The Heart of Betrayal

  I grabbed his arms, forcing him to look at me. “It doesn’t have to be this way between the kingdoms.”

  A faint smile lit his face. “Yes, my princess, it does. It is how it’s always been and always will be, only now it will be us wielding power over them.”

  He pulled away from my grip, and his gaze returned to his city, his chest puffing, his stature growing before my eyes. “It’s my turn now to sit on a golden throne in Morrighan and dine on sweet grapes in winter. And if any royals survive our conquest, it will give me great pleasure to lock them up on this side of hell to fight over roaches and rats to fill their bellies.”

  I stared at the consuming power glistening in his eyes. It pumped through his veins instead of blood, and beat in his chest instead of a heart. My plea for compromise was babble to his ears, a language long erased from his memory.

  “Well?” he asked.

  A terrible greatness rolled across the land.

  A new terrible greatness.

  I said the only thing I could say. What I knew he wanted to hear. “You’ve thought of everything, sher Komizar. I’m impressed.”

  And in a dark and frightening way, I was.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  RAFE

  I hovered near the firepit in Hawk’s Pavilion pretending to warm my hands. Ulrix had given me changes of clothing, but they hadn’t included any gloves. It was just as well. It gave me an excuse to stand here with Sven, who had also “forgotten” to wear his gloves to the pavilion. We watched the keeper training the hawks. Orrin stood opposite us as a lookout for anyone who might approach.

  “He has eight barrels in a cave down by the river,” Sven whispered, even though the nearest guards stood far behind us on the other side of the court. “He says he only needs four more.”

  “How is he getting them?”

  “You don’t want to know. Let’s just say Vendan justice would leave him fingerless.”

  “His thievery better be flawless, because he’s going to need every finger to secure that raft.”

  “He did acquire the rope honestly, thanks to the princess and the money she gave him. The kind of rope he needed can only be had in the jehendra, which would be far more difficult to lift things from, so thank the gods she’s good at cards.”

  I thought about the card game and the blood I had sweat watching her play. Yes, thank the gods and her brothers, she is good.

  “Jeb used patties to cover the rope up in the bottom of his cart and sneak it out to Tavish.” Sven held his hands closer to the flames and asked me about the Sanctum routines.

  I told him more of what I had learned in these past weeks—what times the guards changed at the entrances, how many could be found in hallways at any given moment, when Lia was most likely not to be missed, the governors who were more amiable than others, those who tipped their mugs heavily, the Rahtan and chievdars he didn’t dare turn his back on, and where I had hidden weapons—three swords, four daggers, and a poleaxe.

  “You pilfered weapons right under their noses? A poleaxe?”

  “It just takes patience.”

  “You? Patience?” Sven grunted.

  I couldn’t blame him for his cynicism. I was the one who rode off with only a half-assed plan to guide us. I thought about the last several days and all the times I’d had to restrain my natural impulses, the agonizing waiting when all I wanted to do was act, weighing the satisfaction of a victorious moment against a lifetime with Lia, calculating every move and word to make sure it gave her and us the best possible chance. If there was a torture in hell crafted specifically for me, this was it.

  “Yes, patience,” I said. It was a scar as painfully won as any in battle. I told him that Calantha and Ulrix were my primary guards and that Calantha missed nothing, so I had little opportunity around her, but after laying me flat several times and finding that I offered only a weak fight, Ulrix had grown satisfied that the emissary was not one to waste much worry over. Opportunities arose, and slowly I slipped one mislaid weapon after another into dark forgotten corners, to be retrieved and moved to another dark corner until I had them where I was sure no one would find them.

  “No one missed them? Not even the poleaxe?”

  “There are always a few swords set aside during late nights and card games in the Sanctum. When losers get nervous, they drink, and when they drink, they forget things. In the morning, servants return mislaid weapons to the armory. The poleaxe was luck. I saw it propped up against the sow pen for the better part of a day. When no one seemed to miss it, I tossed it behind the woodpile.”

