The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles 3)

I nodded. “Bless you, son.”

On my way back to the abbey, I used a little more digging to find out where Bryn and Regan had gone. More citadelle guards, easily spotted by their long red capes, were positioned on street corners and were happy to accept gifts of sweet frosted buns from a bent widow. Both princes, along with their squads, had gone to the City of Sacraments. It wasn’t far, only a few days’ ride, but still my spirits sank. I needed them, not just as my brothers who would back me, but as soldiers I could trust. As I walked away, I thought it odd. Cabinet members—not soldiers—were usually sent on kingdom business.

When I approached a group of soldiers, I recognized one of them. I had played cards with him in one of my late-night escapes—we had jested and laughed together. My confidence rose, and I boldly teased out more details of Bryn and Regan’s purpose in going to the City of Sacraments. I learned they were to dedicate a memorial stone for the crown prince and his fallen comrades. The soldier said their presence was necessary to soothe doubts about family allegiance that the betrayal by Princess Arabella had sown.

Another of the soldiers said, “She killed her own brother, you know? Plunged the sword into his Prince Walther’s chest herself.”

I stared at him, unable to stay hunched over my cane. “No, I didn’t know.”

His utter contempt rang in my ears. Her own brother. His comrades echoed his hatred. Princess Arabella was a traitor of the worst kind. I walked away, dazed, trying to understand how the Komizar’s terrible lie about my decision to marry him could transform into something even uglier. How could anyone believe I would kill Walther? But they did, and they harbored a seething revulsion toward me.

I felt the Komizar’s hands creeping down my arms, owning me, knowing me, still playing the game from far away—there’s always more to take—knowing how best to undo me.

My stomach rose into my throat, and I ducked behind a stall. I tore my scarf away and doubled over, vomiting, tasting the Komizar’s poison. I spat and wiped my mouth. What if it wasn’t just these soldiers who believed the lie?

What if everyone did?

What if even my own brothers did?

I’d never convince anyone of anything.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

PAULINE

I had told Berdi and Gwyneth I was going to the cemetery to see if Andrés was there. Though little information had been forthcoming, no harm had come from my visits with him either. All I had learned was that he was as surprised by the death of the soldier who had brought the news of Lia’s betrayal as Bryn and Regan had been. The soldier was a close comrade, and Andrés mourned his death too. When I asked if the soldier’s hurried comments about Lia before he died could have been misinterpreted, he said he didn’t know but that his father, the Viceregent, was distressed by the news and found it hard to believe. I wanted to go speak to the Viceregent myself, but I remembered Bryn’s words. Lie low. Stay away from the citadelle.

I would for a little longer, but there were some things I couldn’t put off. Whether it was prudent or not didn’t matter. With every passing day, it burned through me. I had to know, one way or the other.

“Hello, Mikael.”

He stopped mid-stride in the narrow alley behind the pub, a girl with beautiful auburn curls still clinging to his arm. He shook her loose and told her to go on, that he would meet her later.

He stared at me, my face still hidden in the shadows of my hood. But he knew my voice.

“Pauline.”

Hearing my name on his lips sent shivers swirling down my spine, every timbre of his voice as sweet and buttery smooth as I remembered.

“You didn’t come,” I said, barely able to form the words.

He stepped toward me, and I clutched the basket I held in front of my belly tighter. His expression held worry and remorse. “I had to reenlist, Pauline. I needed the money. My family—”

“You told me you had no family.”

He paused, looking down, but only briefly, as if ashamed. “I don’t like to talk about them.”

My heart tugged. “You could have told me.”

He changed the subject from family to us. “I’ve missed you terribly,” he said and took another step toward me, his hand reaching out, as if he’d already forgotten about the auburn-haired girl. I set the basket down and pushed back the cloak from my shoulders.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He stopped and stared at my rounded belly, the shock registering in his expression, the moment drawing out as long as a final breath, and then a short awkward puff of air escaped from his mouth. His arms that had just been reaching out to me folded neatly across his chest. “Congratulations,” he said, and then more carefully, “who’s the father?”

In those few words, for a fleeting moment, I wasn’t seeing Mikael at all, but Lia, her long hair disheveled around her shoulders, her eyes glistening, her breaths coming in frightened gulps, her voice as fragile as spring ice. He’s dead, Pauline. I am so sorry, he’s dead.

Mikael stared at me, waiting for a response. I was a virgin when he met me. He was well aware that he was the only one. His lips pressed tight, and his pupils shrank to sharp beads. I could see his thoughts spinning, smooth, silky, already renegotiating whatever I would say.