CHAPTER THIRTY
The door shook with pounding from the other side. I knew it wasn’t Aster or Eben. Not even Malich. Kaden had said Malich would be occupied with duties all day. It was at night that I had to be watchful. Another impatient knock. I hadn’t properly dressed yet or combed my hair. What fool didn’t know I was locked in and a key was required to open the door? Griz?
I finally heard the rattle of a key in the lock, and the door opened.
It was the Komizar.
“Most doors in the Sanctum aren’t locked. I’m not in the habit of calling someone for a key.” He walked in past me. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “Do you have anything proper for riding? Or did the Meurasi only clothe you with their dress of rags?”
I hadn’t moved, and he turned around to look at me. “Your mouth is open, Princess.”
“Yes,” I said, my mind still reeling. “I do. Over there.” I walked to the chest where they were folded on top and grabbed them from the pile. “I have riding clothes.”
“Then put them on.”
I stared at him. Did he expect me to dress in front of him?
He smirked. “Ah. Modesty. You royals.” He shook his head and turned around. “Hurry up about it.”
His back was to me, and Natiya’s knife was within reach under my mattress.
Not yet, a voice so deep and buried I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. It was the perfect time. His guard was down. He didn’t know I had a weapon.
Not yet.
Was this the gift, or was I just afraid of incurring a target on my own back? I would be a target. An easy one. A three-inch knife might make short work of an exposed jugular, but it couldn’t take on a whole army, and what good would I do Rafe if I was dead? But then thoughts of Walther and Greta pushed aside reason. Do it. My fingers trembled. No mistakes this time, Lia. Revenge and escape battled within me.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
Not yet. A whisper as strong as an iron door slamming shut.
“I’m hurrying.” I threw off my nightshirt and put on fresh underclothes, praying he wouldn’t turn around. Being seen naked should have been the least of my worries right then, and I had never been particularly modest, but I raced gazelle-swift to get them and my riding clothes on, fearful his patience would run out and mildly surprised he was showing any restraint at all.
“There,” I said, tucking my shirt into my trousers. He turned and watched as I slipped on my belt, the tether of bones that had lengthened considerably, and finally the long warm vest of many furs, again the revered symbol of the Meurasi.
He had bathed since last night. The mud of the road was gone, and the short sculpted beard once again meticulously groomed. He stepped closer. “Your hair,” he said. “Comb it. Do something with it. Don’t shame the vest you wear.”
I surmised he wasn’t taking me out to behead me if he cared about how my hair looked, but it seemed odd that he was even concerned how I looked at all. No, not odd, suspicious. It wasn’t about shaming the vest. He sat back in Kaden’s chair and watched every move as I brushed and braided it.
Studying me. Not in the lecherous way Malich had ogled me countless times, but in a cool, calculated way that made me guard my movements even more. He wanted something and was devising how to get it.
I tied off my braid, and he stood, grabbing my cloak from a hook. “You’ll need this,” he said, and he put it around my shoulders, taking his time as he fastened it at my neck. I bristled when his knuckle grazed my jaw.
“What did I do to deserve all these kind attentions?” I asked.
“Jezelia,” he said, shaking his head. “Always so suspicious.” He lifted my chin so I had to look in his eyes. “Come. Let me show you Venda.”
* * *
I was astonished that it felt good to be on a horse again. Even though we moved slowly through winding streets, every sway on the back of the horse held the promise of open spaces, meadows, and freedom—that is, if I ignored who rode next to me. He kept his horse close to mine, and I could feel his watchful eye, not just on me but on everyone we passed. Their inquisitive stares were plain. They had heard of the princess prisoner of Morrighan. “Push back your cloak a bit. Let them view your vest.” I looked at him uncertainly but did as he asked. He had seemed angry with Kaden about how his coin was spent, but now he seemed absorbed by it.
I was being paraded, though I was uncertain why. Only a little over a week ago, he had marched me through the Sanctum in front of his Council, barefoot and half naked in a burlap sack that could barely be called a dress. That I understood: demean the royal and take her power away. Now it was as though he was giving it back, but I felt in the deepest part of my gut that the Komizar never gave up even the smallest fistful of power.
