chapter TWENTY
THROUGHOUT THE NEXT ten days, Ilse and Raul and their companions traveled as a military company. It was an aspect of Raul that Ilse had never suspected before. She had known him as a sophisticated nobleman, trained in matters of state, someone gifted in both conversation and weaponry. She had not considered he knew anything about wilderness travel and commanding soldiers.
“I learned from my father,” Raul said, when she asked. “He had served as a garrison commander in his younger days. Later, he found it useful to maintain a private company. They patrol the more remote regions of Valentain, and deal with smugglers along the coast. I served under our senior officers for a while, then led my own squad the year before I left for Duenne.”
“I never guessed,” Ilse murmured. “Though I should have.”
Raul’s mouth tilted into a smile. “It would be terrible, if you had guessed everything about me within a few months. It leaves us nothing for the future.”
The future. Which would be delayed for three years.
Her eyes stung with tears. She had not allowed herself to weep these past two weeks. She wanted to remember this interval with joy, a secret treasure to hold tight throughout her exile. Raul guessed her mood, but in silent agreement, he, too, never spoke of their coming separation. For the most part, they kept their conversation on the present—the hills turning green and golden with the advancing season, the logistics for setting up camp. Even that mention of his childhood was brief.
It was too much like their last hours in Tiralien, she thought.
“Until forever,” Raul murmured.
She glanced toward him sharply. He did not meet her gaze, but she could tell that his thoughts echoed hers.
Until forever, yes. He had promised that once. He was a man who kept his promises.
They had eight more days together, she told herself. Then a temporary exile. At least its ending lay within her control. She had but to find the third jewel and she could return. Their plans did not end there, of course. Until the exile began, however, she would not dwell upon further obstacles.
* * *
FIVE DAYS INTO their journey to the coast, the guard named Katje returned with a letter from Raul’s secretary in Tiralien. Valara observed the woman’s return from the edge of camp. Two guards sent, only one came back. Interesting. She noted how Kosenmark and Ilse Zhalina vanished for a private conference, well away from the campsite. She also noted how the other guards did not ask about their missing companion. More of Lord Kosenmark’s mysterious plans, which he had not bothered to share with her.
The private conference lasted nearly an hour. Valara mistrusted this delay, mistrusted this obvious exclusion. But when Kosenmark at last summoned her to join them, she hid her irritation. He was a king, whether or not he admitted it, and he behaved like one. She could picture her grandfather or father acting just the same. Or herself, once her council installed her on Morennioù’s throne.
The letter itself was short. Kosenmark’s secretary reported the ship acquired. Outfitting and repairs were nearly complete, and the captain predicted their ship would sail within the next week. The secretary also reported that the watch on the ports continued, with reinforcements brought in from neighboring garrisons. The royal fleet had doubled its patrols along the coast, by direct order of the king.
Which means by order of Markus Khandarr.
“What if your people arrive early?” she asked. “Or late?”
“The captain has his orders to send a boat to the island. The ship itself stands off the coast. If necessary, it sails away to avoid any encounter with the royal fleet. I have given my people a list of alternate plans to meet in case our first attempt fails. Once we come to the last of these, however, the world will rightfully judge us dead.”
Valara digested this information. It was more detail than she had requested. He had done her the honor of speaking candidly, at least about this subject. “And if we arrive early?” she asked.
“We wait our own ten days. If the ship does not appear, we must assume they have encountered difficulties.”
Difficulties, another word for secrets betrayed and plans come to grief.
“In that case,” Kosenmark added, “we must withdraw and devise a new strategy.”
She found herself smiling at the phrase, caught him smiling in return. Ah, he is a dangerous man. Too charming and clever. She would have to guard against that.
The following morning, they set off at a much faster pace. Kosenmark had rejected Valara’s suggestion of horses. They could move more easily, more unobtrusively, without them. So they marched at a punishing pace through the hills above the Gallenz River, angling north and east toward the coast, until they came to a small fishing village named Isersee.
