The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles 3)

“If my father dies—”

“You mean when your father dies. But I wouldn’t worry, it won’t come as soon as your own death. We need him a little longer—”

“If you surrender now, I will spare your life—”

The back of his hand swung, his jeweled fingers meeting my jaw, and I stumbled into the wall. Gwyneth and Pauline jumped forward. “Stay back!” I ordered.

“You spare my life?” he sneered. “You’re insane.”

I turned to face him again and smiled. “No, Chancellor, I only wanted to give you a chance. Now my obligation to the gods is done.” I briefly fluttered my lashes, as if the gods were speaking to me.

The doubt trailed through his eyes again, like a stalking animal he couldn’t quite shake.

“Take off your jacket,” he ordered.

I stared at him, wondering about his motive.

“Do it now,” he growled, “or I’ll have them do it for you.”

I pulled it off, letting it fall to the ground.

He nodded to the guards and they grabbed my arms and turned my back toward him. One of them yanked at my shirt, ripping the fabric from my shoulder. The silence stretched, marked only by his slow restrained breaths. I could feel his hatred burning into me.

The guards let go, pushing me forward, and the Chancellor said, “Kill them. Once it’s dark, take the bodies far outside the city and burn them. Make sure no trace of that thing on her shoulder is left.” As he turned to leave, the guards moved toward us, drawing thin silk ropes taut between their hands, a silent, bloodless way to dispose of us. But then there was a sound—the distant ringing of bells.

“Listen, Chancellor!” I said quickly, before he could leave. “Do you hear that?”

“The abbey bells,” he snapped with irritation. “So what?”

I smiled. “It’s an announcement. An important one from your office, no less. You didn’t happen to notice your seal was missing? The last of the bills are being posted. Citizens from all over the city are reading them as we speak. Princess Arabella has been captured. All citizens are invited to the trial and hanging tomorrow morning in the village plaza. It would be a shame indeed if you didn’t produce her. Embarrassing, even. How would you ever explain your incompetence?”

I watched a splotchy red patch on his neck spread to his cheeks and temples, like flames in a wildfire, out of control and consuming. “Wait!” he said to the guards, and ordered them out. The door slammed shut behind all of them, and I heard him yelling for the bills to be ripped down. But it was too late. He knew it was too late.

“Well done, sister,” Gwyneth said. “But tomorrow morning? You couldn’t have put the trial off a week?”

“And give them more time to find a way to dispose of us quietly? No. We’ll be lucky if we last until morning. They would never give me a chance to speak at trial. All this does is buy us a few more hours, but at least now they will be frantic, and perhaps making stupid mistakes.”

I felt my way along the wall until my foot nudged Gwyneth’s leg. “Get up,” I said. “Both of you. In the meantime, I need to show you some moves I learned from a Dalbreck soldier—ways to kill a man without using a weapon for when the guards come back.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Footsteps tramped down the stone passageway only an hour later. I’d thought we’d have more time. They were loud and hurried. Angry. We all stood, braced against the opposite wall waiting for the door to open, dirt gathered into our fists, ready to fling into their eyes.

“When the door opens, give your eyes a chance to adjust to the light,” I said. “We only get one chance at this. Make your aim count.”

Pauline whispered prayers while Gwyneth uttered curses. They had ripped several strips from Gwyneth’s dress and woven them into a tight thin rope, knotting the ends so they would each have a good grip on it. The guards wouldn’t be the only one with garrotes. My left hand could do little, but I could still do plenty of damage to a windpipe with the knuckles of my right hand. I had told Gwyneth and Pauline the weak points I had noted on the guards. Besides their eyes, their groins, noses, and knees were all vulnerable—and their throats. They wore only weapons, no armor. At some point in our planned melee, I hoped to secure the weapon of at least one of the disabled guards.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

Keys rattled.

The lock rattled.

Muffled curses. More rattling. Hurry.

My grip tightened on the dirt in my hand. Hurry! Something about it didn’t sound right.

An angry jangle of keys.