As she walked, she thought of Valara. She thought of Raul Kosenmark. And Galena, Alesso, all those others from her past. If she did not succeed, she would be dead and beyond helping anyone, yet she continued this internal recitation of those in danger.
Hours passed. The miles slipped away, impossibly fast. The sun arced toward the horizon, then dipped below. More hours passed, as the last of daylight drained from the sky, leaving behind a scarlet thread of light above the southwest horizon. She sensed Rastov’s bright constellation of souls and fixed on that direction. Soon she came to a narrow track cut into the ground. It led to a second, larger path, which joined a third to become a road leading south. Gradually the high flat plains began their long descent, dropping from the plateau toward a broad valley with a river winding through it. She saw at once the large city, its buildings a dark mass. On the nearer bank, at the northern edge of the city, stood a castle. Zalinenka.
Daya had remained silent throughout the long journey, but she felt its presence even stronger here, in this point between flesh and pure spirit. Now it spoke.
You remember?
Ilse nodded.
I lived there once. My name was Milada Ivet Darjalova. My father was a prince of Károví.
Four hundred years ago, and yet the roads of time had led her back.
She went on, following the road as it looped down from the plains toward the castle. Sentries stood guard at various points; to her, their bodies appeared cloudy, their spirits like concentrated flames within a darker husk. Ilse forced herself to continue. She was spirit and not flesh, she reminded herself. They could not see her. As she passed the first visible perimeter, one soldier did turn, his expression startled, as if he had sensed her presence, but no one spoke or tried to bar her way.
At last she came to a side gate into the castle grounds. The gates were closed, and six guards stood at attention, swathed in voluminous fur capes against the cold. More guards patrolled inside the courtyard.
Ilse cautiously explored the gate, taking care to stay clear of the sentries. She thought of herself as invisible, but that wasn’t entirely true. Spirit alone would fly to Anderswar, and so she existed now as a distilled version of her complete self. Walls and closed doors blocked her, and though darkness obscured her footprints, it could not hide her actions completely. She waited until the old watch left their post, then followed them to another gate, where they gave a password. As they passed through, Ilse hurried behind them.
Once inside, she wandered through a maze of halls. A wide set of stairs led her upward. She climbed them, and found herself standing in the castle’s great hall. The room stood empty, draped in blue shadows, yet from this point, she could number every inhabitant of the castle, from scullions and lackeys, to courtiers and nobles. The steady pulse of heartbeats sounded in her ears, and the presence of hundreds crowded against her skin. Running just below the surface was Rana’s song.
The call drew her upward, and she climbed two flights up a broad curved stairway to another gallery. She passed two cavernous rooms, then turned down a narrow corridor, past antique statues and fluted columns of snowy marble. No more servants appeared. No sentries or guards stood in attendance. Warnings nipped at her consciousness, but the ruby’s song drew her onward, as if it were a magnet and she the metal filings. She came at last to a tall carved door, painted dark red, like a scarlet drop in Zalinenka’s white infinity.
She glanced around. The corridor remained silent and deserted. She tested the latch. Unlocked. Her fingers sank into the metal, but not completely. She pushed harder, and the door swung open.
It was a large room, with a freshly laid fire. Scrolls and books filled the many tall shelves. A graceful desk stood by a window, and several chairs circled the fireplace with tables at their sides. By the largest chair stood a pedestal carved from a single block of marble. On it rested a small wooden box, its lid opened wide. Even before she saw the dark red gleam inside the box, Ilse knew from Rana’s rising song that she had found the ruby.
Slowly she approached, hardly daring to breathe. Rana lay in a bed of white silk, its surface alight with magic. Its song beat against her thoughts, a complex pattern of dark and light notes. Her hand had just touched the ruby, when the door closed behind her.
“Andrej. You came back.”
Ilse plucked her hand away. Her skin contracted, as if her spirit still inhabited a body. Keeping her movements slow and deliberate, she turned around.
Dzavek stood at the entrance to the room. The outline of his face wavered, and through his eyes, Ilse saw the pale stones of the castle walls. He’d left his body behind, just as she had, and spirits in the realm of flesh could sense more than any guard.
