chapter TEN
WHEN SHE FIRST arrived in Osterling Keep in winter, Ilse Zhalina thought she had unraveled the days and miles to a summer’s day in Melnek, where she had lived as a child. The sky was the color of pale blue ink suspended in water. Dusty green trees fringed the cliffs above the city, and only at night did she sometimes light a brazier to warm her bedroom.
As the season turned into spring, the seas glittered beneath the sun, and fishermen spoke of the coming summer storms. Fleets of merchant ships hurried down from the northern ports to complete their passage before those same calm seas turned rough and wild. Those with a few hours of leave visited the pleasure house, and Ilse worked into the night to keep the house well supplied.
Still, for all the orderly, ordinary succession of her days, she had the impression of a smothering weight over the city. Riders had taken word of the battle and the escaped officer to garrisons along the coast, and Lord Joannis had sent word to Duenne by ship and land. The effects were immediate—more guards in the harbor and around the city garrison. Rumor also talked about an influx of reinforcements due from Konstanzien, up the coast.
Ilse herself stopped using magic entirely. Be cautious, Nicol Joannis had warned her, in his oblique fashion. No more journeys to Anderswar. No more searching for Lir’s jewels. She even stopped using the ordinary spells for lighting candles.
Nor did she meet with Alesso again.
That, however, was not her doing. Two days after their confrontation, Alesso transferred to the late-night shift. Ilse learned about that from the kitchen maids. Interesting, she thought. If he had frightened her out of complacency, perhaps she had done the same with him.
This day and hour, however, her attention was wholly on the pleasure house and its books, not the far-off doings of armies or kings. She sat with the chief cook in the woman’s office, reviewing the monthly accounts. It was midafternoon. The sunlight was white and unforgiving, and the room echoed with activity from the kitchen next door.
The cook, used to the noise, pitched her voice louder. “Fish,” she said.
Fish, hook, net, snare. The old game of word links came effortlessly to Ilse’s mind. She smiled to herself. Ghita Fiori was an utterly plain woman, unimaginative except when it came to her cookery. She would not appreciate a game about words.
“Fish,” Ilse repeated. “I never knew how many kinds of fish lived in the sea, until I came here.”
Ghita snorted. “We only care about the edible ones. Speaking of which, fish needs salt, and the king has raised the salt tax again.”
Taxes. Ilse sighed. “How much?”
“Thirty copper denier for a hundredweight.”
A small sum, except when you considered how much fish and meat the customers consumed in one year. Ilse calculated the probable increase in expenses and sighed again. “That means higher taxes for freight and shipping. Mistress Andeliess might have to increase her prices, too.”
“That is her business, not ours.”
“True. But she’ll want the numbers from me. So, then. We require fish, bought fresh from the wharves, in all varieties that you have so helpfully noted in your expenses and projections. Three hundred silver denier for the past month, including taxes. Next is beef … Yes, Rina?”
It was one of the house runners—Mistress Andeliess’s grandniece, recently hired to begin her internship in the family business. The girl bounced on her toes. Her eyes were shiny with excitement. “I came for Mistress Ilse,” she said. “You have a visitor. In your rooms.”
Ilse frowned. “You took them to my rooms?”
“It wasn’t me.” The girl’s voice squeaked high. “Fredo took them up. But come. You’ll see he had no choice.”
Fredo was the house’s senior runner, old and trusted and wise in discretion. If he had elected to bring this unnamed visitor directly to Ilse’s rooms without notifying her first, it argued for someone both important and well-known to Fredo.
Lord Joannis. He was the only person who could produce that kind of reaction. But why would he come to her? Perhaps he’d sent word to Raul in spite of his own warning to her.
She blotted the page with shaking hands, all too aware how Ghita and the runner watched her. “We can work together later,” she said. “Tomorrow morning is best for me. That gives me a chance to speak with Mistress Andeliess about the salt tax. Will that suit?”
Ghita answered, but Ilse hardly heard the woman. She gathered up her books and writing case. Murmured a reply that surely made no sense, but all she cared about was the visitor and what news he might bring.
She sped to the stairs at the back of the house. By the time she reached the second-floor landing, she was out of breath. She paused at the door to smooth her hair and recover her poise. If her visitor was Lord Joannis, she would have to act her part in case anyone overheard them. Then she rounded the corner from the landing into the hall.
