Queen's Hunt

by Beth Bernobich

  Dzavek accepted the leather packet and hefted it. “You took the castle.”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  The king nodded. He set the packet to one side and extended his hand toward Miro. Silver rings covered every finger. Miro kissed them. Their gems felt cold to his lips.

  “Tell me what happened, Miro. Leave nothing out.”

  Miro’s relief drained away. So, here was the test.

  Head bowed and kneeling, he delivered his report as he had imagined it while marching through the wilderness. Starting with the moment of departure, he recounted the rapid journey over the seas, through the barrier, and the first sight of Morennioù’s coast.

  “We arrived at dawn,” he said. “As you predicted, we found the castle and its docks on the northwest point of the main island. But someone must have given alarm, because we met defenders at the castle gates.”

  “The barrier,” Dzavek said. “I warned you that breaking through signaled anyone who listened. So you overcame these first obstacles.”

  “Yes, your majesty. Their soldiers fought hard, but we outnumbered them. I ordered the castle surrounded and any fugitives detained for questioning.”

  “Then you took the castle and recovered this emerald.” Dzavek nodded toward the leather packet. His tone—cool, almost indifferent—unsettled Miro Karasek. To his ear, it sounded as though Leos Dzavek already knew the invasion’s details.

  “The king and his chief mage died in the attack,” Miro continued. “We captured the princess before she could escape. Our search uncovered this emerald. As you commanded, I left Anastazia Vaček to extend our hold on the island, while I returned with Lir’s emerald.”

  “Two months ago, Miro. What happened?”

  Miro raised his gaze to Dzavek’s face, hoping to read whatever minute reaction the king allowed to escape. He saw nothing but intense curiosity.

  He dropped his gaze to Dzavek’s hand, which still clasped his. “A storm sank our ships off the Veraenen coast, your majesty. We brought our launches on shore, to Osterling. I was negotiating with their commander for transport when a … disagreement broke out.”

  “But you escaped.”

  “I did. Unfortunately, I had to leave the Morennioùen princess—the new queen—behind. The Veraenen took her prisoner.”

  He looked up to see Dzavek gazing at him with those strange and clouded eyes. The impression of age was stronger now, lamplight shining through the man’s almost transparent skin, sending shadows of lines cascading over his face.

  Like a death mask. Immediately, he quelled the thought.

  With a sigh, Dzavek stirred, and the flush of life replaced that mortal stillness.

  “I am glad you did not choose to lie, Miro.”

  He touched his other hand to Miro’s mouth, his lips moving in a whispered spell.

  “En nam Lir unde Toc, komen mir de kreft unde zoubernisse.”

  The king’s fingers were hot—unnaturally so. It took all Miro’s discipline to remain still while Leos Dzavek continued to draw the magic into a thicker cloud.

  Komen mir de strôm. Nemen mir de swîgen.

  Dzavek was releasing Miro from the magic seal that he had set upon him two months before. A green scent filled the room, strong and invigorating. The miles of marching and riding dropped away like the snows in summer. Dzavek spoke another word to release the current, which faded into nothing, taking the spell with it. Only by its absence could Miro tell the difference.

  Then it struck him. He knew already what happened in Veraene.

  “Your majesty, has Anastazia Vaček returned?”

  “No.” Dzavek smiled briefly. “Though she did try to send a messenger. They failed to break through the barrier, Rana tells me. You may stand now.” He retrieved the packet from the table and untied its leather strings. Within, the emerald gleamed with a dark green fire. “Do you believe this is a true jewel? One of Lir’s children?”

  “I believe so, your majesty. It has the touch of magic.”

  “An equivocal reply. If you weren’t certain, why did you guard it so long?”

  Because you ordered me to. Because I vowed obedience.

  Dzavek did not seem to want an answer, however. “Listen,” he murmured. “Watch.”

  He held the emerald up to the firelight. His gaze went diffuse. Miro detected an electric quality to the air as the magic coalesced around them. He listened, every sense trained on the emerald, thinking that at last he would hear the same musical speech his ancestors had, when Károví had first claimed Lir’s gifts for its own.

