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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 tw
eak 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.