There, Detlef bargained with the local fishermen for a boat and a pilot. The terms were high. The men obviously suspected these tough-faced warriors to be smugglers or brigands. In the end, however, they provided their largest boat, a single-masted cutter, which the village used to fish the outer reaches of the bay.
“What if they betray us?” Valara murmured to Kosenmark, after he finished speaking with Detlef.
“That is my concern,” he said. “You will have sailed far beyond pursuit before they can.”
An unsatisfactory answer. She would not be beyond Armand of Angersee’s grasp until she landed on Enzeloc Island, if then. Luxa’s Hand had already proved insufficient to the right spells. She rubbed her throat, remembering how her tongue had become like a separate creature under Khandarr’s magic. Markus Khandarr might not be Leos Dzavek’s equal, but he had more than enough skill to make him a dangerous enemy.
They sailed at dawn with the turning of the tide. Heavy blue clouds obscured the sky. The clouds thinned toward the horizon, and pale sunlight glanced over the rolling swells. Three fishermen had offered their services to Detlef, and together with Kosenmark’s versatile guards, they set the single sail and laid in a course for the southeast.
Rain spattered them throughout the morning, and as the swells increased, the seas broke over the boat’s bow. Valara spent the ten hours tucked in the small cabin. Ilse stayed with her, but the woman remained silent, her gaze turned toward the shuttered hatch. She has ransomed herself for her kingdom, Valara thought. A bout of sympathy overtook her, unlike any she’d experienced since she was a small child.
More rain. A muttering of thunder in the distance. The sun breaking through at last. The ship rode more smoothly over the swells. Eventually, Ilse went above. Valara remained by herself in the cabin, counting the miles by the song from the ship’s ropes. After a time, she slept.
She woke at the pilot’s shout, and the thunder of footsteps overhead. Valara climbed the ladder to the deck. Straight ahead, a great dark shape loomed. The ruddy light of sunset outlined a series of high cliffs. Waves crashed into the rocks below. As she watched, a flock of terns wheeled away, small black dots against the darkening sky.
“Hallau Island,” Kosenmark said, as he and Ilse Zhalina came to her side.
“Where is my ship?” she said.
He glanced at her with an unreadable expression. “The ship is not here yet. We land and wait.”
The pilot brought them around the northern point of the island, where the cliffs fell away to a narrow rock-strewn strip of land. Around on the seaward side, the shore opened into a broad level expanse. Valara hissed at the sight of an enormous city. She rounded on Kosenmark and Zhalina. “You—”
“We’ve not betrayed you,” Kosenmark said. “Look again.”
She gripped the railing and leaned forward, staring, calculating what action she could take if Kosenmark had decided to hand her over to his king. The pilot was steering toward a great stone wharf. As the boat drew closer, Valara could see that the wharf was deserted. There were no other boats in sight. No crews or dockworkers. The city beyond stood silent and empty. Even from this distance, she detected currents of old magic.
“What is this place?” she demanded.
“A trading port,” Ilse said. “It fell during the war between Veraene and Károví. The second one,” she added.
“I know the story,” Valara murmured.
Imre Benacka had hidden the jewels in Autrevelye, or so the legends went. Dzavek had recaptured the man but not the jewels.
Images flickered through her mind. Of a chase through Autrevelye, Anderswar, Vnejšek. She knew the magical plane by all three names. Her brother’s scent and signature close behind her. She had tried to lose him by a leap to Morennioù, to that other land on the far side of the world, but he found her, him, each time. It was only by the chance of a few moments she was able to hide the jewels. And then he had captured her. Captured him.
A shout from one of the sailors recalled her to the present. Valara blinked, drew a long breath, and pretended a great curiosity for the shore while she recovered herself. Ilse was studying her with narrowed eyes. Luckily, the boat came to the docks, and everyone burst into new activity to make it fast and transport their gear to shore. Valara accepted a pack from one of the guards, the woman named Katje, then followed her onto land.
At Kosenmark’s orders, the sailors hauled the boat into a slip behind a great block of stone. It wasn’t hidden, but a ship passing by the shore would miss its presence here at this empty dock. The pilot offered to remain behind to guard the boat but Kosenmark shook his head. They would stay together, he said. His people would know to search inland for them. Meanwhile, he wanted to find water and a less visible place to camp.
