The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles #2) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,29

passageways after centuries of being built and rebuilt, some with dead ends and deadly drops, so I should stay close. Many of the walls told stories of their ruin. The stacked rubble sometimes offered up the macabre, like a sculptured arm or a partially visible head of stone blankly staring out from the wall like an ageless prisoner, or a piece of engraved marble block with a note from another time, the letters dripping away like tears. But they were only stone, the same as any other, repurposed to build up the city, an available resource, as Kaden called them. Still, as we entered another dim passageway, I sensed something else and stopped, pretending to adjust the lace of my boot. I pressed my back against the wall. A beat. A warning. A whisper.

Was I simply spooked by a ghoulish hallway?

Jezelia, you’re here.

I stood abruptly, almost losing my balance.

“Coming?” Kaden asked.

The thrum disappeared, but the air was cold in its wake. I looked around. Only the scuffle of our movement filled the passage. Yes, spooked, that was all. Kaden moved forward through the passage again, and I followed him. He was in his element, that was certain, as comfortable walking through this strange city as I was disoriented. How foreign Terravin must have been to him. And yet it wasn’t.

He had easily fit in. His Morrighese was flawless, and he had sat back in the tavern ordering an ale like it was a second home to him. Was that why he thought I could just slip into this life as if my old one never existed? I wasn’t a chameleon like Kaden, who could become a new person just by crossing a border.

We walked up a winding flight of stairs and emerged in a square similar to the one we’d arrived in yesterday, but of course it wasn’t square—nothing in Venda was. On the far side, I could see stables with horses being led in and out by soldiers. Loose chickens scratched and strutted, feathers ruffling as they skipped to avoid the horses. Two spotted hogs rooted in a pen near us, and ravens twice the size of any in Morrighan squawked from their perch high on a tower overlooking the square. I spotted the Komizar in the distance, directing some wagons that were rolling through gates as if he were a sentry. For the leader of a kingdom, he seemed to have his hands in everything.

I didn’t see Rafe, which brought me some uneasy relief. At least he wasn’t here with a rope around his neck, but that didn’t mean he was safe. Where had they put him? All I knew was that he was somewhere near the Komizar’s quarters in a secure room. It might be no more than a barbaric cell. As we approached, the guards, governors, and Rahtan saw the Komizar stop and turn toward us. They turned too. I felt the weight of the Komizar’s scrutiny. His eyes rolled over me and my new attire. When we stopped at the edge of the crowd, he strolled over to give me a more critical inspection. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear last night. Certain luxuries, like clothing and shoes, have to be earned.”

“She earned them,” Kaden said, nearly cutting off the Komizar’s words.

There was a drawn-out hushed moment, and then the Komizar threw his head back and laughed. The others did too, boisterous guffaws, one governor punching Kaden in the shoulder. My cheeks burned. I wanted to kick Kaden’s other shin, but his explanation kept the boots on my feet. Just like soldiers in a tavern, the governors enjoyed their coarse entertainment.

“Surprising,” the Komizar said under his breath, shooting me a questioning glance. “Maybe royals do have some use, after all.”

Calantha approached, followed by four soldiers leading horses. I recognized the Morrighese Ravians, more booty from the massacre. “These are the ones?” the Komizar asked.

“The worst of the lot,” Calantha answered. “Alive but injured. Their wounds are festering.”

“Take them to the Velte quarterlord for butchering,” he ordered. “Make sure he distributes the meat fairly—and make sure they know it’s a gift from the Sanctum.”

I saw that the horses were hurt, but the injuries were gashes that could be cleaned and dressed by a surgeon—not mortal wounds. He dismissed her and walked over to the wagons, waving for the Council to follow him, but I saw Calantha’s lone pale eye linger on him, the hesitation as she turned away herself. Longing? For him? I looked at the