He fell asleep to the creaking of the rigging and the rush of water against the ship.
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.
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