The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles 3)

“I said my good-byes last night.”

Griz was leading another group of settlers into the Cam Lanteux. Gwyneth would ride with the caravan too, and then she would continue on to Terravin. She had been helping me here in Venda but finally had to return home—and to Simone. It didn’t matter if she had to love her daughter from a distance. That was where her heart was. She’d promised Berdi she would send news of how the tavern was faring. But with all the caravans that had departed, it wasn’t lost on me that she left with the one led by the big ugly brute, as she still called him. Her wicked banter had frustrated Griz these past months, but he always seemed to come back for more, and I knew Gwyneth loved watching him struggle to maintain a scowl when a smile lurked in his eyes. They were a strange pair, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Griz took a side trip to Terravin.

“Jia!” Rhys squealed and reached out. His swift little fingers yanked a strand of hair from my cap, and he beamed, delighted with his prize. Kaden gently pried his fingers free.

A dawning rushed over me, and I smiled. “Look at us, Kaden. You, me, here in Venda, and you with a baby on your hip.”

He grinned. “Yes, I know. It occurred to me.”

“Strange how we can glimpse our future, but can never know all of it,” I said. “I suppose greater stories will have their way.”

His grin faded. “Are you all right?”

He caught me now and then. Looking into the distance, wondering, my thoughts thousands of miles from here. Remembering.

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Just headed to Sanctum Hall. I haven’t eaten yet.”

“I’ll be down in a bit,” he said.

I passed the Royal Scholar in the hall. He’d just come from the caverns. Argyris and the other scholars had been returned to Morrighan to face trial—and a rope. No books were burned in the kitchen ovens anymore, no matter how great or small their importance seemed to be.

“I’m working on that translation you wanted,” he said. “It appears to be a book of poetry.” I had given him the small ancient book that Aster had proudly stolen for me from the piles in the cavern. “The first poem is something about hope and feathers. I’ll bring it to you later.”

I smiled. A poem with wings?

How fitting that Aster had taken that one. I still imagined her every day, no longer as the forlorn angel with clipped wings, but as I had seen her when I walked that thin line between life and death. Aster, free and twirling in a meadow with long flowing hair.

Sanctum Hall, like everything in Venda, had changed too. Berdi had seen to that. It no longer stank of spilled ale, and now fresh rushes brightened the floor. The much-abused table still bore the marks of its past, but at least now it gleamed with a daily scrubbing and polish.

I crossed the room to a sideboard and fixed a plate from a buffet of hot parritch, boiled eggs, flatbreads, and fish caught from the river. At the end of the sideboard there was a plattter of bones. My fingers sifted through it, thinking of all the sacrifice.

Meunter ijotande. Never forgotten.

I slipped another bone onto my tether.

I ate alone at the table, looking at its length, the empty chairs, listening to the rare quiet, feeling full in ways I’d never thought possible. But in other ways … some things had taken hold of me that I couldn’t quite shake. Things like Terravin—a new beginning that had led to so much more.

I took my dishes to the sideboard and grabbed a rag, squeezing it out in the soapy water. A servant walked in, but I turned her away. “I’ll do it,” I told her, and she left.

I wiped the crumbs I had left on the table, but then continued to scrub, working my way to the other end.

Pauline walked in, her arms full of books, and dropped them on the table. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just cleaning up a bit.”

She grinned. “You look more like a kitchen helper than a busy ruler.”

“There’s little difference,” I said, and dropped the rag back in the soap pan. I surveyed the floor and reached for the broom propped against the wall.

“The floor doesn’t need sweeping,” she said.

“The queen says it does.”

Her lips pursed in mocking offense. “Then I guess you must sweep.”

She left, I assumed to get another load of books.

The sweet scent of Berdi’s stew hung in the air. There were still few luxuries in Venda, but her bottomless pots of stew were one, and as I swept, I saw a jeweled bay, heard the cry of gulls, remembered a gentle knock on my cottage door and a garland of flowers placed in my hands.