chapter FOURTEEN
MIRO KARASEK BRUSHED the snow from the ground with one gloved hand. More snow dusted the mountainside, in spite of the advancing season, and his breath blew in white clouds. Light was fading from the sky. He needed a fire or he would not survive the night.
In spite of the gloves, his hands were stiff from the cold, and he felt light-headed in the thin air. It took him several tries before he could arrange the layer of bark and twigs properly. If only he hadn’t lost his tinderbox in that gravel slide. But he had, along with half his gear. He still had magic, of course, but the cold made it difficult to concentrate.
It could be worse, he thought, beating his hands together. I could be starving. Or dead.
He wasn’t. Not yet.
Wind sang through the peaks high above. The keening made him think of souls crying for release. Ghosts, the Veraenen called them. It was possible. Dzavek’s first armies had fought in these passes. According to legend, some chose to remain here as guardians instead of passing to their next lives. The Erythandran armies had called those rebel soldiers goats—stubborn and crude. Károvín poets had turned those insults into praise. But even goats could not survive without warmth.
He tucked his hands underneath his arms and closed his eyes. “En nam Lir unde Toc. Ei rûf ane gôtter.”
Magic washed over his face, and his skin stung with returning sensation. Miro continued his summons until the current enveloped his entire body. Then he removed his gloves and bent close to his pile of tinder. “Komen mir de viur,” he commanded.
He cupped his hand around the spark to shield it from the wind. It brightened as he continued to speak magic, and smoke coiled up from the bark. At last, the flame caught, and a thin sliver of fire crawled along the tinder’s edge.
Magic. Lir’s gift of breath. Precious beyond telling.
He fed the flame with more bark and twigs, then added branches one by one until he had built a sizeable pile. Once the fire burned steadily, he took up the two marmots he’d snared that day. With swift sure strokes, he skinned the carcasses and cut the meat into strips, which he laid on stones beside the flames. Leaving those to cook, he filled his one cooking pan with snow, to which he added a treasured handful of late haws, and set that to boil.
As he worked, the sky had faded from indigo to black. The nearest mountains had become dark silhouettes, and he could no longer see any trace of sunlight on their upper peaks. For all he knew, the world had vanished, leaving only his firelit hollow.
More than a month had passed since his landing on Veraene’s shores. He’d stolen an old shirt and a mule from a small farm on the peninsula. The shirt covered his Károvín uniform, and the mule carried him as far as the Gallenz Valley. When the beast went lame, he abandoned it near another farm and took to his feet.
North and north he marched, keeping well away from town and village. When he sighted the mountains on the horizon, he doubled inland to avoid the border armies, and made a great sweep west and around until he came to the plains just south of Ournes Province. There he had turned east toward the Železny Mountains and a little known pass into Károví.
Miro scooped up a handful of snow and scrubbed the blood from his hands. He rubbed another handful over his face, shuddering at the cold like a dog. Another week—maybe less—would see him through these mountains and into the province of Duszranjo. Once he located a garrison, he could command supplies and a fresh mount. He could reach Rastov and the king before the season turned.
To report my success. And my failures.
The greasy smell from roasting marmots filled the air. He stabbed the chunks of meat with his knife and ate them quickly, washing them down with gulps of hot tea. The meat was rank, the tea weak, but he didn’t care. He ate until only bones and guts and sinews remained, then sucked the bones dry of their marrow.
Once there was nothing left, he buried the entrails, cleaned his knife and cook pot with more snow, banked his fire for the night. Once more the solitude pressed against him. He bundled himself in his blankets and stared at the night sky, where stars glittered like flecks of ice. Each one could be a soul in flight. How many were those of his soldiers, lost in Morennioù, or the ocean storm, or on Veraene’s shores? How many had died because of his mistakes, his miscalculations and assumptions?
A breath of magic stirred. Once more he felt the touch of Dzavek’s fingers against his lips, willing him to silence.
I am the king’s chosen weapon. I execute his will.
The day’s fatigue overtook him at last, and he fell asleep to that thought.
* * *
HE ROSE AT sunrise and drank the cold dregs of his tea. It took only a few moments to break camp—tamping dirt over the campfire, brushing away the more obvious signs of his presence. Wind and rain would take care of the rest. He worked more by habit than from any sense that others still pursued him. Then, his few possessions wrapped in a bundle, he marked out his next goal and started on the day’s journey.
He marched until midmorning, then stopped for a brief rest. He refilled his water flask and gathered what provender he could find—handfuls of pine nuts, lichen scraped from stones, and puckered cranberries that were dusty and bitter with age. When he finished his meal, such as it was, he brewed a pan of tea and drank deeply. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the leather packet from his shirt and unwrapped the long-guarded treasure he had carried from Morennioù.