They set off in military order, even Valara and the fishermen. The closer they got to the city, the clearer the signs of destruction. What troubled Valara more was the absence of green growing things. The ruins remained bare of moss and vines, no weeds grew between the fallen stones.
My brother was a thorough man.
They picked their way through the debris and across tipped and shattered paving. Eventually, the avenue they followed fed into an open plaza, where Kosenmark’s hired pilot claimed they would find a well with sweet water.
Kosenmark gave orders to find the well and set up camp. They would spend the night here, then reconnoiter for a better site the next day. He and Ilse vanished for another conference. Or lovemaking. They were insatiable, Valara thought.
Detlef set a watch and gave orders for preparing dinner. Freed from their attention, Valara made a circuit around the plaza. Most of the paving stones were broken into dust. The ground beneath was bare and hard, in spite of the rains. Here and there, a few walls remained intact. That one might have been a prince’s palace. That other, a temple to the gods. Valara could not tell. Dust and wind had completed the war’s devastation, and time had reclaimed its own.
She made her way to a series of broken columns, which marked the entrance to another avenue, and detected a stronger rill of magic. At a distance, the signatures had merged together, indistinguishable from each other, but this one she knew as well as her own. Dzavek had come here.
Valara bent down and picked up a fragment of stone from the street. The stone was gray with dark blue motes, its once regular shape cracked and broken. Across the once smooth surface, she noted a rusted stain. When she pressed her thumb against it, a shudder penetrated her bones.
… widerkêren mir de zeît … widerkêren mir ane rivier de zoubernisse …
Though she had not summoned it, the current pressed against her skin. A shock ran from her fingers down through her body, and she felt the draw of memory from the stone.
… a mob rushed through the streets, pursued by soldiers wielding axes. One man fell. A soldier swung his weapon downward. Blood splashed over Valara, and its metallic taste filled her mouth. A heartbeat later, the vision disappeared. The city stood empty and blackened.
Not quite empty, she realized. A tall man stood by a broken statue in the now-deserted square. Valara recognized the face from prints in history books, from paintings in Rouizien’s Old Palace, and from all her life dreams.
Leos Dzavek crossed the square. His hair was as black as she remembered from their days together, and his eyes were bright and dark, though he had to be at least a century old. Only the fine lines crisscrossing his face, the slackening of flesh along his jaw and at his throat, spoke of the many years he had already lived. She watched as he stopped and touched a wall, a statue. His lips moved, silently, but she could decipher the words. Ei rûf ane gôtter. Nemen mir de tacen, widerkêren mir de zeît. Ougen mir de juweln.
He’s looking for the jewels.
Dzavek paused and turned around. By chance his gaze met hers.
Valara dropped the stone, and the vision of the past disappeared.
Dizziness swept over her. She pressed a hand over her mouth. No good. Her stomach lurched against her ribs, and she vomited onto the rubble at her feet. Footsteps sounded close by. A hand caught her shoulder before she fell.
“What happened?”
Ilse Zhalina held her steady, offered her a clean cloth, which Valara took gratefully. Her hands were shaking, her skin felt cold beneath a coating of sweat. She wondered how long Ilse had observed her. “Nothing,” she croaked. She wiped her mouth with the cloth. “Dizzy. Seasick.”
A transparent lie. To her relief, Ilse did not press for the truth. “Try some bread and watered wine. Then lie down. We’ve set up shelters from the rain.”
* * *
“YOU SAY SHE lied?”
Ilse leaned into the curve of Raul Kosenmark’s arm. They were alone in their tent, which by unspoken command was set apart from the rest of the campsite.
“I could smell the magic in the air,” she said. “And she had that look, as if she’d returned from a faraway world.”
“But she did not. Try to escape, I mean.”
No, she had not. That was what bothered Ilse the most. This woman, a powerful mage, might have dared crossing into Anderswar in the flesh, then from there into Morennioù, but since that one attempt, back in Fortezzien, she had not tried again.
