He woke to the thick dark of full night. Karasek rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His throat felt clogged with thirst, and his stomach had squeezed into an empty knot.
Live and you will eat and drink,
he told his body. One by one, he gathered up his possessions. The pouch he tied around his neck. He covered the sword and its sheath with his jacket, but kept his knives handy. First to check for patrols.
“Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc,”
he said.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter.”
The dusty air stirred into life, brushing against his cheek like a lover’s breath. A wisp of current, its scent like pine trees in winter, revived him, and for one exquisite moment, he could forget his weariness and a thirst so profound that his throat felt like sand. It was a risk, using magic, but less of a risk than stumbling into a pack of Veraenen soldiers. He would make a brief reconnaissance and then be gone.
“Komen mir de strôm unde kreft. Komen mir de zoubernisse.”
The magic current flickered stronger then weaker as his concentration wavered.
Magic was like the ocean’s currents. Like the inexorable rhythm of life and death. Magic was Lir’s sweet exhalation, as she lay with Toc. Magic was completion.
“Lâzen mir de sûle. Vliugen himelûf. Ougen mir.”
The magic current spun through the narrow opening. A thread of perception connected magic with its wielder, and as the current rose toward the sky, Karasek saw the black expanse of night, a brilliant spangle of stars, a raptor floating high overhead. Higher yet, and he could pick out the buildings and walls of the garrison city, now washed in moonlight. Within, the souls of the inhabitants glowed. A few bright points, like suns among the stars, caught his attention. He recognized Valara Baussay’s magical signature.
I knew her before, in lives past.
The knowledge had come to him like a shock when his soldiers first brought the Morennioùen queen before him as a prisoner. She had been queen in that previous life, and he, he had been a representative of the empire.
The memories served no purpose, he told himself. He turned away from Osterling and commanded the magic to lift him away.
The current whirled him back toward the hills where his body lay. A blink, a shudder, and spirit rejoined flesh. Karasek drew a last breath of the magic current and savored its taste and smell. Then he spoke the words to wipe the surrounding area clean of his signature.
So. There were no patrols yet. Would there ever be? He had killed the only witness to his escape. Or so he had thought. He remembered throwing the girl to the ground, her head striking a stone. She lay so still, he thought she must be dead. But he had killed so many in the past few days, he might have misremembered. A careful soldier would have run her through with a sword. He used to be careful, before this mission.
Karasek rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. A month of dangerous travel stood between him and the border. From there, it would take him another ten days of hard riding to reach Rastov. Was that fast enough to satisfy the king?
You must make haste,
Leos Dzavek had commanded.
He had, sailing three hundred leagues in twelve days using magic. Time spinning backward through the barrier, then leaping forward on the return trip. It was as if his time in Morennioù existed in a bubble, like a soul’s multiple lives, compressed into a single short month.
The king is a thorough man,
his father once told him. Karasek had seen the proof—the months of planning and maneuvers, all for an unknown enemy, in an unknown land.
It had started last summer. The king had summoned Miro Karasek to his private interview hall. Karasek had found him immersed in reading.
“You have new orders, your majesty?”
Dzavek looked up from his stacks of books. His gaze was diffuse, as though he saw images beyond Zalinenka’s white rooms. “I found him. I found my brother, Andrej.”
Karasek felt a river of cold pass over his skin, as though Károví’s brief summer had vanished into winter. Andrej Dzavek had died centuries ago, in the wars between Károví and the empire. Apparently that did not matter. Perhaps that was the key to understanding Leos Dzavek. All moments, past or future, were equal. All lives were now. It would be, he thought, like swimming in time.
The king explained. Andrej had returned to another life as a woman. His brother—this woman—was searching for the jewels in the magical plane of Vnejšek, just as Dzavek himself was.
What followed anyone might have predicted. The two brothers, no longer brothers, quarreled again. Andrej escaped before Dzavek could do anything more than injure him. In the aftermath, Dzavek had discovered more clues, which led him to the second of Lir’s jewels, the ruby.
But he was not satisfied with one. He required all three. His health had ebbed in the past ten years. It was a sign that, even with the greatest magic, he could not evade death much longer.
