The Beauty of Darkness (33 page)

“Your reason for coming to the city?” a soldier asked when it was our turn to pass through.

“Business at the abbey,” Father Maguire answered.

One soldier gave a cursory peek into our bags, and another motioned to my face. “Your veil, madam?”

The priest flew into an immediate rage. “Has it come to this?” he yelled, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I can vouch for this widow and her daughter, as can the gods! Have you no respect for the mourning?”

The young soldier was sufficiently shamed that he waved us on through. There were no more checkpoints. Just as I'd thought, they suspected I was already within the gates of the city. My first note had done the trick. When we passed through the last hamlet and rode into Civica, I breathed with relief. I was in. The first task was accomplished. We dismounted, and I used a cane as an additional disguise as I walked through the crowded street. My relief was momentary.

Only minutes later, chatter revealed that the king was gravely ill. My steps faltered with this revelation. I interrupted the two women I'd overheard as they surveyed a plump dumpling squash in a market bin, and I fished for more information. “But I heard the king had only a minor passing ailment?”

One of the women grunted and rolled her eyes to her friend, noting with disapproval that I was eavesdropping. “Then you heard wrong. My cousin Sophie works in the citadelle, and she said they're keeping a vigil.”

The other woman shook her head. “And they don't keep vigils for passing coughs.”

I nodded and moved on. Natiya and Father Maguire looked at me with questioning eyes, but I maintained my focus. The plan hadn't changed. Much. I gave Natiya my horse to be stabled and told her to go on to the abbey with the priest and complete the task I had set before her—find Pauline. She was to go to every inn and say she had information for the lady who had inquired about a midwife. They would either send her on her way if there was no guest in such need, or they'd lead her to Pauline. Once she found her, she was to send her and the others to the millpond. Pauline would know which one. There was only one that was abandoned. Father Maguire nodded over Natiya's head. He had made another promise to me—to protect Natiya if events should spiral out of my control.

I left for the citadelle, my face covered and my footsteps as quick as I dared. Two daggers were concealed beneath my cloak. I had tried to conceal a sword, but it was too bulky, and I couldn't take a chance on detection.

My father had been healthy when I left. Yes, a few extra pounds around his middle, but robust. I didn't overlook that it might well be a trap. It probably was. Draw the princess out. Appeal to her sentimental side. If that was the case, they had played the wrong card. I couldn't afford a sentimental side anymore.

When I turned the corner and saw the citadelle, my throat tightened. I stared at the steps, where I had stood countless times with my family, impatiently waiting for a procession, ceremony, or important announcement—always tucked safely between my brothers. My father's hand would rest on my shoulder, my mother's hand on Bryn, usually to keep us still. I fought the urge to run up the steps, call for Bryn and Regan, to run through the hall and greet my aunts, find my mother, to race into the kitchen for something fresh from the oven.

Now citadelle guards were posted on the perimeter. Though they were trained at the soldiers' camp, their uniforms were a stark contrast from soldiers. Guards wore highly polished black boots, long red capes, and helmets of pounded metal. More stood back in the shadows of the portico, their halberds crossed at the front entrance I'd been instructed to use on my wedding day. My stomach rolled over as I remembered my frantic last minutes stealing out the servants' door instead—the moment the sun flashed in my eyes and the day split in two creating the before and the after of my life.

I was cautious in my approach, slowing my steps and hunching my shoulders like a true grieving widow. I had bought a posy on my way.

I walked up the center of the steps, and a guard came forward to meet me. I lowered my voice, adding a slight northern accent. “For the king,” I said, holding out the posy to him, “along with my prayers for his recovery.”

He took the small bouquet of primroses from me. “I'll see that he gets them.”

“And Prince Regan?” I added. “My prayers for him too. Is he preparing to take the throne?”

The guard cast an annoyed frown at me but quickly corrected himself. I was a widow, after all, and perhaps the widow of a soldier. “Prince Regan is away attending his duties—as is Prince Bryn. The king isn't so ill that anyone has to worry about succession.”

