It never will, unless we each do our part.
She drew a long breath and willed herself to calm. Stubbornness. That was the key. Raul often told her she was unnaturally stubborn. She could never tell if he meant it as compliment or complaint. No matter. It was a trait inherited from her father, and though she hated any reminder of that man, hated any thought of Melnek and the life that came before, she knew she must use stubbornness to her own advantage.
Because we are bound by blood and flesh, by past lives and memories
.
Tanja Duhr knew us all,
she thought,
when she wrote those words.
Ilse heard a soft creaking noise—of ropes drawn tight—the sound magnified by night. A moment’s anticipation followed, like the infinitesimal pause between a breath drawn and its exhalation, then a muted peal rang out. One, two, three chimes whispered along the breeze, like a song recalling older days and half-forgotten lives.
Another bell tower took up the count, then another, farther away. Ilse listened until the last bellsong faded, and silence washed over the city once more. In Osterling’s fort and along the perimeter walls, soldiers kept watch, but here in Mistress Andeliess’s pleasure house, these were the quiet hours. The courtyard below was empty of any passersby. The courtesans and their clients slept, and the servants had not yet begun their day.
It was the hour for magic.
Ilse closed the shutters and set the bar. She locked her outer door and bolted it with sturdy iron. That, however, was not enough. She laid her fingers over the lock’s metal plate and murmured an invocation to the magic current.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm …
The language was old Erythandran, the language of magic. The words she had learned in Raul Kosenmark’s household, a place where magical guards were ordinary things. This one augmented the lock itself, so that no one could tweak the pins and levers within. An experienced mage could break these protections, but then, what she did here was simply the first line of her defense.
Once she locked the door and windows, she retreated into her bedchamber. Two lamps burned in their brackets, their scented oil giving off the aroma of lemons and oranges. The walls here were the same pale peach as her study, but with a darker border around the ceiling. Ilse locked and bolted the second door. She paused at the window for one last breath of the warm ocean breeze, then pulled the two shutter panels shut and barred them. The scent of her sweat and the sweeter scent of the lamp oil intensified. Just nerves, she told herself. Nothing more.
She extinguished the lamps and sat cross-legged on her bed, her back against the wall. She breathed in, felt the air catch in her throat, then slowly released it.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.
With every exhalation, her thoughts spiraled down to that moment between breaths, to the point where the magic current welled up, like water from a crack in stone.
En nam Lir unde Toc, versigelen mir. Niht ougen. Niht hœren. Versigeln älliu inre.
A heavy silence enveloped her, as though someone had dropped a curtain between her and the physical world. Her rooms were still visible, but the objects outside her immediate circle appeared blurred. That was deliberate. No one must know what she did here.
Now for the next step.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc. Komen mir de strôm.
Blood pulsed in her ears. She could sense every minute ripple in the magical current against her skin, within her body. Another moment, and her soul would relinquish its purchase on her body, shrug away her flesh, and soar into the magical void between worlds. For over three months, she had practiced just that until the act came easily to her. But not today. Today would be different.
Komen mir de strôm. Komen mir de vleisch unde sêle. Komen mir de Anderswar.
The world tilted away, and she fell into darkness, into emptiness. A feathered hand brushed against her cheek. A harsh familiar voice whispered her name over and over, just like the first time she had crossed the void. She heard the thunder of waves, the gulls from Osterling’s shore screaming,
Lost, lost, lost.
And then, silence.
Eyes still closed, Ilse drew a deep breath and felt an unnatural weight against her chest. Her face and neck felt slick with sweat, and the soft linen of her gown chafed against her skin. She caught the stink of ashes and burning tallow, overlaid by magic’s richer smell. Every sensation was stronger, sharper, than before. Her heart beat faster in anticipation. She opened her eyes.
Osterling Keep and her bedroom had vanished, replaced by a thick fog. Odd sparks and embers floated past her face, and shadows appeared in the milky depths below—darting, hovering, sinking away. Her stomach swooped.