  Sven nodded with approval as if I were still his charge in training. “What about last night? Have you gotten any whiff of suspicions about the sword fight?”

  “I fumbled. I lost. My shoulder drew first blood. By now that’s all they remember. Any skill with the sword is lost in the shadow of Kaden’s victory.”

  We saw Orrin on the other side of the fire signaling us that someone was approaching, and we stopped talking.

  “Morning, Governor Obraun. Feeding mice to the falcons?”

  We turned. It was Griz. He spoke in Morrighese, which he had claimed he didn’t know. I looked at Sven, but he wasn’t responding. Instead the old curd had paled.

  Orrin and I both knew something was wrong. Orrin began to draw his sword, but I waved him back. Griz wore two short swords, and his hands gripped the hilts of both. He stood too close to Sven for us to make a move. Griz grinned, soaking in Sven’s reaction. “After twenty-five years and that trophy crossing your face, I didn’t recognize you right off. It was your voice that gave you away.”

  “Falgriz,” Sven said at last, as if he were looking at a ghost. “Looks like you’ve gained an ugly trophy up top too. And a sizable gut down below.”

  “Flattery won’t get you out of this.”

  “It did the last time.”

  A smile creased the giant’s eyes in spite of the scowl that crossed his scarred brow.

  “He’s the one who lied to the Komizar for me,” I said.

  Griz whipped his gaze at me. “I didn’t lie for you, twinkle toes. Let’s get that straight right now. I lied for her.”

  “You’re a spy for her kingdom?” I asked.

  His lips curled back in disgust. “I’m a spy for you, you blasted fool.”

  Sven’s eyebrows shot up. This was obviously a new development for him too.

  Griz jerked his head toward Sven. “All those years stuck with this lout gave me a little knowledge about courts, and a lot of knowledge about languages. I’m no traitor to my own kind, if that’s what you’re thinking, but I meet with your scouts. I carry useless information from one enemy kingdom to another. If royals want to throw their money away for the tracking of troops, I’m happy to oblige. It keeps my kinfolk from starving.”

  I looked at Sven. “This is who you were stuck with in the mines?”

  “For two very long years. Griz saved my life,” he answered.

  “Get it right,” Griz snarled. “You saved my neck, and we both know it.”

  Orrin and I exchanged a glance. Neither one seemed pleased about his spared life or in agreement over who saved whom.

  Sven rubbed his stubble, studying Griz. “So, Falgriz. Do we have a problem?”

  “You’re still a dense bastard,” Griz answered. “Yes, we have a problem. I don’t want her leaving, and I assume that’s what you’re here for.”

  Sven sighed. “Well, you’re partially right.” He nodded toward me. “I’m here to spring this knucklehead, and that’s all. You can keep the girl.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Sorry, boy. King’s orders. We’ve got an escort waiting just on the other side of the river.”

  I lunged at Sven, grabbing him by his vest. “You lying, filthy—”

  Griz yanked me off Sven and threw me to the ground. “Don’t be messing with our new governor, Emissary.”

  Sanctum guards began running over after seeing me jump Sven.

  “
Not much of a guard, are you?” Griz said to Orrin, who hadn’t moved to protect Sven. “At least look like you know what you’re doing, or you won’t last long around here.” Orrin drew his sword and held it menacingly above me. Griz cast another warning scowl at me. “Just so we all understand each other. I don’t care if you all drown in the river or beat each other senseless, but the girl stays here.” And then just to Sven, “The stitchery’s an improvement.”

  “As is the needlework on your skull.”

  Sven and I eyed each other. We had a problem. Griz stomped off, telling the approaching guards to go back to their posts, the matter was settled, but as I watched him walk away, I noticed the Assassin standing in the shadow of the colonnade. He stood there with no apparent destination. Just watching us. And even after Griz had long passed, he continued to look in our direction.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  It happened when I took my boots off. The heavy clunk of the heels hitting the floor. The shoes. The whisper. The memory. The knowing chill that had settled across my shoulders the first time I heard their footsteps. Reverence and restraint.