And so, in meetings with Karasek, Markov, and Černosek, Dzavek set out detailed plans for an undiscovered destination, an unknown enemy. Duke Miro Karasek would lead the invasion, Dzavek said, while Duke Markov would take temporary command of all the armies.
Drills and preparations followed throughout that summer. Karasek had thought their plans would come to nothing, when Dzavek summoned him a second time. Andrej had proved careless, had woken the jewel. Emerald had spoken to ruby, one magical creature to its other self. Through their speech, Dzavek discovered where his once-brother now lived.
More preparations and meetings followed. The final week passed in a blur of lists and reports and maps. Letters dispatched to his home in Taboresk. The ships stocked. The final troop selections. Weapons and supplies and gear. Dzavek wanted no blunders with this undertaking. He would not be denied again, he said. That explained several points in retrospect, Karasek thought. The contradiction between Dzavek’s meticulous plans and his extraordinary decree that Karasek should return the same day he located the emerald. It also explained the inclusion of Anastazia Vaček.
The last day at sunrise. They were on the point of launching the ships when Dzavek appeared with Anastazia Vaček at his side. “Your second in command,” he’d said.
Vaček had smiled and bowed. “My lord, I look forward to serving you and our king. We have the most satisfying orders.”
Two commanders. Two sets of orders.
What promises had Dzavek extended to Anastazia Vaček that gave her such an expression of hungry delight?
Dzavek’s shuttered face had yielded no clues. After dismissing Vaček, he took Karasek to one side. “Remember the spells I gave you for launching the ships through the barrier. Do not discuss them with anyone. Not even Anastazia Vaček.”
Secrets within secrets within bloody secrets.
At departure, Dzavek passed along the lines of soldiers and sailors and touched his hand to each person’s mouth, Karasek’s last of all. Eyes closed, he still felt Dzavek’s dry fingers on his lips, still heard the king’s inarticulate murmur. His thoughts winged back to his companions. Whoever survived the battle would die before they betrayed their true mission. Discretion at a cost.
The moon had already reached its zenith. The night was spinning toward dawn. Karasek rose to his feet. Once more he checked the emerald’s pouch. All secure. With one last glance toward the south, he set off for Károví.
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER GALENA ALIGHERO
left, Ilse collapsed onto the couch and stared at the ceiling.
Oh, Raul. We never expected this.
All their plans had centered around Armand of Angersee and his ambitions. Even Raul’s newest idea—to approach certain Károvín nobles and enlist their support—had at its heart the goal of dissuading Armand from war. They had not taken into consideration Leos Dzavek’s plans separate from Veraene. More important, they had forgotten about Morennioù.
I wonder if Leos Dzavek has forgotten anything in four hundred years.
She tried to imagine such a life. His brother killed in the first war. His promised bride reportedly executed as a spy. All his subsequent attempts to build a family ending in their death, while Dzavek lived on for centuries. What must he be like now?
She rubbed her knuckles against her eyes. Dzavek was not her concern. His ships and their mysterious mission were.
I have to get word to Raul. He must know before he talks to anyone in Károví.
The regional governor immediately came to mind. Nicol Joannis had corresponded with Raul in secret for years. Surely he could revive those channels. Surely he would want to, for such important news. The only difficulty was how to speak with him, without provoking suspicion, but Galena herself had provided the means. Ilse could pretend to plead her friend’s case. Once there, she could tell Lord Joannis about the escaped officer, then turn the discussion to Raul.
Abruptly her weariness left her. She hurried to her desk and dashed off a note to Lord Joannis, asking for a private interview. She sealed the message with wax and magic, gathered up her report for Mistress Andeliess, and took them both downstairs.
Mistress Andeliess kept her office on the ground floor, in a quiet wing opposite the various public rooms. Ilse delivered her monthly report and spoke a few moments with her employer. On her way back, she stopped one of the house runners and gave him the letter for Lord Joannis. Watching the man disappear through a side door, she felt a flutter beneath her ribs.
There. I have done it.
