The Beauty of Darkness - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,122

told you about Mikael.”

We talked for hours. She told me things she hadn’t shared before, the moment she first realized who he really was, the tense minutes before they crossed into Venda, the note he had carried in his vest all those months, the way she’d had to pretend to loathe him when all she wanted was to hold him, his promise for a new beginning, the way his voice kept her pinned to this world when she felt herself slipping into another—and then their bitter argument on parting.

“When I left him behind, I marked every day between us by writing his last words to me in the soil—it’s for the best—until I finally believed them to be true. Then I found my wedding dress where he had hidden it in the loft at the inn, and it tore everything loose inside of me all over again. How many times do I have to let go, Pauline?”

I looked at her, unsure how to answer. Even after everything Mikael had done, every day I had to let go again. He was a habit in my thoughts, not any more welcome than a rash, but I’d find myself thinking of him before I even realized what I was doing. Banishing him from my thoughts was like learning to breathe in a new way. It was a conscious effort.

“I don’t know, Lia,” I had answered her. “But however long it takes, I will be here for you.”

I sat back and looked at the crate. The wood was smooth and sturdy. I stood and hung it from the porch rafter to dry. Yes, Kaden is right. Once a soft blanket is added, it will be quite passable.

A scream splits the air.

The pachegos have captured something,

The children cry,

The darkness too deep,

Their stomachs too empty,

The howls of the pachego too close.

Shhh, I whisper.

Tell them a story, Jafir pleads.

Tell them a story of Before.

But Before was never mine to know.

I search my memory for Ama’s words.

The hope. The journey’s end.

And I desperately add my own words to them.

Gather close children,

And I will tell you a story of Before.

Before the world was brown and barren,

When it was still a spinning blue jewel,

And sparkling towers touched the stars.

The scavengers around me scoff.

But not Jafir.

He is as starved for a story as the children.

—The Lost Words of Morrighan

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

RAFE

“She’s holed up in a little cottage not far from the citadelle with three women and Kaden. A vagabond girl too,” Tavish said.

“You disobeyed orders.”

Jeb grinned. “You knew we would.”

“And you’re glad we did,” Orrin added.

“What are those for?” Jeb asked, nodding toward the handler and three caged Valsprey.

“In case things don’t go well for us. A parting gift from General Draeger. He insisted on them. He doesn’t want us to fall off the edge of the continent again without any word.”

Tavish surveyed the details of our company with a suspicious eye and turned to Captain Azia, perhaps figuring he’d get more information out of him. “How’d you get so many horses with Morrighese tack?”

Sven cleared his throat, preempting an answer from Azia. I knew the question created as sour a taste on his tongue as it did mine. “It’s a long story,” he answered.

“I’ll explain later,” I told Tavish. “Ride back and tell the rest it’s time to split off to the eastern and northern roads into the city. And to stay in groups of no more than three or four. We can’t all descend into the city at once.”

We were farmers, merchants, tradesmen, not a battalion of a hundred armed soldiers. At least that was what we wanted them to think.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Heave.

Heave.

I threw off my blanket and sat up, my skin hot and cold all at once. The synchronized chants, the squeal of gears, the sickening metallic clang still rang in my ears. I looked around, reassuring myself that I was still in the cottage. It was dark and silent except for Berdi’s gentle snores. Only a dream, I told myself and lay down, struggling to get back to sleep. I finally dozed in the pre-dawn hours, then slept late, but when I finally woke, I knew—the sounds and chants were real. The bridge was fixed. They were coming.

I looked around. The cottage was empty except for Gwyneth dozing in the rocker with the baby in her arms. I noticed that the melody of drips falling into buckets and bowls had stopped at last. Finally I could slip back into town. The streets would be busy again and I could