The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles #3) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,117

huffed, her face beaming with pride. “Knock me dead. I told him he had to step up. Could have gone either way, but I had no choice. I had to take the chance and trust him.”

“What about that farmer?” Gwyneth asked. “What became of him? He never returned to the inn as promised. Is he dead?”

That farmer. I heard the suspicion in how she described him. Berdi and Natiya both eyed me, waiting for my answer. I hardened my expression, adding a slab of salted pork to the kettle before I put the lid on and hung it over the fire. I sat back down at the table.

“He returned to his own kingdom. He’s fine, I assume.” I hoped. I thought about the general who was challenging him back in Dalbreck. I couldn’t imagine Rafe not prevailing, but I remembered the gravity of his expression, the lines that etched near his eyes every time one of the officers brought it up. There were no guarantees in such things.

“Dalbreck. That’s where he’s from,” Natiya interjected. “And he’s no farmer. He’s a king. He ordered Lia to—”

“Natiya,” I sighed. “Please. I’ll explain.”

And I did, as best as I could. I skimmed over details, emphasizing the major events in Venda and what I had learned there. There were some details I couldn’t relive again, but it was hard to skim past Aster. She was still a deep bruise inside me, purple and swollen, and painful to the touch. I had to stop and recompose my thoughts when I came to her role in this.

“Many people died that last day,” I said simply. “Except the one person who deserved to.”

When I was finished, Gwyneth leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “Jezelia,” she said, musing about the Song of Venda. “I knew that claw and vine was there to stay. No kitchen brush was going scrub it from your back.”

Berdi cleared her throat. “Kitchen brush?”

Gwyneth stood as if the ramifications had finally sunk in. “Sweet mercy, are we ever thick in it now!” she said, circling the room. “The first time I laid eyes on you, Princess, I knew you were going to be trouble.”

I shook my head apologetically. “I’m sorry—”

She stepped close and squeezed my shoulder. “Hold on. I didn’t say it wasn’t the kind of trouble I like.”

My throat swelled.

Berdi stood, the baby still cradled in one arm, and walked over and kissed the top of my head. “Blazing balls. We’ll figure this out. Somehow.”

I leaned against Berdi’s side and closed my eyes. Everything inside me felt like a rush of tears, sick and feverish, but on the outside, I was dry and numb.

“All right, enough of that,” Gwyneth said, and sat down opposite me. Berdi took the remaining chair. “This is a whole different game now. The Eyes of the Realm seem to have set their sights on more than order. What’s your plan?”

“You’re assuming I have one.”

She frowned. “You do.”

I had never voiced it out loud. It was dangerous, but it was the only way I could ensure that my voice would be heard by the whole court and those who were still loyal to Morrighan—if only for a few minutes.

“Something I’ve done before. But not successfully. A coup d’état,” I said. I explained that I had led a rebellion with my brothers and their friends into Aldrid Hall when I was fourteen. It hadn’t gone well. “But I was armed only with righteous indignation and demands. This time I intend to go in with two platoons of soldiers and evidence.”

Berdi choked on her tea. “Armed soldiers?”

“My brothers,” I answered. “I know when they return that they and their platoons will back me.”

“Two platoons against the whole Morrighese army?” Berdi questioned. “The citadelle would be surrounded in minutes.”

“Which is why I need evidence. The hall is defensible for a short time with the cabinet as hostage. All I need is a few minutes, if I can expose at least one of the traitors with evidence. Then the conclave might listen to everything I have to say.”

Gwyneth snorted. “Or you’d get an arrow in your chest before you got a chance to say anything at all.”

It was well known that during conclave sessions, guards in full regalia, armed with bows and arrows, were posted in two gallery towers that overlooked Aldrid Hall. An arrow had never been shot by them. It was ceremonial, another tradition held over from earlier times, when lords from across Morrighan convened—but the guards’ arrows