He raised his right hand and murmured the familiar invocation to magic. The current gathered around his fingers. Another spell and the air crackled with a bright electric charge. She swallowed with difficulty.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ane Toc unde sîn kreft…”
Valara felt her gorge rising. Her tongue, like a creature alive, moved to speak. She clamped her mouth shut, but the magic had gripped her like a hand and was prizing her lips open. “He came … He came because I … because I…”
With an effort, she choked out a spell to counteract his. The current wavered—a temporary reprieve. Khandarr had far more skill than she. Already her mouth was twisting open again. She would tell him about the emerald. He would take it and—
“Wenden dir sîn zoubernisse. Nemen îm der wâr unde kreft. Nemen îm der sprâche.”
With a loud crack, the current rebounded. Khandarr sprang backward, clawing at his throat. Valara scrabbled into the far corner as guards streamed into the cell. Her skin burned with magic; the current bubbled through her veins. Dimly, she heard an uproar. One of the guards shoved her against the wall. His sword was a bright blur of motion; its point stopped inches from her throat and poised to strike.
“Stop! Do not kill her!”
Joannis’s voice broke through the din.
“Get back. Everyone. You, hold the prisoner. Nothing more.”
“But my lord—”
“I said,
Nothing more
.”
Joannis’s mouth was drawn tight. He looked angry, appalled. With obvious reluctance, the guards retreated from the cell, except for the one who held Valara. He did not loosen his grip, nor did his sword waver.
Joannis knelt by a motionless Khandarr. He touched the man’s throat, ran his fingers over the man’s body, murmuring in Erythandran. A sheen of sweat covered Khandarr’s face, and his skin had turned gray. Valara watched with sick dread. She had tried to stop Khandarr’s magic with her own—that much she remembered—but then her recollection failed. There had been another voice, like an enormous bell, inside her skull. Was it her imagination? Khandarr’s magic?
“Send for the chief surgeon,” Joannis said to the guard captain. “Fetch a litter and carry Lord Khandarr to my quarters. Clear the streets first. But do nothing to this woman. We need her alive. Lord Khandarr’s orders.”
Guards appeared with a litter. Nicol Joannis motioned them forward. As they carefully shifted Khandarr onto the litter, his throat gave a convulsive twitch. He turned his head toward Valara and met her gaze—one penetrating look—before Joannis signaled the guards to take him away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOURS LATER, VALARA
Baussay sat in the corner of her cell, knees drawn up to her chest. Her stomach had contracted into a hard painful knot. The guards had not brought supper, nor had they returned her slop bucket. A small grate in one corner would do, but she wished the men outside her cell would look away, just for a few moments.
They wouldn’t of course. These were the second pair to take the watch. They were awake, alert, and angry. She heard them discussing what punishment Joannis or Khandarr would order for her. If they meant to frighten her, they had succeeded.
I trusted too soon. I promised too much.
She had expected Veraene to welcome Dzavek’s enemy. She had hoped they would negotiate with her. Whatever the cost, in money, in concessions, she would have promised it. Once back in Morennioù, she could have renegotiated the terms of their alliance.
They don’t want an ally. They want a hostage. And why not? I would do the same.
The hour bells rang—six clear soft tones. Midnight. Five more hours until dawn. Khandarr would return tomorrow. She was sure of that. Any competent mage-healer could restore the man’s wits. Khandarr himself could do the rest. Once he had recovered, he would bind her with magic and rip the truth from her throat. She had to escape before then.
You tried once. You failed.
Then I must try again.
She had panicked before, that was all. The spells guarding this prison were strong and complex, but she had made a delicate examination of them over the past several weeks. Only the bars and floor stones were steeped in magic. Unless she misread the signs, she could escape to Autrevelye before her magic triggered the prison’s spells. She had been too slow before, too befuddled from the magic Karasek had used to drug her.
She counted to ten to steady her nerves. Her heartbeat slowed as her gaze turned inward.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ane Lir unde Toc. Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ane Lir unde Toc.