Secrets and more secrets.
She left those secrets aside. One more day. Or more. They could not tell when the ship might arrive. She would have to take each moment as a gift.
* * *
AS USUAL, DETLEF handed out the watch assignments after dinner. He told Galena once, when she asked in a burst of confidence, that he preferred to give unpleasant news to his soldiers when they were warm and well-fed. If he couldn’t manage warm, he always tried to manage the well-fed part. It was a trick he’d learned from his old commander, the Duke Kosenmark, in their days on the western frontier. He launched into a story about those days—the harsh winter winds, the spring rains falling in sheets, the sand and mud. Mostly, he talked about the mud and how it covered everything and everyone, including the duke.
Galena found it hard to imagine any nobleman covered in mud. And yet this Lord Kosenmark marched alongside the others. He carried a pack, he stood watch, he even took turns digging and filling in latrines. It was his voice that constantly startled her—high and fluting, like a woman’s—no matter how many times she’d heard it before.
“Alighero.”
She yanked herself back to attention. “Sir.”
He grinned sardonically, reminding her of her old file leader, Falco. “You and I take the midnight watch. I hope you pay more attention then.”
She ducked her head, embarrassed. Gervas snorted. Katje rolled her eyes, but that was aimed more at Detlef than Galena herself. The others paid no attention. They all knew her story. Or at least she assumed they did. No one said anything about it to her, except for a few covert glances at the mark on her cheek. At the same time, no one ignored her. They treated her the same as they would treat any junior soldier.
The evening passed quickly enough with chores. Galena spent an hour checking over all their weapons, sharpening the dull blades, scouring away any rust spots. From her vantage point beside the fire, she watched the to-and-froing of the company. Ilse and her Lord Kosenmark went apart for a time. Ada and Barrent patrolled the streets bounding the plaza and returned with their report. Valara Baussay had set off on a circuit of the empty plaza. Detlef sent Gervas after her, but Ilse Zhalina had intercepted the guard and brought Valara back herself. Katje muttered something about the stink of magic, but Galena merely shrugged. The whole island stank of magic. She couldn’t tell any difference.
Once finished with chores, she slept. At midnight, Detlef woke her by that uncanny internal clock soldiers possessed. Galena buckled on her sword, slid her regulation knives into their sheaths, and set off with her companion on their rounds. They would patrol the neighborhood around the square first, he said as they picked their way through the moonlit streets. Then they would make a wider loop to include the stone wharf and its surroundings. Although Detlef said nothing, Galena had heard the rumors after Katje returned. They were waiting for a ship to take Valara Baussay home. Ilse Zhalina was to go with her.
After the ship sails, I start a new life, too.
Kosenmark had spoken to her briefly. He had promised her a letter of recommendation and directions to a northern mercenary company, along with money for the journey. Her heart leapt at the news, and she paid little attention to his lecture about assuming a new identity. Her thoughts were entirely on her brother Aris. He, too, had gone north. True, he had joined a regular garrison, but mercenaries and garrisons often fought together.
She and Detlef finished the round of the plaza and set off down the main avenue toward the wharves. All was quiet, empty. She and Detlef avoided the wide bright band of moonlight down the center of the street, keeping close to the shadows next to the walls. When they reached the next intersection, Detlef motioned to Galena to turn down a side lane. Here the shadows were thicker, and their progress slower. They both had their weapons ready, and they paused every few steps to listen and scan their surroundings. It was tedious business, but necessary.
Galena’s cheek itched. She scrubbed at it with the back of her hand, but the itching grew worse. Damned magic. If only that cursed ship would come so she might be rid of this torment.
“Eyes up,” Detlef said softly.
Galena lowered her hand at once and shifted her sword. Detlef silently pointed. Ahead lay a silver-lit square, the entrance to the main avenue. She squinted, saw nothing unusual. But when she held her breath and listened, she heard the faint tread of boots over stone. The footsteps ran swiftly, stopped, then others echoed from farther away. It was a pattern she knew well—the scouts advanced, scanned the next stretch, then motioned their companions to follow.