Her first warning was the sight of two armed soldiers outside her door.
Both men glanced in her direction. Light from an open door beyond cast their faces in shadows. Then one man rested his hand on his sword. The movement sent a ripple of sunlight over the metal studs of his leather glove.
Ilse continued forward, her heart skipping to a faster beat as she took in more details. Royal insignias. Full armor despite the heat. Someone important, then. Given a few moments, she could probably guess the identity of her visitor. She laid a hand on the latch to her door, felt the warmth of recent magic, the hint of a signature she almost recognized.
Inside, a tall man dressed in a dusty drab cloak stood behind her desk. He held a paper in one hand. A dozen more were scattered over the floor, as if he’d tossed them to one side. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, but Ilse felt a stir of fear. Something about his height, the dismissive manner with which he flicked aside the paper and took up another.
Markus Khandarr, King’s Mage and chief councillor, glanced up. “Mistress Ilse Zhalina. Formerly Mistress Therez of Melnek. Good day.”
Her mouth went dry. “Lord Khandarr. I remember you.”
Oh yes, she did. She had met him only once, for a few terrifying moments, two years ago. He had infiltrated a secret meeting between Raul Kosenmark and his shadow court. Or rather, he had intended to. Suspecting a spy, Raul had arranged a false meeting, with only those associates already known to the king.
“I am glad you do,” Khandarr said. “That will make our interview easier. Lord Kosenmark tells me you’ve broken off all connection with him.”
A lie. Raul would tell this man nothing. With an ease that she did not feel, Ilse turned toward the sideboard and indicated the waiting carafes. “Would my lord care for wine? Or I might send for coffee.”
Khandarr smiled faintly. “No, thank you. A few answers are all that I require. Tell me what you remember about the Károvín ships—the ones that foundered offshore last month. What did you see that day?”
“Nothing,” she said. Too quickly, because Khandarr’s smile deepened.
“Nothing at all?” he said.
She made a show of considering her answer this time. “Nothing, my lord. You might know that Captain Spenglar allows me to drill with his wing. That day I came late, so I was outside the yard when the alarm bells rang. The wings and files marched out. I waited until they passed, then returned here to my work.”
“You were not curious?”
“Very curious. And frightened. There were rumors of pirates, you see.”
“But they were not pirates.”
“No, my lord. They were not. I learned that later.”
Khandarr regarded her for several moments. It was hard to read his expression—he’d placed himself between her and the window, and shadows covered his face—but she had the distinct impression of strong emotions running just beneath the surface. Disappointment. Fury. A mixture of the two. She wished she knew more about current doings in the royal court.
“Tell me what magic you know,” Khandarr said.
Ilse suppressed a flinch. “I know very little magic, my lord.”
“False,” Khandarr whispered. “Your first mistake.”
“But my lord—”
“Shut up, you miserable girl. You know magic. Kosenmark taught you. Your own books betray you.” He dropped the papers onto her desk and curled his fingers into a fist. The magic current stirred, drawing her skin tight. “I’m glad to see you have not forgotten me,” he said. “Consider what you know. What Kosenmark told you. How Lord Dedrick died. Because tomorrow we shall talk again.”
He brushed past her on his way out the door. Ilse held still. She counted to ten after the door closed, then moved swiftly to the sideboard and poured herself a generous cup of wine.
He came to interrogate the Károvín prisoners, of course. That was the meat of Nicol Joannis’s warning. She had misunderstood him. She had expected the king to send a military officer. The incident was a military matter, after all. But it was the short interval since that warning that frightened her the most. Only a month had passed since the governor sent word to Duenne. How many horses had Lord Khandarr and the courier killed between them?
Her thoughts veered back to her other encounters with Markus Khandarr, the reports from trusted agents, even Lord Iani’s own account of Dedrick’s death.
Khandarr raised a hand. Ilse’s skin pulled tight across her forehead. Her throat clamped shut, and her vision went dark …
… he shouted and the air turned bright and heavy. Then came a wind. Then a burst of fire. Then I saw the soldiers along the perimeter wall burning, burning, and yet they did not die …
… Khandarr was furious, Iani told them. He called up magic so thick that I could hardly breathe. Dedrick fought hard against it. Gods, I thought his throat would burst. And then … And then it did.…
Her stomach heaved at the memories.
