The Beauty of Darkness (13 page)

They were silent at first, shooting questioning glances at Berdi.

“You can speak freely,” I told them. “Berdi's trustworthy. She loves Lia as much as we do and is here to help.”

Regan continued to eye her suspiciously. “And she keeps secrets well?”

“Without question,” Gwyneth said.

Berdi squinted at Regan, her head tilting to the side as she scrutinized him. “The question is, can we trust
you
?”

Regan offered her a weary smile and a slight bow. “Forgive me. These last several days have been difficult.”

Berdi gave him a reassuring nod. “I understand. My condolences on the loss of your brother. Lia spoke highly of him.”

Bryn swallowed hard, and Regan nodded. They both seemed lost without their brother and sister.

“Were you able to speak with your parents about Lia?” I asked.

“Not before the news came about Walther,” Bryn answered. “And then Father fell ill. Between Walther and Father, our mother is devastated. She doesn't leave her room except to tend Father, but the physician says there's nothing she can do, and asked her to stay away. He says her visits only agitate him.”

Berdi asked about the king's health and Bryn said he was about the same, weak but stable. The physician said it was his heart, and with rest he would recover.

“You said you had news to share?” Gwyneth asked.

Bryn sighed and brushed his dark locks from his forehead. “The soldier who brought the news of Lia's betrayal is dead.”

I gasped. “I heard he wasn't injured. Only exhausted. How could this happen?”

“We don't know for sure. We asked a hundred questions. All the physician said was that it was a seizure probably brought on by dehydration,” Regan answered.

“Dehydration?” Gwyneth mused. “He must have crossed a dozen streams and rivers to get here.”

“I know,” Regan said. “But he died before anyone could question him other than the Chancellor.”

Berdi's eyes narrowed. “You think they lied about what the soldier told them?”

“What's more important,” Gwyneth added, “is you think they had something to do with his death.”

Regan rubbed the side of his face, frustration evident in his eyes. “We're not saying that. We're just saying that a lot is happening, and fast, and there seem to be no answers for our questions. You need to be cautious until we get back.”

“Back?”

“That's the other thing we need to tell you. We're being dispatched to the City of Sacraments next week, and after we finish up there, my squad is going on to Gitos while Bryn's goes to Cortenai. We'll make stops at cities along the way.”

“You're
both
leaving?” I said a bit too loudly, and Gwyneth cleared her throat as a warning reminder. I lowered my voice. “How is that possible with Walther dead and your father ill? You're the crown prince now, and Bryn's next in line. You can't leave Civica. Protocol requires at least one of you—”

Bryn reached out and squeezed my hands. “These are hard times, Pauline. The foundations of Morrighan are shaken. The Lesser Kingdoms have seen the falling-out between us and Dalbreck; the crown prince has been butchered along with the sons of great nobles and lords; my father is ill, and my sister is presumed to have joined forces with the enemy. The Watch Captain says it's not a time to hunker down and cower but to show our strength and confidence. It was decided by the cabinet. Regan and I questioned the order too, but my father confirmed this is what he wanted.”

“You spoke to him yourself?” Berdi asked.

Regan and Bryn looked at each other briefly, something unspoken passing between them. “Yes,” Regan answered. “He nodded affirmation when we questioned him on the order.”

“He's not well!” Gwyneth said with disbelief. “He wasn't thinking clearly. That will leave the throne at risk if he should take a turn for the worse.”

“The physician assured us it's safe for us to leave, and as the Watch Captain said, nothing can bolster the confidence of the troops and neighboring kingdoms like the appearance of the king's sons.”

I looked at Bryn and Regan, whose expressions were sending mixed messages. They were torn. This wasn't just about restoring confidence. “It's to prove that you're still loyal to the crown, even if your sister isn't.”

Regan nodded. “A divided family instills fear and anarchy. That's the last thing we need right now.”

And there had been fear. In some ways their mission made sense, but it still felt wrong. I saw the worry in their eyes.

“You both still believe in Lia, don't you?”