You have been welcomed by the clan of Meurasi. Was a welcome something even the Komizar didn’t know how to navigate? Or maybe it was simply his intent to control it.
We meandered through the Brightmist quarter, which was at the northernmost part of the city. He seemed to be in particularly good spirits as we rode through the streets, calling out to shopkeepers, soldiers, or a patty clapper scooping up horse manure to be patted into fuel, because, as I had learned, even wood was not easy to come by in Venda and dried horse dung burned warmly.
He told me we were headed to a small hamlet about an hour away, but he didn’t tell me for what purpose. He was an imposing figure in the saddle, his dark hair ruffling in the breeze, his black riding leathers gleaming under a hazy sky. He had saved Kaden. I tried to imagine the person he had been, almost a boy himself when he had lifted a child to his horse and whisked him away to safety. Then he went back to butcher Kaden’s tormentors.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“A name?”
“One that you were born with. Given by your parents. Besides Komizar,” I clarified, though I thought my question was obvious. Apparently it wasn’t.
He thought for a moment and answered stiffly, “No. Only Komizar.”
We passed through an unguarded gate at the end of the lane. Sparse brown meadowlands spread out before us, and we left the crowded, smoky, mud-soaked avenues of the city behind us.
“We’ll have to ride faster,” he said. “I’m told you ride well. But maybe that’s only when bison are bearing down on you?”
No doubt Griz and Finch had shared their narrow escape—and mine.
“I manage,” I said. “For a royal.” Though this horse was new to me, I dug in my heels and raced ahead, praying it would respond to my commands. I heard the Komizar galloping close behind me, and I pushed my horse faster. The air was icy crisp, stinging my cheeks, and I was grateful for the fur vest beneath my cloak. He met my pace and pulled slightly in front of me. I snapped my reins, and we ran head to head. I felt my horse still had vast stores of untapped power, and it was as eager as I was to show it, but I slowed just a bit, so the Komizar would think he had bested me, and then when he surged ahead, I returned to a trot. He circled back around, laughing, his face flushed with the cold, his dark-lashed eyes dancing at our small game.
He took his place beside me, and we continued on at a trot with the soldiers keeping pace a short distance behind us. We passed the occasional hovel, the grass so sparse, the way so little traveled, there was hardly a path at all. The small stone houses had scrabbled gardens and swoop-backed horses with not enough meat on their ribs to garner a second glance from a wolf. The landscape was harsh, stark—it was a wonder that anyone was able to scratch out a life here. But there were occasional fingers of forest and slivers of earth that were fertile and green, and as we breached a rise, I spotted the hamlet that was our destination. A nest of thatch-roofed huts huddled into a hillside, and a stand of pines hovered over them. A longhouse stood apart from the huts, and smoke rose in lazy circles from its chimney.
“Sant Cheville,” the Komizar said. “The hillfolk in hamlets like these are the poorest but toughest of our breed. The Sanctum may be the heart, but this is the bac
kbone of Venda. Word spreads quickly among the hillfolk. They are our eyes and ears.”
I stared at the small cluster of huts. It was the kind of hamlet I could have passed a hundred times in Morrighan and ignored, but looking at it now, something beat within me, a bewildering but urgent need. My horse pranced nervously out of step, as if he felt it too. The breeze swirled around my neck, heavy and cold, and I saw a hole widening, deepening, swallowing me up. I knew you would come. I was struck with the same fear and frenzy as on the day I passed the graveyard with Pauline. My fingers tightened on the reins. We’re all part of a greater story too. One that transcends the soil, the wind, time. I didn’t want to be part of this story. I wanted to run back to Terravin. Back to Civica. Back to anywhere but—
This is the backbone of Venda.
I tugged on the reins, stopping my horse, my breath coming in gasps. “Why did you bring me here?” I asked.
The Komizar looked at me, perturbed at the sudden stop. “It serves Venda. That’s all you need to know.”
