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Events moved more quickly. Dzavek rejoined his body. Unexpectedly Valara Baussay appeared. King and queen spoke at once. Or was it brother to brother? He could not tell. The air shimmered with magic’s current, waiting only for a word …
A blinding explosion lit the room with fire. The sight was so vivid, so real, that Miro imagined he could feel a hot wind blow through his hair. Before he could react, the bright light vanished, and smoke blanketed the room, making it impossible to see.
No movement. No sign of any presence, flesh or spirit. Miro waited, unable to breathe.
At last a shadow emerged from the haze. A thin arm swept upward, its motion echoed by a trail of gray and black. Gradually the smoke dissipated, revealing the destruction wrought by that explosion.
Valara Baussay crouched at the far end of the room.
Miro released his breath. She lives. She survived.
Leos Dzavek lay crumpled on the floor. The unknown woman knelt beside him. Dzavek jerked upright. His eyes stared, unseeing, but then he stiffened and his face swiveled toward Valara Baussay. His lips were moving. He meant to summon more magic before he died. And he would die—Miro saw that plainly.
The woman touched his cheek. Dzavek flinched, turned toward her. There was a look on the king’s face that Miro had never seen before. An expectant look, as if the dark dreary centuries had dropped away, and the man saw the hope of sunrise. The woman continued to speak, her whole manner tense. He could not make out her words, but Dzavek’s gaze was fixed upon her face, as though she were sharing a last and vital clue, one important to them both.
She leaned close. Kissed him upon the lips. Miro could almost hear the king’s breath as he exhaled. He thought it was just an ordinary breath, but then the king went limp and collapsed onto the floor. The woman touched his brow. Her lips formed the words He is gone.
Around him, the cloud of magic ebbed away, leaving behind a burning smell. His torch, which guttered in his hand. By its flickering light, the room with its wreckage looked even more desolate now. Miro extinguished the torch.
For a while, he could do nothing but stare at the scene, thinking, The king is dead.
A deep, breathy note sounded, just below the surface of his thoughts. Rana’s song. Here, in the study. Miro dropped to his hands and knees and plunged his hands into the debris covering the floor. Steady, he told himself. Do not lose this chance through panic or carelessness.
He closed his eyes. In spite of his weariness, he found it easier to draw his thoughts to a single point of focus. Ei rûf ane strôm. Ei rûf ane juweln.
The current hissed and whispered.
Then, Ei bin unde was. Wir sint unde waerest unde werden.
Rana was babbling a confused chorus of tones. Each syllable merged with the next, rising in pitch until he no longer heard them, and then dropping into deep-throated chords that vibrated in the air.
The fireplace. Its song in his ears, Miro hurried to the grate and knelt. Yes. Beneath the thick ashes he saw a dark red glow. With a set of tongs, he pushed the still-hot coals aside, then drew the ruby toward himself.
The ruby’s polished surface flickered with magic. Daya. Asha. Daya. Mantharah. My sistersbrotherscousinsloversI.
Miro cradled the ruby in his palm, his thoughts centered on Valara Baussay and all her possible plans. Clearly, the guards had arrived before she could make a search, and so she and her companion had abandon
ed the ruby. But they would return. And they were not the only ones. Both the Scholar and the Brigand knew about Rana’s existence. If Miro did not produce the ruby, they would search the entire castle.
And we would have a greater war than even Leos Dzavek desired.
He took out a handkerchief and wrapped the ruby securely into a knotted bundle, which he tucked inside his shirt. It was no proof against magic probing, but the confusion outside might allow him to pass without facing Cernosek or the other mages. A few words to erase all magical signs of the intruders’ presence. Cernosek would expect that. He wiped away his own recent past—a risky move, because Cernosek’s skill easily surpassed his own—then laid down a series of ordinary spells used by magical trackers. The spells would not stand against a thorough examination, but they would give him enough time for what came next.
He turned toward the door, thinking he must set off before Cernosek decided to return. He had taken no more than a few steps before grief smote him.
My king has died.
It had seemed impossible. How could death take the immortal king?
Because he was never immortal. Dzavek had known that, though he’d never spoken his thoughts aloud. That is why he planned to take Morennioù and its emerald. Yes, it was a matter of revenge. More important, he wanted to provide for his own kingdom’s future.
Contradictory reasons, from a contradictory man.
Miro rubbed a hand over his eyes. A dull pain had settled under his ribs, near his heart. Such a sentimental reaction. His father had trained him better.
No. He had not. He, too, grieved for the Leos Dzavek of history.
Miro shook away the present grief. He had to act.