Bryn's eyes softened. “You don't need to ask, Pauline. We love our sister, and we know her. Please don't worry. Trust us on this.”

There was something about the way he said it. Gwyenth noticed too. She eyed them suspiciously. “There's something you're not telling us.”

“No,” Regan said firmly. “Nothing else.” He looked down at my belly, barely disguised now by my loose cloak. “Promise us you'll lie low. Stay away from the citadelle. We'll return as soon as we can.”

Berdi, Gwyneth, and I exchanged glances, then nodded.

“Good,” Bryn said. “We'll walk to the gate with you.”

The graveyard was nearly empty. Only a few mourners still lingered. The rest had returned to their homes to prepare for eventide remembrances. One young man, dressed in full warrior armor with his weapons at his sides, remained on his knees before the memorial stone, his head bent, every angle of his body bearing a deep agony.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Andrés, the Viceregent's son,” Regan answered. “He's the only one from Walther's platoon who's still alive. He was sick with fever when they rode out and couldn't go with them. He's come here every day since the stone was placed to light a candle. The Viceregent says Andrés is racked with guilt for not being there with his fellow soldiers.”

“So that he could die too?”

Bryn shook his head. “So that maybe they all might have lived.”

We stared at him, probably each of us wondering the same thing—could one more soldier really have made a difference?

When the brothers left, I told Gwyneth and Berdi to wait for me, that I'd be right back. I understood Andrés's guilt, the anguish of reliving moments and wondering what could have been done differently. In those weeks after Lia disappeared, I relived that morning of Kaden dragging me into the brush a hundred times, thinking I should have grabbed his knife, kicked him, done something that could have changed everything—but instead I had only trembled, frozen with terror as he pressed his face close to mine and threatened to kill us. If I had a second chance, I would do it all so differently.

Andrés was still kneeling at the memorial stone when I returned. Maybe I could pull two purposes from this moment that would help us both. If he loved the platoon and Walther so deeply, he also knew how close Walther and Lia were. He may have even been one of those who helped Walther plant false leads when Lia and I ran. When I approached him, he looked up, searching the shadows of my hood.

“They were good men,” I said.

He swallowed and nodded agreement.

“No one thought so more than Lia. I'm sure she never would have betrayed them.”

I watched him closely to see if he recoiled at her name. He didn't.

“Lia,” he said thoughtfully, as if reminiscing. “Only her brothers called her by that name. You knew her well?”

“No,” I said, realizing my error. “But I met Prince Walther once, and he spoke fondly of her. He told me at great length about their devotion to each other.”

He nodded. “Yes, all the royal siblings were close. I always envied them that. My only brother died when I was small, and my half brother—” He shook his head. “It doesn't matter.”

He looked up at me, peering closer, as if trying to get a better glimpse. “I don't think I caught your name. What may I call you?”

I searched quickly for a name, and my mother's came to mind. “Marisol,” I answered. “My father has a candlery in the next hamlet. I came to pay my respects and heard some other mourners mention you were the lone survivor. I hope I haven't intruded. I wished only to offer you comfort. This was the work of ruthless barbarians and no one else. There was nothing you could have done.”

He reached out and boldly squeezed my hand. “So others have told me too, including my father. I'm trying to believe it.” I was rewarded when some of the agony in his expression lifted.

“I will keep them—and you—in my remembrances,” I promised. I slipped my hand free and kissed two fingers, lifting them to the heavens before I turned and walked away.

“Thank you, Marisol,” he called after me. “I hope I'll see you again.”

You most definitely will, Andrés.

Gwyneth's eyes flashed with anger when I rejoined her. “Speaking with the Viceregent's son? How is
that
lying low?”

I answered her with a smug smile. “Have some faith in me, Gwyneth. Aren't you the one who said I had to stop playing nice girl? He may know something that we'll find helpful. Maybe now I'm the one who's become the spy.”

 

CHAPTE
R
TWE
N
TY

RAFE

I walked into the surgeon's bungalow.