I should have sent word to Raul myself, she thought. Alesso might have helped, if she offered him enough money.
What if. Might have. Ought to.
All those second guesses were worthless.
She heard a soft scratching at her door. Ghita the cook? One of the runners? Her pulse gave a start when she heard Alesso’s voice instead. Interesting that he would be awake at this hour. Except that true spies never slept.
She drank off the wine and went into her bedroom.
The signs of Lord Khandarr’s search were few but telling—the bed quilt rumpled, her bookcase with several volumes pulled out, one trunk with its lid propped open, the scent and texture of his magical signature heavy in the air. He had not rifled through all her books, however. The books of poetry and history remained as she had left them. She removed one thick volume of Tanja Duhr’s poetry and let her breath trickle out in relief.
He had not discovered her most secret weapon, then.
Ilse took out the scroll from its hiding place. It had come from Lord Iani, from her last few months in Tiralien. He had not liked her request, but he had given in to her insistence. He was right to be reluctant. With these spells, she might erase her mind completely. She could lock her memory against all probing, sealing her thoughts away forever, or locking them with a particular key.
For a long while, Ilse considered the spell and its implications. Once invoked, she would forget Raul Kosenmark and everything between them. His shadow court would be safe. She … she would be a mindless puppet. She could use the variation with a key. The right person with the right key could recover her self. But then she risked the key being lost or misunderstood.
Or understood by the wrong person altogether.
Not yet. Better to wait and see what Khandarr does next.
* * *
VALARA BAUSSAY LAY on her back, staring at the ceiling. A spider had begun a web in one corner, near the window. The web shook from an unseen breeze, a breeze so weak it did nothing to relieve the suffocating heat inside the prison. Nor the smell. The guards were late emptying the slop buckets today, and the air smelled ranker than usual.
In the weeks since her capture, she had come to know every detail of her cell. It measured four feet by five—an enormous, luxurious space. Other prisoners slept two or three together, their straw pallets crammed close along one wall, as far away from the slop buckets as possible. And hers had an actual window—just a foot-square opening, blocked with iron bars, but through it, Valara could see a patch of sky. If she stretched onto her toes, she could even make out a thumb-sized smidge of wall from some other part of the garrison. Once the summer storms came, the guards told her, she would get a bit of tarpaulin to keep out the rains.
Summer. She could hardly imagine a season hotter than this one.
In Morennioù, on the island Enzeloc, the lilies and orchids in the castle gardens would be ripe with new blooms. Outside the grounds, the trees in Louvain’s orchards would be shedding their blossoms. She loved riding with Jhen Aubévil through the blizzard of petals.
Not this year. This year, soldiers burned those orchards.
Her chest squeezed tight in grief and anger. She remembered—could not forget—that terrible first day of spring. The alarm bells, her running to find her father and his chief mage. Her confession about the jewel. Their panicked attempts to conceal Lir’s emerald, only to have the emerald awaken and change itself with its own magic. Valara absently rubbed the wooden ring on her finger and felt a dull prickle of the current, uninspired and nearly imperceptible. Once she had imagined the jewel spoke to her. Or was that a memory from old lives? An image from ordinary dreams from long ago?
The hour bells rang out, followed by a softer quarter bell.
Valara stirred, restless and hungry. It was two hours past the usual time for supper, but no guard had come with her meal. She heard one of the Károvín complaining to his cell mates. She understood them much better, six weeks later. At times, she practiced Károvín and Veraenen, whispering the words to herself. The languages had changed in the past three hundred years, but not beyond recognition. She had spoken both fluently in previous lives. She could do so in this one.
A loud crash brought her alert and to her feet. Six guards marched through the outer doors and down the corridor. One of them unlocked Valara’s cell door and seized the overflowing slop bucket, cursing at the mess. Another tossed her straw pallet to a companion. “What are you doing?” Valara demanded. Fear made her reckless. For a moment, she forgot she was only a prisoner and grabbed the guard’s arm. “What is happening?”