He clicked the reins, moving us forward again until we were a dozen lengths from the longhouse. He stopped and turned to the soldiers. “Keep her here. In plain view.” He rode down to the hamlet with a soldier following close behind and dismounted, speaking with those who had emerged from their homes. We couldn’t hear what was said from where we waited, but it was clear the villagers were happy to see him. He turned and pointed at me, then talked with them again. The people peered at me, nodding, and one man was so bold as to slap the Komizar on the back, a slap that looked a little too much like the Komizar had just met with victory. He left a sack of flour and barley and returned to where we waited.
“Am I to know what you told them?” I asked.
He waved the soldiers to follow, and we moved on past the hamlet. “The hillfolk are a superstitious lot,” he said. “I may disdain such magical thinking, but they still cling to it. A princess of the enemy, with the gift no less, they take as a sign that the gods are favoring Venda. It fills them with hope, and hope can fill their stomachs as well as bread. Sometimes it’s all they have through a long bitter winter.”
I stopped my horse, refusing to go farther. “You still haven’t said what you told them about me.”
“I told them you ran from the enemy swine to join our ranks, called by the gods themselves.”
“You lying—”
He reached out and grabbed me, almost pulling me from my saddle. “Careful, Princess,” he hissed, his face close to mine. “Do not forget who you are when you speak—nor who I am. I’m the Komizar, and I’ll give them a morsel of whatever they need to fill their growling bellies. Do you understand?” The horses jostled beneath us, and I feared I would fall to the ground between them.
“Yes,” I answered. “Perfectly.”
“Good, then.”
He released me, and we traveled on for several miles until the next hamlet came into view.
“So is this how it shall go all day?” I asked. “Am I never to meet the backbone of Venda, or will I only be pointed at with your long, bony finger?”
He looked down briefly at his gloved hands, and a sliver of satisfaction warmed me. “You’re hot-tempered,” he said, “and not mindful of your mouth. Could I trust you, or would you slash away at their hope?”
I looked at him, wondering why a man who seemed to feed on sowing fear was now so sensitively concerned with sowing hope in the hillfolk. Was it really just the coming winter that he was trying to prepare them for, or was he bolstering them for something else?
“I know what it means to hold on to hope, Komizar. Many times in crossing the Cam Lanteux, it was all that sustained me. I would not steal their hope, even if it comes at my expense.”
He eyed me with suspicion. “You’re a strange girl, Lia. Shrewd and calculating, Malich tells me, and adept at games, which I admire. But I do not admire lying.” Our gazes were locked, his black eyes trying to read every line of my face. “Do not disappoint me.” He clicked his reins and moved on.
As we got closer, the longhouse door opened and an old man limped out, aided by a crooked stick. I had noticed in Venda that there were few stooped adults with white hair. It seemed that the aged were a rare treasure. More people trickled out behind him. The man greeted the Komizar as an equal, not as one of his fearful groveling subjects.
“What brings you?” he asked.
“A few gifts to tide you through the winter.” The Komizar signaled a guard, who hefted a large tied bundle onto his shoulder and dropped it near the longhouse door.
“News?” the Komizar asked.
The old man shook his head. “The winds are sharp. They cut both rider and tongue. And the gods promise a hard winter.”
“But spring has greater promise,” the Komizar said. “And that hope can stave off the talons of winter.”
They spoke in riddles I couldn’t follow.
The old man looked at me. “And this?”
The Komizar grabbed my arm and pulled me forward so the old man could get a good look. “A princess of Morrighan with the gift. She’s run from the enemy swine to join our ranks, called by the gods themselves. Already the enemy scatters. And as you can see,” he said, viewing my vest, “she’s been welcomed by the clan of Meurasi.”
The old man aimed a squinted eye at me. “That so?”
The Komizar’s grip on my arm tightened. I looked into the old man’s eyes, hoping to convey more with a gaze than my words. “It is as your Komizar says. I am a princess, First Daughter of Morrighan, and I’ve run from my countrymen who are your enemy.”
The Komizar looked sideways at me, a slight smile creasing his eyes.
