The_Kiss_of_Deception_-_Mary_E_Pearson
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For the boy who took a chance,
For the man who made it last
Contents
Title page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map of Morrighan
Excerpt from The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
Chapter 1
Excerpt from Morrighan Book of Holy Text, vol. III
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 4
Excerpt from Morrighan Book of Holy Text, vol. IV
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Excerpt from The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Excerpt from Morrighan Book of Holy Text, vol. IV
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Excerpt from The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Excerpt from The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Excerpt from The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Excerpt from The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Excerpt from Song of Venda
Chapter 72
Acknowledgments
Author bio
Copyright
Journey’s end. The promise. The hope.
Tell me again, Ama. About the light.
I search my memories. A dream. A story. A blurred remembrance.
I was smaller than you, child.
The line between truth and sustenance unravels. The need. The hope. My
own grandmother telling stories to fill me because there was nothing more.
I look at this child, windlestraw, a full stomach not even visiting her
dreams. Hopeful. Waiting. I pull her thin arms, gather the feather of flesh
into my lap.
Once upon a time, my child, there was a princess no bigger than you.
The world was at her fingertips. She commanded, and the light obeyed.
The sun, moon, and stars knelt and rose at her touch. Once upon a
time …
Gone. Now there is only this golden-eyed child in my arms. That is what
matters. And the journey’s end. The promise. The hope.
Come, my child. It’s time to go.
Before the scavengers come.
The things that last. The things that remain. The things I dare not speak to
her.
I’ll tell you more as we walk. About before.
Once upon a time …
—The Last Testaments of Gaudrel
CHAPTER ONE
Today was the day a thousand dreams would die and a single dream would
be born.
The wind knew. It was the first of June, but cold gusts bit at the hilltop
citadelle as fiercely as deepest winter, shaking the windows with curses and
winding through drafty halls with warning whispers. There was no escaping
what was to come.
For good or bad, the hours were closing in. I closed my eyes against the
thought, knowing that soon the day would cleave in two, forever creating
the before and after of my life, and it would happen in one swift act that I
could no more alter than the color of my eyes.
I pushed away from the window, fogged with my own breath, and left
the endless hills of Morrighan to their own worries. It was time for me to
meet my day.
The prescribed liturgies passed as they were ordained, the rituals and
rites as each had been precisely laid out, all a testament to the greatness of
Morrighan and the Remnant from which it was born. I didn’t protest. By
this point, numbness had overtaken me, but then midday approached, and
my heart galloped again as I faced the last of the steps that kept here from
there.
I lay naked, facedown on a stone-hard table, my eyes focused on the
floor beneath me while strangers scraped my back with dull knives. I
remained perfectly still, even though I knew the knives brushing my skin
were held with cautious hands. The bearers were well aware that their lives
depended on their skill. Perfect stillness helped me hide the humiliation of
my nakedness as strange hands touched me.
Pauline sat nearby watching, probably with worried eyes. I couldn’t see
her, only the slate floor beneath me, my long dark hair tumbling down
around my face in a swirling black tunnel that blocked the world out—
except for the rhythmic rasp of the blades.
The last knife reached lower, scraping the tender hollow of my back just
above my buttocks, and I fought the instinct to pull away, but I finally
flinched. A collective gasp spread through the room.
“Be still!” my aunt Cloris admonished.
I felt my mother’s hand on my head, gently caressing my hair. “A few
more lines, Arabella. That’s all.”
Even though this was offered as comfort, I bristled at the formal name
my mother insisted on using, the hand-me-down name that had belonged to
so many before me. I wished that at least on this last day in Morrighan,
she’d cast formality aside and use the one I favored, the pet name my
brothers used, shortening one of my many names to its last three letters.
Lia. A simple name that felt truer to who I was.
The scraping ended. “It is finished,” the First Artisan declared. The
other artisans murmured their agreement.
I heard the clatter of a tray being set on the table next to me and whiffed
the overpowering scent of rose oil. Feet shuffled around to form a circle—
my aunts, mother, Pauline, others who’d been summoned to witness the
task—and mumbled prayers were sung. I watched the black robe of the
priest brush past me, and his voice rose above the others as he drizzled the
hot oil on my back. The artisans rubbed it in, their practiced fingers sealing
in the countless traditions of the House of Morrighan, deepening the
promises written upon my back, heralding the commitments of today and
ensuring all their tomorrows.
They can hope, I thought bitterly as my mind jumped out of turn, trying
to keep order to the tasks still before me, the ones written only on my heart
and not a piece of paper. I barely heard the utterances of the priest, a
droning chant that spoke to all of their needs and none of my own.
