The Beauty of Darkness (25 page)

I'm sorry, Dihara.

She was the oldest member of their tribe and had fed generations of Rahtan like me in her camp. I understood Natiya's rage. Dihara might have gone on forever if not for the attack.

Her eyes fluttered open as if she had sensed my presence. Her gray eyes stared at the small swelling her feet created beneath the bedclothes, and then her head turned and she looked at me with surprising clarity.

“You,” she said simply. Her voice was weak, but she managed a frown. “I was wondering when you'd come. And the big one?”

“Griz was injured. Otherwise he'd be here too.” I pulled a stool close to her bed and sat beside her. “Natiya and Reena weren't happy to see me. They almost didn't let me in.”

Her chest rose in a labored wheeze. “They're only afraid. They thought they had no enemies. But we all have enemies, eventually.” She squinted. “You still have all your teeth?”

I stared at her, thinking she was no longer lucid, but then I remembered Natiya's blessing—her send-off to Lia as we left the vagabond camp.
May your horse kick stones in your enemy's teeth.
Dihara's body may have given out, but her mind still held a world of history in it.

“So far,” I answered.

“Then you are not the princess's enemy. Nor ours.” Her eyes closed, and her words became even fainter. “But now you must decide what you are.”

She was asleep again, and I guessed straddling two different worlds, maybe traveling between both, much as I did.

“I'm trying,” I whispered and I kissed her hand and said good-bye.

If I saw her again, I knew, it wouldn't be in this world.

 

CHAPTE
R
THIRTY-SIX

I was told to wait.

The king himself would escort me to the caravan. The guards outside my tent were dismissed, which made me suspicious. A trick? Something was not right.

Rafe was late, and his tardy minutes seemed like hours. It gave me too much time to think. After our dance at the party, he had disappeared. I saw the shadows swallow him up as his long strides catapulted him through the arched paddock gate to the upper work yard. He never returned, and strangely, I found myself worrying about him. Where had he gone when this party had been so ridiculously important to him? And then I was angry at myself for worrying, and angrier still when later I was lying in bed and my thoughts drifted to the soft touch of his lips on my cheek. It was madness.

I desperately needed something from Rafe that he couldn't give to me. Trust. His lack of faith cut me to the core. His disregard for the future of Morrighan cut me deeper. In spite of what he claimed, Dalbreck and its interests were all that mattered to him. How could he not see that the survival of both kingdoms was at stake?

When the party was over, Sven had walked me back to my quarters. He was more reserved than usual, offering me a stiff bow when we reached the door of my tent.

“You do know he has to go back. His kingdom needs him.”

“Good night, Sven,” I answered curtly. I hadn't wanted to hear any more pleas for Rafe. I wished to hear someone plead for me and Morrighan for once.

“There is something else you should know,” he added quickly, before I disappeared inside. I stopped and frowned, waiting for another petition on Rafe's behalf. He looked down as if embarrassed. “I was the one who suggested the marriage to the king. And I also planted the enticement of the port.”

“You?”

“Along with someone from your kingdom,” he hastily added. He spilled it out in one long breath as though he'd been holding it in for a very long time. “Years ago, when the prince was fourteen, I received a letter. Even he doesn't know about it. It came while I was out in the field training cadets, and it had the seal of the kingdom of Morrighan.

“Needless to say, it caught my attention.” His brows rose as if he'd been caught by surprise all over again. “I'd never received any missive directly from another kingdom, but it was clear that somehow, someone there knew of my relationship with the prince. It was from the minister of archives.”

“The Royal Scholar?”

“Presumably. From his office at least. The letter proposed a betrothal between the young prince and the Princess Arabella. Effective immediately on our agreement, she would be sent to Dalbreck to be raised in the palace and groomed for her position there. The only stipulation was that the official proposal had to come from Dalbreck. They asked that I destroy the letter. A great deal of money was offered to me if I honored these requests. The whole thing was ludicrous, and I tossed the letter into the fire. I thought it a prank at first, played by my own troops, but the seal had appeared genuine, and I couldn't shake the urgency in it. There was something worrisome in those words that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Still, I ignored the request for weeks, but then when I was back at the palace and alone with the king, I thought of the letter again. Just to get it out of my mind, I threw the idea out, an alliance with Morrighan by way of a betrothal between the young prince and princess. When he balked and dismissed the idea, I added the incentive of the port, which I knew he wanted. I never thought anything would come of it, and the king continued to reject the idea—until years later.”