“Milada,” he whispered.
His once-brilliant eyes widened. Age had clouded them, but it had not obscured the intelligence behind them. She remembered, from the distance of dreams and almost-forgotten days, how they had argued so passionately about Károví and its people, and whether the connection with the empire could be broken. She had not loved him—theirs was a marriage arranged by their fathers, both high-standing nobles whose families traced their lineage back to the old kingdom, before Erythandra had absorbed Károví into its domains. But she had always admired him.
“Leos.”
He smiled. “So you recognize me.”
“It took me some time. You expected Valara Baussay, of course.”
“Yes. Where is Andrej? He sent you to find Rana, of course.”
“Not directly,” she said, “but yes.”
“He was always persuasive,” Dzavek murmured. “Is that why you betrayed me in the end?”
She shook her head. “I never did, Leos.”
“Then why did you leave me?”
It was their old argument of loyalty and honor. She wanted to tell Leos that she had intended to serve both him and their kingdom, without betraying her own honor. She checked herself. In his eyes, the king was the kingdom. Her reasons were unimportant. Her personal honor meaningless. She had acted against him, therefore against Károví.
More than once,
she reminded herself.
And so she simply said, “I left because I could not do otherwise.”
“We must each act according to our purpose,” he murmured.
He waved his hand, and ghostlike rings, silver and white, flashed their brilliant gems.
Though she heard no spoken invocation, the air thickened at once. She retreated from the pedestal, uncertain what he meant to do. It was then she heard the footsteps, slow and deliberate. Dzavek pointed toward the wall and a small door that Ilse had not noticed before.
The door swung open to reveal Dzavek’s body framed between the ivory posts. Dzavek’s spirit glided toward his body. For one moment, there was a doubled image. A heartbeat later, the two merged into one, sending a shock through the magic current. Dzavek blinked and drew a long breath. He passed a hand over his face. He appeared dazed and his skin gleamed with sweat.
Watching him, Ilse was reminded of Raul’s first secretary, Berthold Hax, in the days before his death. The face leached of warmth and color, the lines etched with the knife edge of pain, the strange distant gaze, half focused on this world, half on the void and journey to the next life.
He’s dying. He knows it. He knows he cannot escape death forever.
Dzavek walked unsteadily past Ilse to the marble pedestal. He gathered up Rana into his hands and closed his eyes. Though he did not move his lips, the current stirred. His face smoothed. The unhealthy gray vanished in the wake of a ruddy flush, and he stood straighter. It was like watching an invisible hand brush away the centuries.
“Leos…”
“No,” he said. “Do not argue with me, Milada. We have never agreed on these points. I do not wish to harm you, but I shall not let you betray me again.” His eyes opened to show them brilliant as before, but too bright, too intent. “I see you have Daya. Show me where you left your body. I ask you now. I will not ask so gently again.”
He advanced. Ilse took a step back, thinking swiftly what to do. She heard Daya’s faint song, a tremolo of minor notes. Underneath, almost inaudible, Rana’s deeper chords. What had been their song before the emperor’s mage divided their souls into three?
You know nothing about him,
Dzavek had said.
It was then she understood. He had been the priest who entrapped a magical being inside a jewel. He had been the emperor’s mage, who divided its soul into three, to prevent any thief from taking the whole.
And he will do more,
she thought.
He is that desperate.
All the while, Leos Dzavek had continued to press forward, driving her into a corner. His flesh could not hold her spirit, but his magic could. She had to escape into Anderswar, lure him far away from the Mantharah, and hope Valara Baussay discovered Lir’s third jewel in time. It might mean her soul trapped in the magical plane, but she could not risk his capturing ruby and emerald both.
She was about to murmur the invocation to magic, to make that leap, when a ripple of shadow and light caught her eye. Valara Baussay stepped over the threshold into the study.
“Leos,” she said softly. “You forget yourself.”
Her spirit shape was little more than a brush of darkness against the ivory walls. Her eyes were bright and fierce. Two dark patches—her tattoos—stood out clearer than in the flesh.
