The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles #2) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,118
the Assassin standing in the shadow of the colonnade. He stood there with no apparent destination. Just watching us. And even after Griz had long passed, he continued to look in our direction.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
It happened when I took my boots off. The heavy clunk of the heels hitting the floor. The shoes. The whisper. The memory. The knowing chill that had settled across my shoulders the first time I heard their footsteps. Reverence and restraint.
It hit me suddenly and violently, and I thought I was going to be sick.
I leaned over the chamber pot, a damp sweat springing to my brow.
They had changed everything but their shoes.
I swallowed the salty sick taste on my tongue and fanned my anger instead. It flamed to a rage and propelled me forward. I bypassed the guards and used the hidden passage. Where I was going, I could not have an escort.
* * *
This time when I strode through the catacombs and then down into the cavern where piles of books waited to be burned, I gave no care to the loudness of my footsteps. When I got there, no one was in the outer room sorting books, but the far room was dimly lit. I saw at least one robed figure within, hunched over a table.
The inner room was almost as large as the first, with several piles of its own waiting to be hauled away and burned. There were eight robed figures within. I stood at the entrance watching them, but they were so consumed with their tasks they didn’t notice me. Their hoods were drawn, as was their practice, supposedly a symbol of humility and devotion, but I knew the purpose was as much to block out others so they could remain focused on their difficult work. Their deathly work.
The priest I had met with back in Terravin had sensed something was amiss, even if he hadn’t known exactly what it was. I wouldn’t speak to the other priests of this matter. They might not all agree where loyalties lie. I realized now that he had tried to warn me, but if the Komizar had coaxed these men here with promises of riches, I might be able to sway their greedy hearts with greater treasures.
I looked down at their shoes, almost hidden by their brown robes. They seemed out of place here instead of tucked behind polished desks.
I had grabbed a large volume from one of the piles of discards as I walked in, and now I threw it to the ground. The loud smack echoed through the room, and both the seated and standing scholars turned to see me. They showed no alarm, not even surprise, but the seated scholars left their chairs to stand with the others.
I stopped in front of them, their faces still hidden in the shadows of their hoods. “I would expect at least a cursory bow from subjects of Morrighan when their princess addresses them.”
The tallest one in the middle spoke for them all. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find us down here. How well I remember your wanderings in Civica.” His voice was vaguely familiar.
“Show your traitorous faces,” I ordered. “As your lone sovereign in this wretched kingdom, I command it.”
The tall one stepped forward. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“But you most certainly have. Your new attire is decidedly plainer.”
He sighed. “Yes, I do miss our embroidered silk robes, but we had to leave those behind. These are much more practical here.”
He pushed back his hood, and my stomach turned with nausea. He was my tenth-year tutor, Argyris. One by one, the others pushed back their hoods too. These weren’t just any scholars from remote regions. These were the elite inner circle, trained by the Royal Scholar himself. The Royal Scholar’s second assistant, the lead illuminator, my fifth- and eighth-year tutors, the library archivist, two of my brothers’ tutors, all scholars who had left their positions, presumably for other work in Sacristas throughout Morrighan. Now I knew where they had really gone, and maybe worse, I had known early on that they weren’t trustworthy. Back in Civica, I had felt agitation in their presence. These were the scholars I had always hated, the ones who filled me with dread, the ones who wrestled the Holy Text into our heads with all the grace of a bull, and with none of the tenderness or sincerity I heard in Pauline’s voice as she sang remembrances. These before me shredded