chapter THREE
ILSE ZHALINA STOOD by the window of her study in Osterling Keep. Outside, drifting clouds obscured the stars and darkness lay thick upon the city. Between the inn and bell tower opposite, she could see the lower rim of the crescent moon, dipping toward the watery horizon.
Early spring, almost winter still, and yet the season had turned astonishingly warm. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back in Melnek, on a mid-summer’s night in the northeast province of Morauvín. There was the same salt tang, the same thread of pine when the breezes curled around from the north.
No. Not Melnek. Not my father’s house. It’s not the same at all.
She blew out a long breath, wishing she could expel memories as easily as she could the air from her lungs. Any recollection of Melnek always called up more bitter memories—why she had run away from her father’s house, how she had sold her body to every man in the caravan rather than return, and how that terrible journey had led her to Lord Raul Kosenmark’s household, in Tiralien.
Five months since I left my love. I miss him.
An understatement. She missed Raul Kosenmark as she would miss air to breathe, or salt for meat. As the goddess Lir missed her brother Toc when he died, even knowing he would live once more come spring.
Her heart contracted into a painful knot. Ilse cursed silently as she swiped useless tears from her eyes. She hated herself for being so weak. A strong woman would soldier onward, through loneliness and terror and the ache of separation, to that shining selfless goal of peace between all the kingdoms. She would not mind a part of her self ripped away. Lir had survived until spring, waiting for Toc and their reunion.
Except, except …
Except that Ilse knew she was no goddess, just an ordinary woman, and spring would come without any end to her separation from Raul Kosenmark.
It never will, unless we each do our part.
She drew a long breath and willed herself to calm. Stubbornness. That was the key. Raul often told her she was unnaturally stubborn. She could never tell if he meant it as compliment or complaint. No matter. It was a trait inherited from her father, and though she hated any reminder of that man, hated any thought of Melnek and the life that came before, she knew she must use stubbornness to her own advantage.
Because we are bound by blood and flesh, by past lives and memories. Tanja Duhr knew us all, she thought, when she wrote those words.
Ilse heard a soft creaking noise—of ropes drawn tight—the sound magnified by night. A moment’s anticipation followed, like the infinitesimal pause between a breath drawn and its exhalation, then a muted peal rang out. One, two, three chimes whispered along the breeze, like a song recalling older days and half-forgotten lives.
Another bell tower took up the count, then another, farther away. Ilse listened until the last bellsong faded, and silence washed over the city once more. In Osterling’s fort and along the perimeter walls, soldiers kept watch, but here in Mistress Andeliess’s pleasure house, these were the quiet hours. The courtyard below was empty of any passersby. The courtesans and their clients slept, and the servants had not yet begun their day.
It was the hour for magic.
Ilse closed the shutters and set the bar. She locked her outer door and bolted it with sturdy iron. That, however, was not enough. She laid her fingers over the lock’s metal plate and murmured an invocation to the magic current.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm …
The language was old Erythandran, the language of magic. The words she had learned in Raul Kosenmark’s household, a place where magical guards were ordinary things. This one augmented the lock itself, so that no one could tweak the pins and levers within. An experienced mage could break these protections, but then, what she did here was simply the first line of her defense.
Once she locked the door and windows, she retreated into her bedchamber. Two lamps burned in their brackets, their scented oil giving off the aroma of lemons and oranges. The walls here were the same pale peach as her study, but with a darker border around the ceiling. Ilse locked and bolted the second door. She paused at the window for one last breath of the warm ocean breeze, then pulled the two shutter panels shut and barred them. The scent of her sweat and the sweeter scent of the lamp oil intensified. Just nerves, she told herself. Nothing more.
She extinguished the lamps and sat cross-legged on her bed, her back against the wall. She breathed in, felt the air catch in her throat, then slowly released it.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.
With every exhalation, her thoughts spiraled down to that moment between breaths, to the point where the magic current welled up, like water from a crack in stone.
En nam Lir unde Toc, versigelen mir. Niht ougen. Niht hœren. Versigeln älliu inre.
A heavy silence enveloped her, as though someone had dropped a curtain between her and the physical world. Her rooms were still visible, but the objects outside her immediate circle appeared blurred. That was deliberate. No one must know what she did here.