Magic coursed over her skin. She no longer saw the torchlight or prison walls, no longer felt the stone floor beneath her. She was rising slowly through a viscous ocean. Far above, she saw a vast empty cavern, where shadowy hills rolled and surged toward the horizon. Higher still, a glittering band of lights streamed through the sky. The void between lives, which lay upon the edge of magic.
Noandnoandno.
A force struck her chest. The current scattered. She was falling, falling, falling through darkness while monsters shrilled and the ocean roared.
“—thought that blessed magic was supposed to stop—”
“—if we hadn’t watched—”
One of the Osterling guards hauled Valara up from the floor and pinned her against the wall. The other flung a bucketful of water over her. She coughed and sputtered and cursed.
“Good enough,” the first guard said. He drew a knife and laid it against Valara’s throat. “I’ll stay with her. You go for the governor. He said to report anything.”
Valara struggled to speak. Not Joannis, she wanted to cry. Tell Joannis and you tell Khandarr. It was Khandarr she feared. Khandarr would rob her of the emerald and turn its magic against Morennioù. She knew it.
She had to summon the magic again. She had to call the spells laid down in the prison stones. It might give her a chance to escape.
Ei rûf ane gôtter …
… ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc unde strôm unde mir.
The words rang in her skull like the great bells of the Morennioù castle. An unknown signature overwhelmed hers, and the scent of magic rolled through the air. A brilliant light exploded in the cell. Valara’s sight blurred into white and then shadows. Magic drenched her, and her skin burned. Pure magic—she would have one taste, and then it would consume her.
… a river of shadows. An inhuman voice. A burst of light. Nothingness …
She knew nothing except darkness at first. Moments trickled away, unnumbered. Then a change to the blankness surrounding her. It was like emerging from a deathlike sleep. Or even death itself, she thought. Perhaps a newly reborn soul had one moment of awareness such as this before the knowledge of all previous lives faded into nothing.
More slowly she became aware of her surroundings. She lay stretched out on a hard stone floor. Her skin felt hot and sensitive, as though she’d handled fire, and the wooden ring on her finger buzzed with magic. Groaning, she levered herself to sitting. Someone had hung a lantern on the cell wall. She blinked to clear her vision.
And sucked in a breath of surprise.
Both guards lay motionless, one inside the cell and one in the corridor. The open door swung on its hinges, creaking. The rest of the prison lay in deep and unnatural silence.
Valara released a shaky breath. What had happened back there? She had called on the magic current. It came and—
She stopped and sniffed. Her own signature hung in the air, like a fox slipping through the bracken. But another, much stronger and more vivid, overlaid it. A signature as bright as star showers. No, something far more alien. A signature that belonged in Autrevelye.
Was it you?
she asked the emerald.
No answer. She crawled over to the nearest guard and touched his throat. His skin felt cold and stiff. His mouth, half open, looked dark and cavernous in the dim light. She bent closer and realized with a shock that his mouth was filled with blood. She examined the second guard. He was dead, too.
Unnerved, she ventured from her cell. Torches burned at the far end of the corridor. Their light cast a ruddy glare on the walls, sending rippling shadows over the stones, but nothing moved, and no voice broke the silence.
She peered into the cell next to hers. There was just enough light to make out three bodies. Two men lay motionless on their pallets. A third sprawled over the floor, as if felled in the act of standing. Valara’s throat tightened in dread. Had she killed them as well? She couldn’t tell if they breathed.
It didn’t matter. Here was her chance to escape. She hesitated a moment, then hurried back to her cell and rifled the guards’ pockets, thinking how she had always been a thief in all her lives, whether queen or prince or a common soldier in the service of Leos Dzavek. Her search yielded a handful of coins, two daggers with wrist sheaths, and an oversized tunic, which she wrestled off the smaller guard. She wanted shoes, too, but their boots were too big. In the end, she settled for what she had. She could steal shoes later.
Valara fastened the sheaths to her wrists, stowed the money in a knotted corner of the tunic. It wasn’t nearly enough to bribe a ship’s master to take her home, but it might feed and clothe her until she could get far enough beyond Osterling’s cursed magical guards. Then she wouldn’t need any ship. She could walk home through Autrevelye.
