Miro stumbled. Someone caught hold of his arms—Fedor, most likely. The young man helped him into the cottage and onto a stool. Miro found a mug of hot tea in his hands. The tea was bitter and keen and hot. He drank deeply, grateful for its warmth, and for the presence of others.
“I need a message taken to Dubro,” he said. “I must let them know I’ve returned.”
“At once, your grace.”
There was a murmured conversation between the old man and his grandson, then Fedor was gone, taking the lantern with him. The old man refilled Miro’s mug. With more tea, he felt the cold melt away from his bones; his muscles relaxed. He was in danger of falling asleep, when he remembered the shepherd’s curious expression of recognition.
“You know me,” he said.
The old man hesitated, and his glance slid to one side. “I recognized your father, my lord. Thirty years ago, it was. I was a soldier from the conscripts. Matus is my name. Your father ran the garrison tight, he did. Kept the smugglers and bandits tame. He left a good name for himself here.”
Yes and no. There had been a minor scandal, when this king’s officer and nobleman had married a Duszranjen woman. Did the shepherd know the ending to that story?
The old man Matus looked nervous, as if he feared he had angered the nobleman’s son. Miro roused himself from memories to ask about Matus’s family, and about life in this remote province. He drank cup after cup of bitter hot tea and listened to tales of marauding wolves, mountain panthers (Miro’s father had died, hunting one), and the illicit trade between the northern kingdoms. The old man mentioned rumors about war. News about troop maneuvers had filtered to the populace, obviously, and so they worried, imagining more and less than what actually happened.
They were still talking about those rumors when hoofbeats sounded outside. The garrison must have sent an escort back with Fedor. Matus opened the door to a lean gray-haired man, who ducked under the doorframe. Not just any escort, this man wore a captain’s insignia stitched over his heart.
“Donlov.”
Grisha Donlov crossed the room and knelt at Miro’s feet. “Your grace.”
There was profound relief in Donlov’s tone. So others had expected, or hoped for, Karasek’s death. Those speculations could wait. Miro stood and gestured for the man to rise, saying, “No formalities, Grisha. We’re not at court.”
Donlov grinned, a wolfish grin that creased his weathered face. “Not yet, your grace.” He nodded to old Matus. “Grandsir, I left your son with a full plate and a full mouth. One of my men will ride him back when he’s done. He eats like a soldier, that one.”
After some argument, Miro persuaded the old man to accept a handful of coins for his hospitality. Then he and Donlov went outside to where Donlov had left two horses tied to a post. Donlov relit the lantern he’d brought along. By its light, they picked their way between the sheep pens into the fields leading toward the river.
“You made good speed,” Miro commented.
“I’d’ve made better in daylight, your grace.”
“Next time, I’ll wait until morning. What brought you to Dubro?”
“Orders. Duke Markov wanted a firsthand account of our garrisons in Duszranjo. The king agreed.”
Markov, Dzavek’s other general. Interesting. “Any news then?”
“None. Unless you bring us some, your grace.”
Miro glanced at his companion. Grisha Donlov’s attention seemed wholly on their path, but Miro could tell by the tilt of his head the man listened intently for his reply. Rumors about his mission must have percolated downward.
“Whatever news I have belongs to the king, Captain.”
“Of course, your grace.” Donlov’s tone betrayed no disappointment. He was a good soldier, and a loyal one. “So you go directly back to Rastov?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll need a fast horse, provisions, and an escort.”
Donlov saluted. “That you will have, your grace.”
* * *
THEY REACHED THE
garrison without incident. The commander, an old friend of Miro’s father, provided Miro with a generous supply of new clothes and weapons. He had also arranged for an escort, mounted and fully provisioned, with Grisha Donlov at their head.
The following afternoon, they set off.
The company rode hard for eight days. Miro felt a peculiar haste driving him onward, through the narrow mountain roads, to the highways leading to Rastov and Zalinenka. Once they reached the open plains, they could gallop from garrison to garrison, taking fresh mounts at each stop. Overhead, the pale blue sky stretched into a dizzying arc, and at night its black expanse glittered with stars brighter and colder than Miro remembered. With every mile north, he had the impression he rode just ahead of the greening spring.
