The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles 2)

“We’ll have to ride faster,” he said. “I’m told you ride well. But maybe that’s only when bison are bearing down on you?”

No doubt Griz and Finch had shared their narrow escape—and mine.

“I manage,” I said. “For a royal.” Though this horse was new to me, I dug in my heels and raced ahead, praying it would respond to my commands. I heard the Komizar galloping close behind me, and I pushed my horse faster. The air was icy crisp, stinging my cheeks, and I was grateful for the fur vest beneath my cloak. He met my pace and pulled slightly in front of me. I snapped my reins, and we ran head to head. I felt my horse still had vast stores of untapped power, and it was as eager as I was to show it, but I slowed just a bit, so the Komizar would think he had bested me, and then when he surged ahead, I returned to a trot. He circled back around, laughing, his face flushed with the cold, his dark-lashed eyes dancing at our small game.

He took his place beside me, and we continued on at a trot with the soldiers keeping pace a short distance behind us. We passed the occasional hovel, the grass so sparse, 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 bac

kbone 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 slash away at their hope?”

I looked at him, wondering why a man who seemed to feed on sowing fear was now so sensitively concerned with sowing hope in the hillfolk. Was it really just the coming winter that he was trying to prepare them for, or was he bolstering them for something else?

“I know what it means to hold on to hope, Komizar. Many times in crossing the Cam Lanteux, it was all that sustained me. I would not steal their hope, even if it comes at my expense.”

He eyed me with suspicion. “You’re a strange girl, Lia. Shrewd and calculating, Malich tells me, and adept at games, which I admire. But I do not admire lying.” Our gazes were locked, his black eyes trying to read every line of my face. “Do not disappoint me.” He clicked his reins and moved on.

As we got closer, the longhouse door opened and an old man limped out, aided by a crooked stick. I had noticed in Venda that there were few stooped adults with white hair. It seemed that the aged were a rare treasure. More people trickled out behind him. The man greeted the Komizar as an equal, not as one of his fearful groveling subjects.

“What brings you?” he asked.

“A few gifts to tide you through the winter.” The Komizar signaled a guard, who hefted a large tied bundle onto his shoulder and dropped it near the longhouse door.

“News?” the Komizar asked.

The old man shook his head. “The winds are sharp. They cut both rider and tongue. And the gods promise a hard winter.”