother does not know. Edward's blood ran cold. What secret? Sister Agnes was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. Your mother was not a peasant, Edward. She was a princess. The daughter of the King of the Western Isles, who was murdered by your father's enemies. Your father hid her identity to protect her, and when she died, he hid your existence as well. The crown will reveal the truth, and it will make you not merely a bastard but a claimant to the western throne. Edward stood up, his heart hammering. This is... this is too much. I am a farmer. I work the fields. I have no claim to any throne. You have a claim written in your blood, Sister Agnes said. And you have a crown that will prove it. But you must be careful, Edward. There are those who would see you dead before you can claim what is yours. Your half-brother is not the only threat. The western king's enemies still live, and they will not hesitate to eliminate a rival claimant. Who else is hunting the crown? The same men who killed your mother, Sister Agnes said. They call themselves the Order of the Black Rose. They serve the usurper who sits on the western throne, and they will stop at nothing to protect his power. If they learn that you live, they will come for you. Edward sat back down. The weight of what she had told him pressed against his chest like a stone. He was not merely a bastard seeking legitimacy. He was a prince in exile, a claimant to a throne he had never known, hunted by enemies he had never faced. What must I do? he asked. Sister Agnes reached into her robe and produced a small book, bound in leather and worn with age. This contains the knowledge you will need. Study it. Learn it. And when the time comes, you will know what to do. Edward took the book and looked at her with gratitude and fear mingled in his chest. Thank you. Do not thank me yet, she said. The road ahead is long and dangerous. You have barely begun. The monastery was a crumbling collection of buildings half-consumed by ivy, with a chapel whose roof had partially collapsed and a garden that had grown wild and untamed. Sister Agnes received Edward in the chapel, sitting on a stone bench beneath the broken roof, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. She was old, perhaps seventy, with silver hair and a face that was both kind and severe. When she spoke, her voice was low and measured, each word carefully chosen. You have the crown's mark, she said. It was not a question. Edward touched his chest instinctively. What mark? She smiled, a sad, knowing smile. You do not feel it yet, but it is there. The crown has marked you, Edward of Northgate. It has chosen you for a purpose, and that purpose will demand everything you have. Who are you to call me by my name? I am a keeper of knowledge, she said. I have read the old texts. I know the legends. And I know what the crown means. It is not merely a relic, Edward. It is a key. It opens doors that have been sealed for centuries, and it reveals truths that have been hidden from men. That night they gave him a cell beside the dovecoat, narrow as a coffin and twice as cold, and Edward sat on the pallet with the leather book open across his knees while rain worked at the broken roof above. The pages were written in three different hands, the oldest faded almost to rust, and between them were maps drawn on the backs of prayers: the western isles, the fortress of Blackstone, a stretch of coast marked with a symbol like a closed eye. He traced that eye with his finger until the candle guttered, and he understood that Sister Agnes had not given him comfort. She had given him work. Before dawn she found him in the chapel yard, feeding crusts to the sparrows that nested in the collapsed rafters. She pressed a bundle into his hands—dried fish, a twist of salt, two loaves hard as bricks—and told him the road down to the coast was watched by a man who sold travelers' names to whoever paid. Trust no one who asks where you were born, she said. Lie about your face if you can. And when a stranger brings you word, make him prove it came from a friend. He asked her how she knew these things, and she looked at the hills for a while before answering. Because I was the one who carried your mother's letters, she said. Someone in this story has always been carrying messages, Edward. Pray you learn to tell the true ones from the false. The Nun of the Hills - Continued