The Heart of Betrayal (The Remnant Chronicles 2)

“I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know what kind of fight we’ll face. With our numbers, they would be wise to lay down their arms, but if not, yes, he and many others will die.”

“By your hand.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about vengeance. Ever since Walther’s and Greta’s deaths, you’ve chased after revenge, telling me no matter what you did, it would never be enough. Your eyes glow with vengeance every time they fall on Malich.”

“But I don’t plan on killing a whole kingdom to get it.”

“It’s not going to happen that way. The Komizar and I have agreed that—”

“You have an agreement with the Komizar?” I laughed. “How wonderful for you. Yes, we all have our agreements with him. The Chancellor, the emissary, me. He seems very good at striking agreements. You once ridiculed me for not knowing my own borders. I was shamed by that truth, but my ignorance pales in comparison with yours. I’m sure Berdi, Gwyneth, and Pauline would be so relieved to know that you have an agreement.”

I spun and walked away.

“Lia,” he called after me, “I promise you, I won’t let any harm come to Berdi, Pauline, and Gwyneth.”

I paused. Without turning around, I accepted his promise with a single nod, then continued on my way, and though I wasn’t sure he could make any such claim, I held on to that small bit of hope. Even if Rafe and I didn’t make it, maybe Kaden would remember his promise to me.

On my way back to my room, I made a side trip to the caverns. There. Sometimes it takes a while to understand the truth whispering at your back. It felt like old times, slipping into the Royal Scholar’s study. Only this time when I took something, I didn’t leave a note.

And so Morrighan led the Remnant across the wilderness,

Listening to the gods for the path of safety.

And when at last they came to a place

Where heavy fruit the size of fists hung from trees,

Morrighan dropped to her knees, shedding tears,

Giving thanks, and uttering remembrances,

For all who were lost along the way,

And Aldrid fell down beside her,

Thanking the gods for Morrighan.

—Morrighan Book of Holy Text, Vol. V

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Once again I was alone and freezing, the fire in the gallery long turned to cold ash. I heard them calling outside, Jezelia. A story, Jezelia. The room grew pink with dusk.

He had laid it all out quite clearly.

It’s time now. You will say my words. See these things. Do these things.

I would be his pawn.

His army city swam in my vision and then Civica, destroyed, in ashes, the ruins of the citadelle rising like broken fangs on the horizon, plumes of smoke clouding the sky, my own mother a puddle in the midst of rubble, weeping, alone, and tearing her hair from her scalp. I blinked again and again, trying to make the images vanish.

She’s coming.

The words nestled full and warm beneath my ribs.

I heard Aster’s footsteps. They had a weight I knew, a sound that danced with need and hope, a sound as ancient as the ruins around me. She’s coming. They are coming. But now there were more footsteps, urgent. Too many. My chest tightened, and I sat down on the hearth, looking at the floor, trying to discern where the sounds were coming from. The hall? The outside walkways? It seemed as if they surrounded me.

“Miz? What are you doing in here? What happened to the fire? You’ll catch your death in here without your cloak.”