Leos Dzavek lay crumpled on the floor. The unknown woman knelt beside him. Dzavek jerked upright. His eyes stared, unseeing, but then he stiffened and his face swiveled toward Valara Baussay. His lips were moving. He meant to summon more magic before he died. And he would die—Miro saw that plainly.
The woman touched his cheek. Dzavek flinched, turned toward her. There was a look on the king’s face that Miro had never seen before. An expectant look, as if the dark dreary centuries had dropped away, and the man saw the hope of sunrise. The woman continued to speak, her whole manner tense. He could not make out her words, but Dzavek’s gaze was fixed upon her face, as though she were sharing a last and vital clue, one important to them both.
She leaned close. Kissed him upon the lips. Miro could almost hear the king’s breath as he exhaled. He thought it was just an ordinary breath, but then the king went limp and collapsed onto the floor. The woman touched his brow. Her lips formed the words
He is gone.
Around him, the cloud of magic ebbed away, leaving behind a burning smell. His torch, which guttered in his hand. By its flickering light, the room with its wreckage looked even more desolate now. Miro extinguished the torch.
For a while, he could do nothing but stare at the scene, thinking,
The king is dead.
A deep, breathy note sounded, just below the surface of his thoughts. Rana’s song. Here, in the study. Miro dropped to his hands and knees and plunged his hands into the debris covering the floor.
Steady,
he told himself.
Do not lose this chance through panic or carelessness.
He closed his eyes. In spite of his weariness, he found it easier to draw his thoughts to a single point of focus.
Ei rûf ane strôm. Ei rûf ane juweln.
The current hissed and whispered.
Then,
Ei bin unde was. Wir sint unde waerest unde werden.
Rana was babbling a confused chorus of tones. Each syllable merged with the next, rising in pitch until he no longer heard them, and then dropping into deep-throated chords that vibrated in the air.
The fireplace. Its song in his ears, Miro hurried to the grate and knelt. Yes. Beneath the thick ashes he saw a dark red glow. With a set of tongs, he pushed the still-hot coals aside, then drew the ruby toward himself.
The ruby’s polished surface flickered with magic.
Daya. Asha. Daya. Mantharah. My sistersbrotherscousinsloversI.
Miro cradled the ruby in his palm, his thoughts centered on Valara Baussay and all her possible plans. Clearly, the guards had arrived before she could make a search, and so she and her companion had abandoned the ruby. But they would return. And they were not the only ones. Both the Scholar and the Brigand knew about Rana’s existence. If Miro did not produce the ruby, they would search the entire castle.
And we would have a greater war than even Leos Dzavek desired.
He took out a handkerchief and wrapped the ruby securely into a knotted bundle, which he tucked inside his shirt. It was no proof against magic probing, but the confusion outside might allow him to pass without facing Černosek or the other mages. A few words to erase all magical signs of the intruders’ presence. Černosek would expect that. He wiped away his own recent past—a risky move, because Černosek’s skill easily surpassed his own—then laid down a series of ordinary spells used by magical trackers. The spells would not stand against a thorough examination, but they would give him enough time for what came next.
He turned toward the door, thinking he must set off before Černosek decided to return. He had taken no more than a few steps before grief smote him.
My king has died.
It had seemed impossible. How could death take the immortal king?
Because he was never immortal. Dzavek had known that, though he’d never spoken his thoughts aloud. That is why he planned to take Morennioù and its emerald. Yes, it was a matter of revenge. More important, he wanted to provide for his own kingdom’s future.
Contradictory reasons, from a contradictory man.
Miro rubbed a hand over his eyes. A dull pain had settled under his ribs, near his heart. Such a sentimental reaction. His father had trained him better.
No. He had not. He, too, grieved for the Leos Dzavek of history.
Miro shook away the present grief. He had to act.
Outside, the guards came to attention at his appearance. “Tell Duke Markov that our intruder died in battle with the king,” Miro said. “However, this man had a companion who escaped with the king’s ruby. We won’t know more until we capture him. I’ll track him down at once, while the trail is fresh.”