Detlef laid a hand on her arm and drew her close. “Those might be our friends,” he whispered into her ear. “I don’t know. But I don’t like how they travel. Too quiet. You, go back to the campsite and warn the others. I’ll make sure of these.”
Meaning, if these were enemy, he would try to hold them until she woke the others.
He’ll die, she thought. Unless our enemies sent too few. She doubted that.
“Let me stay,” she whispered back. “You go back to Lord Kosenmark. I’ll hold them.”
Even as she spoke, her skin rippled in fear. But it only made sense, she told herself. Detlef was the senior guard. Kosenmark needed him the most. Besides, with Toc’s goodwill, she could hold them long enough for reinforcements to come to her aid.
“Are you certain?” Detlef said.
“Do you think I won’t?”
He tilted his head. His face was invisible in the darkness, but he reached out and gripped her arm. “I trust you. Stand strong.”
With that, he turned back into the dark side street and set off in a silent run. Galena hefted her sword, checked her helmet, then strode toward the enemy.
* * *
ILSE WOKE TO a shout from Detlef. Instinct took over. She flung the blanket away and snatched up her sword. Raul already had his in hand. He tossed one helmet to Ilse, took another for himself. “Boots and daggers, too,” he said. With shaking hands, she buckled on her belt and stuffed her feet into her boots. She thrust daggers into both sheaths. Raul did the same. “Stay close to me,” he said. Then they were through the tent flaps.
Outside, the entire camp was awake. Detlef was bellowing, “To arms, to arms.” Ada had rousted the last of those sleeping, handing out swords and helmets, and shouting for the outer perimeter to draw back now, damn it.
Just in time. A crowd of strangers poured into the moonlit plaza, a swarm of faceless shadows. Kosenmark’s guards met them with swords and knives. The pilot and his crew had their clubs. One man caught up a burning brand from the fire. He hurled that in the face of the nearest enemy and struck with his dagger. The next moment, the air went taut with magic, and he went down into a pool of blood.
Ilse had no time to notice more. One of the strangers shouted an order. Immediately the others spread out. Three of them ran toward her and Raul. Ilse swept up her sword to block the first blow. She blocked again and felt the shock of her opponent’s blow through her body. He was a tall man. He had a longer reach. She did not dare to press him too closely or he would use his height and strength to overpower her. The years of drill served well enough to keep the man from breaking through her defenses, but he would, soon enough.
Raul charged the man, who turned to meet him. Sword struck sword. Raul pressed the man’s sword back to his throat and drove his dagger into the man’s belly. One garbled curse, a wet and choking noise, and the man collapsed.
Károvín, Ilse thought. He spoke Károvín.
The other clues clicked into place. These were soldiers—Dzavek’s men—come for Valara Baussay. She had no more time for thought. Raul plunged into the fight. Ilse followed. Together they fought their way toward the rest of their company. Their only chance was to make a square and work their way to the nearest wall.
It wouldn’t be enough. They were only twelve. Their attackers almost twice as many.
Katje went down, run through by a sword. Ada leapt over her body to fill the gap. Ilse sensed Valara’s signature, but she could not see where the woman had gone.
Then she spotted her.
Valara had a knife in her hand. She was swiping at those trying to capture her, and shouting in Erythandran. A bright fire hung in the air around her. One of the Károvín soldiers shouted an answering spell. The fire wavered. He plunged through and wrapped an arm around her throat. Valara twisted away from his hold. Before he could recapture her, she cried out in Erythandran.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Anderswar.”
Magic exploded in the air. There was a blinding bright spot in the middle, which changed in an instant to the dark outline of a woman’s form. Valara. Gone. Ilse didn’t wait to think what to do.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she cried. “Komen mir de Anderswar. Komen uns de vleisch unde sêle.”
The world split open in a dazzling cloud of magic.
* * *
MIRO LUNGED TOWARD Valara Baussay. Moments before his hand closed over her arm, a blinding explosion of magic swept over him. He stumbled, caught himself, and rubbed his gloved hand over his eyes. He could see little more than a smudge of light and shadow. But then the shadow blinked out of sight.