  It hit me suddenly and violently, and I thought I was going to be sick.

  I leaned over the chamber pot, a damp sweat springing to my brow.

  They had changed everything but their shoes.

  I swallowed the salty sick taste on my tongue and fanned my anger instead. It flamed to a rage and propelled me forward. I bypassed the guards and used the hidden passage. Where I was going, I could not have an escort.

  * * *

  This time when I strode through the catacombs and then down into the cavern where piles of books waited to be burned, I gave no care to the loudness of my footsteps. When I got there, no one was in the outer room sorting books, but the far room was dimly lit. I saw at least one robed figure within, hunched over a table.

  The inner room was almost as large as the first, with several piles of its own waiting to be hauled away and burned. There were eight robed figures within. I stood at the entrance watching them, but they were so consumed with their tasks they didn’t notice me. Their hoods were drawn, as was their practice, supposedly a symbol of humility and devotion, but I knew the purpose was as much to block out others so they could remain focused on their difficult work. Their deathly work.

  The priest I had met with back in Terravin had sensed something was amiss, even if he hadn’t known exactly what it was. I wouldn’t speak to the other priests of this matter. They might not all agree where loyalties lie. I realized now that he had tried to warn me, but if the Komizar had coaxed these men here with promises of riches, I might be able to sway their greedy hearts with greater treasures.

  I looked down at their shoes, almost hidden by their brown robes. They seemed out of place here instead of tucked behind polished desks.

  I had grabbed a large volume from one of the piles of discards as I walked in, and now I threw it to the ground. The loud smack echoed through the room, and both the seated and standing scholars turned to see me. They showed no alarm, not even surprise, but the seated scholars left their chairs to stand with the others.

  I stopped in front of them, their faces still hidden in the shadows of their hoods. “I would expect at least a cursory bow from subjects of Morrighan when their princess addresses them.”

  The tallest one in the middle spoke for them all. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find us down here. How well I remember your wanderings in Civica.” His voice was vaguely familiar.

  “Show your traitorous faces,” I ordered. “As your lone sovereign in this wretched kingdom, I command it.”

  The tall one stepped forward. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  “But you most certainly have. Your new attire is decidedly plainer.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I do miss our embroidered silk robes, but we had to leave those behind. These are much more practical here.”

  He pushed back his hood, and my stomach turned with nausea. He was my tenth-year tutor, Argyris. One by one, the others pushed back their hoods too. These weren’t just any scholars from remote regions. These were the elite inner circle, trained by the Royal Scholar himself. The Royal Scholar’s second assistant, the lead illuminator, my fifth- and eighth-year tutors, the library archivist, two of my brothers’ tutors, all scholars who had left their positions, presumably for other work in Sacristas throughout Morrighan. Now I knew where they had really gone, and maybe worse, I had known early on that they weren’t trustworthy. Back in Civica, I had felt agitation in their presence. These were the scholars I had always hated, the ones who filled me with dread, the ones who wrestled the Holy Text into our heads with all the grace of a bull, and with none of the tenderness or sincerity I heard in Pauline’s voice as she sang remembrances. These before me shredded the text into torn pieces of history.

  “What did the Komizar promise to make it worth turning your back on your countrymen?”

  Argyris smiled with the same arrogance I remembered from the days when he looked over my shoulder, berating me on the spacing of my script. “We’re not exactly traitors, Arabella. We’re simply on loan to the Komizar by order of the Kingdom of Morrighan.”

  “Liar,” I sneered. “My father would never send this kingdom anything, much less court scholars, to—” I looked at the piles of books around us. “What new menace are you working on now?”

  “We’re merely scholars, Princess, doing what we do,” Argyris answered. He and the other scholars exchanged smug grins. “What others do with our findings is not our business. We simply uncover the worlds these books hold.”

