The Beauty of Darkness

by Mary E. Pearson

  “Arabella, you can’t—”

  “You promised, Father. This decision is mine.” I slid from the bed. “You should rest.”

  He sighed, his lids drooping. “The other kingdoms will never—”

  “They will have no choice. On this I won’t be swayed. Please trust me.”

  His brows pulled down with worry, but then another question faded on his lips, the last of his energy spent, and his eyes closed.

  * * *

  My spirits were buoyed as I returned to my room. The image of my parents’ hands laced together kept surfacing. It was a simple gesture that was as unexpected as a summer shower. Some things survived, even when—

  Rafe’s door swung open as I passed it, and he barreled out, plowing into me. We stumbled and caught ourselves, his hand landing on the wall behind me.

  “Lia,” he said, startled. We were both steady on our feet now, but he didn’t move. The air crackled between us, alive in a way that made my skin tingle. Strain showed in his eyes, and he stepped away, creating space between us, the movement awkward and obvious.

  I swallowed, trying to convince myself this was all part of letting go. “Where are you tearing out to?” I asked.

  “I need to speak to Sven before dinner. I want to make sure he doesn’t bring his temper to the table. Excuse me, I—”

  “I know,” I said flatly. “You need to go.”

  He raked back his hair, hesitating. I knew, with that small movement, he was struggling to let go too, a piece at a time. Love didn’t end all at once, no matter how much you needed it to or how inconvenient it was. You couldn’t command love to stop any more than a marriage document could order it to appear. Maybe love had to bleed away a drop at a time until your heart was numb and cold and mostly dead. He shifted on his feet, his eyes not meeting mine.

  “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, and he left to find Sven.

  * * *

  Shadows danced on the walls from the fire in the hearth. I removed my belts and weapons, hanging them on a hook, and crossed the room to my dressing chamber, feeling my way through the darkness as I let the rest of my clothes fall to the floor. I lit a candle on the bureau and grabbed a towel to wash up, but then something crept over me. A presence.

  Jezelia.

  I spun, my heart beating wildly, searching the corners of the chamber. His scent filled the air, his sweat, his confidence. My eyes frantically swept the room, combing the shadows, certain he was here.

  “Komizar,” I whispered. I heard his steps, saw the glint of his eyes in the darkness, the chill as his hand circled my neck, his thumb pressing the hollow of my throat, feeling for the beat of my heart. There is always more to take.

  And then he was gone. The chamber was empty as it always had been, and my breaths skipped through my chest. The lies, they will force themselves upon you. His lies. He taunted and cursed me with every mile he traveled. I had done the unthinkable—worse than stabbing him—I had stolen some of his power. I tried to force calm back into my heart.

  I wouldn’t let his lies steal the victories of this day.

  I took a cleansing breath and poured water into the washbasin, but then I froze, staring at the glistening surface. The pitcher slipped from my fingers, crashing to the floor. Blood swirled in the water, fingers of red spinning before my eyes, a tempest that carried the wails of battle, the slice of a sword across flesh, the dull thud of bodies falling to earth. And then, just as quickly, it was only water again, clear and tame.

  I backed away, trying to breathe, stumbling blindly through the room.

  My brothers’ squads.

  A painful gasp finally filled my lungs, and I searched for my clothes. My hands shook as I dressed, buckled belts, sheathed weapons, pulled on boots. My word was as true as Rafe’s. I headed for the cell that held the Viceregent.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  RAFE

  Tavish told me Sven had gone to speak with Captain Azia about the rotation of soldiers guarding the prisoners. He hadn’t been able to get a word out of Sven. He was still closemouthed and steaming when he left. “But you know Sven. He always bellows about your half-assed decisions.”

  “You think I’m wrong too?”

  Tavish shrugged on his vest, getting dressed for dinner. “I always think you’re wrong. It usually works out. Don’t worry, he’ll come around.” He pulled on his boots then paused when he had one half-way laced. “But I’d hold off telling him about your other decision. That might blow the top of his head off.”