“And your name, girl?” the old man asked.
I knew you would come.
The voice was as clear as the old man’s. I closed my eyes, trying to chase it away, but it only came louder and stronger. Jezelia, the one marked with power, the one marked with hope. I opened my eyes. Everyone stared at me, silent and waiting, their eyes wide with curiosity.
“Jezelia,” I answered. “My name is Jezelia.”
His watery eyes studied me and then he turned to the others standing behind him. “Jezelia, who has been welcomed by the clan of Meurasi,” he repeated. They spoke in hushed tones among themselves.
The Komizar leaned close, whispering in my ear, “Well done, Princess. A convincing touch.”
It was only a clever sham to him, but clearly more to these hillfolk. The old man turned back to us. “Some thannis to warm you on your way?” he offered.
The Komizar forced a weak smile. Even he thought thannis tasted like sour dirt. “We need to be on our way—”
“We thank you for your graciousness,” I interrupted. “We would love some.”
The Komizar shot me a dark glare, but didn’t balk in front of the old man, as I knew he wouldn’t. It would never do to have a newcomer embrace the tradition of Venda more than its ruler—no matter how distasteful it was.
I lifted the proffered mug to my lips. Yes, sour moldy dirt, but not half as bad as wiggling white grubs. I drank heartily and handed my mug to the woman who served it, thanking her for her kindness. The Komizar took twice as long to down his.
He berated me when I didn’t offer a “display” of the gift at our next stop.
“You said word passes quickly among the hillfolk. A light touch is better than a heavy-handed performance. Leave them wanting more.”
He laughed. “Shrewd and calculating. Malich was right.”
“And he is right about so few things.”
And so the day went, hamlet after hamlet, the Komizar gaining favor with gifts, sacks of flour and morsels of hope, with me as proof that the enemy was trembling and that the gods were smiling on Venda.
Midafternoon we rested in a valley while the horses drank from a brook. The wind picked up, and the sky grew dark. I held my cloak close about my shoulders, standing apart from the Komizar and soldiers, and looked out at the vista, a land dusky and barren, washed i
n the colors of a dark pebbled river.
The day had shown me that Venda was an unforgiving place and only the heartiest survived here. A Remnant may have been spared, but only a chosen faithful few had been led by the gods and the girl Morrighan to a land of plenty. Venda was not that land. It had taken the brunt of the devastation. As we rode, we passed forests of stone, rolling hills with only occasional hints of green, fields of burnt red rock, windswept trees twisted into haunting shapes that made them look alive, strips of farmland where small crops were coaxed from hard soil, and distant deadlands where the Komizar said nothing lived or grew—lands as forbidding as Infernaterr. And yet there was something compelling about the landscape.
All I had seen were people trying to survive, faithful in their own ways, adding a bone at a time to tethers, remembering the sacrifice that put it there and the sacrifices yet to be made, people in barbarian dress, like the clothing I wore now. People who didn’t speak in grunts, but in humble notes of gratitude. I knew you would come. The words I had heard still bored into me.
A strong gust tore at my clothes, and my hair whipped free of the braid. I pushed the wild strands from my face and stared at the endless landscape and darkening clouds crushing the horizon. With two horses, how far could Rafe and I run? Could we disappear into the emptiness for even a few days? Because three days alone with him now seemed like the gift of a lifetime. I’d do anything for it. We’d been apart for too long.
“So deep in thought.”
I whirled around. “I didn’t hear you walk up.”
“Not wise in this wilderness to be so lost in your reflections that you forget your back. The hyenas prowl this late in the day, especially for little morsels like you.” He glanced to where I had been looking, a long horizon and endless dipping hills. “What were you thinking?” he asked.
“Am I not free to own anything? Not even my thoughts?”
“No,” he answered. “Not anymore.”
And I knew he meant it.
He studied my face as if waiting for a lie, waiting for something. I remained silent. Seconds ticked by, and I thought he might strike me. He finally shook his head. “If you need to take care of personal matters, my men and I will turn our backs for a few minutes. I know how your kind are about your privacy. Be quick about it.”