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And yet, she could not resist the pull of curiosity. So she had poked and prodded at her memories, had explored Autrevelye in flesh and spirit, until her life dreams finally yielded enough clues to help her find the first of Lir’s jewels.
Only one. The oldest of the three, the first to speak as a separate creature after the emperor’s mage had divided the single jewel into three, many centuries ago. It was the emerald, of course. Daya was its name. She remembered reaching for it, her fingers digging into the dirt in some far corner of the magical plane, when a voice startled her. Leos Dzavek, conducting his own search.
Shouts. Her own frightened response. Then Leos striking at her with fist and magic. She had fled, bleeding from a dozen wounds and fevered by her too-swift passage between worlds.
Her own magic healed her wounds, but Valara had spent a terrified month convinced that Dzavek would follow her between worlds, or that her father’s council would strike her name from the rolls of nobility. As summer passed into autumn, she told herself that she had escaped discovery. She began to experiment with the jewel Daya. That had proved frustrating at first. Then, one night at the end of winter, as she worked alone in her rooms, the jewel had woken to her touch.
It spoke. In colors and song, as though Autrevelye itself lived inside me.
The next morning, Dzavek’s ships had broken through Luxa’s Hand to attack. An impossible deed, according to all her father’s mages. Well, they were probably dead, too, along with her father and his chief mage.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears.
No. Not yet. She could not afford the luxury of grief. She had to escape this prison and fly homeward. She knew her father’s council too well. They would quarrel—even the best of them—while Dzavek’s soldiers plunder the islands and made them helpless against a second attack.
And he will attack a second time. I know it. I must go back.
Propelled by desperation, she stood and shouted. “Help. Anyone. Can you hear me?”
She called out in Károvín and Veraenen, until the other prisoners shouted at her to shut her mouth and die. She didn’t care. She had to get word to Veraene’s king. She needed an ally.
One of the guards flung the outer doors open and stalked down the corridor, cursing. “What do you want?” he said in stilted Károvín.
“Send for your king,” Valara said in his language. “I can tell him about the Károvín ships.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You tell me this news first.”
Three hundred years in hiding. It took an effort to break such a long and perfect silence.
“The Károvín,” she said after a brief inward struggle. “The Károvín have a new enemy. The enemy could be a friend to you. To Veraene.”
“Might?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know the words.”
“You know enough,” he said. “Why aren’t you sure about this friend?”
Careful now. She had to satisfy his curiosity without giving too much away. Her awkwardness with the language helped her there. She made a show of searching for the words, and when she answered, she let herself stumble over the pronunciation. “I didn’t—don’t. I’m not certain because I do not know your king. Does he want a friend? Does he need one?”
The guard studied her thoughtfully. She wasn’t entirely sure if he believed her.
“If you’re lying, I could lose my position,” he said. “The captain doesn’t like tricks.”
Valara shook her head. “I’m not lying. Please, tell him. Blame me if you like. Anything. But the king must hear what I have to say.”
She held his gaze with hers, willing him to believe her, until the man sighed and tapped his fingers against the bars. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll tell the captain. It’s up to him whether he passes the word higher. I can’t promise more than that.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
Valara watched him walk back through the corridor, his shadow fluttering in the torchlight. The other prisoners flung questions and demands at him, in both Veraenen and their own tongue. He ignored them and slammed the outer door shut.
An uproar broke out. Prisoners cursing their interrupted sleep. Prisoners demanding to speak with the officers, to have word taken to their king. Valara covered her ears and sank to the floor. Even if Veraene’s king listened to her, then what? Would he grant her passage home? Would he agree to ally his kingdom with hers?
Hers. Not her father’s. He was dead, murdered by the Károvín invaders.
Grief pressed like a fist against her throat. She resisted a moment, then let the tears break free.
* * *
