chapter TWENTY-THREE
TWILIGHT WAS FALLING by the time Miro Karasek came within view of Rastov. Unconsciously he reined his horse to a stop. The horse blew a rattling breath, as if to argue against further delay, but it offered no other protest. The plains themselves were a blank, black expanse below the sliver of a new moon, but Rastov was a collection of stars, its walls and towers illuminated by thousands of lamps.
He had ridden almost without pause since falling from the magical plane onto the open fields outside Laszny’s garrison. A week spent with only a few hours’ sleep snatched while the next posting station saddled his new mount. Even before that, he had lost half a month for those few moments in the magical plane. He could only pray to Lir and Toc that he was not too late.
Though for what, he could not yet tell. He had no reason to believe the Morennioùen queen had crossed into Károví. If she had returned to Morennioù, Dzavek would find the second invasion much harder. More men and women would die. It would be another bloody conflict like the first one. But if she chose to come here …
If. Maybe. Second doubts could choke a man into inaction.
He gave his horse the signal to walk, then called up a magical beacon to light their path. He wanted to gallop the final distance, but he knew the dangers of headlong riding over the plains at night. And so it took him almost two more hours before he reached the city gates.
There, the sentries called out the expected challenge.
“Duke Miro Karasek,” he called back. “On the king’s business.”
A torch flared, and the gates swung open to admit him. Miro returned the sentries’ salute, but his thoughts were on Valara Baussay and his king. The sense of unease had increased, and he spurred his horse to a fast trot, for once using his status as general and noble to force his way through the streets.
He took the most direct route across town, the wide boulevards that the architects for Károví’s first kings had laid out a thousand years before. Soon he came to the slopes leading toward the Solvatni River and negotiated his horse down the winding streets toward the bridge to the castle. A breeze grazed his face, carrying a trace of green. He drew rein and concentrated on its signature, but the breeze died away before he could identify it.
Apprehensive, he rode faster, telling himself that he worried for nothing, but the sight in the courtyard only confirmed his fears. Soldiers swarmed in all directions. Officers shouted orders. A runner darted in front of Miro, nearly letting the horse trample him.
“Duke Karasek. You’ve returned.”
A captain appeared breathlessly beside Miro’s horse.
“What happened?” Miro said.
“An attack on the king. The last hour. Magic, I heard.”
Miro vaulted from the saddle and tossed the reins to the man. “See to my horse.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he pushed through the mass of soldiers and into the castle.
Turmoil had taken possession of Zalinenka’s halls. Pages and guards ran in all directions. Černosek’s personal secretary hurried past muttering to himself. The strong scent of magic permeated the entire hall.
Hers.
He recognized Valara Baussay’s signature at once. Others, too. A chaos of magical fingerprints. Miro caught hold of a passing runner and learned the attack had taken place in the king’s private chambers. He let the boy go and elbowed his way to the main stairs, mounted them two at a time to the next floor. The scent of magic increased with every step, and he raced down the corridor to Dzavek’s suite of rooms.
A knot of guards and councillors stood outside. In their midst were the Scholar and Brigand—Černosek and Markov—along with the castle guard’s senior commander. “Magic,” Šimon Černosek was saying. “It woke me, even before your messenger arrived.”
He broke off at Miro’s entrance, and his lips thinned. Feliks Markov jerked around. For one moment, his eyes widened, then his face smoothed into an unreadable mask. “Duke Karasek. You show exquisite timing. Coincidence? Or perhaps your well-known forethought.”
“Neither. I came with … with news concerning my mission.”
“Have you found the Morennioùen queen?” Černosek said. “Your Captain Donlov returned with the ship a few days ago, but his report was … incomplete.”
Miro glanced at the crowd of guards. The senior commander took his hint and withdrew; the others followed.
“Yes and no,” Miro said quietly. “We intercepted her where we expected, but she escaped by crossing into Vnejšek in the flesh.”
Černosek’s pale lips parted. “And?”
Miro was aware of Markov watching him closely. The man had no magic abilities, but he could read a human face with unnerving skill. He frowned, as if angry and embarrassed. “She crossed the Gulf before I could stop her. I had no wish to lose weeks or months with a chase through Vnejšek. I decided to return at once and warn the king—”
“Did you expect her to come here then?”
Markov spoke mildly, but Miro did not mistake that tone for indifference. “No. I expect she’s fled directly to Morennioù. Which means we must prepare for a second invasion. Or rather, that would have been the king’s wishes before…” He broke off, too shaken by the sudden reversal of everything he expected to keep up his inventions. He ran a hand over his face and managed to recover himself. “Tell me what happened here.”