I was only seventeen. Wasn’t I entitled to my own dreams for the
future?
“And for Arabella Celestine Idris Jezelia, First Daughter of the House of
Morrighan, the fruits of her sacrifice and the blessings of…”
He prattled on and on, the endless required blessings and sacraments,
his voice rising, filling the room, and then when I thought I could stand no
more, his very words pinching off my airways, he stopped, and for a
merciful sweet moment, silence rang in my ears. I breathed again, and then
the final benediction was given.
“For the Kingdoms rose out of the ashes of men and are built on the
bones of the lost, and thereunto we shall return if Heaven wills.” He lifted
my chin with one hand, and with the thumb of his other hand, he smudged
my forehead with ashes.
“So shall it be for this First Daughter of the House of Morrighan,” my
mother finished, as was the tradition, and she wiped the ashes away with an
oil-dipped cloth.
I closed my eyes and lowered my head. First Daughter. Both blessing
and curse. And if the truth be known, a sham.
My mother laid her hand on me again, her palm resting on my shoulder.
My skin stung at her touch. Her comfort came too late. The priest offered
one last prayer in my mother’s native tongue, a prayer of safekeeping that,
oddly, wasn’t tradition, and then she drew her hand away.
More oil was poured, and a low, haunting singsong of prayers echoed
through the cold stone chamber, the rose scent heavy on the air and in my
lungs. I breathed deeply. In spite of myself, I relished this part, the hot oils
and warm hands kneading compliance into knots that had been growing
inside me for weeks. The velvet warmth soothed the sting of acid from the
lemon mixed with dye, and the flowery fragrance momentarily swept me
away to a hidden summer garden where no one could find me. If only it
were that easy.
Again, this step was declared finished, and the artisans stepped back
from their handiwork. There was an audible gathering of breath as the final
results on my back were viewed.
I heard someone shuffle closer. “I daresay he won’t be looking long
upon her back with the rest of that view at his disposal.” A titter ran through
the room. Aunt Bernette was never one to restrain her words, even with a
priest in the room and protocol at stake. My father claimed I got my
impulsive tongue from her, though today I’d been warned to control it.
Pauline took my arm and helped me to rise. “Your Highness,” she said
as she handed me a soft sheet to wrap around myself, sparing what little
dignity I had left. We exchanged a quick knowing glance, which bolstered
me, and then she guided me to the full-length mirror, giving me a small
silver hand mirror, that I might view the results too. I swept my long hair
aside and let the sheet fall enough to expose my lower back.
The others waited in silence for my response. I resisted drawing in a
breath. I wouldn’t give my mother that satisfaction, but I couldn’t deny that
my wedding kavah was exquisite. It did indeed leave me in awe. The ugly
crest of the Kingdom of Dalbreck had been made startlingly beautiful, the
snarling lion tamed on my back, the intricate designs gracefully hemming in
his claws, the swirling vines of Morrighan weaving in and out with nimble
elegance, spilling in a V down my back until the last delicate tendrils clung
and swirled in the gentle hollow of my lower spine. The lion was honored
and yet cleverly subdued.
My throat tightened, and my eyes stung. It was a kavah I might have
loved … might have been proud to wear. I swallowed and imagined the
prince when the vows were complete and the wedding cloak lowered,
gaping with awe. The lecherous toad. But I gave the artisans their due.
“It is perfection. I thank you, and I’ve no doubt the Kingdom of
Dalbreck will from this day forward hold the artisans of Morrighan in
highest esteem.” My mother smiled at my effort, knowing that these few
words from me were hard-won.
And with that, everyone was ushered away, the remaining preparations
to be shared only with my parents, and Pauline, who would assist me. My
mother brought the white silk underdress from the wardrobe, a mere wisp of
fabric so thin and fluid it melted across her arms. To me it was a useless
formality, for it covered very little, being as transparent and helpful as the
endless layers of tradition. The gown came next, the back plunging in the
same V so as to frame the kavah honoring the prince’s kingdom and
displaying his bride’s new allegiance.
My mother tightened the laces in the hidden structure of the dress,
pulling it snug so the bodice appeared to effortlessly cling to my waist even
without fabric stretching across my back. It was an engineering feat as
remarkable as the great bridge of Golgata, maybe more so, and I wondered
if the seamstresses had cast a bit of magic into the fabric and threads. It was
better to think on these details than what the short hour would bring. My
mother turned me ceremoniously to face the mirror.