Dzavek’s prize.
The emerald lay dark and inert in his palm. For weeks, the jewel had tormented him with possibilities—sparking at his touch, inundating him with magic’s powerful green scent. Gradually, that powerful response had faded, and its pulse turned elusive.
Do not call its magic, Dzavek had said. Do not yield to its temptations. And be warned, I will know if you have tampered with my treasure.
He wants to wield the jewel in war. Another war. Possibly our last.
Miro held the emerald up to the clear morning light, reconsidering the host of choices that faced him. He could defy Leos Dzavek and take its power for his own. He could bury it in the wilderness and hope no one rediscovered its presence. He could take flight, just as Dzavek’s trusted adviser had done, three hundred years before.
To die for one’s kingdom demands courage, his father had said. But to live for one’s kingdom … that requires endurance.
Miro closed his fingers around the emerald. He had sworn allegiance to his kingdom. He would not break those vows. With a sigh, he tucked the emerald back into its pouch and set off once more. By midafternoon, he sighted a notch in the mountains—just a hazy golden smudge against the endless gray rock—but as he mounted higher, a thin ribbon of green showed beyond. Duszranjo. Károví. Home.
He marched faster. Had the captains written his name in the dead lists, or had they waited for infallible proof? He’d surprised the scouts more than once, returning from the impossible assignments his father had awarded him. His father would not witness this homecoming, but still Miro bent himself to the trail.
An hour before sunset, he gained the notch and a clear view of Duszranjo Valley. He dropped to his knees and sucked in a shuddering breath.
Duszranjo, the pearl within a granite sea. The Solvatni River wandered through the valley’s golden fields and dark green stands of pines, a thin silver ribbon far across the valley floor. A town had settled on its banks—a neat square of gray stone and muddy red bricks. That would be Dubro, judging by the nearby garrison. Closer by stood a shepherd’s hut. Herds of sheep moved across the slopes toward their enclosures, little more than blurred white shapes in the falling twilight.
He had lived here once, against his will, from eight to thirteen, after his mother fled his father’s household. At thirteen, he had made his own escape, taking the wilderness roads east to rejoin his father at Taboresk. But somewhere in Duszranjo, Pavla Karasek still lived—an anonymous woman of means, her identity kept secret by unspoken agreement between his parents, now between him and his mother. Was she happier, he wondered. Did it matter?
On impulse, he lifted his hand to capture whatever magic would answer his summons.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm de zoubernisse.”
The darkening air glinted with magic, and its thick scent overpowered the pine resin, the fresh scent of new hay. Was it his imagination, or did magic shine more brightly here, along Duszranjo’s border? The touch comforted him, warmed him, but could not fill the clefts and voids within his contrary mind.
He released the current and it sighed into nothing. Still troubled, he made his way cautiously through the gloom toward the shepherd’s hut. Within a short while, he came to a low square building with light seeping around its shuttered windows. A dog barked loudly. Beyond, hidden in the darkness, bleating sheep milled around on the edge of panic.
Miro stopped. He heard voices whispering within the hut. They must think him a robber.
“I’ve lost my way,” he announced loudly. “I would ask the favor of your fire.”
The dog whined, then fell silent. The door opened. By the lamplight streaming through, Miro saw a young man, square-built and dark, one hand nervously gripping a long knife.
“Who are you?” said the man. “You’ll get nothing but a fight from us.”
Miro held his hands out to show they were empty. “My name is Duke Miro Karasek of Taboresk.”
A second man pushed to the front and held up a lantern. He was older, with a high forehead and iron-gray hair. The old man took in Miro’s appearance with a searching glance. His frown smoothed into surprise—and recognition. “Your grace. Welcome.” He beckoned Miro inside. “Fedor, stand aside for the duke.”
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.
As Dzavek turned the jewel over in his palm, the ruby cast a red sheen over his skin. Miro suppressed a shudder. Anastazia Vaček had been quoting Leos Dzavek when she had told Miro her true orders for Morennioù. By blood and bone and magic, Vaček would prepare the ground for Dzavek’s second invasion. Leos Dzavek had not forgiven his brother’s treachery even though lives and centuries had passed.
“We can plan the next assault later,” Dzavek said. “Once we secure the emerald, Morennioù cannot resist long, not with hostages. We will hold the new queen against their surrender. And their welfare against hers.”
I loved her once.
But those were lives and days past. With an effort, Miro returned to the present.
“She might be difficult to locate, your majesty,” he ventured to say.
Dzavek made a careless gesture. The gems on his fingers flashing in the lamplight. “Not at all. Whenever the queen speaks with her emerald, she must use magic. When she does, I will hear her.”