Now for the next step.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc. Komen mir de strôm.
Blood pulsed in her ears. She could sense every minute ripple in the magical current against her skin, within her body. Another moment, and her soul would relinquish its purchase on her body, shrug away her flesh, and soar into the magical void between worlds. For over three months, she had practiced just that until the act came easily to her. But not today. Today would be different.
Komen mir de strôm. Komen mir de vleisch unde sêle. Komen mir de Anderswar.
The world tilted away, and she fell into darkness, into emptiness. A feathered hand brushed against her cheek. A harsh familiar voice whispered her name over and over, just like the first time she had crossed the void. She heard the thunder of waves, the gulls from Osterling’s shore screaming, Lost, lost, lost.
And then, silence.
Eyes still closed, Ilse drew a deep breath and felt an unnatural weight against her chest. Her face and neck felt slick with sweat, and the soft linen of her gown chafed against her skin. She caught the stink of ashes and burning tallow, overlaid by magic’s richer smell. Every sensation was stronger, sharper, than before. Her heart beat faster in anticipation. She opened her eyes.
Osterling Keep and her bedroom had vanished, replaced by a thick fog. Odd sparks and embers floated past her face, and shadows appeared in the milky depths below—darting, hovering, sinking away. Her stomach swooped.
Anderswar. The point where all worlds met. Where lives intersected with lives, and memories with time.
Deep inside, she felt a strong tug from the ordinary world, as though someone had fastened a chain under her ribs. Flesh or spirit did not matter. She was poised on the sharp point of an abyss. One step and she might plunge back into her rooms in Osterling Keep. One minute tilt in any direction, and she’d fall into another world.
Or back to Tiralien and Raul Kosenmark.
Her breath caught at the thought of Raul. To see him once, just for a moment. To hear his voice and feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. His house would be quiet at this hour. Only a few servants were about, in case a customer wished for refreshment. She could steal through the empty corridors to the stairway leading up to Raul’s private quarters. No one would ever know.
With an effort, she checked those lovely thoughts. She must not go back, not until she found the jewels. The risk was too great. She could not even allow herself the luxury of these fantasies, not in Osterling and certainly not here in Anderswar, whose denizens could read her thoughts and desires.
She blew out a breath and felt an ache spread throughout her chest. Onward.
Onward meant a different thing in the physical world, the ordinary world. There, it meant a difference of distance or time. Here … Here it meant a difference of will. She willed herself to creep forward in halting inch-wise steps along the thin edge between worlds and the magical void. Her stomach heaved against her ribs as the sight of lands and spheres flickered into and out of view. There, a city with bloodred towers. Over there, a horizon of stark, straight lines, such as she had never seen before.
With her next step, the fog vanished. Overhead a band of stars streamed past—souls in flight to their next lives. Another step and the streaming stars vanished. A gout of fire burst from the mists at her feet. She leapt back …
… and stood alone in a brightly lit cave, the walls of which were covered with primitive figures. Lir and Toc. An ancient crone. A maiden and a mother. Others she could not identify. From other worlds or other times? The absence of lamps or candles she did not question, nor that the cave had no exit. This place was not like any other she had encountered. But then she knew from her previous visits that Anderswar delighted in trapping and tricking the unwary visitor with the unexpected.
She made a circuit of the room. The walls felt slick and damp. Smooth, except for patches where it looked as though the stone had melted into rivulets, only to freeze again. The air tasted sour with smoke and magic. Now what?
The light inside the cave flickered. A ghostly warmth brushed against her arm. Feathers. Stiff and likewise soft. Ilse flinched, smelled a rank animal odor, as the invisible presence circled her. Once. Twice. Nails clicked over the stone floor. Then she glimpsed a shadow against the far wall. The shadow darkened into a great hunched beast, with beak and wings and four thick legs ending in claws. A huge ruff of fur grew from its neck. The rest of its body was covered in a mad patchwork of feathers and more fur. As it stumped around to face her, she saw the creature’s sex, which hung stiffly between its hind legs. The sheath angled toward her like another threat.
You came back, it said.
Ilse drew a shaky breath. She had encountered this creature before, on her journeys in the spirit. Philosophers claimed Anderswar guarded its entrances with monsters and tricksters. Others argued the guardians were fabricated from the traveler’s own dreams and expectations.