The guard shook her off. Before she could fling herself after him, another guard carrying a bucket of soapy water shoved her into a corner. He pinned her against the wall with one arm and scrubbed her face with a rag. “Finish yourself,” he said, dropping the bucket at her side. “And hurry.”
He slammed the door shut. Valara choked and spat out a mouthful of soap. All down the corridor the other prisoners shouted curses. The guards ignored them and continued to work at a feverish pace. Torches lit. Pallets and blankets taken away. A hasty scouring of the floors and prisoners. Something very strange was afoot. A visitor?
My message to the king. They finally delivered it.
She snatched up the rag from the floor and washed her hands, her neck, behind her ears. She wore the same threadbare clothes as the other prisoners. It was not how she wished to appear before a king or his representative, but she could make herself presentable at least.
The senior guard marched past the cells to make one last inspection. Once he completed his circuit, he shouted an order. Immediately a squad of soldiers poured inside. Half of them peeled off to line the corridor, the rest marched down, almost to Valara’s cell and swung about, blocking her view. The din was unbearable—boots ringing off the stones, the clatter from several dozen swords drawn in unison, a great shout like a panther’s coughing roar.
The guard captain barked an order, bringing an instant hush.
Valara held her breath and in the stillness heard a single pair of measured footsteps. The footsteps paused. A murmured conversation followed. She could not make out the words, but she could guess. The king had sent a man to question the Károvín prisoners. The guards in Osterling had tried that once or twice. Valara had overheard them whispering about a cruel magic laid upon the Károvín soldiers.
The murmuring changed to raised voices. The argument was conducted in Karóvín, but she could not make out what they said. The exchanges grew louder, more abrupt. Then …
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Gaebe mir alle werrit.”
A rank smell swept through the prison. Valara bent over double, overwhelmed by the harsh magic. Beyond the thrumming in her head, she heard the whine of voices. Erythandran. Károvín. But the Erythandran grew louder, more insistent, commanding the other to speak, speak the truth, no matter what spells were laid upon them, while the other voice rose into a shriek. Valara pressed both hands over her ears, but she could not shut out the cry until—
Abruptly the shrieking stopped. Valara slumped to the floor. She heard the soldiers outside her cell muttering softly. Even they were troubled.
A metallic clang echoed down the corridor. The muttering stopped at once. Now movement flowed through the crowd of soldiers. They were making way for someone’s passage. Before Valara could stand up and recover herself, the guards outside parted and two men came forward to the door of her cell.
Both were clothed in dark blue robes and trousers. One had a complexion that was blacker than a moonless night, and silver hair, cropped close. She had seen him once before, the day after the battle. He was Osterling’s regional governor, Lord Nicol Joannis. The second man was taller, his spare frame stooped as if from a heavy burden, and he wore a broad hat that cast shadows over his face.
Joannis produced a key and unlocked the door. The second man walked past him into Valara’s cell and signaled for his companion to remain outside. As he turned to face Valara, he removed his hat, revealing a gaunt face and pale brown eyes. Torchlight reflected from the silver in his long thin hair.
“My name is Lord Markus Khandarr.” The man spoke in strongly accented Károvín. His voice was clear and deep. “I am a councillor to the king and his chief mage. The commander sent word that you wished to confess. Here I am. Speak.”
Valara glanced from him to Joannis. One to question, the other to watch. She had planned to announce herself plainly, but the conflicting signals of magic and violence made her wary.
“I have no need to confess,” she said in Veraenen. “My message was to Veraene’s king, not a minion.”
Khandarr waved his hand, as if dismissing her words. “Reliable witnesses have sighted Károvín ships in our waters. Such news worries Armand of Angersee; therefore it worries me. He has sent me to question all the prisoners. And you. Tell me your name, and what you know about Károví’s plans for Veraene.”
He had answered in Veraenen, at least, but his abrupt tone unsettled her. You are my prisoner, it said. Valara ran through her answer twice before she could speak. “I will tell you as much as I am able. Remember, I asked to speak with your king. I believe we can help each other.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then answer my questions. Six weeks ago, the king’s fleet sighted a large number of Károvín ships bound for the east. Not long after, three of them foundered off our coast. Tell me where Leos Dzavek sent those ships. And why.”
