The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles #2) - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,71

the way so little traveled, there was hardly a path at all. The small stone houses had scrabbled gardens and swoop-backed horses with not enough meat on their ribs to garner a second glance from a wolf. The landscape was harsh, stark—it was a wonder that anyone was able to scratch out a life here. But there were occasional fingers of forest and slivers of earth that were fertile and green, and as we breached a rise, I spotted the hamlet that was our destination. A nest of thatch-roofed huts huddled into a hillside, and a stand of pines hovered over them. A longhouse stood apart from the huts, and smoke rose in lazy circles from its chimney.

“Sant Cheville,” the Komizar said. “The hillfolk in hamlets like these are the poorest but toughest of our breed. The Sanctum may be the heart, but this is the backbone of Venda. Word spreads quickly among the hillfolk. They are our eyes and ears.”

I stared at the small cluster of huts. It was the kind of hamlet I could have passed a hundred times in Morrighan and ignored, but looking at it now, something beat within me, a bewildering but urgent need. My horse pranced nervously out of step, as if he felt it too. The breeze swirled around my neck, heavy and cold, and I saw a hole widening, deepening, swallowing me up. I knew you would come. I was struck with the same fear and frenzy as on the day I passed the graveyard with Pauline. My fingers tightened on the reins. We’re all part of a greater story too. One that transcends the soil, the wind, time. I didn’t want to be part of this story. I wanted to run back to Terravin. Back to Civica. Back to anywhere but—

This is the backbone of Venda.

I tugged on the reins, stopping my horse, my breath coming in gasps. “Why did you bring me here?” I asked.

The Komizar looked at me, perturbed at the sudden stop. “It serves Venda. That’s all you need to know.”

He clicked the reins, moving us forward again until we were a dozen lengths from the longhouse. He stopped and turned to the soldiers. “Keep her here. In plain view.” He rode down to the hamlet with a soldier following close behind and dismounted, speaking with those who had emerged from their homes. We couldn’t hear what was said from where we waited, but it was clear the villagers were happy to see him. He turned and pointed at me, then talked with them again. The people peered at me, nodding, and one man was so bold as to slap the Komizar on the back, a slap that looked a little too much like the Komizar had just met with victory. He left a sack of flour and barley and returned to where we waited.

“Am I to know what you told them?” I asked.

He waved the soldiers to follow, and we moved on past the hamlet. “The hillfolk are a superstitious lot,” he said. “I may disdain such magical thinking, but they still cling to it. A princess of the enemy, with the gift no less, they take as a sign that the gods are favoring Venda. It fills them with hope, and hope can fill their stomachs as well as bread. Sometimes it’s all they have through a long bitter winter.”

I stopped my horse, refusing to go farther. “You still haven’t said what you told them about me.”

“I told them you ran from the enemy swine to join our ranks, called by the gods themselves.”

“You lying—”

He reached out and grabbed me, almost pulling me from my saddle. “Careful, Princess,” he hissed, his face close to mine. “Do not forget who you are when you speak—nor who I am. I’m the Komizar, and I’ll give them a morsel of whatever they need to fill their growling bellies. Do you understand?” The horses jostled beneath us, and I feared I would fall to the ground between them.

“Yes,” I answered. “Perfectly.”

“Good, then.”

He released me, and we traveled on for several miles until the next hamlet came into view.

“So is this how it shall go all day?” I asked. “Am I never to meet the backbone of Venda, or will I only be pointed at with your long, bony finger?”

He looked down briefly at his gloved hands, and a sliver of satisfaction warmed me. “You’re hot-tempered,” he said, “and not mindful of your mouth. Could I trust you, or would you