Soon the highway rejoined the Solvatni River. Cities replaced the farms and outpost villages, and within another week, Miro sighted Rastov’s dark red domes on the horizon. They gained its outer gates that same evening. Guards saluted Miro as he rode past. He returned the gesture absently, his thoughts now fixed on Leos Dzavek and his own report.
He touched a hand to his breast. Success. And failure.
Streetlamps dotted the avenues, and in the larger squares, the buildings were bright with candles and more lamplight. Despite the approach of dusk, Rastov’s streets were crowded with merchant caravans and cargo wagons. The wine shops, taverns, and inns also looked busy with customers, whose faces might appear angry or sullen or carefree, but none was anxious. The rumors of war might be unique to the borderlands.
Solvatni Square was empty, and its many government buildings were dark. The previous year, lamps had illuminated every window past midnight. That was before the invasion.
Miro and his company crossed the bridge to the king’s castle. Word must have preceded them, because the guards were already at attention, and attendants waited inside the courtyard. Miro gave his horse over to a stable hand. With a brief farewell to Donlov, he crossed the final distance to enter the castle.
More guards saluted, and servants approached to take his cloak and gloves. Across the marbled entrance hall, Miro saw Duke Šimon Černosek and Duke Feliks Markov walking together toward the audience halls.
The Scholar and the Brigand. He paused, disconcerted by the unexpected encounter. Černosek happened to glance in his direction. He leaned toward Markov and spoke. Markov shrugged, as if indifferent to the news, but Miro noted how the man’s mouth tensed briefly. Subtle signs from a subtle man.
We shall have to speak honestly, one of these days.
Not today, however. A runner in the royal livery appeared at Miro’s side. “Your grace. The king awaits you in his private offices.”
“At once,” Miro said, with a last glance toward the pair.
He hurried after the runner, up the several winding staircases, and through the broad public halls, until they reached the king’s private wing. There the runner withdrew. The guards outside the king’s chamber announced his arrival.
In spite of the late hour, the king was immersed in the business of his kingdom, and surrounded by a host of servants, retainers, and members of his court. A scribe knelt at his feet, taking notes. Others hovered nearby, and several courtiers stood at the edge of the room, which blazed with light from the enormous fireplace. A chandelier hung from the ceiling; its dozens of candles, each enclosed in glass globes, poured more light over the room. The glass divided the light into a pale rainbow, scattering a suggestion of color over the white marbled floor.
At Miro’s entrance, Dzavek waved a hand. The courtiers and servants withdrew, and the guards shut the door, leaving Miro alone with his king.
Dzavek gazed at Miro, his chin resting on the curve of his wrist. Like the room, Dzavek was dressed without true color—in gray robes trimmed with darker gray. His long white hair was bound with a matching ribbon. His dark face seemed drawn tight with anxiety, and the cloudy veil over his eyes was more impenetrable than Miro remembered.
Miro knelt and took the packet from his tunic. “Your majesty, I have both good and bad to report.”
Dzavek accepted the leather packet and hefted it. “You took the castle.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
The king nodded. He set the packet to one side and extended his hand toward Miro. Silver rings covered every finger. Miro kissed them. Their gems felt cold to his lips.
“Tell me what happened, Miro. Leave nothing out.”
Miro’s relief drained away. So, here was the test.
Head bowed and kneeling, he delivered his report as he had imagined it while marching through the wilderness. Starting with the moment of departure, he recounted the rapid journey over the seas, through the barrier, and the first sight of Morennioù’s coast.
“We arrived at dawn,” he said. “As you predicted, we found the castle and its docks on the northwest point of the main island. But someone must have given alarm, because we met defenders at the castle gates.”
“The barrier,” Dzavek said. “I warned you that breaking through signaled anyone who listened. So you overcame these first obstacles.”
“Yes, your majesty. Their soldiers fought hard, but we outnumbered them. I ordered the castle surrounded and any fugitives detained for questioning.”
“Then you took the castle and recovered this emerald.” Dzavek nodded toward the leather packet. His tone—cool, almost indifferent—unsettled Miro Karasek. To his ear, it sounded as though Leos Dzavek already knew the invasion’s details.
