The Beauty of Darkness - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,156
The letters confirm that. But somehow…” He shuffled through the pages and read from one that had been translated. “I am yours, Morrighan, forever yours … and when the last star of the universe blinks silent, I will still be yours.” He looked back at me. “That sounds like a love letter to me.”
The Royal Scholar had been wrong. He did have another surprise for me, and it seemed the real history of Morrighan would always hold some secrets.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The plaza was full. They had come to see Princess Arabella hanged. Instead I had to tell them I would be leading them in the fight of their lives. I stood on the portico balcony, my mother standing on one side of me, the Royal Scholar on the other, Rafe and Kaden on either side of them. What was left of the cabinet stood behind us.
Down below, a row of fidgeting lords, discomfited that the conclave was convening with the citizenry, was afforded seats at the front of the plaza. Just behind the lords, Berdi, Gwyneth, and Pauline stood shoulder to shoulder, looking up at me, their assured gazes giving me strength. Sven, Jeb, Tavish, and Orrin, along with squads of soldiers, were poised on the perimeter, watching the crowd.
There was confusion, a murmur rippling through the plaza when my mother stepped forward to speak. She told them the king was ill after having been poisoned by traitors, the same traitors who had sent her son and his company into an ambush, and then she named the traitors. At the mention of the Viceregent, a shocked hush fell, as if he stood at the gallows and his neck had just snapped at the end of a rope. Of the cabinet, he was a favorite among the people, making it harder for them to fathom. She told them the plot had been uncovered because of Princess Arabella’s loyalty to Morrighan—not betrayal—and that now it was time for them to listen to me.
I stepped forward and told them of the threat coming our way, one I had witnessed with my own eyes, a terrible greatness not unlike the devastation described in the Holy Text. “The Komizar of Venda has amassed an army and weapons that could wipe all memory of Morrighan from this world.”
Lord Gowan rose, his hands tight balls at his sides. “Beaten by a barbarian nation? Morrighan is a strong kingdom. We’ve stood for centuries—the oldest and most lasting realm on the continent. We are too great to fall!” Several lords rumbled agreement, rolling their eyes at the naïve princess. The crowd shifted on their feet.
“Are we greater than the Ancients, Lord Gowan?” I asked. “Did they not fall? Is the evidence not all around us? Look at the fallen temples that form our foundations, the magnificent tumbled bridges, the wondrous cities. The Ancients flew among the stars! They whispered, and their voices boomed over mountaintops! They were angry, and the ground shook with fear! Their greatness was unmatched.” I eyed the other lords. “And yet they and their world is gone. No one is too great to fall.”
Lord Gowan stood firm. “You forget that we are the chosen Remnant.”
Another lord called out. “Yes! The children of Morrighan! The Holy Text says we have special favor.”
I stared, uncertain if I should tell them, remembering Pauline’s disbelief, afraid I would push them too far. The air stirred warm, circling. They waited, breaths held, heads turning, as if they felt it too.
Dihara whispered in my ear. The truths of the world wish to be known.
I looked at Pauline, the struggle in her eyes, the truest daughter of Morrighan. She lifted two fingers to her lips and nodded.
The Royal Scholar added his nod to hers.
Tell them. Venda’s voice reached out to me across centuries, still stepping forward, unable to rest. She was blood kin to this kingdom as much as the kingdom named after her.
Only one thing was certain in my heart. Long, long ago, three women who loved each other had been torn apart. Three women who had once been family.
Tell them a story, Jezelia.
And I did.
* * *
“Gather close, sisters of my heart,
Brothers of my soul,
Family of my flesh,
And I will tell you the story of sisters, a family, and a tribe, blood kin of another kind, sewn together by devastation, and loyalty.”
I told them of Gaudrel, one of the original Ancients, a woman who led a small band of survivors through a desolate world, trusting a knowing within her. She fed