The scent of magic and a bright signature welled up around her.
You must not go home. Not yet.
The great voice penetrated her bones. Now she recognized it. She’d heard it speaking on the ship just before the storm. She’d thought it a fever-dream from the magic used to subdue her. But now she understood. It
was
the emerald—Lir’s emerald. It was alive. She had not imagined it.
City bells rang the next hour. There was no time to question or explore. She ran.
* * *
GALENA HAD DREAMED
of the bells long before she woke. Bells and more bells, the count leaping from one tower to the next, as though time chased itself through Osterling’s dark streets. Their voices rose in volume, until they became the shrieks of winged monsters, so high and pure her bones ached and terror gripped her stomach.
Coward,
Ranier Mazzo had whispered.
Go fight them and die. Do you dare?
She woke to a single bell ringing the first hour past midnight. It was quiet in the garrison sleeping quarters. Moonlight slanted through the reed blinds, and a warm salt-fresh breeze filtered through the room, carrying with it the scent of rain and the coming summer.
I am a coward,
she thought, lying in her cot.
A coward without honor. Ranier had said that outright the day before. He’d stepped into her path as she trudged from harbor watch to cleaning duty.
Tell me what that word on your face means, Alighero. I know you must.
She told him, in exactly the words given by Lord Joannis. It had been hard. Her voice choked, and the mark on her cheek buzzed with magic. Worse, much worse, was the sight of those she had called her friends. A few others from her file—Marelda, Tallo, Falco—averted their eyes, but she noticed that no one defended her, even when Ranier went on to mock her viciously in the low sweet voice that Aris had loved at first, then had come to hate.
They think the same as him. They just don’t say it.
Harbor patrol had turned out to be a kindness. She bunked in different quarters. She stood guard with almost-strangers who ignored her. She could almost pretend that she’d transferred to a new garrison, far away from Osterling Keep, where no one knew about her shameful past. If they asked about her mark, she could claim it was a badge of honor.
Except you know you can’t. The magic won’t let you.
It was a pleasant dream, nonetheless. So she lay there, eyes closed, imagining herself with new friends, a new regiment. A chance to prove herself …
The garrison bells tolled. Galena’s reverie broke. She sighed. Two hours until watch. No more sleep tonight, that was certain. She could lie here in misery, dreaming of the impossible. Or she could report to the harbor early. Old Josche wouldn’t mind. He’d set her to work cleaning weapons or some other useful task. He might even tell Commander Adler.
She dressed in silence and gathered her weapons and gear. Outside the garrison, moonlight washed over the streets and towers. The prison building was dark, except for one window. The fort above was little more than a looming presence on the cliffs. A quiet night, the guards outside the barracks gate told her.
Quiet and empty. She had come to love the night watch, though she had not expected to. Osterling had a different face, painted in moonlight, inked in shadows. As she jogged down the main avenue, she spotted a few lamp-lit windows, but otherwise the city slept. Harbor duty was much, Josche told her the first night. Except when it was. Then he told her stories about when raiders swooped through the shoals to attack.
She had just crossed the second market square—not far away from Mistress Andeliess’s pleasure house—when a movement off to one side caught her attention. She stopped, hand on her sword, and peered into the darkness. Runners often carried messages between the city walls and headquarters, she told herself. But a courier or runner would not hide in an alleyway.
The stranger darted from one doorway to another. Suspicious now, Galena sprinted toward the alleyway’s entrance and peered down its length. Tall buildings blocked out the moon. All Galena could see were shapes and movement. And one tall lanky figure. A young man, judging from his height.
The boy glanced over his shoulder and took off at a run. That decided her. He
was
a thief. Galena launched herself after him. The boy dodged right into the next street, then right again. The chase took them back toward the main square, past the inn and the pleasure house, and into the merchants’ quarter, where the boy veered into a side alley. Galena followed, laughing to herself, because she knew how this chase would end.