The Kiss of Deception (The Remnant Chronicles, #1)(26)

Pauline’s true love was fine, I told myself, but the oppressive feeling lingered. I had never met Mikael. He wasn’t from Civica, had only been assigned there as part of a rotation of troops, and Pauline had followed court rules to the letter and been discreet—so discreet she never even mentioned him until just before we left. Now I feared that I might never meet this young man who loved her so and made her face glow when she spoke of him.

“Would you like to stop?” I blurted out much too loudly, startling her. I pulled back on Otto’s reins.

She stopped, anxious lines creasing her forehead. “If you don’t mind. It will only take a moment.”

I nodded and she slid from Nove, pulling a coin from her saddlebag. She hurried into the Sacrista. A candle. A prayer. A hope. A flickering light burning for Mikael. A beacon to guide him safely to Terravin.

It would sustain her until the next time a warning breeze skipped over the bones of the long dead. Pauline was true to her word, as in all things, and when she returned a short time later, the rigid edge of worry that had hardened her face a few minutes earlier had softened. Pauline had given worry over to the gods. My own heart lightened.

We finished our trek to the main road and followed the directions Berdi gave us to Gwyneth’s small rented room above the apothecary. It was a tiny shop sandwiched between much larger stores on either side. A narrow staircase hugged one wall and led to a room on the second floor that I assumed was Gwyneth’s. It was set back from the rest of the structure and not much larger than an arm span across, surely with no running water or the basic comfort of a chamber closet. I was intensely curious about Gwyneth’s life outside the tavern. She never spoke of it even when prodded, always giving vague responses and moving on to something else, which only served to spark my imagination. I had expected her to live in someplace much more exotic or mysterious than a little room over a shop on a busy main road.

We slid from our donkeys, and I handed Otto’s reins to Pauline, telling her I’d run up the stairs to get Gwyneth, but suddenly she emerged from the shoemaker’s across the road with a child of no more than six or seven, a pretty little girl with dark strawberry curls falling past her shoulders and sprinkles of sun dust trailing across her nose and cheeks. She held a small wrapped package she clearly treasured, hugging it to her chest. “Thank you, Miss Gwyneth! I can’t wait to show Mama!”

She ran off and disappeared down another lane. “Good-bye, Simone!” Gwyneth called after her and continued to look in the direction the little girl had run long after she was gone. A faint smile lit her eyes, a gentleness that permeated her whole bearing. It was a tender side I had never seen in the usually jaded Gwyneth.

“She’s very pretty,” I called to alert her to our presence.

She whipped her gaze in our direction, and her back stiffened. “You’re early,” she said curtly.

She joined us on our side of the street, inspecting the bucktoothed Dieci suspiciously, wondering aloud if the homely beast had ever been ridden. In truth, we didn’t know, though he took to the saddle well enough. As she checked his cinch, a large lunch wagon clattered by on its way to the docks, and great wafts of greasy fried eel filled the air around us. While I didn’t favor this regional delicacy, its aroma was not unpleasant, but Pauline’s hand flew to her mouth. Her face paled, and she doubled over, her morning meal splattering to the street. I tried to go to her aid, but she brushed me away and clutched her stomach again as another wave overtook her and there was more spillage. I was certain her stomach had to be empty now. She straightened, taking a shaky breath, but her hands were still protectively pressed to her stomach. I stared at her hands, and in an instant, the rest of the world disappeared.

Oh, blessed gods.

Pauline?

It hit me as swiftly as a punch to my gut. No wonder she’d been so sallow and tired. No wonder she was so frightened.

“Pauline,” I whispered.

She shook her head, cutting me off. “I’m fine! I’ll be fine. The parritch simply didn’t settle properly.” She sent me a quick pleading look with watery eyes.

We could talk about this later. With Gwyneth looking on, I hurriedly tried to cover, explaining that Pauline had always had a delicate constitution.

“Weak stomach or not, she’s in no shape to travel into a hot canyon for berry hunting,” Gwyneth said firmly, and I was grateful that Pauline agreed. Still looking pale, she insisted she could return home on her own, and I reluctantly let her go.

“Skip the parritch from now on,” Gwyneth called after her as she rode away.

But Pauline and I both knew it wasn’t her morning meal that had made her sick.





From the seed of the thief

The Dragon will rise,

The gluttonous one,

Feeding on the blood of babes,

Drinking the tears of mothers.


—Song of Venda





CHAPTER FOURTEEN



Devil’s Canyon was aptly named. The temperate breezes of Terravin didn’t venture down here. It was dry and dusty but strangely beautiful in its own way. Large gnarled oaks mingled with tall palms and barrel cactus. Jewelweed taller than a man hugged the thin rocky streams that sprang from creviced walls. It looked like a demon’s stash, mismatched flora stolen from the corners of the earth to create his own version of paradise. And of course there were the blackberries, his seductive fruit, but we hadn’t come upon them yet.