Tavish, Jeb, Griz, and Kaden were all laid out on cots being treated. Kaden had hidden the fact that he'd been wounded as well—a gash on his lower back. A small wound but still in need of stitches. Orrin and Sven sat in chairs across from them, their feet propped up on the patients' cots.

As soon as they caught sight of me, Tavish and Orrin let out insulting whistles like I was a swaggering dandy. Jeb approved of my transformation.

“And here we were all getting used to your ugly face,” Sven said.

“It's called a bath and a shave. You should try it sometime.”

Jeb's shoulder was slathered with ointment and compresses. The surgeon told me he had torn muscles and would have to keep his shoulder immobile for several weeks. No riding, no duty. Bed rest for three days. Jeb made faces behind the surgeon's back, mouthing
no
.

I shrugged as if I couldn't override the surgeon's orders, and Jeb scowled.

A few days' rest was prescribed for Griz too, but Tavish and Kaden had minor wounds that would only bring them discomfort for a day or so and required no restricted duty. The surgeon had somehow missed the news that Kaden wasn't one of ours and assumed he was another soldier.

“Those two can go shower,” the surgeon said. “I'll bandage them after they've cleaned up.” He went back to check on Griz.

Kaden was in the rear of the bungalow in dim light, but as he reached for his shirt, he stepped into the light from the window and I saw his back and the short line of black thread where the surgeon had stitched him. Then I saw the scars. Deep ones. He'd been whipped.

He turned and saw me staring.

His chest was equally scarred.

He paused, and then slipped his shirt on as if it was of no matter.

“Old injuries?” I asked.

“Yes. Old.”

How old?
I wondered, but his clipped reply made it clear he didn't want to elaborate. He was about my age, so old injuries could mean he'd been little more than a child when he acquired them. I remembered Lia mumbling that he was once Morrighese, but she was feverish and half asleep when she'd said it, and I thought the possibility was unlikely. Still, if he had been beaten that severely by Vendans, I couldn't understand how he had remained so loyal to them. He finished buttoning his shirt.

“I have some soldiers outside who will show you where the showers are. They'll give you some fresh clothes too.”

“Guards, you mean?”

I couldn't let him walk around freely, not only because I still didn't trust him completely, but for his own protection as well. News of the platoon's slaughter had spread through camp. Any kind of Vendan, even one the king said could be moderately trusted, was not welcome here.

“Let's call them escorts,” I answered. “You remember that word, don't you? I promise you, your escorts will be far more congenial than Ulrix and his pack of brutes were with me.”

He eyed his belt and sword still lying on a table.

“And you'll have to leave those behind.”

“I saved your royal ass today.”

“And I'm saving your Vendan one right now.”

*   *   *

Normally when I had been assigned to Marabella, I had slept in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers, but the colonel said it wasn't fitting now that I was king.
You have to start acting the role
, he insisted, and Sven concurred. They ordered a tent set up for me. Tents were reserved for visiting ambassadors and dignitaries who used the outpost as a stopping point. They were larger, more extravagant, and certainly more private than the crowded barracks that housed the soldiers.

I had ordered one set up for Lia as well, and let myself inside her tent to make sure everything was in order. A thick floral carpet had been rolled out across the floor, and her bed was fully made with blankets, furs, and a surplus of pillows. A round stove was stocked with fuel and ready to go, and an oil chandelier was hung for light.

And flowers. A small vase overflowed with some kind of purple flower. The colonel must have sent a whole squad out to scour the merchant wagons for them. A colorful pitcher of water was on a lace-covered table, along with a crock of shortbread next to it. I popped one into my mouth and replaced the lid. No detail had been overlooked. Her tent was far better appointed than mine. Of course the colonel had known I would check to make sure she was comfortable.

I spotted her saddlebag on the floor next to her bed. I'd told the stable hand to bring it as soon as her tent was ready. It, too, was stained with blood. Maybe that was why he'd left it on the floor. I emptied the contents onto the bedside table so I could take it with me to be cleaned. I wanted to erase every reminder of the day that was behind us.