The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles #2) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,25
hung from trees,
There were cities, large and beautiful, with sparkling towers that touched the sky.
Were they made of magic?
I was only a child myself. I thought they could hold a whole world. To me they were made of—
Yes, they were spun of magic and light and the dreams of gods.
And there was a princess?
I smile.
Yes, my child, a precious princess just like you. She had a garden filled with trees that hung with fruit as big as a man’s fist.
The child looks at me, doubtful.
She has never seen an apple but she has seen the fists of men.
Are there really such gardens, Ama?
Not anymore.
Yes, my child, somewhere. And one day you will find them.
—The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
CHAPTER TWELVE
I startled awake, gasping for air, and looked around, taking in the stone walls, the wooden floor, the heavy quilt still covering me, and the man’s shirt I wore for a nightgown. It wasn’t a dream. I really was here. I glanced at the rug on the floor next to me, empty, the blankets from last night neatly folded and returned to the top of the barrel.
Kaden was gone.
There had been a storm last night, winds like I had never heard before, loose bits of the city battering against walls. I thought I would never sleep, but then when I did, I must have slept hard, drawn into dreams of endless rides across a savanna, lost in grass waving far over my head, and stumbling upon Pauline on her knees praying for me. Then I was back in Terravin again, Berdi bringing me bowls of warm broth, rubbing my forehead, whispering, Look at the trouble you get into, but then her face transformed into my mother’s and she drew closer, her breath searing hot on my cheek—You’re a soldier now, Lia, a soldier in your father’s army. I thought I had sat up awake, but then beautiful, sweet Greta, a golden crown of braid circling about her head, walked toward me. Her eyes were blank, sightless, and blood dripped from her nose. She was trying to mouth Walther, but no sound would come out because an arrow pierced her throat.
But it was the last dream that actually woke me. It was hardly a dream at all, only a flash of color, a hint of movement, a sense I couldn’t quite grasp. There was a cold, wide sky, a horse, and Rafe. I saw the side of his face, a cheekbone, his hair blowing in the wind, but I knew he was leaving. Rafe was going home. It should have been a comfort, but instead it felt like a terrible loss. I wasn’t with him. He was leaving without me. I lay there gasping, wondering if it was only the Komizar’s prediction haunting me. The emissary has a better chance of being alive at month’s end than you do.
I threw back the quilt and jumped out of bed, inhaling deeply, trying to lift the weight on my chest. I looked around the room. I hadn’t heard Kaden leave, but neither had I heard him the night he came to kill me in my cottage while I slept. Silence was his strength, while it was my weakness. I crossed the room to the door and tried it, but it was locked. I went to the window and pushed open the shutter. A blast of cold air hit me, and goose bumps shivered up my arms. A glistening, dripping city was laid out before me, a raw, smoky pinkness to it in the predawn light.
This was Venda.
The monster was just waking, the soft underbelly beginning to rumble and stir. A horse hitched to a dray and led by a cloaked figure ambled down a narrow street below me. Far across the way, a woman swept a walk, water spraying out to the ground below. Dark, huddled figures stirred in shadows. The dim light bled onto the edges of parapets, dipped in crenelations, spilled across scaled walls and rutted muddy lanes, a reluctance to its slow crawl.
I heard a soft tap and turned. It was so faint I wasn’t sure where it came from. The door or somewhere outside below me? Another soft tap. And then I heard the scrape of a key in the lock. The door eased open a few inches, the rusty hinges whining. Another soft tap. I grabbed one of the wooden practice swords leaning against the wall and raised it, ready to strike if necessary. “Come in,” I called.