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Outside, the guards came to attention at his appearance. “Tell Duke Markov that our intruder died in battle with the king,” Miro said. “However, this man had a companion who escaped with the king’s ruby. We won’t know more until we capture him. I’ll track him down at once, while the trail is fresh.”
The guard ran to execute his commands. Miro headed directly to the stables. Rumors must have spread even here, because the stable hands had all gathered to trade excited whispers. At Miro’s entrance, they all stood.
“Saddle a fresh horse,” he told them. “Send a runner for provisions and gear for a week’s ride.”
He drank a mug of soup while he waited. Sooner than he expected, the stable boy reported the horse saddled and ready. Miro swung onto the horse, felt it twitch and sidle in response to his own nerves. He settled it with a hand on its neck and soothing words. A sturdy beast, the kind he loved best. He took that as a good sign, and his heart beat faster as he passed through the outer gates of the castle. Until this moment, he had felt his future unbounded. He might have done anything, gone anywhere.
This will be the end of my hunt, he thought as he urged his horse toward the northern plains.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
VALARA’S SPIRIT REJOINED her body with a shock that doubled her over. She gasped, choked out the words to summon the current. Too quickly, the magic overwhelmed her. She lay back, eyes closed, and breathed slowly through her nose until the nausea faded. It was the presence of the Mantharah. Its magic was too strong. It was like walking along Enzeloc’s cliffs in a hurricane. She could not judge her balance.
Every bit of her from scalp to toe ached. Her hands felt as though her muscles had locked into fists a hundred years ago. She released a shaky laugh. Maybe they did.
She rolled onto her side. Her hand unfolded to reveal the sapphire. Asha. Her breath caught in renewed wonder. So I have not lost you yet. Not again.
Still cupping the sapphire in one hand, she levered herself to sitting. Overhead, the mid-morning sun shone down upon them.
My brother is dead, came her next thought.
It didn’t matter that her body had died a dozen times or more since their plot to steal the jewels and divide an empire. They were brothers in the soul. Now he was dead, he who had defied the void between lives, who had survived four centuries, while an empire had broken into kingdoms, and the wheel had turned for new lives, new souls.
A strange sensation assailed her—one she could not properly identify. It was not precisely grief. Regret?
She glanced toward her companion. Ilse lay motionless on the ground, eyes blank and staring upward. One arm was flung outward toward the Agnau, the other lay over her breasts. She still wore Daya the ring on her finger, just as she had in spirit form. Valara set the sapphire to one side and crawled over to Ilse. Her skin was warm. A strong erratic pulse beat at her throat.
She lives.
Valara had not been certain. Those last few moments in Dzavek’s chambers were a blur in her memory. She had tried to kill Dzavek. He had stopped her—easily. His reply was an explosion of magic that ripped through her spirit. She remembered then, the jewels, singing in great booming voices, like waves thundering against a cliff, like the bells of Morennioù castle. For a while after, she was too deaf and numb to understand much. Only when the guards appeared had she roused herself enough to escape with Ilse.
More tentatively, she touched the wooden ring. Its surface was warm and silken, with a strong current of magic rippling under her touch. Much fainter came the whispering of voices.
… awake, awake to the flesh, awake to life …
Ilse gasped and pitched upright. Valara caught her before she fell against the stone cliff. Ilse fought her blindly. Her skin burned fever-hot. She was choking, a terrible strangled noise deep in her throat. Quickly, Valara summoned the magic current. Again, it was too much. The current rushed in like a flood tide, but then she found the balance. Soft, soft, softly, she thought, and the magic obeyed.
Ilse drew a wheezing breath, coughed, and breathed again. Valara continued to murmur in Erythandran until the fever faded and Ilse breathed more easily. Then she lowered Ilse to the ground and searched around for water. She found the shallow cook stone. It was dry, but a handful of snow lay next to it. Valara scooped that up and, holding up Ilse’s head, let the melt-water trickle into the woman’s mouth.
Ilse coughed up the first mouthful, but swallowed the next. “Leos,” she whispered. “Leos, I’m sorry. It wasn’t—”
“Hush,” Valara said. “You did well.”
“I betrayed him,” Ilse whispered. “He thought I did. But it wasn’t true. I wanted … peace. No more war. He didn’t understand.”
Valara hushed her, ran her hands over the other woman’s face with as much gentleness as she could. It wasn’t something she had learned from mother or sister. Not in Morennioù. Ilse murmured something incomprehensible. As Valara bent closer, she caught a glimpse of strong memories running like a flood tide through the other woman’s thoughts.
… she saw a young woman running through the snow-dusted forests. She wore the rich clothing of a noble, a jewel in her cheek. An equally young man waited in a clearing. He was handsome, his face the pale brown of the empire’s southwest provinces. They spoke in Károvín. He was an emissary from the emperor. There was a chance for peace, he said. If she would but promise to persuade the new king to treat with them …
I will, the young woman said.
Before she finished speaking, a shout echoed through the forests, and an army appeared …
“He died.”
“Yes. It was time.”
“I never loved him. We were betrothed by our parents.”
