The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles 3)

It was both trap and opportunity. We knew Vendans had infiltrated the citadelle guard, but we needed assurance they weren’t also among the ranks. The Field Marshal and other officers could vouch for the majority, but newer recruits who claimed to be from the farther reaches of Morrighan were more of an uncertainty. Lia had addressed them in Morrighese at first, but then switched tongues as effortlessly as a breath. A dozen of us stood on either side of her. It appeared we were there for support, but we had been carefully watching the soldiers, their eyes, movements, and twitches, the clues that would reveal understanding or confusion.

Kaden continued the address, not just to root out, but to appeal to Vendans like himself, who might be swayed. He and Lia had arrived at this strategy together, because Vendans working with us could be useful.

“Trust the Siarrah, my brothers,” Jeb interpreted quietly. “The Meurasi have welcomed her, as have the clans of the plains and valleys. They trust her. The Komizar is the one the Siarrah fights, not our brothers and sisters who are still in Venda. Now is your chance to step forward and fight with us. Remain silent, and you will die.”

Most of the soldiers turned to each other in confusion, not understanding the sudden change of tongue. But a few remained focused, their attention locked on Kaden.

Second row, a frozen gaze. The soldier’s pupils were pinpoints. Worried. Understanding. But he didn’t come forward.

Another on the far right.

“Third row, second from end,” Pauline whispered.

And then in the first row, a hesitant step forward.

This prompted another in the middle.

Only four.

“Back row, left end,” Lia whispered to Kaden. “Keep speaking.”

Five Vendan soldiers were found among the ranks, and with the eight citadelle guards, that totaled thirteen imposters—which in itself was a feat. Learning to speak flawless Morrighese could take years. The troops were dismissed while other soldiers moved in to detain the suspected Vendans.

With Lia’s first break in three hours, her aunt Bernette swooped in with medicine. Lia took a chug from the bottle, circles still under her eyes. I watched her wipe the corner of her mouth, the tired blink of her eyes, the leveling of her shoulders as she faced her next task—interrogating the prisoners again, hoping one would slip with information or turn on the others as the court physician had. Suddenly, Terravin was selfishly fierce within me, the air, the tastes, every moment, every word between us, and I wished we could have it again, if only for a few hours, wished I really was the farmer that she had wanted me to be, a farmer who knew how to grow melons, and she was a tavern maid who had never heard of Venda.

I watched her walk away with Kaden to speak with the Vendans, and then I left in another direction. We weren’t in Terravin and never would be again. Wishes were for farmers, not kings.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

PAULINE

The Timekeeper was beside himself. He stood off to the side of the dais, fidgeting, waiting for Lia to finish. He had been exonerated, but now he had to follow Lia instead of dictate to her. His pocket watch and ledger had become useless. Tradition and protocol had always been the wheels and grease of Morrighan. Now Lia was.

Her aunt Bernette was standing beside him, waiting too. I saw pride in her expression but also worry. No one was quite sure how to navigate this new Lia. She moved about Civica with force and purpose and no apology. No words were bit back. She didn’t have the time. As far as I could see, no one doubted her—she had saved the king’s life and exposed traitors who had been plotting right beneath their noses—but I knew they wondered what she had seen and endured these past months. She was a curiosity.

As was I.

I saw the glances and heard the whispers about Pauline, the quiet, meek attendant who had always followed the rules. What had become of that girl? I wondered myself. Some parts of her were still here, other parts gone forever, and maybe others, I was still trying to find. It wasn’t just tradition and protocol that had been shattered, but also trust.

When the last address was finished, we made our way down the steps at the end of the dais.

“Hold up,” Gwyneth called to Natiya, then sidled up to me. “When are you coming back to the citadelle? I don’t like you off by yourself at the abbey.”

“Natiya’s there too.”

Gwyneth grunted. “And that’s supposed to comfort me? She’s a kettle ready to explode.”

We both watched Natiya, who still scanned the dispersing troops, her hand resting on the hilt of the sword that dangled from her hip. Ours weren’t the only stares she drew. A young girl armed with three weapons—and happy to flaunt them—was not a common sight for anyone in Civica.

“She’s finding her way,” I said.

Gwyneth’s eyes narrowed. We both knew Natiya’s history. “I suppose she is,” she sighed, and turned back to me, saying she was taking Natiya back to the citadelle. “She needs a break from her murderous ways.” She shot one last pointed look at me. “I’ll see you there too—with all your belongings. Right?”

“We’ll see,” I answered.

A frown pulled at the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t push the matter further. She strolled over to Natiya and slung her arm over her shoulder. “Come on, you bloodthirsty imp. Gwyneth’s going to teach you a few new things about subtlety today.”

I left in the opposite direction. I was just past the statue of Piers at the gate entrance when I heard someone call my name.