Leos swiveled around to face the intruder. “Andrej.”
His voice was like the hiss of metal over stone. His lips thinned to a sharp line. He and Valara stared at each other, their expressions a mirror of like emotion. A wolf and a fox, Ilse thought. Two beautiful, savage animals.
“Give me the ruby, Leos. Give me Rana.”
“No. I have need of it—to protect my kingdom.”
“So that you might send more ships against mine? I cannot risk that.”
Leos smiled faintly. “Ah, yes. You said much the same, that other time, when you tried to persuade me to yield to the emperor. A month later, you led his army against me.”
The old challenge and response had grown more bitter over the passing centuries. Ilse circled around to the far end of the room, thinking she might take advantage of the situation while their attention was locked on each other. Dzavek glanced toward her sharply, but when Valara Baussay glided closer, his attention flicked back. His hand tightened around the ruby, which gleamed dark and ruddy, so that its light spilled through his fingers like blood.
Valara paused. Her chin jerked high. She lifted her right hand in a fist and muttered a phrase. A dark blue fire poured through her translucent skin.
Dzavek’s mouth softened into a smile. “You have Asha.”
“And you, Rana. We are well matched.”
Wolf and fox stared at each other. The bitterness was gone, the only emotion left a cold calculation of the other. Then, so swiftly Ilse did not see the gesture until complete, Valara swept both hands up. Her lips were already moving in the invocation to magic, but Dzavek acted only moments behind.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm unde kreft. De leben unde tôt.”
Magic burst against magic. For one instant, the air burned bright and still, so still, it was as though the world’s hourglass had paused in turning. Then, a gout of cold fire rushed outward. It tore through Ilse’s spirit essence. Blinded, she fell back against the wall. This was like the moment when flesh translated to spirit, dissolving, caught by the winds of magic. More and she would vanish altogether.
… ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc, ane bruodern unde swestern …
All three jewels were shouting, great ringing tones that echoed from the walls. The winds of magic did not lessen. They streamed around and through Ilse, but no longer tearing at her essence. She could see nothing—the fire burned brighter than before, if that were possible—but she heard and tasted and smelled the magic, felt the signature of all three jewels pressed against her ghost form. Daya, the strongest, like a brand upon her finger. Rana, dark and angry. Asha, a river of silver. They spoke a language beyond her comprehension. Older than Erythandra. As old as the world itself, born from the Mantharah when Lir and Toc made love.
…
komen mir de strôm. Komen mir alle kraft
…
The words vanished into a crescendo of bright tones. Ilse heard them, saw them, silver shaded with dark and edged with the sharpest of light. Faint, oh so faint, she caught a glimpse of Valara’s signature, the fox slipping between, and once of Leos Dzavek’s. Then the magic of the jewels overwhelmed her again. As from a distance, she heard a single bell tone, and the word,
Now
.
Now.
The air cracked, the world divided. Her vision turned black …
… silence … emptiness … the faint tattoo of her own heartbeat … the green of magic rolling over her skin …
Her vision cleared. It took her more moments before she could make sense of what she saw. She crouched on a hard surface. Splinters and other debris covered the floor around her. Smoke filled the air, dense and black. A few crimson sparks floated slowly to the ground. Except for a hissing noise, the study was eerily silent, invisible behind that black veil. Her first instinct was to touch her ring finger. Yes, there was Daya, or at least its essence.
The smoke stirred. A voice—harsh and low—spoke a word, and the darkness lifted.
Valara knelt by the doorway. Her eyes were wide, rimmed with pale circles, her ghostly essence thin and insubstantial. “Ilse?”
The room lay in shambles. Smoke blackened its walls and ceiling; dozens of cracks marred the tiled floor. One bookcase had collapsed, scattering papers and books everywhere, and the floor was littered with the shattered remains of Dzavek’s desk.
The sight recalled Ilse to her senses. She scrambled toward the last place she had seen Leos Dzavek. She found him stretched out on the floor, pinned beneath the marble pedestal. She dropped to her knees beside him. “Leos.”
“My brother.”