Despite my resentment, I was hypnotized. It was truly the most beautiful
gown I had ever seen. Stunningly elegant, the dense Quiassé lace of local
lace makers was the only adornment around the dipping neckline.
Simplicity. The lace flowed in a V down the bodice to mirror the cut of the
back of the dress. I looked like someone else in it, someone older and wiser.
Someone with a pure heart that held no secrets. Someone … not like me.
I walked away without comment and stared out the window, my
mother’s soft sigh following on my heels. In the far distance, I saw the lone
red spire of Golgata, its single crumbling ruin all that remained of the once
massive bridge that spanned the vast inlet. Soon, it too would be gone,
swallowed up like the rest of the great bridge. Even the mysterious
engineering magic of the Ancients couldn’t defy the inevitable. Why should
I try?
My stomach lurched, and I shifted my gaze closer to the bottom of the
hill, where wagons lumbered on the road far below the citadelle, heading
toward the town square, perhaps laden with fruit, or flowers, or kegs of
wine from the Morrighan vineyards. Fine carriages pulled by matching
ribboned steeds dotted the lane as well.
Maybe in one of those carriages, my oldest brother, Walther, and his
young bride, Greta, sat with fingers entwined on their way to my wedding,
scarcely able to break their gazes from each other. And maybe my other
brothers were already at the square, flashing their smiles at young girls who
drew their fancy. I remembered seeing Regan, dreamy-eyed and whispering
to the coachman’s daughter just a few days ago in a dark hallway, and Bryn
dallied with a new girl each week, unable to settle on just one. Three older
brothers I adored, all free to fall in love and marry anyone they chose. The
girls free to choose as well. Everyone free, including Pauline, who had a
beau who would return to her at month’s end.
“How did you do it, Mother?” I asked, still staring at the passing
carriages below. “How did you travel all the way from Gastineux to marry a
toad you didn’t love?”
“Your father is not a toad,” my mother said sternly.
I whirled to face her. “A king maybe, but a toad nonetheless. Do you
mean to tell me that when you married a stranger twice your age, you didn’t
think him a toad?”
My mother’s gray eyes rested calmly on me. “No, I did not. It was my
destiny and my duty.”
A weary sigh broke from my chest. “Because you were a First
Daughter.”
The subject of First Daughter was one my mother always cleverly
steered away from. Today, with only the two of us present and no other
distractions, she couldn’t turn away. I watched her stiffen, her chin rising in
good royal form. “It’s an honor, Arabella.”
“But I don’t have the gift of First Daughter. I’m not a Siarrah. Dalbreck
will soon discover I’m not the asset they suppose me to be. This wedding is
a sham.”
“The gift may come in time,” she answered weakly.
I didn’t argue this point. It was known that most First Daughters came
into their gift by womanhood, and I had been a woman for four years now.
I’d shown no signs of any gift. My mother clung to false hopes. I turned
away, looking out the window again.
“Even if it doesn’t come,” my mother continued, “the wedding is no
sham. This union is about far more than just one asset. The honor and
privilege of a First Daughter in a royal bloodline is a gift in itself. It carries
history and tradition with it. That’s all that matters.”
“Why First Daughter? Can you be sure the gift isn’t passed to a son? Or
a Second Daughter?”
“It’s happened, but … not to be expected. And not tradition.”
And is it tradition to lose your gift too? Those unsaid words hung razor
sharp between us, but even I couldn’t wound my mother with them. My
father hadn’t consulted with her on matters of state since early in their
marriage, but I had heard the stories of before, when her gift was strong and
what she said mattered. That is, if any of it was even true. I wasn’t sure
anymore.
I had little patience for such gibberish. I liked my words and reasoning
simple and straightforward. And I was so tired of hearing about tradition
that I was certain if the word were spoken aloud one more time, my head
would explode. My mother was from another time.
I heard her approach and felt her warm arms circle about me. My throat
swelled. “My precious daughter,” she whispered against my ear, “whether
the gift comes or doesn’t come is of little matter. Don’t worry yourself so.
It’s your wedding day.”
To a toad. I had caught a glimpse of the King of Dalbreck when he came
to draw up the agreement—as if I were a horse given in trade to his son.
The king was as decrepit and crooked as an old crone’s arthritic toe—old
enough to be my own father’s father. Hunched and slow, he needed
assistance up the steps to the Grand Hall. Even if the prince was a fraction
of his age, he’d still be a withered, toothless fop. The thought of him
touching me, much less—
I shivered at the thought of bony old hands caressing my cheek or
shriveled sour lips meeting mine. I kept my gaze fixed out the window, but
saw nothing beyond the glass. “Why could I not have at least inspected him
first?”