  I nodded and poured myself some water.

  Tavish grinned. “You know, if you die in this battle, you won’t have to marry anyone.”

  I choked mid-sip, spilling water down my shirt. “Well, that’s a bright thought. Thanks.”

  “I’m a tactician. Always thinking.”

  I dabbed a towel to my shirt. “Maybe you should look for another line of work.”

  His grin faded. “You’ll be able to weather this out. We’ll stand by you.”

  I had told Tavish of my decision not to marry the general’s daughter. It wasn’t for Lia’s sake, or mine, but for the girl’s. She didn’t want to marry me anymore than I wanted to marry her. She was being forced into it the same way Lia had been. I had already made that fatal mistake once. I wasn’t about to make it again, even if it cost me my throne. The girl deserved to choose her own future—not one contrived by the general to serve his needs.

  “Did you tell Lia?” he asked.

  “Why? So we can dredge up the same argument we had when we left Marbella? I can’t go through that again. My decision won’t change anything between us. If we survive all this, I will still return to Dalbreck and she will still—” I shook my head. “She won’t go with me.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  I thought about the fury in her eyes when she danced with me at the outpost, the bones she secretly slipped from the dining table into her pocket, the way she paced the dais at Piers Camp and then lifted her hand with Kaden’s when she addressed the troops. “I know her. I’m certain.”

  “She’s made other promises?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jax. If I could change any of this for you, I would.”

  “I know.”

  He left to meet up with Jeb and Orrin. I changed my shirt, then headed out to find Sven, still chewing on his words. He’ll come around. But this time felt different. Sven had exploded at me before, but never in front of outsiders. Maybe that was what rankled him. I’d made decisions that put my throne in jeopardy—the very position he’d spent a good portion of his life preparing me for—and I’d done it without consulting with him first.

  I remembered back when I was saddling my horse and leaving on a blind quest to find a runaway princess. He hadn’t been in favor of that either, but after hitting me with a barrage of questions, he stepped aside, letting me go. That was what Sven always did—he raised arguments until my resolve became steel. And when I was torn, he goaded me—make your decision and live by it. Even when I had been ready to tear the general’s head from his shoulders, Sven made me reconsider. Which do you want more, the satisfaction of ripping off his head, or to reach Lia as soon as possible? Because in this much he is right—no one can get a special team together for you as quickly as he can. And it was true. Any delay, even by one day, and I wouldn’t have reached Lia in time. It had been the right decision, and Sven had helped me reach it.

  But with the decision to pull troops—there was no changing my mind. I hadn’t needed his counsel. I knew what I had to do, not just for Lia, but for Dalbreck. I’d explain it to him. By now he had probably cooled off. He’d be sorry he had missed a meeting with the king.

  Lia’s father hadn’t been what I expected. Now I knew where Lia had gotten her calculating straight face from. He’d made me squirm. I hadn’t realized he’d been playing with me until he issued Lia’s punishment. Somehow he knew there had been something between us. Th
ere was still something between us. Something I was trying to forget. It had been all I could do to tear my hand away from her arm when I’d stumbled into her. I had been careful in my movements when I was around her, conscious in a way that had become tiring. It was like I was standing on a log in a wrestling match again. One misstep, and I would be up to my waist in mud. When we were busy with tasks that needed to be addressed, it was easier—we simply worked together—but in those unplanned moments like when I stumbled into her, everything was unsettled, teetering, and I had to renavigate the space between us, remembering not to do what had been so natural before.

  “Sentry,” I called, when I reached the east wing, where the prisoners were held. “Colonel Haverstrom passed this way?”

  “Yes. Some time ago, Your Majesty. He’s still down there,” he said, nodding toward the stairs at the end of the hall.

  No doubt he was chewing off the captain’s ear now, instead of mine. I would owe Azia.

  I entered the passage, and the stairs were dark. Night had crept up quickly, and the guards had failed to light the lanterns. Only the flickering torches from the lowest level provided any light at all. Just a few steps down, I sensed a pervading quiet, a silence that seemed too deep. There were no murmurs, no clatter of metal trays or plates, though it was the dinner hour. My hand went to my sword, and when I turned at the landing, a body lay facedown, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. It was Sven.