  The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressed inward, and in intense weight pressed against Miro’s chest. Still Dzavek did not stir, but continued to stare at the emerald.

  Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane juwel. Sprechen mir.

  Dzavek was commanding the emerald to speak, bidding it as he might a servant.

  Ei rûf ane …

  Miro’s ears roared as the air thickened to an impossible heaviness.

  … ane gôtter. Sprechen mir. Iezuo.

  A loud crack echoed through the room. The emerald vanished in a burst of light, leaving a tiny heap of gray dust in Dzavek’s palm. Dzavek glanced from Miro back to the dust. “A counterfeit,” he said softly.

  Miro blew out a breath. All those months, all those lives, gone. For nothing.

  The king scattered the dust with a flick of his hand. “Never mind the mistake. You lost the Morennioùen queen, but I found her. She has the true emerald. She used it to escape her prison. Or it used her.”

  More surprises. Miro licked his lips and considered what he might safely say. “It appears you had no need for my report, your majesty.”

  “Yes and no. You brought me news of the battle and its aftermath. And yourself. I need both for the next stage of my plans.”

  He turned toward the table beside his chair. He unlocked a drawer and retrieved a wooden box, not much larger than his hand. Dzavek lifted the lid and took out a small dark ruby, which flared bloodred in the lamplight.

  Miro knew this one. It was Lir’s second jewel, Rana. The one the king had recovered from Vnejšek the previous summer.

  As Dzavek turned the jewel over in his palm, the ruby cast a red sheen over his skin. Miro suppressed a shudder. Anastazia Vaček had been quoting Leos Dzavek when she had told Miro her true orders for Morennioù. By blood and bone and magic, Vaček would prepare the ground for Dzavek’s second invasion. Leos Dzavek had not forgiven his brother’s treachery even though lives and centuries had passed.

  “We can plan the next assault later,” Dzavek said. “Once we secure the emerald, Morennioù cannot resist long, not with hostages. We will hold the new queen against their surrender. And their welfare against hers.”

  I loved her once.

  But those were lives and days past. With an effort, Miro returned to the present.

  “She might be difficult to locate, your majesty,” he ventured to say.

  Dzavek made a careless gesture. The gems on his fingers flashing in the lamplight. “Not at all. Whenever the queen speaks with her emerald, she must use magic. When she does, I will hear her.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OVER THE PAST several months, Gerek Hessler spent his holidays wandering the streets of Tiralien, reacquainting himself with the districts from his student days. Today he browsed through the warren of secondhand booksellers in the Little University. Here one might find dozens of cheap novels, or second-rate poetry from the previous decade, but it was also possible to find a genuine treasure. Some of the vendors were iterant, much like the spice dealers Kathe mentioned, selling their wares from carts or baskets in the street.

  He picked up a crumbling edition of Alberich Wieck’s essays from one such cart. The copy itself was not valuable—the binding had cracked and several pages were missing—but he had always liked Wieck’s observations on the accepted forms of scholarly interpretation. He handed over a silver denier, received his change, and moved on with the book in his
satchel. The next stall carried only mathematics textbooks. Interesting, but not worth the price. He drifted past more shops and stalls into a square populated mostly by butchers and chandlers. One lone vendor, however, had set up a cart by the entrance. Without much confidence, Gerek looked over the man’s wares. Political treatises. Erotic engravings. An occasional tract speculating about spiritual matters.

  He turned over a few leaflets without much interest, then paused.

  A cookbook?

  Gerek glanced back at the other shops, as if considering whether or not to move on. Pretending boredom, he sorted through the bin a second time. It was a cookbook. The title—engraved in thick woodcut letters—mentioned ornamental dishes from the court. He dug past the book to an assortment of heroic poetry volumes, then back to the cookbook itself.

  Its condition was better than he would have expected. Water stains covered several pages, but the parchment showed no signs of worm or decay. If the date was correct, the volume dated from the later empire days. If not … well, it made an interesting curiosity.

