The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles 3)

Kings and prisoners did not share dances, at least not in any world I wanted to be part of.

* * *

I lay across my bed, stripped down to the soft comfort of my chemise, writing down the verses from the Song of Venda that had been ripped from the book. After so many years, I was finally returning her original words where they were meant to be. They squeezed onto the back side of the torn page.

Betrayed by her own,

Beaten and scorned,

She will expose the wicked,

For the Dragon of many faces

Knows no boundaries.

And though the wait may be long,

The promise is great,

For the one named Jezelia,

Whose life will be sacrificed

For the hope of saving yours.

I remembered every word she had spoken that day on the terrace, though at first I had only been preoccupied with the phrase whose life will be sacrificed. Now another phrase caught my attention: She will expose the wicked.

I fingered the burned edges of the book, and then the furious jagged tear of the last page that attempted to rip the words from existence.

I smiled.

Someone hated me very much or, maybe better, feared me, believing I would expose him—or her.

Fear. Anger. Desperation. That was what I saw in these burned edges and torn page. I would find a way to fuel that fear, because even though I knew desperation could make people dangerous—it also made them stupid. Exposing the highest players in this conspiracy was essential. If I fanned their fears, maybe they would choke and show their hands.

With Malich on his way to tell them about me, I had already lost the advantage of surprise. They would be fortified and waiting—now I’d have to turn that knowledge, at least in some small way, to my favor.

I set the book aside and fluffed some pillows, leaning back against them, contemplating how I would go about this without exposing myself. I had to stay alive at least long enough to find out who might be conspiring with the Chancellor and Royal Scholar. Maybe one of the county lords? Their influence was limited, but if I was lucky, I might be there in time for when the winter conclave assembled. Or maybe it was others in the cabinet? The Watch Captain? The Trademaster? The Field Marshal? The Timekeeper had always eyed me suspiciously, and he jealously guarded my father’s schedule. Was it to keep him out of the way? I avoided the obvious—my father, who had posted the bounty for my arrest. He was many things, but he wasn’t a traitor to his own people. He would have nothing to gain by conspiring with the Komizar—but was he an unwitting puppet? The solution seemed to be getting past the minions who surrounded his movements to speak directly to him—but that was a thorny problem too. Would it be safe?

I buried my fingers in the sable blanket at my side, balling the softness into my fist. There was the matter of his anger to deal with. I remembered Walther’s words. It’s been almost a month, and he’s still blustering around. Even the much-adored Prince Walther had to sneak behind my father’s back to help me when he planted the false trail for trackers. The several months that had passed would not have diminished my father’s anger. I had undermined his authority and humiliated him. Would he even listen to anything I had to say without a shred of evidence to support it? I was branded an enemy of Morrighan, just like his nephew, whom he had hung. With only my word against a Chancellor who had worked with devotion at his side for years, why would he believe me? Without evidence, the Chancellor and Royal Scholar would turn my claims to make me look like a coward trying to wheedle out of my own culpability. The last time I had aimed even a mild insult at the Chancellor, my father became enraged and ordered me to my chamber. Would they use other, more permanent ways to silence me this time? My chest tightened with possibilities I couldn’t untangle. Could I be wrong about everything? Rafe thought I was.

My brothers were my only hope for inroads, but they were young like me, only nineteen and twenty-one, and still low-ranking soldiers in the military. But if both of them pressed my father, maybe they could sway him to listen to me. And if not listen willingly, perhaps help me use more forceful ways to persuade him. Nothing felt beyond me right now, with so much at stake.

A second round of music drifted up from the lower pasture—the party was well under way. It was beautiful, urgent music, the ringing conversation of a thousand strings, a chorus of rebuttals, satin strummed gauntlets laid down again and again, the tone similar to our mandolins but with a deeper, lustier reverberation. The farache, Jeb had called it when he came to pick me up—the battle dance. I had sent Jeb along without me, saying I wasn’t quite ready. Once he was gone, I told my guards I wasn’t going at all and encouraged them to go and enjoy themselves, giving them my solemn oath I wouldn’t leave my tent. I kissed two fingers and lifted them to the heavens as sincere evidence of my promise—then silently asked the gods to forgive my small lie. The godless oafs didn’t budge, not even when I commented on how delicious the roasted meats smelled and their eyes danced with visions of suckling pigs.

I was nibbling on the pine nuts I had taken earlier when I heard the rattle of halberds outside my tent and the curtain was swiped aside. It was Rafe, dressed in elegant full regalia, his black jacket draped with the gold braids of his station, his hair pulled back, and his cheekbones burnished with a day in the sun. His cobalt eyes flashed brightly beneath his dark brows, and waves of anger rolled off him. He stared at me like I had two heads.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said between gritted teeth.

The warmth that had leapt beneath my breastbone when he entered quickly shriveled to a cold rock in my stomach. I glanced at the bowl next to me and shrugged. “Eating nuts? Is that against the rules for prisoners?”

His attention shifted to my scant attire, and his jaw grew impossibly more rigid. He turned, searching my room until his eyes landed on the midnight blue dress Vilah had hung on the dressing screen. He strode across the tent in three steps, snatched it down, and threw it at me. It landed in a heap in my lap.

His finger stabbed toward the tent door. “There are four hundred soldiers down there, all waiting to meet you! You are a guest of honor. Unless you want all of their opinions of you to match Captain Hague’s, I suggest you get dressed and make the small effort of an appearance!” He stomped toward the door, then spun with one last order. “And you will not utter the word prisoner one time if you choose to attend!”

And then he was gone.

I sat there, stunned. My first thought when he had walked in the door was that he looked like a god. I wasn’t thinking that anymore.