The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles 2)

“Their loss, our gain,” the Komizar said cheerfully.

The small bit of turnip I had swallowed seemed stuck in my chest. It took a moment for me to truly focus on the contents, but when I did, I saw the blue and black colors of Dalbreck emblazoned on shields and banners—and the lion—whose claw I bore on my back. The haul was almost as great as the one from my brother’s company, and even though these weren’t my countrymen, I felt my grief anew. Around me, greed glowed in the chievdars’ and governors’ faces. Even this action by the Komizar was not just about booty, but again about fervor. Another kind. Like the scent of blood given to a pack of dogs.

As the last barrow runners set down their goods, Rafe’s chair screeched back and toppled behind him as he stood. The sudden crash turned every head toward him. He walked over to a cart, his chest heaving, looking at the contents. He pulled a long sword from a pile, and the sound of steel rang in the air.

The Komizar slowly stood. “You have something you wish to say, Emissary?”

Rafe’s eyes blazed, their blue ice cutting through the Komizar. “These are my countrymen you’ve slaughtered,” he said, his tone as frigid as his gaze. “You have an agreement with the prince.”

“On the contrary, Emissary. I may or may not have an agreement with your prince. Your claim hasn’t yet proven true. On the other hand, I definitely do not have an agreement with your king. He’s still my enemy, and he’s the one sending patrols out to attack my soldiers. At the moment, everything is still status quo between us, including your very tenuous position.” He held a hand out toward a guard, and the guard threw the Komizar a sword.

He looked back at Rafe, casually testing the sword in his grip. “But maybe you’re only wishing for some sport? It’s been a long time since we have had any entertainment within these walls.” He took a step toward Rafe. “I wonder just how good a swordsman a court emissary might be.”

Snickers rolled through the room.

Oh, by the gods, no. Put the sword down, Rafe. Put it down now.

“Not very good,” Rafe answered, but he didn’t put the sword down. Instead he tested the grip in his hand with as much threat as the Komizar.

“In that case, I’ll pass you on to my Assassin. He seems eager for sport as well, and not as accomplished as I am with this particular weapon.” He tossed the sword to Kaden, and with lightning reflexes, Kaden stood and caught it. He was more than accomplished.

“First blood,” the Komizar said.

I found myself out of my seat, moving toward them, but then was caught in the iron grip of Governor Obraun. “Sit down, girl,” he hissed, and he shoved me back into my seat.

Kaden stepped toward Rafe, and all the young barrow runners scrambled to the outer reaches of the hall. Rafe glanced at me, and I knew he saw the pleading in my eyes—put it down—but he wrapped both hands securely around the grip and stepped forward anyway, meeting Kaden in the middle of the room.

The long-repressed animosity between them was thick in the air. My mouth went dry. Kaden raised his sword with both hands, a moment’s pause as each assessed the other, and then the fight was on. The fierce clang of steel on steel reverberated through the hall, blow after blow. It seemed nothing like a match intended to draw only a drop of blood.

Rafe’s swings were powerful, deadly, more like a relentless battering ram. Kaden met the blows, but after a few strikes began to lose ground. He deftly sidestepped, whirled, and swung, nearly slicing Rafe in the ribs, but Rafe expertly blocked the blade with amazing speed and threw Kaden back. I could feel the fury flying off Rafe like fiery sparks. He swung, and the tip of his sword caught Kaden’s shirt, ripping it open on one side, but no blood. Kaden advanced again, fast and furious, and their clanging blows chattered through my teeth.

The onlookers were no longer quiet. The dull roar of their commentary accompanied each ringing assault, but the governor suddenly shouted out above them all, “Watch your step, emissary swine!” and then laughed.

“Shut up!” I yelled, afraid it would distract Rafe, and then he did seem to falter, his blows not coming as fast or as strong, until at last Kaden backed him up to a wall, and fumbling under a series of strikes, Rafe lost hold of his sword, and it clattered to the floor. Kaden pressed the tip of his sword just under Rafe’s chin. Both of their chests heaved with exertion, and their gazes were locked. I was afraid to say anything, for fear my voice alone would cause Kaden to plunge the sword into Rafe’s throat.

“First blood. Farmer,” Kaden said, and he swiped his sword downward, nicking Rafe’s shoulder. A bright red stain spread across Rafe’s shirt, and Kaden walked away.

There were shouts of victory among Kaden’s comrades, and the Komizar congratulated them both for an entertaining match. “Strong start, Emissary. Weak finish. But don’t feel too bad. It’s what I’d expect of court puffery. Most of your worries and battles are momentary and don’t require Vendan endurance.”

I fell back against my chair. My brow was damp, and my shoulders ached. I saw the governor and his guard studying me, no doubt thinking I had been rooting for my fellow swine. I glared at them both. The Komizar told Calantha to see to the cut on Rafe’s shoulder, not wishing his emissary to die of blood poisoning just y

et, and he lifted a mug to Kaden. I saw a smug, knowing glance pass between them. Whatever quarrel had recently passed, it was now mended. I would serve them both.

In hell I would.

A practice sword could bash his skull in as easily as a steel one. This time I wouldn’t be aiming for his shin. I stood and left, my assigned escorts trailing on my heels.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

KADEN

I saw her leave. The evening between us was far from over. I tried to follow, but everyone wanted to gloat with me about my easy victory over the emissary.

Easy.

The thought made my blood boil all over again.

By his third swing, I knew I wasn’t fighting an emissary. By his fifth, I knew he wasn’t even an average soldier. By the tenth strike, I knew I was going to lose. But suddenly his attack softened, and he made stupid mistakes. He didn’t lose. He let me win. Preserving his identity as a foppish emissary was more important to him than parting my head from my shoulders—and I knew that was a prize he very much desired.