  “Not all the worlds. You burn pile after pile in the Sanctum ovens.”

  He shrugged. “Some texts are not as useful as others. We can’t translate them all.”

  The way he couched his words and distanced the scholars from their treachery made me ache to rip his tongue out, but I restrained myself. I still needed answers. “It wasn’t my father who loaned you to Venda. Who did?” I demanded. They only looked at me as if I were still their impetuous charge and smirked.

  I pushed past them, shoving them out of the way, ignoring their indignant huffs, and went to the table where they’d been working. I shuffled through books and papers, trying to find some evidence of who had sent them. I opened one of the ledgers, and a roughly garbed arm reached past me and snapped the tablet shut.

  “I think not, Your Highness,” he said, his breath hot on my ear.

  He pressed so close, I could barely spin to see who it was. He pinned me against the table and smiled, waiting for recognition to wash over my face.

  It did.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  He reached up and touched my neck, rubbing the small white mark where the bounty hunter had cut me. “Only a nick?” He frowned. “I knew I should have sent someone else. Your sensitive royal nose probably smelled him coming a mile away.”

  It was the driver from the stable yard. And now I was certain, the tavern guest Pauline had mentioned to me. You didn’t see him? He walked in right after the other two. A thin, scruffy fellow. He shot plenty of sideways looks your way.

  And also the scruffy young man I had seen one night with the Chancellor.

  “Garvin, at your service,” he said, with a mock-genteel nod. “It’s lovely to watch the wheels spin in your head.”

  There was nothing about him that would stand out. Medium build, ashy uncombed hair. He could blend in with any crowd. It wasn’t his appearance that had left an impression on me. It was the startled expression of the Chancellor when I stumbled upon him and two scholars in a dark nook of the eastern portico. Guilt had flooded their faces, but I hadn’t registered it then. It was the middle of the night, and I had just snuck in from a card game and was so concerned about my own detection that I hadn’t questioned their odd behavior.

  I glared at him. “It must have been such a disappointment for the Chancellor to learn I wasn’t dead.”

  He smiled. “I haven’t seen him i
n months. As far as I know, he thinks you are dead. Our hunter has never failed us before, and the Chancellor had gotten word that the Assassin was on your trail too. There was little doubt that one of them would finish you. Wait until he finds out the truth.” He chuckled. “But the spin of your greater betrayal to Morrighan in marrying the Komizar may serve his purposes even better. Well done, Your Highness.”

  His purposes? I thought of all the jeweled baubles that graced the Chancellor’s knuckles. Gifts, he had called them. What else was he getting in return for delivering wagons of wine and the services of scholars to the Komizar? A few sparkling ornaments for his fingers could hardly be worth the cost of treason. Was it a ploy for more power? What else had the Komizar promised him?

  “I would tell the Chancellor not to spend his riches before they’re in his greedy palm. I’ll remind you, I am not dead yet.”

  Garvin laughed, and his face loomed closer to mine. “Here?” he whispered. “Yes, here you’re as good as dead. You’ll never be leaving again—at least not alive.”

  I tried to push past him, but he tightened his grip on the table. He was not a large man, but he was wiry and tough. I heard the snickers of the scholars, but I could see only the stubble on Garvin’s chin and feel his thighs pressing close to mine.

  “I’ll also remind you, though I may be a prisoner of the Komizar, I’m his betrothed as well, and unless you’d like to see your thin, sour hide served on a platter, I would suggest you move your arms now.”

  His smile disappeared, and he stepped aside. “Be on your way, and I’d advise you not to come this way again. These catacombs have many forgotten and dangerous passages. One could easily get lost forever.”

  I brushed past him and the scholars, tasting the bitterness of their betrayal, but when I was a few yards away, I stopped and slowly scrutinized them.

  “What are you doing?” Argyris asked.

  “Memorizing each of your faces and how you look in this moment—and imagining what you’ll look like a year from now as you face death. Because as you all well know, I do have the gift, and I’ve seen every one of you dead.”