The Beauty of Darkness - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,101

horse, still tied behind the cottage, pain splitting my head in two, blood running down my neck, my back wet and sticky, and I rode, hoping Lia hadn’t left without me, hoping I wouldn’t pass out before I reached her. I knew at least one more traitor in the Morrighese cabinet, because if anyone had no concept of loyalty, it was my father.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Drizzle fell lightly. I pulled my cloak closer. The wind circled, gusted, a hiss to its voice. Mist stung my cheeks with a thousand warning whispers. This was either the beginning or the end.

The universe sang your name to me. I simply sang it back.

For how many centuries had the name circled? How many had heard and turned away? Even now, the choice was still mine. I could turn away. Wait for someone else to hear the call. I was suddenly hit with the enormity of what I had to do. I was only Princess Arabella again, inadequate, voiceless, and, maybe most of all, unwelcome.

But time was running out.

It had to be someone.

I pressed two fingers to my lips. For Pauline. Berdi, Gwyneth, my brothers. For Walther, Greta, Aster. I lifted my hand, giving my prayers flight. And Kaden. Let him be alive. And Rafe. Let—But there was nothing to ask for. He was where he needed to be.

Horses stamped behind me, their snorts muffled in the heavy air. I looked back at Father Maguire waiting beside Natiya for my signal. He nodded, his hair dripping with the damp, his eyes fixed on mine, as if he had always known this moment would come. Seventeen years ago, I held a squalling infant girl in my hands. I lifted her up to the gods, praying for her protection and promising mine. I’m not a fool. I keep my promises to the gods, not men. His promise to the gods was a currency worth more than gold to me now.

I stared at my old life sprawled across hills and valleys in a patchwork of memories—the misshapen ruins, the white-capped bay, the leaning spire of Golgata, the hamlets nestled outside the city walls, the village streets, the towers of the citadelle, the abbey where I was to be married—the same place where a young priest had lifted a baby girl to the gods and promised his protection, while others had conspired against her from the very beginning.

This was Civica.

The heart of Morrighan.

I was entering a city that reviled me.

Guards posted along the roads would be on the lookout for Princess Arabella. But a veiled widow traveling with her young daughter and accompanied by a priest? We wouldn’t suffer much scrutiny.

“Do you think Kaden’s dead?” Natiya asked.

“No,” I answered for the third time. Natiya was betraying what she had worked so hard to deny, even to herself. I understood that denial of feelings. Sometimes it was necessary.

“He’ll be here,” I reassured her.

But I wondered too. Where was he?

A week ago, when he hadn’t shown at our rendezvous point by midday, I scratched the word millpond into the dirt and left. I had no other choice. Now that I knew Pauline was in Civica, I was worried about the danger she was in, whom she might go to for help, and that she might underestimate my father’s anger.

I was also worried about the messages I’d sent before I knew she and the others would be here. I knew they’d add a reckless danger to the city, both delivered by messengers from outside Morrighan, which made them untraceable. The first message had probably arrived a few days ago.

I am here.

Watching you.

I know what you’ve done.

Be afraid.

—Jezelia

Of course, it would be read by the Chancellor first, but news of the message would spread like the plague among his coconspiritors. My first task was to simply get in. If they thought I was already in the city, they wouldn’t be watching the roads leading into it as closely. Once I was in, there were many places to hide. I knew every dark alleyway and alcove. The added benefit I hoped for was that the notes would add to the traitors’ anxiety. Now I wouldn’t be the only one watching my back—they’d be nervously looking over their shoulders too. And the notes were my trademark, after all. I wanted them to think I was just as confident and unafraid as I had been when I left the note months ago in the Royal Scholar’s hidden drawer. Walther had told me how it had sent them into