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He broke off at Miro’s entrance, and his lips thinned. Feliks Markov jerked around. For one moment, his eyes widened, then his face smoothed into an unreadable mask. “Duke Karasek. You show exquisite timing. Coincidence? Or perhaps your well-known forethought.”
“Neither. I came with … with news concerning my mission.”
“Have you found the Morennioùen queen?” Cernosek said. “Your Captain Donlov returned with the ship a few days ago, but his report was … incomplete.”
Miro glanced at the crowd of guards. The senior commander took his hint and withdrew; the others followed.
“Yes and no,” Miro said quietly. “We intercepted her where we expected, but she escaped by crossing into Vnejšek in the flesh.”
Cernosek’s pale lips parted. “And?”
Miro was aware of Markov watching him closely. The man had no magic abilities, but he could read a human face with unnerving skill. He frowned, as if angry and embarrassed. “She crossed the Gulf before I could stop her. I had no wish to lose weeks
or months with a chase through Vnejšek. I decided to return at once and warn the king—”
“Did you expect her to come here then?”
Markov spoke mildly, but Miro did not mistake that tone for indifference. “No. I expect she’s fled directly to Morennioù. Which means we must prepare for a second invasion. Or rather, that would have been the king’s wishes before…” He broke off, too shaken by the sudden reversal of everything he expected to keep up his inventions. He ran a hand over his face and managed to recover himself. “Tell me what happened here.”
“An attack,” Markov said drily. “Magical in nature. The king has vanished.”
He continued to speak, something about how the entire castle had reverberated with magic, so that even the most oblivious had noticed, but Miro found it difficult to attend. He could only think that he had made the wrong choice and failed his king.
Weariness from the past week swept over him. He put a hand out to steady himself. Cernosek caught his arm. “You are ill.”
“No.” Miro drew back from Cernosek, mistrusting the man’s motives. “Not ill. Tired and saddle-sore. I can sleep later. You say the king vanished. What else? Have you examined these rooms yet?”
“A cursory look,” Markov said. “Enough to ascertain there was an attack. I wanted Cernosek to inspect the magical traces himself.”
He took the risk. “Let me do that. I know the Morennioùen queen’s signature. I can confirm if she was present, or someone else.” He added, “It would not do to assume anything about the identity of those who attacked our king and our kingdom. We do have other enemies.”
The Scholar and Brigand exchanged intent looks.
“He’s right,” Cernosek said at last.
Markov appeared less convinced, but he merely shrugged. “We do not have time to argue. Examine the room. Meet with us directly after at my private chambers, so we might discuss how to proceed.”
Miro waited until the two had rounded the corner before he pushed the door open.
Light from the corridor showed a chaos of papers and books strewn over the floor nearest to him. Windows at the far end admitted faint illumination from the stars. By their light, he could make out more destruction. Several shelves had collapsed, and the writing desk lay in splintered pieces. He drew an unsteady breath at the sight. The flux and whirl of magic were dying off, but the strong scent nearly overpowered him.
He took a torch from its bracket and walked inside the study, letting the door fall shut behind him.
Destruction. That was his first reaction. A chaos left by unrestrained magic. He closed his eyes and let his senses spiral outward. Definitely her signature. He picked it out from the confusion—the scent and image of a fox, swift and secret, gliding through the rooms. With a shift of focus, he turned to the magical plane to sift through the traces left by other visitors. Dzavek, of course. Several guards. A strange alien presence that had to be the ruby. Valara Baussay and another woman whom he could not identify. That gave him pause. One of the Veraenen company?
From a distance, he heard the guards’ voices through the door. They had resumed their conversation about the night’s events. Miro listened a moment, heard nothing that he had not already guessed, then turned back to examine the room in more detail.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” he said softly. “Komen mir de strôm. Widerkêren mir de zeît. Ougen mir.”
His vision darkened. Now he saw the room from the past. All the lamps had guttered, the fire burned low in its grate, casting a reddish hue over the tiled floor. On a tall marble pedestal, Miro saw the box where Dzavek kept Rana.
Servants appeared to rebuild the fire. Others took away a tray with its wine cups and flask. A brief interlude of waiting came next, while Miro wondered if he had misjudged his timing. Then, the door swung open. A shadowy figure stood framed in the lamplight from the corridor.
His breath went still. This was not Valara Baussay, but a stranger. A Károvín. No, he saw traces of Veraenen blood in her features, which were translucent in the vision, like the faded ink drawings of centuries past.
I know her. She was there, when we attacked.
Her signature intensified. It was like sunlight glancing through the clouds. He watched as she hurried into the room, making directly for the marble pedestal with its open box. She had just touched the ruby when Dzavek appeared, also in the spirit. He spoke. The woman turned and answered. Their mouths moved in a silent conversation that Miro wished he could hear. He watched the turns in her expression—fearful, controlled, a brief inward look that might be grief or shame.
