The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles #2) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,136

walked to the north wall, knowing I was already late. There would be no stories this morning, only the shortest of remembrances so the guards in the square would suspect nothing, and then I’d be on my way, but when I reached the wall, a pervasive silence spread through the crowd. It spread to me, like hands reaching out, taking mine. Tarry, Jezelia. Tarry for a story. I alone possessed the last surviving copy of the Song of Venda. It wasn’t my story to keep. Whether babble or not, I had to give it back to them before I left.

“Gather close, brothers and sisters of Venda,” I called out to them. “Hear the words of the mother of your land. Hear the Song of Venda.”

* * *

And so I said it, verse after verse, holding none of it back. I spoke of the Dragon feeding on the blood of the young, drinking the tears of their mothers, his cunning tongue and his deadly grip. I told them of hungers of another kind, ones that were never sated or quenched.

I saw heads nod in understanding, and puzzled guards looking at one another, trying to make sense of it. I remembered Dihara’s words, This world, it breathes you in … shares you. But there are some who are more open to the sharing than others. For the guards and many who stood below, my words were only babble, just as Venda’s had been so long ago.

As I spoke, a breeze circled around. I could feel it inside me, stretching, reaching, then moving on again, traveling over the crowd, through the square and down the streets, through the valleys beyond and across the hills.

For the Dragon will conspire,

Wearing his many faces,

Deceiving the oppressed, gathering the wicked,

Wielding might like a god, unstoppable,

Unforgiving in his judgment,

Unyielding in his rule,

A stealer of dreams,

A slayer of hope.

Until one comes who is mightier,

The one sprung from misery,

The one who was weak,

The one who was hunted,

The one marked with claw and vine,

The one named in secret,

The one called Jezelia.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and then Venda was there, standing beside me. She reached out and took my hand. “The rest of the song,” she whispered, and then she spoke more verses.

Betrayed by her own,

Beaten and scorned,

She will expose the wicked,

For the Dragon of many faces

Knows no boundaries.

And though the wait may be long,

The promise is great,

For the one named Jezelia,

Whose life will be sacrificed

For the hope of saving yours.

And then she was gone.

I wasn’t sure if I was the only one who had heard her, or even seen her, but I stood there dazed, trying to grasp the enormity of what she had said. In an instant, I knew those were the verses ripped from the last page of the book. I braced against the wall, steadying myself with this revelation. Sacrificed. The murmur from the crowds grew louder, but then movement caught my eye and my gaze jumped up to a high wall across the way. Chievdars, governors, and Rahtan were watching me. I drew in a startled breath. Their meeting had adjourned early.

“Miz?”

I turned. Aster stood in the middle of the terrace. The Komizar stood behind her with a knife held to her chest.

“I’m sorry, Miz. I just couldn’t leave you like you told me. I—” He pressed the tip of the knife against her, and she blanched with pain.

“Dear gods, no!” I cried, locking my eyes onto the Komizar’s. I pleaded with him, delicate, desperate, and slow, stepping closer, trying to bring his focus back to me. I held on to him fiercely with my eyes and smiled, trying to somehow dispel this madness. “Please, let her go, sher Komizar. You and I can talk. We can—”

“I told you, without me, there would be no more performances.”

“Then punish me. She has nothing to do with this.”

“You, my little bird? At the moment you’re far too valuable. She, on the other hand…” He shook his head, and before I could even fathom what he was doing, he plunged the knife into her chest.

I screamed and ran toward her, catching her as she slipped from his arms. “Aster!” I fell to the ground with her, cradling her in my lap. “Aster.” I pressed my hands to the wound in her chest, trying to stop the flow of blood.

“Tell my bapa I tried, Miz. Tell him I’m no traitor. Tell him we—”

Her last words lay frozen on her lips, her crystal eyes bright, but her breath still. I