The monster laughed, a rough, grating noise from deep within its throat. You remember me. Are you still afraid?
She recovered her voice. I’m always afraid of you.
Good. Then you aren’t as stupid as you look. It leaned toward her, its eyes glittering silver in the unnatural illumination. You want to find the jewels.
Of course it knew. There were no secrets in Anderswar.
Can you take me to them? she asked. Lir’s jewels, I mean. I know they are somewhere in Anderswar.
I can. For a price.
It spoke the truth—she sensed it. A giddy exhilaration filled her. This monster could lead her to Lir’s jewels, to wherever Leos Dzavek’s brother had concealed them centuries ago. Once she had them, she and Raul could end the threat of war between Veraene and Károví. They could end this miserable separation.
Show me, she said, and I will pay that price.
It regarded her for a long moment. There was no depth to those opaque eyes, which reminded her of a pair of old silver denier, the edges and impressions dulled by centuries.
Take hold of me, it said.
Ilse reached out and gripped the ruff at the creature’s neck. She stilled a shudder when it rose onto its haunches and wrapped its legs around her. Its strong scent made her gag, its sex prodded her belly. She shivered and felt the creature’s body shake with laughter. Oh, it knew all her terrors and nightmares. She had only a moment to wonder what other torments lay in wait for her when it sprang forward.
… and they were hurtling backward through a pitch-dark tunnel, so fast that Ilse could not catch her breath to scream. Starbursts blinded her. All around, voices rose into keening howls, broke off, burst out once more in a staccato chorus.
Where are we going? she gasped.
To find the jewels.
You know where they are?
I know where all Lir’s creatures are.
Without warning, it bit deep into her shoulder with needle-sharp teeth, then spat out a mouthful of blood. Ilse felt the creature’s grip loosen. She scrabbled to hold on, digging her fingers into its fur and feathers. It gave a rasping laugh and thrust her away.
You promised, Ilse cried out.
From afar, she heard the slow heavy beat of its wings.
And I have kept that promise.
Its voice faded as she plummeted through the void. Light changed to darkness; dimensions vanished. She was falling through a dark tunnel, silent except for the shrill whine of her descent, which echoed from the walls-not-walls, through the air-not-air that shrieked in her ears. Ilse cried out to the gods, to the magic current. Komen mir de zoubernisse. Komen mir de wërlt …
Her vision went dark.
* * *
SENSATION CAME BACK in bits and fragments. A yellowish light. Blurred. Something hard and warm against her cheek. Her fingers curled, felt the same smooth surface. Lying flat. Sunlight on wood. Skin, burning. Her heart beat slowly, erratically, as if unaccustomed to its purpose.
She drew a painful breath, tasted a ripe green aroma at the back of her throat. Just as quickly, the scent and flavor of the magic faded, to be replaced by the staler aroma of orange oils and smoke. Of paper and ink, and the memory of salt tang and pine. Melnek?
Her throat squeezed shut at the thought of her father. No, no, no. She’d abandoned him years ago, never to return. Never. No one could force her to. Not her father or Alarik Brandt or Theodr Galt. Then more memory returned. Her father dead. Alarik Brandt, the caravan master, too, executed by Raul Kosenmark. She was safe from them. At the thought of Theodr Galt, her certainty faltered. Galt was a man who never forgave any slight or insult. She had run away rather than marry him.
Galt could not find her, she told herself firmly. He did not know her new name or identity.
She levered herself up to a sitting position and assessed her condition. It was enough to send shudders through her body. Dark bruises covered her forearms. Her throat felt tender to her touch, and her body ached throughout, but especially her shoulder. Remembering how the creature had bitten her, she unbuttoned her gown.
Four crimson spots, surrounded by darker bruises, marked where its teeth had punctured her skin. Ilse flexed her shoulder and hissed. These were no pretend bites. She would have to find a healer.
Even as the thought occurred to her, the wounds closed, the bruises faded. She caught a whiff of magic in the air. It had an unfamiliar signature, not like any human one she had encountered. Anderswar and its magic. It wounded and healed without reason. Or rather, for reasons of its own.
A rap at the door startled her.
“Ilse?” called out a voice.