Anderswar. The point where all worlds met. Where lives intersected with lives, and memories with time.
Deep inside, she felt a strong tug from the ordinary world, as though someone had fastened a chain under her ribs. Flesh or spirit did not matter. She was poised on the sharp point of an abyss. One step and she might plunge back into her rooms in Osterling Keep. One minute tilt in any direction, and she’d fall into another world.
Or back to Tiralien and Raul Kosenmark.
Her breath caught at the thought of Raul. To see him once, just for a moment. To hear his voice and feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. His house would be quiet at this hour. Only a few servants were about, in case a customer wished for refreshment. She could steal through the empty corridors to the stairway leading up to Raul’s private quarters. No one would ever know.
With an effort, she checked those lovely thoughts. She must not go back, not until she found the jewels. The risk was too great. She could not even allow herself the luxury of these fantasies, not in Osterling and certainly not here in Anderswar, whose denizens could read her thoughts and desires.
She blew out a breath and felt an ache spread throughout her chest. Onward.
Onward meant a different thing in the physical world, the ordinary world. There, it meant a difference of distance or time. Here … Here it meant a difference of will. She willed herself to creep forward in halting inch-wise steps along the thin edge between worlds and the magical void. Her stomach heaved against her ribs as the sight of lands and spheres flickered into and out of view. There, a city with bloodred towers. Over there, a horizon of stark, straight lines, such as she had never seen before.
With her next step, the fog vanished. Overhead a band of stars streamed past—souls in flight to their next lives. Another step and the streaming stars vanished. A gout of fire burst from the mists at her feet. She leapt back …
… and stood alone in a brightly lit cave, the walls of which were covered with primitive figures. Lir and Toc. An ancient crone. A maiden and a mother. Others she could not identify. From other worlds or other times? The absence of lamps or candles she did not question, nor that the cave had no exit. This place was not like any other she had encountered. But then she knew from her previous visits that Anderswar delighted in trapping and tricking the unwary visitor with the unexpected.
She made a circuit of the room. The walls felt slick and damp. Smooth, except for patches where it looked as though the stone had melted into rivulets, only to freeze again. The air tasted sour with smoke and magic. Now what?
The light inside the cave flickered. A ghostly warmth brushed against her arm. Feathers. Stiff and likewise soft. Ilse flinched, smelled a rank animal odor, as the invisible presence circled her. Once. Twice. Nails clicked over the stone floor. Then she glimpsed a shadow against the far wall. The shadow darkened into a great hunched beast, with beak and wings and four thick legs ending in claws. A huge ruff of fur grew from its neck. The rest of its body was covered in a mad patchwork of feathers and more fur. As it stumped around to face her, she saw the creature’s sex, which hung stiffly between its hind legs. The sheath angled toward her like another threat.
You came back,
it said.
Ilse drew a shaky breath. She had encountered this creature before, on her journeys in the spirit. Philosophers claimed Anderswar guarded its entrances with monsters and tricksters. Others argued the guardians were fabricated from the traveler’s own dreams and expectations.
The monster laughed, a rough, grating noise from deep within its throat.
You remember me. Are you still afraid?
She recovered her voice.
I’m always afraid of you.
Good. Then you aren’t as stupid as you look.
It leaned toward her, its eyes glittering silver in the unnatural illumination.
You want to find the jewels.
Of course it knew. There were no secrets in Anderswar.
Can you take me to them?
she asked.
Lir’s jewels, I mean. I know they are somewhere in Anderswar.
I can. For a price.
It spoke the truth—she sensed it. A giddy exhilaration filled her. This monster could lead her to Lir’s jewels, to wherever Leos Dzavek’s brother had concealed them centuries ago. Once she had them, she and Raul could end the threat of war between Veraene and Károví. They could end this miserable separation.
Show me,
she said,
and I will pay that price.
It regarded her for a long moment. There was no depth to those opaque eyes, which reminded her of a pair of old silver denier, the edges and impressions dulled by centuries.