The guard ran to execute his commands. Miro headed directly to the stables. Rumors must have spread even here, because the stable hands had all gathered to trade excited whispers. At Miro’s entrance, they all stood.
“Saddle a fresh horse,” he told them. “Send a runner for provisions and gear for a week’s ride.”
He drank a mug of soup while he waited. Sooner than he expected, the stable boy reported the horse saddled and ready. Miro swung onto the horse, felt it twitch and sidle in response to his own nerves. He settled it with a hand on its neck and soothing words. A sturdy beast, the kind he loved best. He took that as a good sign, and his heart beat faster as he passed through the outer gates of the castle. Until this moment, he had felt his future unbounded. He might have done anything, gone anywhere.
This will be the end of my hunt,
he thought as he urged his horse toward the northern plains.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
VALARA’S SPIRIT REJOINED
her body with a shock that doubled her over. She gasped, choked out the words to summon the current. Too quickly, the magic overwhelmed her. She lay back, eyes closed, and breathed slowly through her nose until the nausea faded. It was the presence of the Mantharah. Its magic was too strong. It was like walking along Enzeloc’s cliffs in a hurricane. She could not judge her balance.
Every bit of her from scalp to toe ached. Her hands felt as though her muscles had locked into fists a hundred years ago. She released a shaky laugh.
Maybe they did.
She rolled onto her side. Her hand unfolded to reveal the sapphire.
Asha.
Her breath caught in renewed wonder.
So I have not lost you yet. Not again.
Still cupping the sapphire in one hand, she levered herself to sitting. Overhead, the mid-morning sun shone down upon them.
My brother is dead,
came her next thought.
It didn’t matter that her body had died a dozen times or more since their plot to steal the jewels and divide an empire. They were brothers in the soul. Now he was dead, he who had defied the void between lives, who had survived four centuries, while an empire had broken into kingdoms, and the wheel had turned for new lives, new souls.
A strange sensation assailed her—one she could not properly identify. It was not precisely grief. Regret?
She glanced toward her companion. Ilse lay motionless on the ground, eyes blank and staring upward. One arm was flung outward toward the Agnau, the other lay over her breasts. She still wore Daya the ring on her finger, just as she had in spirit form. Valara set the sapphire to one side and crawled over to Ilse. Her skin was warm. A strong erratic pulse beat at her throat.
She lives.
Valara had not been certain. Those last few moments in Dzavek’s chambers were a blur in her memory. She had tried to kill Dzavek. He had stopped her—easily. His reply was an explosion of magic that ripped through her spirit. She remembered then, the jewels, singing in great booming voices, like waves thundering against a cliff, like the bells of Morennioù castle. For a while after, she was too deaf and numb to understand much. Only when the guards appeared had she roused herself enough to escape with Ilse.
More tentatively, she touched the wooden ring. Its surface was warm and silken, with a strong current of magic rippling under her touch. Much fainter came the whispering of voices.
… awake, awake to the flesh, awake to life …
Ilse gasped and pitched upright. Valara caught her before she fell against the stone cliff. Ilse fought her blindly. Her skin burned fever-hot. She was choking, a terrible strangled noise deep in her throat. Quickly, Valara summoned the magic current. Again, it was too much. The current rushed in like a flood tide, but then she found the balance.
Soft, soft, softly,
she thought, and the magic obeyed.
Ilse drew a wheezing breath, coughed, and breathed again. Valara continued to murmur in Erythandran until the fever faded and Ilse breathed more easily. Then she lowered Ilse to the ground and searched around for water. She found the shallow cook stone. It was dry, but a handful of snow lay next to it. Valara scooped that up and, holding up Ilse’s head, let the melt-water trickle into the woman’s mouth.
Ilse coughed up the first mouthful, but swallowed the next. “Leos,” she whispered. “Leos, I’m sorry. It wasn’t—”
“Hush,” Valara said. “You did well.”
“I betrayed him,” Ilse whispered. “He thought I did. But it wasn’t true. I wanted … peace. No more war. He didn’t understand.”
Valara hushed her, ran her hands over the other woman’s face with as much gentleness as she could. It wasn’t something she had learned from mother or sister. Not in Morennioù. Ilse murmured something incomprehensible. As Valara bent closer, she caught a glimpse of strong memories running like a flood tide through the other woman’s thoughts.