“The king and his chief mage died in the attack,” Miro continued. “We captured the princess before she could escape. Our search uncovered this emerald. As you commanded, I left Anastazia Vaček to extend our hold on the island, while I returned with Lir’s emerald.”
“Two months ago, Miro. What happened?”
Miro raised his gaze to Dzavek’s face, hoping to read whatever minute reaction the king allowed to escape. He saw nothing but intense curiosity.
He dropped his gaze to Dzavek’s hand, which still clasped his. “A storm sank our ships off the Veraenen coast, your majesty. We brought our launches on shore, to Osterling. I was negotiating with their commander for transport when a … disagreement broke out.”
“But you escaped.”
“I did. Unfortunately, I had to leave the Morennioùen princess—the new queen—behind. The Veraenen took her prisoner.”
He looked up to see Dzavek gazing at him with those strange and clouded eyes. The impression of age was stronger now, lamplight shining through the man’s almost transparent skin, sending shadows of lines cascading over his face.
Like a death mask.
Immediately, he quelled the thought.
With a sigh, Dzavek stirred, and the flush of life replaced that mortal stillness.
“I am glad you did not choose to lie, Miro.”
He touched his other hand to Miro’s mouth, his lips moving in a whispered spell.
“En nam Lir unde Toc, komen mir de kreft unde zoubernisse.”
The king’s fingers were hot—unnaturally so. It took all Miro’s discipline to remain still while Leos Dzavek continued to draw the magic into a thicker cloud.
Komen mir de strôm. Nemen mir de swîgen.
Dzavek was releasing Miro from the magic seal that he had set upon him two months before. A green scent filled the room, strong and invigorating. The miles of marching and riding dropped away like the snows in summer. Dzavek spoke another word to release the current, which faded into nothing, taking the spell with it. Only by its absence could Miro tell the difference.
Then it struck him.
He knew already what happened in Veraene.
“Your majesty, has Anastazia Vaček returned?”
“No.” Dzavek smiled briefly. “Though she did try to send a messenger. They failed to break through the barrier, Rana tells me. You may stand now.” He retrieved the packet from the table and untied its leather strings. Within, the emerald gleamed with a dark green fire. “Do you believe this is a true jewel? One of Lir’s children?”
“I believe so, your majesty. It has the touch of magic.”
“An equivocal reply. If you weren’t certain, why did you guard it so long?”
Because you ordered me to. Because I vowed obedience.
Dzavek did not seem to want an answer, however. “Listen,” he murmured. “Watch.”
He held the emerald up to the firelight. His gaze went diffuse. Miro detected an electric quality to the air as the magic coalesced around them. He listened, every sense trained on the emerald, thinking that at last he would hear the same musical speech his ancestors had, when Károví had first claimed Lir’s gifts for its own.
The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressed inward, and in intense weight pressed against Miro’s chest. Still Dzavek did not stir, but continued to stare at the emerald.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane juwel. Sprechen mir.
Dzavek was commanding the emerald to speak, bidding it as he might a servant.
Ei rûf ane …
Miro’s ears roared as the air thickened to an impossible heaviness.
… ane gôtter. Sprechen mir. Iezuo.
A loud crack echoed through the room. The emerald vanished in a burst of light, leaving a tiny heap of gray dust in Dzavek’s palm. Dzavek glanced from Miro back to the dust. “A counterfeit,” he said softly.
Miro blew out a breath.
All those months, all those lives, gone. For nothing.
The king scattered the dust with a flick of his hand. “Never mind the mistake. You lost the Morennioùen queen, but I found her. She has the true emerald. She used it to escape her prison. Or it used her.”
More surprises. Miro licked his lips and considered what he might safely say. “It appears you had no need for my report, your majesty.”
“Yes and no. You brought me news of the battle and its aftermath. And yourself. I need both for the next stage of my plans.”
He turned toward the table beside his chair. He unlocked a drawer and retrieved a wooden box, not much larger than his hand. Dzavek lifted the lid and took out a small dark ruby, which flared bloodred in the lamplight.
Miro knew this one. It was Lir’s second jewel, Rana. The one the king had recovered from Vnejšek the previous summer.