A ploy, just as I thought. There was no vigil. But my brothers away from Civica?

“Both princes are traveling?” I asked.

“Attending kingdom business, like I said.” His patience was spent. “Ma'am, I need to return to my post.”

I nodded. “Bless you, son.”

On my way back to the abbey, I used a little more digging to find out where Bryn and Regan had gone. More citadelle guards, easily spotted by their long red capes, were positioned on street corners and were happy to accept gifts of sweet frosted buns from a bent widow. Both princes, along with their squads, had gone to the City of Sacraments. It wasn't far, only a few days' ride, but still my spirits sank. I needed them, not just as my brothers who would back me, but as soldiers I could trust. As I walked away, I thought it odd. Cabinet members—not soldiers—were usually sent on kingdom business.

When I approached a group of soldiers, I recognized one of them. I had played cards with him in one of my late-night escapes—we had jested and laughed together. My confidence rose, and I boldly teased out more details of Bryn and Regan's purpose in going to the City of Sacraments. I learned they were to dedicate a memorial stone for the crown prince and his fallen comrades. The soldier said their presence was necessary to soothe doubts about family allegiance that the betrayal by Princess Arabella had sown.

Another of the soldiers said, “She killed her own brother, you know? Plunged the sword into his Prince Walther's chest herself.”

I stared at him, unable to stay hunched over my cane. “No, I didn't know.”

His utter contempt rang in my ears.
Her own brother.
His comrades echoed his hatred. Princess Arabella was a traitor of the worst kind. I walked away, dazed, trying to understand how the Komizar's terrible lie about my decision to marry him could transform into something even uglier. How could anyone believe I would kill Walther? But they did, and they harbored a seething revulsion toward me.

I felt the Komizar's hands creeping down my arms, owning me, knowing me, still playing the game from far away—
there's always more to take
—knowing how best to undo me.

My stomach rose into my throat, and I ducked behind a stall. I tore my scarf away and doubled over, vomiting, tasting the Komizar's poison. I spat and wiped my mouth. What if it wasn't just these soldiers who believed the lie?

What if everyone did?

What if even my own brothers did?

I'd never convince anyone of anything.

 

CHAPTE
R
FORTY-SIX

PAULINE

I had told Berdi and Gwyneth I was going to the cemetery to see if Andrés was there. Though little information had been forthcoming, no harm had come from my visits with him either. All I had learned was that he was as surprised by the death of the soldier who had brought the news of Lia's betrayal as Bryn and Regan had been. The soldier was a close comrade, and Andrés mourned his death too. When I asked if the soldier's hurried comments about Lia before he died could have been misinterpreted, he said he didn't know but that his father, the Viceregent, was distressed by the news and found it hard to believe. I wanted to go speak to the Viceregent myself, but I remembered Bryn's words.
Lie low. Stay away from the citadelle.

I would for a little longer, but there were some things I couldn't put off. Whether it was prudent or not didn't matter. With every passing day, it burned through me. I had to know, one way or the other.

“Hello, Mikael.”

He stopped mid-stride in the narrow alley behind the pub, a girl with beautiful auburn curls still clinging to his arm. He shook her loose and told her to go on, that he would meet her later.

He stared at me, my face still hidden in the shadows of my hood. But he knew my voice.

“Pauline.”

Hearing my name on his lips sent shivers swirling down my spine, every timbre of his voice as sweet and buttery smooth as I remembered.

“You didn't come,” I said, barely able to form the words.

He stepped toward me, and I clutched the basket I held in front of my belly tighter. His expression held worry and remorse. “I had to reenlist, Pauline. I needed the money. My family—”

“You told me you had no family.”

He paused, looking down, but only briefly, as if ashamed. “I don't like to talk about them.”

My heart tugged. “You could have told me.”

