The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles #2) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,121

whole kingdom to get it.”

“It’s not going to happen that way. The Komizar and I have agreed that—”

“You have an agreement with the Komizar?” I laughed. “How wonderful for you. Yes, we all have our agreements with him. The Chancellor, the emissary, me. He seems very good at striking agreements. You once ridiculed me for not knowing my own borders. I was shamed by that truth, but my ignorance pales in comparison with yours. I’m sure Berdi, Gwyneth, and Pauline would be so relieved to know that you have an agreement.”

I spun and walked away.

“Lia,” he called after me, “I promise you, I won’t let any harm come to Berdi, Pauline, and Gwyneth.”

I paused. Without turning around, I accepted his promise with a single nod, then continued on my way, and though I wasn’t sure he could make any such claim, I held on to that small bit of hope. Even if Rafe and I didn’t make it, maybe Kaden would remember his promise to me.

On my way back to my room, I made a side trip to the caverns. There. Sometimes it takes a while to understand the truth whispering at your back. It felt like old times, slipping into the Royal Scholar’s study. Only this time when I took something, I didn’t leave a note.

And so Morrighan led the Remnant across the wilderness,

Listening to the gods for the path of safety.

And when at last they came to a place

Where heavy fruit the size of fists hung from trees,

Morrighan dropped to her knees, shedding tears,

Giving thanks, and uttering remembrances,

For all who were lost along the way,

And Aldrid fell down beside her,

Thanking the gods for Morrighan.

—Morrighan Book of Holy Text, Vol. V

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Once again I was alone and freezing, the fire in the gallery long turned to cold ash. I heard them calling outside, Jezelia. A story, Jezelia. The room grew pink with dusk.

He had laid it all out quite clearly.

It’s time now. You will say my words. See these things. Do these things.

I would be his pawn.

His army city swam in my vision and then Civica, destroyed, in ashes, the ruins of the citadelle rising like broken fangs on the horizon, plumes of smoke clouding the sky, my own mother a puddle in the midst of rubble, weeping, alone, and tearing her hair from her scalp. I blinked again and again, trying to make the images vanish.

She’s coming.

The words nestled full and warm beneath my ribs.

I heard Aster’s footsteps. They had a weight I knew, a sound that danced with need and hope, a sound as ancient as the ruins around me. She’s coming. They are coming. But now there were more footsteps, urgent. Too many. My chest tightened, and I sat down on the hearth, looking at the floor, trying to discern where the sounds were coming from. The hall? The outside walkways? It seemed as if they surrounded me.

“Miz? What are you doing in here? What happened to the fire? You’ll catch your death in here without your cloak.”

I looked up, and the gallery was full. Aster stood just a few feet away, but behind her a hundred, a thousand milled, a city of another kind spread out. The gallery had no walls, no end, a never-ending horizon, thousands drawing close, watching, waiting, generations, and standing among them, only an arm’s length behind Aster, was Venda.

“They’re waiting for you, Miz. Outside. Don’t you hear them?”

My hair lifted from my shoulders; wind breezed through the gallery, swirling, tickling at my neck.

Siarrah.

Jezelia.

Their voices rose, cutting through the wind, the lamentations of mothers, sisters, and daughters of generations past, the same voices I heard in the valley when I buried my brother, remembrances that rent distant heaven and bleeding earth. Prayers not woven of sounds alone but of stars and dust and evermore.

Yes, I hear them.

“Aster,” I whispered, “turn around and tell me what you see.”

She did as I asked, then shook her head. “I see a mighty big floor in need of a stiff broom.” She stooped and picked up a scrap of red cloth left behind by the dressmakers. “And this here remnant.”

She brought the scrap to me, placing the ragged threads in my hands.

And then the gallery was a gallery again, the walls solid, the thousands gone. I held the fabric in my fist.

All ways belong to the world. What is magic but what we don’t yet understand?

“You all right, Miz?”

I stood. “Aster, would you fetch my cloak for me? The gallery terrace will give me a