She had no idea what his response might be. Of all the members of Raul’s former shadow court, she knew him the least. Raul had always said that Nicol Joannis disliked the court’s secrecy, however much he agreed with its motives. Still, he might consent to send a message to Raul, if only as a favor to an old and trusted friend.
Restless, she turned into the common room, which was bright and noisy at this hour. Gilda and Ysbel had started a drinking game with some wealthy farmers. Several younger men lay entwined on a couch—she could not tell client from courtesan there—and off in a corner, Luisa attempted to strum her guitar, in spite of two soldiers who took turns trying to unbutton her gown. Kitchen girls and boys appeared like swift small birds to take away the dirty dishes and to replenish the wine and ale jugs. Ilse could name a dozen ways this room differed from Lord Kosenmark’s elegant pleasure house, but in the essentials, the two were alike. Laughter. Games. Music. And always the presence or potential of pleasure for those with money to pay.
“What tempts you here?” said a voice at her elbow.
Alesso Valturri knelt at her side. He had a tray stacked with dirty dishes balanced on one knee. There was nothing unusual in his appearance—just an ordinary servant engaged in ordinary work—except that Ilse knew Alesso worked the early-morning shift. All her suspicions buzzed into life. “I might say the same to you,” she said lightly.
“Ah, me.” He stood up and handed the tray off to another kitchen worker. “I am here for the company and to observe our courtesans at work. Would you like refreshment from the kitchen? A cup of wine?”
He plucked a cup from a passing servant’s tray and, with an unnecessary flourish, offered it to Ilse. The cup was a deep iridescent blue, which echoed the painted murals of the walls. Both were purchases Ilse had recommended. The wine was a sweet golden vintage, imported from the southwest.
Ilse accepted the cup and settled into an empty couch in the corner. Alesso lingered next to her. “You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured.
“Neither did you.”
He smiled, a slow easy smile that probably charmed all the kitchen girls and boys, and half the courtesans. “Your suspicions wound me, Mistress Ilse. I am working tonight because Daria took ill, and Mistress Andeliess asked me to take her shift. For extra pay, of course.”
“Of course.” She could check his claim later, easily enough.
“And you?” he said.
Ilse sipped the wine, letting the flavor linger on her tongue before she swallowed. The wine had an oddly tart edge. She took another swallow, trying to decide if she liked the taste or not. “No reason in particular. There were reports to deliver…”
“… and messages to send off.”
She pretended not to hear that comment, and kept her attention on the courtesans while she drank more wine. Stefan was mock-wrestling with Ysbel over the favors of a grain merchant from up the coast. The grain merchant was a full-faced, round-shouldered man of middle years, his muscles loosening into fat from too many hours in counting houses. He’d come to Osterling to petition the governor for lower highway taxes. Earlier that afternoon, he’d sat grim and silent, having been refused entry to the governor’s presence. Tonight, however, his eyes were nearly lost in folds of flesh as he laughed at the two courtesans.
“You do not trust me,” Alesso said.
“Should I?” Ilse replied.
“Friends should trust each other.”
“Is that what we are, friends?”
He shrugged. “Acquaintances, then. Colleagues in business.”
She glanced up sharply then, but his gaze was on Stefan, who had won the wrestling bout. He and the farmer were now locked in an embrace, indifferent to their audience. Ysbel had disrobed entirely. She lay on her back and beckoned to Luisa and the soldiers. It was the hour of abandon in the pleasure house. The air smelled of wine and musk and sexual spendings. Deep within, Ilse felt the tug of unfocused desire, the tremble of panic.
No one will force me here. None. I am free of Alarik Brandt, of Galt.
A hand brushed her shoulder. She jerked around to find Alesso’s face close to hers.
“You are tired,” he murmured. “And distressed. Anyone can see it.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated. “It’s not necessary to wait here. Go and sleep. I’ll keep watch for the runner and bring you any reply at once.”
She
was
tired. Her eyelids were drooping, her limbs felt like warm water. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and lose herself in dreamless sleep. It was true that she hadn’t rested well or long in weeks. Alesso himself had noticed this morning when he brought her breakfast tray …