He changed the subject from family to us. “I've missed you terribly,” he said and took another step toward me, his hand reaching out, as if he'd already forgotten about the auburn-haired girl. I set the basket down and pushed back the cloak from my shoulders.

“I've missed you too.”

He stopped and stared at my rounded belly, the shock registering in his expression, the moment drawing out as long as a final breath, and then a short awkward puff of air escaped from his mouth. His arms that had just been reaching out to me folded neatly across his chest. “Congratulations,” he said, and then more carefully, “who's the father?”

In those few words, for a fleeting moment, I wasn't seeing Mikael at all, but Lia, her long hair disheveled around her shoulders, her eyes glistening, her breaths coming in frightened gulps, her voice as fragile as spring ice.
He's dead, Pauline. I am so sorry, he's dead.

Mikael stared at me, waiting for a response. I was a virgin when he met me. He was well aware that he was the only one. His lips pressed tight, and his pupils shrank to sharp beads. I could see his thoughts spinning, smooth, silky, already renegotiating whatever I would say.

“He's no one you'd know,” I answered.

His chest rose in a relieved breath.

And I turned and walked away.

 

CHAPTE
R
FORTY-SEVE
N

By the end of the day, Natiya still hadn't found Pauline. There weren't more than a dozen inns in Civica, and Natiya claimed she had gone to them all. All she got were shrugs to her inquiries. By my calculations, Pauline's belly should be round with eight months of baby by now—an innkeeper would notice that.

My mind raced with something I hadn't considered. What if she had lost the baby? Enzo hadn't mentioned her condition back in Terravin. What if—

And then another possibility.

What if she couldn't be found because she was already in prison?

“You're looking drawn,” Father Maguire said as I absorbed Natiya's news. “Have you eaten?”

I shook my head. What little I had nibbled was now on a Civica street. He sat me down at a table in a room no larger than a closet. It contained a table, a chair, a narrow cot, and single hook on the wall. The room was on the abbey grounds and meant for single traveling priests when they visited the archives and for nothing more. Natiya and I couldn't stay here long. It would draw attention. I had gone to the millpond cottage today to see if Kaden had shown, but there was still no sign of him. Cold fingers had gripped my spine.
Please let him be all right.

I rested my head in my hands. With Natiya's lack of success already discussed, the priest asked me how my day had gone. I answered with silence and reviewed the news in my head.

My father was ill with an unknown ailment brought on by the wickedness of Princess Arabella's betrayal. No one had seen the queen since my father took ill, and in fact, the whole of the queen's court had gone into seclusion, mourning the lost company of soldiers. I couldn't even get to my aunt Bernette. The citadelle was guarded as if it held every last treasure on the continent. My brothers, whom I desperately needed to see, were away—along with the squads I had counted on for support. Pauline couldn't be found. And Prince Walther was believed to have been killed by his treacherous sister's hand.

I closed my eyes.

It was only my first day here.

I had been driven, ignoring obstacles, until the very things that drove me suddenly made me weak. I was tied to Civica in ways I had dismissed. Yes, I felt rage at the traitors in the cabinet, but there were still people here whom I cared about, and what they believed about me mattered—the village baker who always had a warm sample for me to taste; the Stable Master who taught me how to groom a horse; the soldiers who grinned when I beat them at cards. I cared what they believed about me. I remembered my first day in Sanctum Hall and the Komizar studying me from afar. Calculating. No one in the Morrighese cabinet ever knew me as well as he had. I saw his orchestrating hand in this.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, refusing to give in to the desolation welling in me.

It is not over.

Father Maguire set a warm bowl of broth in front of me and I forced down a bite of bread with it. Walther was dead. I couldn't change that, nor what people believed about me.

“Did you take care of the notices?” I asked.

He nodded. “All written and ready, but an official seal would help credibility.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“I have some hesitation about the message though. It's risky. Maybe we—”

“It's insurance. Just in case. It will buy me time.”

“But—”

“It's the only announcement that will get guzzled faster than a free jug of ale.”