Valara hesitated, glanced toward Joannis. No sign of what he thought. It was clear, however, that he would not interfere with the king’s chief councillor and mage. And Khandarr was obviously impatient for her to answer. Oh, but it was so hard to break the secrecy of three hundred years, especially to this man.
He is the voice of the king. I must work through him.
Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Leos Dzavek has discovered how to break through Luxa’s Hand—what you call Lir’s Veil. He sent those ships to invade our kingdom.”
Khandarr watched her, his pale eyes unblinking. “Go on.”
“His general took a number of prisoners for questioning, but he left behind most of his troops. I am a member of the court. I requested an audience with your king so we might discuss the possibility of an alliance. I would offer a great deal for safe passage back to my homeland.”
She heard a soft murmur from one of the guards. Joannis leaned closer, his eyes bright with anticipation. Khandarr, however, did not change his expression. “One of the Károvín sailors mentioned an island kingdom before he died,” he said softly. “He died from choking. Another one said the word magic before her throat burst open and she bled to death.”
A chill went through her at this flat recitation of violence. “So you see I’m not lying.”
“Nor have you told me the entire truth. For example, you are a trained mage. The guards tell me you attempted to break free using magic your first night here. And there are traces of your signature in this cell, though you tried to erase them. Did you help the Károvín to break through the barrier? Is that why Leos Dzavek sent ships to Morennioù? You call it an invasion. To me, it looks more like an alliance—”
“There is no alliance,” Valara broke in. “Leos Dzavek sent twenty or thirty ships against Morennioù. He gave them orders to murder the king and—”
She stopped at the eager look on Khandarr’s face.
“And did he?” he asked. “Did he murder the king?”
Valara said nothing. She had already said too much.
“I believe he did,” Khandarr said softly. “So Morennioù’s king is dead, and the barrier no longer quite so formidable. And you, you know far more than you admitted at first. Yes, my king must hear what you have to say, but everything, not just what you choose to reveal. You will not be bound by Leos Dzavek’s spells.”
He raised his right hand and murmured the familiar invocation to magic. The current gathered around his fingers. Another spell and the air crackled with a bright electric charge. She swallowed with difficulty.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ane Toc unde sîn kreft…”
Valara felt her gorge rising. Her tongue, like a creature alive, moved to speak. She clamped her mouth shut, but the magic had gripped her like a hand and was prizing her lips open. “He came … He came because I … because I…”
With an effort, she choked out a spell to counteract his. The current wavered—a temporary reprieve. Khandarr had far more skill than she. Already her mouth was twisting open again. She would tell him about the emerald. He would take it and—
“Wenden dir sîn zoubernisse. Nemen îm der wâr unde kreft. Nemen îm der sprâche.”
With a loud crack, the current rebounded. Khandarr sprang backward, clawing at his throat. Valara scrabbled into the far corner as guards streamed into the cell. Her skin burned with magic; the current bubbled through her veins. Dimly, she heard an uproar. One of the guards shoved her against the wall. His sword was a bright blur of motion; its point stopped inches from her throat and poised to strike.
“Stop! Do not kill her!”
Joannis’s voice broke through the din.
“Get back. Everyone. You, hold the prisoner. Nothing more.”
“But my lord—”
“I said, Nothing more.”
Joannis’s mouth was drawn tight. He looked angry, appalled. With obvious reluctance, the guards retreated from the cell, except for the one who held Valara. He did not loosen his grip, nor did his sword waver.
Joannis knelt by a motionless Khandarr. He touched the man’s throat, ran his fingers over the man’s body, murmuring in Erythandran. A sheen of sweat covered Khandarr’s face, and his skin had turned gray. Valara watched with sick dread. She had tried to stop Khandarr’s magic with her own—that much she remembered—but then her recollection failed. There had been another voice, like an enormous bell, inside her skull. Was it her imagination? Khandarr’s magic?
“Send for the chief surgeon,” Joannis said to the guard captain. “Fetch a litter and carry Lord Khandarr to my quarters. Clear the streets first. But do nothing to this woman. We need her alive. Lord Khandarr’s orders.”
Guards appeared with a litter. Nicol Joannis motioned them forward. As they carefully shifted Khandarr onto the litter, his throat gave a convulsive twitch. He turned his head toward Valara and met her gaze—one penetrating look—before Joannis signaled the guards to take him away.