Alesso. One of the kitchen servants. He had come with Ilse’s customary morning tray. It was far later than she had guessed.
Ilse lurched to her feet in spite of her aching shoulder. Just in time, she recalled the magical guards. “A moment, please,” she croaked.
Her skin felt sticky with sweat, and she still wore the same gown from the day before. She dashed water over her face, and fumbled a robe from her clothespress to cover her gown. A few words dissipated the magical guards, a few more erased all traces of her magic. She hurried, unsteadily, to the outer door of her rooms. More locks, magical and otherwise.
She called up the semblance of a smile as she opened the door. “Alesso. Good morning. Please come inside.”
Alesso glanced at Ilse briefly as he passed into the room. He was a young man, slim and dark. She had noticed him the first day, thinking he could be a warrior or a dancer, and wondering why he had chosen to work in the kitchens of a pleasure house. Mistress Andeliess had told Ilse his history. Mother a soldier. Father a cook in the local taverns. Six years ago, the mother had taken a new posting in the next province. The father had followed, leaving the child Alesso behind with his aunts and uncles. Not long afterward, Alesso Valturri had applied to Mistress Andeliess and had worked for her ever since.
Ilse leaned against the wall, watching him as he laid out the dishes for her breakfast and poured a cup of tea. Her shoulder was still sore, and she felt as though something had scooped the strength from her body. She yawned, then realized Alesso had finished his work and was studying her with bright black eyes.
“You look terrible,” he said. “What happened?”
Ilse stifled a second yawn and shrugged. “I didn’t sleep well.”
His eyes narrowed. He was smiling, but there was an unusual alertness to his gaze. “Did you sleep at all?” he said. “You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday underneath that robe, and you can barely stand up—”
“I’m fine,” Ilse snapped. Cursing silently, she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Exhaustion had led to her outburst. Perhaps she could use it to undo the mistake. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I stayed up far too late, reading, and fell asleep in my clothes.”
Alesso appeared unconvinced. However he said nothing more, and when she mentioned the hour, he smiled politely and withdrew. Ilse pressed her ear against the closed door and listened. Alesso did not linger. Still, she waited until his footsteps retreated toward the stairs, then sank onto the nearest stool. Too close. And far too suspicious. What if he knew about magic?
Stop it. He’s curious. Kind.
Or someone who wished to gain her trust.
Ilse rested her head on her hands. She was trembling with exhaustion and fear. I cannot live like this. Not everyone is a spy for Markus Khandarr.
The thought of Markus Khandarr propelled her to the table and her breakfast. The best way to divert suspicion would be to attend drill practice as usual. Alesso had brought her coffee, fresh flat bread, a plate of soft white cheese, and bowls of fruit and olives. Ilse filled her mug, then nibbled at the bread. The strength seeped back into her body. A warm breeze blew from the ocean through the open windows, carrying with it the strong scent of low tide.
Perhaps she ought to leave off magic for a few days.
Excuses. You’re just afraid of that monster.
It was hard to tell when discretion crossed into cowardice. She was afraid, that much she had to admit. Remembering the monster’s rank scent, its jutting sex, Ilse shuddered. I know where all Lir’s creatures are, it had said. But it had lied, and flung her away into the void.
Then I shall just have to try again.
Outside, the city bells rang eight times. Ilse cursed. It was far later than she had thought. Weapons drill had already started. She raced into her bedroom, unbuttoning her gown as she ran. She had promised the garrison commander diligence. Only then had he permitted her to take part in morning drill.
It took but a few moments to throw off her gown and pull on a loose shirt and old pair of trousers. Next came the belt with its sword in sheath. Ilse was never certain what the soldiers thought of her, a woman with money and education, who chose to drill alongside them, earning sweat and bruises and cuts from sword practice. A pet to be humored, she guessed. A mascot. For some, a potential lover.
Like Galena Alighero.
Young Galena who watched Ilse at drill with her pale green eyes. Who smiled quickly at whatever Ilse said, and who found any number of excuses to visit the pleasure house during her free hours, though she never hired one of the courtesans. Ilse recognized all the signs of an infatuation. She had tried to discourage Galena gently, but without any success. She would have to speak plainly to the girl, and soon.
No time to worry about Galena now.