“An attack,” Markov said drily. “Magical in nature. The king has vanished.”
He continued to speak, something about how the entire castle had reverberated with magic, so that even the most oblivious had noticed, but Miro found it difficult to attend. He could only think that he had made the wrong choice and failed his king.
Weariness from the past week swept over him. He put a hand out to steady himself. Černosek caught his arm. “You are ill.”
“No.” Miro drew back from Černosek, mistrusting the man’s motives. “Not ill. Tired and saddle-sore. I can sleep later. You say the king vanished. What else? Have you examined these rooms yet?”
“A cursory look,” Markov said. “Enough to ascertain there was an attack. I wanted Černosek to inspect the magical traces himself.”
He took the risk. “Let me do that. I know the Morennioùen queen’s signature. I can confirm if she was present, or someone else.” He added, “It would not do to assume anything about the identity of those who attacked our king and our kingdom. We do have other enemies.”
The Scholar and Brigand exchanged intent looks.
“He’s right,” Černosek said at last.
Markov appeared less convinced, but he merely shrugged. “We do not have time to argue. Examine the room. Meet with us directly after at my private chambers, so we might discuss how to proceed.”
Miro waited until the two had rounded the corner before he pushed the door open.
Light from the corridor showed a chaos of papers and books strewn over the floor nearest to him. Windows at the far end admitted faint illumination from the stars. By their light, he could make out more destruction. Several shelves had collapsed, and the writing desk lay in splintered pieces. He drew an unsteady breath at the sight. The flux and whirl of magic were dying off, but the strong scent nearly overpowered him.
He took a torch from its bracket and walked inside the study, letting the door fall shut behind him.
Destruction. That was his first reaction. A chaos left by unrestrained magic. He closed his eyes and let his senses spiral outward. Definitely her signature. He picked it out from the confusion—the scent and image of a fox, swift and secret, gliding through the rooms. With a shift of focus, he turned to the magical plane to sift through the traces left by other visitors. Dzavek, of course. Several guards. A strange alien presence that had to be the ruby. Valara Baussay and another woman whom he could not identify. That gave him pause. One of the Veraenen company?
From a distance, he heard the guards’ voices through the door. They had resumed their conversation about the night’s events. Miro listened a moment, heard nothing that he had not already guessed, then turned back to examine the room in more detail.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” he said softly. “Komen mir de strôm. Widerkêren mir de zeît. Ougen mir.”
His vision darkened. Now he saw the room from the past. All the lamps had guttered, the fire burned low in its grate, casting a reddish hue over the tiled floor. On a tall marble pedestal, Miro saw the box where Dzavek kept Rana.
Servants appeared to rebuild the fire. Others took away a tray with its wine cups and flask. A brief interlude of waiting came next, while Miro wondered if he had misjudged his timing. Then, the door swung open. A shadowy figure stood framed in the lamplight from the corridor.
His breath went still. This was not Valara Baussay, but a stranger. A Károvín. No, he saw traces of Veraenen blood in her features, which were translucent in the vision, like the faded ink drawings of centuries past.
I know her. She was there, when we attacked.
Her signature intensified. It was like sunlight glancing through the clouds. He watched as she hurried into the room, making directly for the marble pedestal with its open box. She had just touched the ruby when Dzavek appeared, also in the spirit. He spoke. The woman turned and answered. Their mouths moved in a silent conversation that Miro wished he could hear. He watched the turns in her expression—fearful, controlled, a brief inward look that might be grief or shame.
Events moved more quickly. Dzavek rejoined his body. Unexpectedly Valara Baussay appeared. King and queen spoke at once. Or was it brother to brother? He could not tell. The air shimmered with magic’s current, waiting only for a word …
A blinding explosion lit the room with fire. The sight was so vivid, so real, that Miro imagined he could feel a hot wind blow through his hair. Before he could react, the bright light vanished, and smoke blanketed the room, making it impossible to see.
No movement. No sign of any presence, flesh or spirit. Miro waited, unable to breathe.
At last a shadow emerged from the haze. A thin arm swept upward, its motion echoed by a trail of gray and black. Gradually the smoke dissipated, revealing the destruction wrought by that explosion.
Valara Baussay crouched at the far end of the room.
Miro released his breath. She lives. She survived.
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.