His pulse tripped and raced forward. She escaped.
He knew it. Caught the scent of Vnejšek, of smoke and burning incense, as though a wisp of its essence had leaked through the infinitesimal gap required for her flight from one plane to another. He hesitated a moment—he had made this leap only a few times before—then he was speaking the words to follow.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm. Komen mir de vleisch unde sêle ane Anderswar.”
Hallau Island vanished. But the stink of blood and fire, the smell of panic—all the scents of battle—filled his nose. He felt everything ten times over, from the cold air in his lungs to his blood rippling beneath his skin. Vnejšek in the flesh.
He spun around, searching for Valara Baussay. White vapor extended in all directions, shaped in pillars and canyons and shadowy halls of a gossamer substance. The air smelled of hot tallow and ashes and a scent he recognized as Leos Dzavek’s. Vnejšek was reading details from his secret thoughts and half-remembered dreams.
A wall of blue fire illuminated the horizon. Two shadows stood before it, tiny dark dots before that glaring light. One shadow turned. He recognized Valara Baussay’s profile and the way she lifted her chin.
Her gaze met his. Miro sheathed his sword and lifted one hand. Hers lifted halfway. She stopped herself, leaned close to her companion. There was a blur of motion which he could not follow. The next instant, both vanished into the fire.
Miro ran forward along the edge between worlds. Stopped himself. The queen might flee through a hundred different paths, he told himself. In the end, however, she would return to her home. If he pursued her, he might—would—lose a month or longer to magic and its realms.
That decided him. He spun away from the void and into the maelstrom below. Károví, Károví, Károví, he chanted.
A muffled chorus of wails and gibbers rose up from the depths. Darkness pressed against him. His flesh turned heavy, heavy, heavier, until he lost his balance and plunged an immeasurable depth, to land on his hands and knees. His stomach lurched against his chest. He swallowed. Gradually took in a few more details. Wet. Mud. (Mud? Such an ordinary thing.) An ache shot up his arms, as though he had fallen a much greater distance than he had first estimated.
It took him even longer to recover his bearings, to focus his eyes. Which world had he landed upon? He might have misjudged, might have plunged into another time or another place far removed from the one he knew.
He drew a deep breath. His sense of smell told him the truth. The fragrance of clover struck him first, of spring mixed with snow, and far away, the newly flowered památka. These and all the other scents he knew from Károví’s northern plains. He rubbed a hand over his eyes to clear them. A muddy plain stretched out before him. Above arced the pale blue sky of his homeland. Károví, yes. He almost laughed with delight and relief. And there, not a mile away, the walls of a garrison.
* * *
RAUL SWUNG HIS sword up to meet the next blow. A burst of magic illuminated the plaza. His vision blurred. He saw a mass of shadows against the brilliance. The shadows wavered, separated into three. Two vanished. A moment later, the third and last followed.
Then a bright shape arced upward. He met the blade with his own. For a long moment, he strained to hold his sword against the enemy, while all around, the magic current sparked and buzzed. When his vision cleared, he saw he faced a tall Károvín, a man nearly as tall as he was, but of a wiry build, obvious in spite of the layers of leather armor. The man’s dark face gleamed with sweat; gray stubble along his jaw gleamed in the moonlight.
Everyone—Veraenen and Károvín alike—had frozen in momentary confusion. Kosenmark swiftly scanned the immediate area. There were several down, including Detlef. He could not tell if Ilse were among the dead and wounded. An inner voice whispered she had escaped, chasing after Valara Baussay. He almost laughed, until he remembered the third shadow. A Károvín must have dared the leap to follow them.
If he had possessed the skill, he would have done the same that instant. No. He would not. He could not desert his soldiers on this desolate island.
“Are you stuffed full of battle yet?” he said in Károvín to his opponent. “Or do you want to fight on?”
He caught a passing expression of surprise on the man’s face, followed by a studied blankness. “Not part of my orders,” the other replied.