My mother’s arms dropped from around me. “Inspect a prince? Our
relationship with Dalbreck is already tenuous at best. You’d have us insult
their kingdom with such a request when Morrighan is hoping to create a
crucial alliance?”
“I’m not a soldier in Father’s army.”
My mother drew closer, brushing my cheek, and whispered, “Yes, my
dear. You are.”
A chill danced down my spine.
She gave me a last squeeze and stepped back. “It’s time. I’ll go retrieve
the wedding cloak from the vault,” she said, and left.
I crossed the room to my wardrobe and flung open the doors, sliding out
the bottom drawer and lifting a green velvet pouch that held a slim jeweled
dagger. It had been a gift on my sixteenth birthday from my brothers, a gift
I was never allowed to use—at least openly—but the back of my dressing
chamber door bore the gouged marks of my secret practice. I snatched a
few more belongings, wrapping them in a chemise, and tied it all with
ribbon to secure it.
Pauline returned from dressing herself, and I handed her the small
bundle.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, a jumble of nerves at the last-minute
preparations. She left the chamber just as my mother returned with the
cloak.
“Take care of what?” my mother asked.
“I gave her a few more things I want to take with me.”
“The belongings you need were sent off in trunks yesterday,” she said as
she crossed the room toward my bed.
“There were a few we forgot.”
She shook her head, reminding me there was precious little room in the
carriage and that the journey to Dalbreck was a long one.
“I’ll manage,” I answered.
She carefully laid the cloak across my bed. It had been steamed and
hung in the vault so no fold or wrinkle would tarnish its beauty. I ran my
hand along the short velvet nap. The blue was as dark as midnight, and the
rubies, tourmalines, and sapphires circling the edges were its stars. The
jewels would prove useful. It was tradition that the cloak should be placed
on the bride’s shoulders by both her parents, and yet my mother had
returned alone.
“Where is—” I started to ask, but then I heard an army of footsteps
echoing in the hallway. My heart sank lower than it already was. He wasn’t
coming alone, even for this. My father entered the chamber flanked by the
Lord Viceregent on one side, the Chancellor and the Royal Scholar on the
other, and various minions of his cabinet parading on their heels. I knew the
Viceregent was only doing his job—he had pulled me aside shortly after the
documents were signed and told me that he alone had argued against the
marriage—but he was ultimately a rigid man of duty like the rest of them. I
especially disliked the Scholar and Chancellor, as they were well aware, but
I felt little guilt about it, since I knew the feeling was mutual. My skin
crawled whenever I neared them, as though I had just walked through a
field of blood-sucking vermin. They, more than anyone, were probably glad
to be rid of me.
My father approached, kissed both of my cheeks, and stepped back to
look at me, finally breathing a hearty sigh. “As beautiful as your mother on
our wedding day.”
I wondered if the unusual display of emotion was for the benefit of
those who looked on. I rarely saw a moment of affection pass between my
mother and father, but then in a brief second I watched his eyes shift from
me to her and linger there. My mother stared back at him, and I wondered
what passed between them. Love? Or regret at love lost and what might
have been? The uncertainty alone filled a strange hollow within me, and a
hundred questions sprang to my lips, but with the Chancellor and Scholar
and the impatient entourage looking on, I was reluctant to ask any of them.
Maybe that was my father’s intent.
The Timekeeper, a pudgy man with bulging eyes, pulled out his ever-
present pocket watch. He and the others ushered my father around as if they
were the ones who ruled the kingdom instead of the other way around.
“We’re pressed for time, Your Majesty,” he reminded my father.
The Viceregent gave me a sympathetic glance but nodded agreement.
“We don’t want to keep the royal family of Dalbreck waiting on this
momentous occasion. As you well know, Your Majesty, it wouldn’t be well
received.”
The spell and gaze were broken. My mother and father lifted the cloak
and set it about my shoulders, securing the clasp at my neck, and then my
father alone raised the hood over my head and again kissed each cheek, but
this time with much more reserve, only fulfilling protocol. “You serve the
Kingdom of Morrighan well on this day, Arabella.”
Lia.
He hated the name Jezelia because it had no precedent in the royal
lineage, no precedent anywhere, he had argued, but my mother had insisted
upon it without explanation. On this point she had remained unyielding. It
was probably the last time my father conceded anything to her wishes. I
never would have known as much if not for Aunt Bernette, and even she
treaded carefully around the subject, still a prickly thorn between my
parents.