  “Ten silver denier,” the vendor said immediately. “Which is a true bargains for such a rare—”

  “Ten copper,” Gerek countered.

  The vendor wailed about his poverty, the wife and ten children he fed from his meager earnings, etc., etc. They dickered back and forth a few more times, until Gerek finally handed over two silver denier. The price was robbery, but he thought Kathe might like the book. He knew she studied all manner of cookery. Sometimes Lord Kosenmark liked to hold historical feasts for his noble friends.

  He ordered the book wrapped in clean brown paper and added it to his satchel. And because he liked the man’s looks, he added a third silver denier to the sum.

  My father was right, I am a fool, he thought, as he accepted the man’s thanks.

  But the thought of Kathe’s pleasure overrode everything else. He spent most of the walk back to the pleasure house imagining her delight when he presented this gift.

  Except he was not entirely certain of her delight. To be sure, Kathe smiled whenever she greeted him. But she smiled at everyone, including the rag and bones man. Well, she might like the book, even if it comes from me. He could write a note. Say he’d come across the book by chance, which was true.

  It was late afternoon when he returned. Guards nodded as he passed through the front doors. Inside, he heard the maids at work in the common room. Gerek was fumbling at the door latch to his rooms when a runner came round the corner. “Maester Hessler. Lord Kosenmark requires your presence.”

  “Right away or—?”

  “Now, sir.”

  Kosenmark never acted without reason. And Gerek had noted how Kosenmark had withdrawn into a deeper privacy over the past week. Could there be a crisis with the kingdom? Gerek thrust the book into the runner’s hands and asked him to deliver it to Mistress Kathe. He would write a note later, he told himself, as he jogged up the stairs to Kosenmark’s office.

  Two guards stood outside the door, and another inside—Detlef Stadler, the house’s senior guardsman. But it was the pair farther inside the room that captured Gerek’s attention.

  Kosenmark sat at his desk. A stranger stood in front of him—a young man with thick black hair tied in braids. Dressed in salt-stained clothes and carrying the strong scent of fish and tar, he appeared to be a common sailor. At Gerek’s entrance, the young man glanced toward him. His face was marked with bruises and what appeared to be a half-healed burn, which showed bright pink against his dark complexion.

  Kosenmark gestured for Gerek to take a seat. “Tell us your report,” he told the young man, adding, “Names are not necessary just yet. You came with news about Osterling.”

  The young man nodded. “I did. Three months ago, the royal fleet sighted Károvín ships sailing east. A week later, three of those ships foundered on Osterling’s reefs. In the skirmish that broke out, the garrison troops prevailed. They took a number of prisoners, including a young woman the Károvín had drugged with magic.”

  “You have spies within the prison.”

  A shrug. “That follows, yes. I learned this woman made several attempts to escape. None succeeded. The old prison uses particular spells to guard against particular kinds of magic. Unfortunately, those spells did nothing to prevent Lord Khandarr—”

  “No names,” Kosenmark said.

  The young man regarded Kosenmark with evident curiosity. “Very well,” he said slowly. “Then let us say a certain man questioned this woman about her identity, her allegiances, and so forth. The young woman did not cooperate. As is usual with a man of his character, he resorted to forceful magic. The woman defended herself with even stronger magic that struck the man insensible. He had not yet recovered when the woman escaped in the night, leaving the entire garrison, including the other prisoners, either dead or unconscious.”

  He paused and drew a deep breath. “I cannot continue without using names, my lord.”

  “You can and you will.”

  The young man’s lips parted in a bitter smile. “Are you afraid of names, then?”

  Kosenmark merely stared at him. Gerek knew that stare and he wasn’t surprised when the young man lowered his gaze. “No names,” he repeated. “Very well. She escaped, this nameless woman. Her path crossed that of two other nameless women in the city. As you can understand, that attracted my attention.”

  “Yes, I do understand that,” Kosenmark murmured.

  His comment seemed to provoke faint amusement. “Yes. Well, as you can also understand, I offered my assistance. My colleagues organized several distractions. We fabricated evidence that more prisoners had escaped from the garrison. A supposed murder took place in a certain pleasure house. In the confusion, I sailed here by a convenient boat. Your friend—I gather she is your friend—sends a message. She desires a ship for distant ports. She will send further word by the usual channels.”