  I drew my sword and ran.

  I rolled him over, and that’s when I saw another body, and another. A soldier. A servant with trays of food spilled around him. Their eyes were open, unseeing. The cell doors were all ajar. My blood raced, trying to attend to Sven and look for danger at the same time.

  “Sven!” I whispered. His abdomen was soaked in blood.

  “Guards!” I bellowed up the stairwell. “Sentry!”

  I turned back to Sven. His breaths were shallow, his lips barely moving, as if he was trying to speak. I heard a noise and spun. Another body lay in the other direction. Azia. I crept down the hall toward him, my sword raised, and bent to feel his neck. Dead. It was the trickle of his blood into a drain that I’d heard.

  I peered into the first cell. The court physician lay in the center of the room, his throat cut wide open. The next cell had another dead soldier. The rest were empty.

  Guards trampled down the stairs, Lia right behind them. “They’ve escaped!” I yelled. “Call a physican! Sven is still alive!”

  But barely. I pressed on the wound. “Come on, you old curd! Stay with us!”

  “Close the city gates!” Lia shouted. “Alert the guard and camp!”

  She dropped to my side and helped me press on the wound, but it seemed there was no way to stop it. Blood oozed through our fingers. Kaden ran down the stairs, taking in the grisly scene. He pushed past us, his sword drawn.

  “They’re gone,” I said. “I should have let you kill the bastard when you had the chance.”

  I pulled off my jacket and used it to help stop the bleeding. Lia’s and my hands were both soaked with blood.

  “Stay with him until the physician comes,” I told her. “Don’t let him go!”

  And I ran up the stairs to hunt down the animals who had done this.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Every corner, every tunnel, every passage, every ledge and chamber in the citadelle was searched. Rafe, Kaden, and I—along with hundreds of soldiers—were up all night, scouring the city, door to door, sewer to sewer, rooftop to rooftop. Civica was locked down, even as it came alive with torches. The search went past city gates into the surrounding hamlets. Not a single clue or missing horse was found. They had vanished. Trackers were dispatched.

  The prisoners’ empty cells turned up piles of dirt and empty wooden boxes—weapons that had been buried long ago, a backup escape plan in the event they were ever found out. Now I understood why they had risked dragging me in the open all the way to the armory instead of imprisoning me here. They feared I would sense their secret stash. Even with the weapons stowed, they had bided their time, waiting for the right moment. For turning on the Viceregent, the court physician had paid the ultimate price.

  Kaden, Pauline, and I waited outside Sven’s chambers. Rafe was inside with the physician. The day had raced away from us and night was closing in again. None of us had slept more than a few hours this afternoon.

  “I should have killed him,” Kaden said, shaking his head. “I should have done it when I had the chance.”

  But the blame lay with me. I’d stayed the execution, thinking one of them might break, one might turn like the physician had and give us information that might be useful. And if the Viceregent feared a painful death, he might break himself and tell me something that would help my brothers. I had played the Komizar’s game, trying to find the best use for prisoners under my thumb. But I had lost.

  Now four men were dead, Sven was fighting for his life, and the traitors were free, probably on their way to join the Komizar and tell him I was ruling Morrighan now.

  Berdi and Gwyneth had taken over arranging for a proper Dalbretch funeral for the dead soldiers, including Captain Azia. We had little experience with funeral pyres, but I wanted to make sure they received the proper tributes.

  “If they’re running to meet up with the Komizar, he’ll make them fight,” Kaden said. “No one riding with him gets a pass.”

  “The Watch Captain hasn’t lifted a weapon in years,” I said. “But the Viceregent and Chancellor…” A sigh hissed through my teeth. Sword practice was a daily part of their routines. They claimed it was only a simple way to remain fit. They were both skilled. But what were two more soldiers among thousands?

  Pauline’s lip lifted in disgust. “I’m betting the cowards will crawl into a hole and wait for the danger of battle to pass.”

