The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles #3) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,25

answered. “Just as you were lucky that I didn’t part your head from your neck when we parried in Sanctum Hall.”

Only stewing silence was returned by Kaden.

But then I noticed there was a strange brooding silence everywhere. My fingertips tingled. A sudden pall had fallen, as if someone had boxed my ears. Blood rushed to my temples. I turned my head, listening. And then, from somewhere faraway, the satisfied purr of an animal. You are ours. I looked at Rafe. Movement around me was drawn and slow, and the small hairs on my neck lifted.

“Stop,” I said softly.

Rafe pulled his horse to a halt, his eyes already sharp and alert. “Hold back,” he said to the others.

Our group of eight clung together uncertainly, a tight knot in the silence. Eight pairs of eyes searched the nearby ruins and the narrow spaces between. Nothing stirred.

I shook my head, thinking I had alerted everyone needlessly. We were all on edge—and tired.

And then a shrill howl split the air.

We spun to look behind us, our horses jostling and prancing for position in our constricted circle. At the end of the long road we had just come down, four horsemen sat poised, all equally spaced as if ready for a parade—or an advancement.

“Rahtan,” Kaden said. “They’re here.”

They were too far away to identify, but they clearly wanted us to see them.

“Only four?” Rafe asked.

“There’s more. Somewhere.”

Orrin and Jeb unhooked their bows from their packs. Rafe and Sven slowly drew their swords.

I swept aside my cloak and pulled both my knife and sword free. “Why are they just sitting there?”

Another piercing cry rang out, bouncing off ruins and raising gooseflesh on my arms. We turned the other direction to find what was almost a mirror image of what lay behind us. Six horsemen, but these were much closer. They sat like evenly spaced statues, cold and planted as if nothing could get past them.

“Bloody hell,” Sven said under his breath.

“Untie me,” Kaden whispered. “Now.”

“What are they waiting for?” Rafe asked.

“Her,” Griz answered.

“They’d rather take her alive than drag her back dead,” Kaden explained. “They’re giving you a chance to give her up before they kill us.”

Orrin grunted. “They’re assuming we’ll be the ones who are killed.”

It was a reasonable assumption. I recognized two of them by their long white hair. Trahern and Iver, the vilest Rahtan. We were outnumbered, their ten healthy well-armed men against our eight, three of whom were injured, including myself.

Rafe glanced to either side, looking at the crumbled ruins, but it was apparent that none offered quick defensible positions.

“If you make the slightest move, they’ll charge,” Kaden warned.

“Anything else we should know?” Rafe asked.

“You don’t have much time. They know we’re talking.”

“Keystone formation,” Rafe ordered, keeping his voice low and calm. “We take the six first, then Jeb and Tavish double back with me. Only when I give the word. Griz, cut Kaden loose on my signal.”

“Orrin—right,” Tavish said. “Jeb—left.”

The horses stamped, sensing the danger.

“Hold steady,” Sven whispered.

They worked together like a smooth machine, exchanging a few more words, their chiseled focus remaining on the Rahtan as they spoke.

Rafe finally turned to me, his weariness vanished, his eyes fierce with battle. “Lia, make a show of putting your sword away. You’re going to move forward as if we’re giving you up.” He turned to look at the riders behind us, then back to me. “Slowly. Ahead five lengths. No more. Then stop. Ready?” His eyes cut into me, a beat longer than we had time for. Trust me. It will be all right. I love you. A hundred things shining in his gaze that he didn’t have time to say.

I nodded and moved forward. Time turned to syrup, every hoof fall amplified, one length becoming a mile. I steeled my eyes on the Rahtan ahead, as if that would keep them in place. They didn’t move, waiting for me to come all the way to them. Yes, Trahern and Iver, but now I could also recognized Baruch, Ferris, and Ghier, only cruel guards before, now elevated to ride with the Rahtan. The sixth one I didn’t know. But Malich wasn’t among them. If he wasn’t here, maybe he was the one ruling Venda now. I had sheathed my sword as Rafe had ordered, but the knife was still in my hand, hidden behind the pommel of the saddle. Two lengths. Their horses pranced, impatient. Three lengths. They looked between one another, victorious. Four lengths. I was close enough to see their