  If he had not known Kosenmark, Gerek would have missed the brief flicker of tension in the man’s mouth. There and gone, like a speck of snow in a fire. He is afraid, Gerek thought. Not of this stranger, but for Ilse Zhalina.

  Kosenmark’s voice, however, betrayed nothing. “Did she mention which channels?”

  “The usual, my lord. Just as I said.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Kosenmark signaled to Stadler. “Please escort our guest to quarters until we can confirm the details.”

  Stadler took hold of the man’s arm, but the man pulled away. “You will remember your promises?” he said to Kosenmark.

  “You have my word.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy, because the stranger gave a curt nod and followed Stadler from the room without any further argument. Once the door closed, Kosenmark rested his head on his hands. “I leave tomorrow,” he said. “Two days at the latest.”

  “But my lord, I-I—”

  Gerek swallowed the spasm in his throat. Kosenmark kindly did not pay attention to him. “Our friend’s report is not entirely unexpected. I’ve heard rumors that the king’s mage is too ill to leave Fortezzien, and deprived of its usual ruler, the court in Duenne is in disarray. The two might be connected or not. I dislike making assumptions about anything connected to Markus Khandarr. However,” he said, “the matter of the King’s Mage and his health are not our immediate concern. The news this young man brings from Fortezzien is. There are a dozen usual channels a trusted friend might use to contact us. Over the last half year, several have proved unreliable. I suspect that Markus Khandarr has bought their loyalty. In spite of his recent indisposition.” In a softer voice, he added, “They were always more devoted to profit than any particular cause. I cannot blame them, considering past events.”

  Meaning Dedrick’s death, along with Lothar Faulk and other trusted associates.

  “If anyone inquires after me,” Kosenmark went on, “tell them I am grieving for an old friend’s unexpected death. That should please Markus, once he revives enough to inquire. And I know he will. Have Mistress Denk ke
ep the house open to our oldest clients, but no one else and absolutely no festivities. Meanwhile, I want you to find a ship built for deep sailing. Buy it or lease it, I do not care. Hire a crew. Found it with provisions for a six-month cruise. But do not allow anyone to make a connection between that ship and my name. Use that list of special agents I gave you. I believe I can trust them still…”

  It was like those first days, when Kosenmark spoke on without pause about all manner of arcane subjects, while Gerek mentally scurried to keep up. If Gerek had not watched Kosenmark over the past few days—had not noted the sudden deeper reserve, the broken-off invitations, the hours spent alone in his rooms—he would have said that Kosenmark knew about Zhalina’s message even before the stranger brought it.

  He did not know. He thought her dead. Murdered.

  And this flow of words was a burst of relief that he could at last stop the endless wait and act.

  So Gerek listened and burned these instructions upon his memory. Not once did he ask, Where are you going with this ship? Because he knew without asking that even Raul Kosenmark could not know the answer.

  * * *

  THE JOURNEY TO the Gallenz River lasted over twenty days, far longer than Ilse and Galena had first predicted. They had agreed to act as though Markus Khandarr would send patrols after them, and so they kept well away from the coast and any tracks or trails inland. Instead they struggled through thick pine forests among the hills, and slogged through grassy bogs in the dells, sweating in the close heat.

  This morning, they marched in single file through a grove of aspen. Rain had fallen in sheets over the past few days. Their clothes were drenched, their makeshift packs soaked through and heavy. Now the sun shone hot and unforgiving through the trees; steam rose from the damp forest mast. Ilse lifted her face to catch a few drops falling from the leaf canopy and caught a glimpse of Valara’s amused expression.

  The expression quickly vanished. Once more hers was the bland, blank courtier’s face of the past weeks. Ilse wiped the raindrops from her face, tasted their clean woody flavor, and continued marching. Ahead, Galena had not even paused. She strode through the wet, a rough-cut staff in one hand to switch away the underbrush.