It was his voice.
I should be used to it by now, Raul thought. And yet I am not.
“So,” he replied gruffly. “What were your orders? To start a war with Veraene?”
That provoked a harsh laugh, broken off. “Oh no.”
Raul took in the man’s military bearing, his reticence, and came to his own conclusions. “You are the king’s soldiers. You came here for a purpose, and she is no longer here. Never mind whether I am right or not. Tell me— No, do not tell me anything except this—did your commander give you further orders?”
The other man hesitated, then said, “No.”
Kosenmark released a breath—the moment of trust had come—and slowly lowered his sword. “A truce then. Agreed?”
The Károvín nodded. “Agreed.”
There was the usual grumbling but soon enough, both sides withdrew, Károvín on one side of the square, Veraenen on the other, the dead and wounded scattered in between. The Károvín leader made a quick inspection of his people, then returned. “My name is Grisha Donlov,” he said. “Captain Donlov. Do you need a mage-healer?”
“Mine is Raul Kosenmark. Yes, we do.”
The aftermath took much longer than the battle itself. The Károvín and Veraenen worked together to sort out the dead and wounded. Katje had died in the first onslaught, as had Johannes and two of the fishermen. Detlef had taken a sword thrust to his belly. He would not survive the night, the Károvín healer told Raul. She was more a soldier than a healer, older than Raul, but only by a few years. For the dead, she called down the magic current to turn each body into ashes. For those who lived and suffered, she stayed by their sides to give such comfort as she could.
Raul visited each of his own wounded. The tally was less than he had feared. Gervas had taken a blow to the head, but other than a temporary deafness, he would be fit for duty the next morning. Others had bruises or cuts, which he or the Károvín healer dealt with. He checked over the dead twice. There was no sign of Ilse Zhalina or Valara Baussay.
Near the end, he came to the body of a young woman, dressed in secondhand clothes from his own stores, with a helmet set askew. The Károvín had carried her into the plaza from down the avenue.
Galena Alighero.
Her face was slick with blood. More blood soaked her clothes. Raul counted a dozen wounds on her body. She had fought on despite them. It was the deep gash across her throat that had bled her dry.
Raul touched the cold cheek. It was bare of any mark. Even as he took his fingers away, he felt the fading signature of Nicol Joannis of Fortezzien.
Death wipes all dishonor, Raul thought. Even yours, Nicol.
“She fought against all of us together,” the Károvín healer said. “Back there. We might have taken you if she had not held us back.” In a softer voice, she added, “She died bravely.”
* * *
THE SHIP WITH Gerek Hessler and Alesso Valturri arrived off the coast, five days past the appointed time. They had spent three days, at least, skirting around the royal fleet, another day evading a mysterious single ship, sighted on the horizon. Only after they spent an entire day without further sightings did the captain and Gerek consent to head toward Hallau’s shore.
Alesso had borrowed a glass from the captain, and he swept the coast for several long moments before he spoke. “Empty.”
His tone was impossible to read. “What do you mean, empty?” Gerek demanded.
“Just that. Nothing and no one on shore.”
Gerek snatched the glass and made his own examination. Though the captain warned them what to expect, the sight unnerved him. The city blackened and ruined. Empty. The wharves a desolate expanse of broken stone. As the ship slanted toward the coast, he glimpsed a small, one-masted boat tucked into a hiding spot, but no sign of the promised signals.
“What next?” Alesso said.
Over the past ten days, Alesso and the captain both had showed more respect than Gerek felt he deserved. And yet someone had to make decisions. “We send a launch to shore with six men,” he said. “You choose your followers. Make sure they are well-armed.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I-I should go, too.”
It was a strange and silent journey to the wharf. The crew landed them neatly beside the other boat, which rocked in the waves, its single sail fluttering in the breeze. No one was on deck. As a precaution, Gerek sent Alesso over to search the small cabin.
“No one on board,” Alesso reported. “But no sign of any fight.”
Then one of the crew sniffed the air. “I smell wood smoke.”