My mind was already jumping from the content of the letter to who had written it. “Tell me, Sven, do you remember anything about the handwriting?”

“Strangely, I do. It was neat and clear as I would expect from a minister, but excessive too.”

“The scrollwork? It was elaborate?”

“Yes. Very,” he said, squinting his eyes as if could still see it. “I remember being quite taken with the
C
in
Colonel,
written as if to impress me, and it did. Maybe that was it. There was a certain desperation to keep me reading, to play every card at their disposal, even playing to my vanity.”

The Royal Scholar may have sent the letter, but he didn't write it. My mother's handwriting was distinct—and impressive. Especially when she was trying to make a particular point.

How long had the conspiracy to get rid of me been in the making? If Rafe was fourteen, I was only twelve—the very year the Song of Venda seemed to have come into the Royal Scholar's possession.
She will expose the wicked.
My stomach turned, and I grabbed a tent pole to steady myself.
No.
I refused to believe my mother had been conspiring with him all along. It was impossible.

“I'm sorry, Your Highness. I know you're set on going back, but I wanted you to know there are people in your own kingdom who have wanted you gone for a very long time. I thought maybe that knowledge would ease your discontent about going to Dalbreck. You'll be welcomed there.”

I looked down, still thinking about the long-ago letter, and felt unexpected shame that Sven had to deliver this news to me. Discontent did not begin to describe the range of emotions charging through me.

“We're leaving just after dawn,” he added. “Someone will be by to help you gather your things.”

“I have no things, Sven. Even the clothes on my back are borrowed. All I have is a saddlebag, which, as wretched as I am, I'm still capable of carrying myself.”

“No doubt, Your Highness,” he answered, his tone filled with compassion. “Nevertheless, someone will be by.”

I stared at the saddlebag laid out on my bed now, ready and waiting. It was a wonder that it had survived at all—that I had survived.
May the gods gird her with strength, shield her with courage, and may truth be her crown.
The prayer my mother had uttered pinched in my throat. Had the prayer helped me survive? Was there any heart behind it for the gods to hear? Or was it a rote verse said by a queen for the sake of those who watched? She had been so distant in those last weeks before the wedding, like someone I didn't even know. Apparently she had been playing a deceptive role in my life for years.

She may have conspired and deceived but she was also the mother who had laid her skirts out in the meadow for Bryn and me to sit on as she interpreted the birdsong for us, making us laugh at their silly chatter; the mother who shrugged at my shiner when I scuffled with the baker's boy and then tamped down my father's scowl; the mother who told me just before an execution that I could turn away—that I didn't have to look. I wanted to understand who she really was or what she had become.

My eyes blurred, and I longed for that distant meadow and my mother's warm touch again. It was a dangerous thought because it tumbled into more longings, for the laughter of Bryn and Regan, the sound of Aunt Bernette humming, the echoing chimes of the abbey, the aroma of Tuesday buns filling the halls.

“You're ready.”

I spun. Rafe was waiting near the door. He was dressed, not as an officer, nor as a king, but as a warrior. Black leather pauldrons tipped with metal widened his already broad shoulders, and two swords hung from his sides. His expression was hard and scrutinizing, like that long-ago day when he had first walked into Berdi's tavern. And in the same way it had that day, his gaze took away my breath.

“Expecting trouble?” I asked.

“A soldier is always expecting trouble.”

His voice was so controlled and distant, it made me pause for a second look. His dark expression didn't waver. I grabbed my saddlebag from the bed, but he took it from me. “I'll carry it.”