… she saw a young woman running through the snow-dusted forests. She wore the rich clothing of a noble, a jewel in her cheek. An equally young man waited in a clearing. He was handsome, his face the pale brown of the empire’s southwest provinces. They spoke in Károvín. He was an emissary from the emperor. There was a chance for peace, he said. If she would but promise to persuade the new king to treat with them …
I will, the young woman said.
Before she finished speaking, a shout echoed through the forests, and an army appeared …
“He died.”
“Yes. It was time.”
“I never loved him. We were betrothed by our parents.”
Ilse lay quietly, her gaze upward toward the sky, away from Valara. Her eyes were like dark bruises, her face gray with exhaustion. “So. What comes next?”
So many questions hidden inside that one.
“Our plans depend on the jewels,” she said slowly. “We must withdraw, certainly. The king is dead, but the king certainly has advisers, councillors, other mages. We cannot remain here in case they track us. But
where
depends on Daya and Asha.”
“We won’t have long,” Ilse murmured. “Nor will they.”
Her gaze crossed Valara’s. They both smiled faintly.
She was no bad ally, Valara thought. Clever. Stubborn. Subtle. She would do well in Morennioù’s Court. Already her thoughts were running back to her kingdom, and how she would present this woman to her councillors.
They helped each other to stand. Valara retrieved the sapphire. It burned like a tiny blue flame in her hands, and its song rose up clear and bright and joyous, each word as distinct as a bell tone.
Rana, my brother. Rana, my sister, my cousin, my love, myself.
There it was again, a sense of regret. Of things left undone. Awkwardly, Valara ran her fingers over the sapphire, sensed the threads of magic and song, like a fabric woven in several dimensions.
Asha, I’m sorry. We … We lost Rana. We had to leave too soon. Before the king’s mages discovered us. But we will go back for her. I promise.
No and no. Turn. Open your eyes and you will see her.
Asha spoke so emphatically that Valara glanced over to Ilse before she realized she had done so. The other woman stood still. Her eyes were wide, her expression astonished. She was staring at Daya.
“Did you hear?” Valara asked.
“I did. And … I think I know what Asha means.”
Without waiting for Valara to reply, Ilse made for the gap between the cliffs and the ridge overlooking the plains. Valara hurried after her, the sapphire held tightly in one hand. Its song had fallen silent, but the magic remained, its current pulsing in time with her own heartbeat.
“Ah.” Ilse exhaled. “I should not be surprised.”
Valara shaded her eyes against the sun’s glare. She could just make out a dark speck moving against the shimmering expanse of plains. A rider, galloping directly toward them. “It’s Duke Karasek,” she said. “The man who attacked us. I know his signature.”
They could not run. Karasek with his horse could overtake either one of them easily.
“We must go at once to Autrevelye—”
“No.” Ilse pulled Daya from her finger and handed her to Valara. “Take Asha and Daya. Give me enough time to distract this Duke Karasek, then attack with all your magic, and all the magic of the jewels. If he does have Rana, you will need their help.”
She drew her sword and strode down the ash-strewn mountainside to the plains. Even before she reached the lower slopes, the horse slowed to a canter and then came to a halt. Karasek dismounted and waited patiently. It was that patience that unnerved Valara. Since their first meeting, he had countered every action she took and guessed her every change in plans. That he appeared so soon after Dzavek’s death said he had guessed again, and arrowed directly from the Jelyndak Islands, to Rastov, to here.
Ilse paused a few steps away from Karasek. Valara murmured an invocation to the magic current. But far quicker than she anticipated, Karasek drew his own sword. Metal flashed against the dull sky.
“No!” Valara shouted.
Winds shrieked across the edge of the cliffs. The Agnau had turned pale, and its molten surface heaved as colossal waves rolled across its breadth. Daya cried out in shrill tones, Asha’s voice rose higher, blending with the winds.
Sint unde waerest unde werden unde—
Valara shut out their voices. She raised her fist with Daya and Asha.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter,”
she cried out.
“Ei rûf ane—”