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“I did,” she admitted. “Then and now, Leos. But I also love both our kingdoms, as much as you love Károví. I would see them live in peace. Can you understand?”
His lips moved soundlessly. Ilse bent close and kissed her once betrothed, spirit to flesh. Leos must have felt that insubstantial gesture, because he shuddered and laid a hand over his heart. There was blood behind the clouded eyes, and his lips were chilled. “It is time to die?” he said.
“Time and long past, my love.”
He closed his eyes. Breathed out a long slow breath, so easily that she did not realize at first what was happening, until his body went limp and fell through her arms to the floor. She reached toward him, as if she could recall him from death. Stopped herself and touched his brow. She felt the difference at once, a stillness that went beyond sleep. “He’s gone,” she whispered.
The magic current stirred. The air in the study turned thick. It was a tide of magic, greater than any she had ever dared to summon. For one moment, Ilse felt its burning brilliance course through her veins. It was like the first time she crossed into Anderswar, when colors sang and the air tasted of light. She heard the echo of a familiar voice. It spoke in a fluid Erythandran, with an accent of years ago—Leos. A triplet of voices overlaid it—Daya’s and Rana’s and Asha’s. She had the sense of a conversation among elders, one not hers to share. Then the current shuddered, ebbed away.
Before her lay a thin film of ashes. Leos Dzavek’s body had vanished.
And so we give the flesh to the earth. The spirit itself lives on.
Abruptly, voices sounded outside the room. The door banged open, and a stocky man appeared in the opening. Ilse froze, then realized he did not see her. She felt a hand on her wrist. Valara. Together they drew back against one wall, taking care not to disturb anything.
More guards appeared behind the first. They looked stunned. Finally, one stepped over the threshold and stared around the room. He called back an order, giving someone’s name—Duke Markov.
Ilse held her breath, grateful for the shadows. She waited until the guards withdrew, then glanced toward Valara. The other woman seemed to guess her question. She held up her right hand with Asha still clenched in her fist. So the emerald and sapphire were still theirs. Rana, however … Valara shook her head, echoing Ilse’s thoughts. There was no time to search. When the crowd dispersed, except for two sentries, they slipped out the door and fled toward the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TWILIGHT WAS FALLING by the time Miro Karasek came within view of Rastov. Unconsciously he reined his horse to a stop. The horse blew a rattling breath, as if to argue against further delay, but it offered no other protest. The plains themselves were a blank, black expanse below the sliver of a new moon, but Rastov was a collection of stars, its walls and towers illuminated by thousands of lamps.
He had ridden almost without pause since falling from the magical plane onto the open fields outside Laszny’s garrison. A week spent with only a few hours’ sleep snatched while the next posting station saddled his new mount. Even before that, he had lost half a month for those few moments in the magical plane. He could only pray to Lir and Toc that he was not too late.
Though for what, he could not yet tell. He had no reason to believe the Morennioùen queen had crossed into Károví. If she had returned to Morennioù, Dzavek would find the second invasion much harder. More men and women would die. It would be another bloody conflict like the first one. But if she chose to come here …
If. Maybe. Second doubts could choke a man into inaction.
He gave his horse the signal to walk, then called up a magical beacon to light their path. He wanted to gallop the final distance, but he knew the dangers of headlong riding over the plains at night. And so it took him almost two more hours before he reached the city gates.
There, the sentries called out the expected challenge.
“Duke Miro Karasek,” he called back. “On the king’s business.”
A torch flared, and the gates swung open to admit him. Miro returned the sentries’ salute, but his thoughts were on Valara Baussay and his king. The sense of unease had increased, and he spurred his horse to a fast trot, for once using his status as general and noble to force his way through the streets.
He took the most direct route across town, the wide boulevards that the architects for Károví’s first kings had laid out a thousand years before. Soon he came to the slopes leading toward the Solvatni River and negotiated his horse down the winding streets toward the bridge to the castle. A breeze grazed his face, carrying a trace of green. He drew rein and concentrated on its signature, but the breeze died away before he could identify it.
Apprehensive, he rode faster, telling himself that he worried for nothing, but the sight in the courtyard only confirmed his fears. Soldiers swarmed in all directions. Officers shouted orders. A runner darted in front of Miro, nearly letting the horse trample him.
“Duke Karasek. You’ve returned.”
A captain appeared breathlessly beside Miro’s horse.
“What happened?” Miro said.
“An attack on the king. The last hour. Magic, I heard.”
Miro vaulted from the saddle and tossed the reins to the man. “See to my horse.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he pushed through the mass of soldiers and into the castle.
Turmoil had taken possession of Zalinenka’s halls. Pages and guards ran in all directions. Cernosek’s personal secretary hurried past muttering to himself. The strong scent of magic permeated the entire hall.
Hers.
He recognized Valara Baussay’s signature at once. Others, too. A chaos of magical fingerprints. Miro caught hold of a passing runner and learned the attack had taken place in the king’s private chambers. He let the boy go and elbowed his way to the main stairs, mounted them two at a time to the next floor. The scent of magic increased with every step, and he raced down the corridor to Dzavek’s suite of rooms.
A knot of guards and councillors stood outside. In their midst were the Scholar and Brigand—Cernosek and Markov—along with the castle guard’s senior commander. “Magic,” Šimon Cernosek was saying. “It woke me, even before your messenger arrived.”
