The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles #3) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,134

weapon cabinet. The lock flew into a wall, and the cabinet banged open, but then he stopped, seeming to sense me at the same time. He turned, his eyes finding mine, and then his attention dropped to my bandaged hand. Looking down, I saw that my trousers and shirt were covered in blood. He crossed the room, his steps measured. Calculation. For all his zeal in shattering the lock, there was restraint in his movements as he approached me.

The stiffness of his stride.

The pull of his shoulders.

Holding back.

That’s what I saw in his movement, but not what I saw in his gaze when he stopped in front of me. In his eyes I saw him drawing me into his arms, his lips lowering to mine, a kiss that would never end, holding me until the kingdoms vanished and the world stood still, being everything we had ever been to each other. Before.

I waited. Expected. Wanted.

Some things last. The things that matter.

And yet he held back. Distant. A king. A soldier calculating his next move.

“There isn’t time to explain,” he said.

“I don’t need an explanation. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

He glanced at my hand. “We can wait and regroup, or move forward now. It’s your decision.”

I surveyed his soldiers in the room. “How many do you have?”

“A hundred, but they’re—”

“I know,” I said. “They’re the best.”

There were only hours left before the last session of the conclave ended and the lords dispersed back to their homes. Now was my last chance to speak to them all. Minutes counted.

“My brothers are headed into an ambush. My father’s dying. And the Komizar is on his way. There’s no more time to wait.”

“The Komizar? The bridge is fixed?”

I nodded.

He lifted my chin, turning my face toward the window. “You’re pale. How much of this blood is yours?”

Most of it, but I heard a perilous edge to his voice and decided against the truth. “Most is Malich’s. He got the worst of it. He’s dead.”

“Then you’re able to carry a weapon?”

“Yes,” I said, sheathing a sword Kaden handed me, feeling like my movements had already become their movements.

The others had finished their preparations and gathered behind Rafe, waiting for my answer too. Six of Rafe’s men, including Jeb, were now outfitted as citadelle guards. The rest of them wore the plain rough-spun cloaks favored by the local farmers and merchants, all in different shades and styles so as not to draw attention. Tavish and Orrin wore similar garb, as did Sven. Pauline and Gwyneth were belted with weapons and had donned cloaks too.

This was it, I thought, and terror rose in my throat.

“She stays,” I said pointing to Natiya.

She flew forward, enraged.

Kaden grabbed her from behind pinning her to his chest. “Listen to her, Natiya,” he said. “Listen. Don’t make her look over her shoulder with worry for you. She will. We all have our weaknesses, and you will be hers. Please. Your day will come.”

Her eyes puddled with tears, and her gaze locked on mine. “Today is my day.” Her voice wobbled with anger. She understood little of the workings of the court, nor who had betrayed whom. She knew only that she wanted justice, but even today could not give her back what she had lost.

“No,” I said, “not today. I see many tomorrows for you, Natiya, days I will need you at my side, but this is not one of them. Please, go back to the abbey and wait with Berdi.”

Her lip trembled. She was thirteen years old and ready to fight the world, but she saw I wouldn’t be moved and angrily turned away, leaving for the abbey.

I looked back at Rafe.

He nodded. “Let’s go get some traitors.”

* * *

We circled behind the outbuilding, walking through the village, Rafe on one side of me, Kaden on the other. A wagon trudged alongside us, a wheelbarrow pushed a little farther ahead, and still more followed behind with burlap sacks slung over shoulders, their supposed wares spilling over the top. Our boots tapped an uneven beat on the cobblestones; the wagon wheels creaked and bumped; our cloaks flapped in the wind, every noise sounding like a herald announcing our approach and yet somehow we blended in with citizens going about their business.

As we walked, more fell into step with us, waiting and ready, looking like merchants headed for the marketplace, and I wondered how Rafe had been able to assemble such a squad—not just soldiers but performers as well, perceiving the smallest