I searched his face. The fleeting tenderness of just a moment past was
gone, his thoughts already moving on to matters of state, but I held his gaze,
hoping for more. There was nothing. I lifted my chin, standing taller. “Yes, I
do serve the kingdom well, as I should, Your Majesty. I am, after all, a
soldier in your army.”
He frowned and looked quizzically to my mother. Her head shook
softly, silently dismissing the matter. My father, always the king first and
father second, was satisfied with ignoring my remark, because as always,
other matters did press. He turned and walked away with his entourage,
saying he’d meet me at the abbey, his duty to me now fulfilled. Duty. That
was a word I hated as much as tradition.
“Are you ready?” my mother asked when the others had left the room.
I nodded. “But I have to attend to a personal need before we leave. I’ll
meet you in the lower hall.”
“I can—”
“Please, Mother—” My voice broke for the first time. “I just need a few
minutes.”
My mother relented, and I listened to the lonely echo of her footsteps as
she retreated down the hallway.
“Pauline?” I whispered, swiping at my cheeks.
Pauline entered my room through the dressing chamber. We stared at
each other, no words necessary, clearly understanding what lay ahead of us,
every detail of the day already wrestled with during a long, sleepless night.
“There’s still time to change your mind. Are you sure?” Pauline asked,
giving me a last chance to back out.
Sure? My chest squeezed with pain, a pain so deep and real I wondered
if hearts really were capable of breaking. Or was it fear that pierced me? I
pressed my hand hard against my chest, trying to soothe the stab I felt there.
Maybe this was the point of cleaving. “There’s no turning back. The choice
was made for me,” I answered. “From this moment on, this is the destiny
that I’ll have to live with, for better or worse.”
“I pray the better, my friend,” Pauline said, nodding her understanding.
And with that, we hurried down the empty arched hallway toward the back
of the citadelle and then down the dark servants’ stairway. We passed no
one—everyone was either busy with preparations down at the abbey or
waiting at the front of the citadelle for the royal procession to the square.
We emerged through a small wooden door with thick black hinges into
blinding sunlight, the wind whipping at our dresses and throwing back my
hood. I spotted the back fortress gate only used for hunts and discreet
departures, already open as ordered. Pauline led me across a muddy
paddock to the shady hidden wall of the carriage house where a wide-eyed
stable boy waited with two saddled horses. His eyes grew impossibly wider
as I approached. “Your Highness, you’re to take a carriage already prepared
for you,” he said, choking on his words as they tumbled out. “It’s waiting
by the steps at the front of the citadelle. If you—”
“The plans have changed,” I said firmly, and I gathered my gown up in
great bunches so I could get a foothold in the stirrup. The straw-haired
boy’s mouth fell open as he looked at my once pristine gown, the hem
already sloshed with mud, now smearing my sleeves and lace bodice and,
worse, the Morrighan jeweled wedding cloak. “But—”
“Hurry! A hand up!” I snapped, taking the reins from him.
He obeyed, helping Pauline in similar fashion.
“What shall I tell—”
I didn’t hear what else he said, the galloping hooves stampeding out all
arguments past and present. With Pauline at my side, in one swift act that
could never be undone, an act that ended a thousand dreams but gave birth
to one, I bolted for the cover of the forest and never looked back.
Lest we repeat history,
the stories shall be passed
from father to son, from mother to daughter,
for with but one generation,
history and truth are lost forever.
—Morrighan Book of Holy Text, Vol. III
CHAPTER TWO
We screamed. We yelled with all the power of our lungs, knowing the wind,
hills, and distance plucked our nervous freedom from any ears that might
listen. We screamed with giddy abandon and a primal need to believe in our
flight. If we didn’t believe, fear would overtake us. I already felt it nipping
at my back as I pushed harder.
We headed north, aware that the stable boy would watch us until we
vanished into the forest. When we were well within its cover, we found the
streambed that I’d seen on hunts with my brothers and doubled back
through the trickling waters, walking in the shallow stream until we found a
rocky embankment on the other side to use for our exit, leaving no prints or
trail behind us for others to follow.
Once we hit firm level ground again, we dug in our heels and rode as if
a monster were chasing us. We rode and we rode, following a little-used
path that hugged the dense pines, which would give us refuge if we needed
to duck in quickly. Sometimes we were dizzy with laughter, sometimes
tears trickled backward across our cheeks, pushed by our speed, but most of
the time we were silent, not quite believing we had actually done it.
After an hour, I wasn’t sure what ached more, my thighs, my cramping
calves, or my bruised backside, all unaccustomed to anything more than a
stiff royal gait because these last few months my father would not allow