Ilse locked her rooms and skimmed down the back stairs. The side courtyard was empty, but carts and stalls filled the square in front of the pleasure house. Most were fishermen who trawled the waters close to shore, or farmers from the hills just north of Osterling—men and women with plum-dark complexions, who spoke in a lilting cadence—but as she squeezed through the crowds, she heard snatches of dialects from the central plains.
Beyond the plaza, she turned off the main boulevard and plunged into the labyrinth of narrows streets and passageways around the ruins of the old Keep. Osterling was a city of walls, each ring marking its history over the centuries. The garrison and Keep lay at the heart, tucked against cliffs rising straight up to a stony crest where the king’s fort overlooked the city and the sea. Sunlight splashed the walls overhead, but the streets themselves were still dark and cool. As she crossed through a small courtyard, her shadow lengthened unexpectedly, and the strong clear scent of magic filled the air. She spun around into a crouch, dagger in hand.
And faced an empty lane.
Her skin rippled, as though she still stood in the void between worlds.
Just a reflection of the sunlight, she told herself. Nothing more.
Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she re-sheathed the dagger and set off again. The quarter bell rang out, a single chime. Ilse cursed and ran faster. She would have to do her limbering exercises alone and try to catch up with the others. If, that is, Spenglar allowed her to stay. Spenglar had trained with the king’s personal guards in Duenne. He’d come to Osterling as drill master and captain ten years ago. A grim, disciplined man who expected the same from others.
She jogged up a set of narrow stone steps to the next level. The Keep’s wall curved around to the north. Ilse followed the lane beside it to the main boulevard. Now the garrison and the fort atop the cliffs came into view. Soldiers patrolled in pairs outside the fort’s walls above. A single pair stood outside the gates to the drill yard. Piero and his sister, Marelda. From within came the crash of swords, and Spenglar’s voice calling out the rhythm.
She paused for one breath, then sprinted to the gate. “Piero. Marelda. Am I too late?”
Both swung around to face her. Piero flashed a grin. “Can’t you hear them already?”
“I can, but—”
“Poor child. You thought Spenglar might have mercy.”
Ilse allowed herself a smile in return. Piero, not so old himself, loved to tease the younger soldiers. “I only hoped, my friend. We both know the gods extracted all pity from Spenglar twenty years ago, when they made him captain.”
“Hush,” Marelda said. She had gone still, her whole attention elsewhere.
They all went silent. Inside the drill yard, sword rang against sword as Spenglar counted the drill. Then Ilse heard the peal of bells from the harbor towers. Not the slow peal of the hour bell, but faster and more urgent. The next moment, the fort’s bells broke out even louder.
“Warning!” Piero shouted. “It’s the warning bells. Raiders!”
A roar erupted inside the garrison. Piero and Marelda vanished through the gates. She heard Spenglar shouting orders, then another voice calling out for weapons and armor.
Ilse drew back from the entrance. She ought to return home at once. Warn Mistress Adeliess and the others—the pleasure house had a secret room dug underneath for just such emergencies—but she stood, frozen and breathless, listening to the tumult inside the garrison.
With a crash, the gates swung open. Men and women in armor poured out, file after file, all the patrols from the morning weapons drill and more. They marched in double time into the boulevard leading down directly to the harbor, the patrol leaders shouting the time above the clanging of the bells. Ilse pressed back to keep out of their way. An entire wing’s worth. Or two. And that’s not counting the fort’s soldiers.
“Ilse!”
Galena Alighero swung away from her file. Mail glinted under her leather tunic. A high color edged her cheeks, and her eyes were alight with excitement. She looked tall and strong and impossibly young. “It’s going to be a battle,” she said.
“Who is it?” Ilse asked. “Raiders or—”
“Alighero!”
Captain Spenglar’s voice cut through the din.
“Alighero, you useless chit! Stop flirting! Get moving!”
Galena spun around and pelted after the other soldiers. Spenglar shot a disgusted glance at Ilse, then stalked away. Soon the last file of the last patrol marched through the gates. Piero and Marelda were gone, each to their own file, to be replaced by another pair of soldiers, but otherwise the boulevard and surrounding streets had emptied, while the bells from the garrison and the fort above continued to ring out their warning.