  I rubbed my temple. My head ached. The blood, the bodies, Rafe’s face; it all replayed through my mind over and over again. The broken catch in Rafe’s throat as he worked to save Sven. Come on, you old curd!

  The door to Sven’s chamber opened, and Tavish stepped out.

  We all looked at him anxiously. “How is he?” I asked.

  Tavish shrugged, his face drawn and weary. “Hanging on.”

  “And Rafe?”

  “Hanging on too. You can go in.”

  * * *

  Rafe sat in a chair near Sven’s bed, staring at him, his empty gaze tearing at my heart. I knew their last conversation together had been contentious, with Sven storming out of the room. What if that was how it ended? What if, after all they had shared, that was their final moment together? I stared at Rafe, a shell of who he had been only hours earlier. He had already lost both of his parents in just a few short months. How much could one person lose?

  I wanted him to weep, or be angry, or react in some way. He barely shook his head when I asked if I could get him something.

  Gwyneth and Berdi joined us later. In those tired moments, I thought I could love neither one more. Gwyneth poured water, shoving it into Rafe’s hand, and she joked with Sven, talking to him as if he was listening. Maybe he was. Jeb and Orrin trudged in later, their lids heavy with exhaustion, but none of us wanted to be in our own rooms tonight. It was a vigil, as if all of our heavy hearts were anchors that could pin Sven to this room. Kaden sat in the corner, silent, carrying guilt he didn’t deserve. Gwyneth and Berdi brought in food, fluffed pillows, wiped Sven’s brow. Gwyneth chided Sven, telling him he’d better perk up soon, because she couldn’t take much more of these stony faces, then eyed all of us, trying to prod us out of our gloom. She kissed his cheek. “That one’s on the house,” she said. “The next one will cost you.”

  When I encouraged Rafe to eat something, he nodded, but still ate nothing. Please, I prayed to the gods, please, let them have a few last words. Don’t leave Rafe with only this.

  Gwyneth walked over and sat on the side of Rafe’s chair, slinging her arm around his shoulder. “You may not be able to hear him, but he can he
ar you. That’s the way these things work. You should talk to him. Say what you need to say. That’s what he’s waiting for.” Tears filled her eyes. “You understand? We’re all going to leave now, so you two can talk alone.”

  Rafe nodded.

  We all left the room.

  I went to check on him an hour later.

  Rafe sat on the floor asleep, his head tilted back against the side of Sven’s bed. Sven was still unconscious, but I noticed his hand lay limp on Rafe’s shoulder as if it had slipped from the bedcovers. Or maybe Rafe had placed it there.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  I watched from the upper gallery, hidden from view because I couldn’t bear for my mother to see me, to catch my eye. To know that I knew too. She and my aunts played their zitaraes, the haunting music plucking at my ribs, my mother’s wordless song a mourning dirge drifting, skimming, seeping into every cold vein of the citadelle. It was a song as old as Venda’s, as old as evening mist and faraway valleys soaked in blood, a refrain as old as the earth itself.

  I hadn’t forgotten my vision, the swirl of blood, the cry of battle, the whir of an arrow. More death lurked. I saw it in the deadness of my mother’s eyes. She’d had the same vision as mine. My brothers’ squads. I leaned against the pillar. The citadelle already overflowed with grief, the funeral pyres just behind us yesterday. In two days we would leave for Sentinel Valley. Nurse the rage. I tried to with a blinding zeal, but the sorrow crept back in.

  The Dragon will conspire,

  Wielding might like a god, unstoppable.

  Unstoppable.

  How much more was there still to lose?

  The truth sank in, the gluttony, the grip, the reach. The Komizar was winning.

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and I turned to see Rafe finally returning from Piers Camp. Yesterday he’d gone straight there after the funeral pyres had burned out, his eyes fierce again, attending to preparations with vengeance. He’d been there all day today too. I’d only just gotten back myself. It was late. Dinner would be waiting in my room. But when I heard the zitaraes—