Take hold of me,
it said.
Ilse reached out and gripped the ruff at the creature’s neck. She stilled a shudder when it rose onto its haunches and wrapped its legs around her. Its strong scent made her gag, its sex prodded her belly. She shivered and felt the creature’s body shake with laughter. Oh, it knew all her terrors and nightmares. She had only a moment to wonder what other torments lay in wait for her when it sprang forward.
… and they were hurtling backward through a pitch-dark tunnel, so fast that Ilse could not catch her breath to scream. Starbursts blinded her. All around, voices rose into keening howls, broke off, burst out once more in a staccato chorus.
Where are we going? she gasped.
To find the jewels.
You know where they are?
I know where all Lir’s creatures are.
Without warning, it bit deep into her shoulder with needle-sharp teeth, then spat out a mouthful of blood. Ilse felt the creature’s grip loosen. She scrabbled to hold on, digging her fingers into its fur and feathers. It gave a rasping laugh and thrust her away.
You promised, Ilse cried out.
From afar, she heard the slow heavy beat of its wings.
And I have kept that promise.
Its voice faded as she plummeted through the void. Light changed to darkness; dimensions vanished. She was falling through a dark tunnel, silent except for the shrill whine of her descent, which echoed from the walls-not-walls, through the air-not-air that shrieked in her ears. Ilse cried out to the gods, to the magic current.
Komen mir de zoubernisse. Komen mir de wërlt …
Her vision went dark.
* * *
SENSATION CAME BACK
in bits and fragments. A yellowish light. Blurred. Something hard and warm against her cheek. Her fingers curled, felt the same smooth surface. Lying flat. Sunlight on wood. Skin, burning. Her heart beat slowly, erratically, as if unaccustomed to its purpose.
She drew a painful breath, tasted a ripe green aroma at the back of her throat. Just as quickly, the scent and flavor of the magic faded, to be replaced by the staler aroma of orange oils and smoke. Of paper and ink, and the memory of salt tang and pine. Melnek?
Her throat squeezed shut at the thought of her father. No, no, no. She’d abandoned him years ago, never to return. Never. No one could force her to. Not her father or Alarik Brandt or Theodr Galt. Then more memory returned. Her father dead. Alarik Brandt, the caravan master, too, executed by Raul Kosenmark. She was safe from them. At the thought of Theodr Galt, her certainty faltered. Galt was a man who never forgave any slight or insult. She had run away rather than marry him.
Galt could not find her, she told herself firmly. He did not know her new name or identity.
She levered herself up to a sitting position and assessed her condition. It was enough to send shudders through her body. Dark bruises covered her forearms. Her throat felt tender to her touch, and her body ached throughout, but especially her shoulder. Remembering how the creature had bitten her, she unbuttoned her gown.
Four crimson spots, surrounded by darker bruises, marked where its teeth had punctured her skin. Ilse flexed her shoulder and hissed. These were no pretend bites. She would have to find a healer.
Even as the thought occurred to her, the wounds closed, the bruises faded. She caught a whiff of magic in the air. It had an unfamiliar signature, not like any human one she had encountered. Anderswar and its magic. It wounded and healed without reason. Or rather, for reasons of its own.
A rap at the door startled her.
“Ilse?” called out a voice.
Alesso. One of the kitchen servants. He had come with Ilse’s customary morning tray. It was far later than she had guessed.
Ilse lurched to her feet in spite of her aching shoulder. Just in time, she recalled the magical guards. “A moment, please,” she croaked.
Her skin felt sticky with sweat, and she still wore the same gown from the day before. She dashed water over her face, and fumbled a robe from her clothespress to cover her gown. A few words dissipated the magical guards, a few more erased all traces of her magic. She hurried, unsteadily, to the outer door of her rooms. More locks, magical and otherwise.
She called up the semblance of a smile as she opened the door. “Alesso. Good morning. Please come inside.”