I didn't argue. It sounded like the stubborn declaration of a king rather than a proffered kindness. We walked through the camp in silence except for the jingle of his belts and swords, which made his footsteps seem more ominous. With each step, he seemed larger and more impenetrable. The camp was buzzing with activity, supply wagons rolling toward the gates, soldiers still carrying gear to their horses, officers directing troops to their squad positions in the caravan. I spotted Kaden, Tavish, Orrin, Jeb, and Sven clustered on their own horses just inside the outpost gates. Two more horses waited beside them, which I assumed were for Rafe and me.

“Find your places in the middle of the caravan,” Rafe told them. “I'll help the princess. We'll catch up.”
The princess.
Rafe wouldn't even say my name. Kaden looked at me oddly, a rare flash of worry in his expression, then turned his horse, riding away with the others as ordered. Dread snaked through me.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Everything.” Rafe's tone remained flat, frighteningly absent of the lively sarcasm he had favored lately. He stayed busy, his back to me, taking an excessive amount of time to strap on my saddlebag.

I noted that my horse was heavily laden with supplies and gear.

“My horse is a pack animal?” I asked.

“You'll need the supplies.” Another dose of his distant coolness plucked at my ire.

“And you?” I asked, looking at his horse, which had none.

“Most of my gear and food will be in the wagons that follow.”

He finished with my horse and moved to his own. A sword sheathed in a plain scabbard hung from the pommel of my saddle, and a shield was strapped to the pack behind it.

I ran my hand along the horse's soft muzzle. Rafe saw me examining the plain leather noseband. “None of your tack denotes a kingdom. You can become whoever you choose as the need arises.”

I turned, not certain what he was saying.

He refused to look at me, checking his own bag and cinch again. “You're free to go where you wish, Lia. I'm not going to force you to stay with me. Though I would suggest you travel with the caravan for the first twelve miles. At that point, there's a trail that veers west. You can take it if you choose to.”

He was letting me go? Was there a catch to this? I couldn't go anywhere without Kaden. I didn't know the way. “And Kaden is free to go with me as well?”

He paused, stone still, staring at his saddle, his jaw clenched tight. He swallowed but still didn't turn to look at me. “Free,” he answered.

“Thank you,” I whispered, though it didn't seem like the right response at all. I didn't know what to say. Everything about this threw me off.

“Don't thank me,” he said. “It might be the worst decision I've ever made. Get up.” He finally turned to me, his voice still cool. “And you're free to change your mind about leaving anytime during those twelve miles.”

I nodded, feeling disoriented. The day I had laid out in my head had suddenly vanished and was replaced with a new scenario. I wouldn't be changing my mind, but I wondered why he had changed his. He got up on his horse and waited for me to do the same. I looked at my horse, a fine-boned runner, sturdy but swift like a Morrighese Ravian. I unsheathed the sword, testing its feel, the cynical tone of Rafe saying
swordplay
still ringing in my ears. The sword was of medium weight, well-balanced for my arm and grip. There was no doubt he had chosen every detail of my tack and weapons—from horse to shield. I buckled the sheathed sword to Walther's baldrick and swung up on my horse.

“There's one condition I would like to add,” Rafe said.

I knew it.

“I'd ask that you ride beside me—alone—for those twelve miles.”

I glanced warily at him. “So you can talk me out of it?”

He didn't answer.

*   *   *

The caravan set out. Rafe and I rode in the middle with twenty yards between us and the riders ahead and behind—clearly a calculated margin that everyone had been forewarned not to breach. Was it to keep others from overhearing us if our voices should become raised?

Surprisingly, he said nothing, and the silence weighed on me like blankets used to sweat out a fever. He stared straight ahead, but even from the side, I could see the storm in his eyes.

It was going to be the longest twelve miles of my life.

Didn't he think I had doubts and fears about going myself?
Damn his stubbornness!
Why was he trying to make this even harder for me? I didn't want to die. But neither did I want others to die. Rafe didn't know the Komizar the way I did. Maybe no one did. It wasn't just that he had laid claim to my voice or that his knuckles had slammed across my face. The scent of the Komizar's lust still clung to my skin. His desire for power would not be stopped by a damaged bridge—nor even a knife in his gut. Just as he had warned me, it was not over.