There were fresh tracks in the dust, too, which another man discovered. Farther on, signs of a scuffle and dark stains in the dirt. Gerek sent the two men ahead to follow the scent and the tracks, while he followed behind with Alesso. “It could be a trap,” Alesso observed.
“It could,” Gerek replied, nettled. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
Alesso shrugged. “No. Only that we don’t go rushing forward with joy at finding your beloved master. After all, that boat might belong to a crew of testy smugglers.”
“Then we take precautions.”
Precautions meant they kept well behind their advance scouts, gliding through the unnaturally silent ruins. There were no birds here, Gerek noticed. No mice or crickets or toads creaking in the twilight. He almost remanded his order, thinking they should retreat to the ship for a conference, when footsteps ahead brought them all to attention.
One woman, two men rounded the corner from an alleyway. They stopped at the sight of Gerek and his guards.
There was a snick of tension. Both parties shifted into battle stance with weapons drawn.
Gerek tried to speak, but his tongue stuck on the first syllable. Then he recognized Kosenmark’s guards—Ada Geiss, Barrent, and Gervas. In the same moment, Ada spotted Gerek. She gave a signal. Her guards dropped back a few steps. A breath later, so did Alesso and the others.
Ada lowered her sword. “Maester Hessler,” she called out. “A good thing you came along.”
He nodded, not quite able to master his speech. She seemed to understand because she drew him off to one side. “I am glad you came, and not just because we knew you. We’ve had trouble. I can’t say more here, but take care when you speak with him.”
He found his voice at last. “What happened?”
“Károvín soldiers,” she said. “They came for that woman. The stranger.”
“Any dead?”
She shook her head, but Gerek understood her meaning. It was a thing she could not discuss yet, not here in the open. He motioned for the rest to stay behind with Ada and her crew, then hurried forward alone through the avenue, until he came to a wide plaza. More ruins met his gaze, more dust and emptiness. On the farther side of the plaza stood the campsite—several canvas shelters stretched between enormous fallen blocks. One man bent over a makeshift fire pit, stirring a pot filled with bubbling stew. Others were at work with different tasks.
One of the men recognized him. “Ah, Maester Hessler. You want Lord Kosenmark, don’t you?”
He pointed out Kosenmark’s tent, larger then the rest, which was situated at the edge of their camp. Gerek jogged toward it, taking in the sight of the wounded, the great charred square off to one side, and a lingering burnt stench that hung over everything. By the time he reached Kosenmark’s tent, his steps had slowed. He stopped a few feet away. “My lord,” he said, tentatively.
There was a pause. Then, that high familiar voice said, “Come in.”
Kosenmark’s appearance shocked Gerek. The man’s face was bruised. His eyes were sunken, as if he’d not slept in days, and the once-faint lines beside them were etched deeper and stronger. It was then that Gerek realized he had seen no sign of Ilse Zhalina or anyone else except the guards from Kosenmark’s own household.
Take care when you speak with him, Ada had said.
Gerek bowed. “My lord.”
Kosenmark studied him with those great golden eyes. “I did not expect you.”
“There were … difficulties, my lord.”
“Ah.” A tiny smile lightened Kosenmark’s expression. It vanished quickly. “Just as well. As you perceive, our agenda has changed somewhat.”
He pointed to a wooden box with symbols burned onto the lid. The box was clearly a makeshift creation, unpolished and rough, but Gerek recognized the signs for a box of the dead. His breath came short. Ilse Zhalina’s?
Kosenmark must have interpreted his thoughts, because his mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “She is not dead. At least, she did not die in battle. No, this was a soldier of the kingdom, who gave her life defending me. I would bring her ashes to her family, except that her family already believes her dead. I shall have to think over what to do.”
His voice died away and his gaze went diffuse. He appeared oblivious—or indifferent—to Gerek’s presence, and it took Gerek several moments before he could bring himself to speak and break that reverie. “What comes next, my lord?”
That distant gaze went blank a moment and then returned to the present. Kosenmark smiled, almost naturally. “We go home. I have a few promises to keep. And we prepare for the future, whatever it holds.”