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ON A BARE ridge, miles away from Osterling Keep, Miro Karasek dropped to his knees. He could almost taste his desire for sleep, stronger than his craving for water. From below came the hiss and roar of surf against the rocky shore.
You will suffer great weariness, King Leos had warned him. You will live each week twice over. That should inspire you to haste.
He’d left the coastal highway within a mile of Osterling and its fort, scrambling up the hillside, into the pine-forested ridge that ran the length of the peninsula. Luck was with him so far. No pursuit. There were a few fishing villages on the coast below, but the hills and ridges themselves were bare of population. If he could find some shelter, he could risk a few hours of sleep, then take off once the moon rose.
The swiftest passage home lay on the roads between worlds. But he was too weary to risk that. And the king had warned him against such measures. They will watch all the borders for any sign of the jewels. Including those of Vnejšek.
He sucked in the dust-filled air and pushed himself to standing. It was the time between sunset and twilight. The sky had turned dark blue, and a few stars glimmered overhead. Far to the west, a wine-red ribbon marked the line between sea and sky. Already the ground lay in shadows. Risky, to keep walking over rough terrain. He could stumble and fall to his death on the rocks below. Or lie wounded, unable to escape, when the patrols finally tracked him down.
A thousand ways to die, he thought, moving cautiously forward through the tide of dusk. He had tried most of them in this mission.
A flicker of movement at his feet sent him leaping back. He caught himself before he fell, then laughed a wheezing laugh. Just a mouse. The creature darted through the weeds and vanished into the shadows underneath a large boulder.
And if a mouse, why not a man?
Karasek eased himself into a crouch—his knees cracked and protested—and discovered a man-sized opening, choked with rubble. He cleared away the debris and peered inside. The air smelled rank, as though a wild dog had denned there recently. Nothing stirred inside now, however.
He unbuckled his sword from his belt and lay down on his back. The gap was narrow, but the rocky floor gave him enough purchase. He grabbed on to a handhold and shoved himself through. Dirt and grit showered his face. He coughed, wriggled deeper into the opening until he reached the farther wall.
Here the niche widened, and its ceiling angled upward. He had enough room to crouch, so he twisted around and slid the knife from his boot sheath. His shirt and jacket made a pillow. The pouch containing Lir’s emerald, the reason for his mission, he tucked underneath. As he laid knife and sword within easy reach, it came to him that he was like the renegade warriors of old Károví.
As many brigands as nobles, his father had commented, in an unguarded moment.
His mother had glanced up with a frightened angry look. Karasek had expected another quarrel, but her mouth had inexplicably softened, and she’d murmured, “Be careful, love.”
He recalled the moment vividly, though he’d been only seven. One rare gesture of tenderness between his parents—the last one.
Karasek shook away those memories. His father was dead, secure from accusations, and his mother had deserted Taboresk for her homeland. Only the present concerned him.
Yes, the present. He smothered a painful laugh. He had no gear, no water. Only ten or twelve miles separated him from the garrison city. Disaster had carried him long past Dzavek’s original schemes, past the fallback plans the king had devised, and the ones Karasek had decided on himself. Now he was running on instinct alone. Like the old warriors from Károví’s founding, he would have to flit like a shadow, using magic and cleverness to regain his homeland.
Brigands and nobles. Which am I? He yawned, curled up on the hard ground, and within a heartbeat, slept.
He woke to the thick dark of full night. Karasek rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His throat felt clogged with thirst, and his stomach had squeezed into an empty knot. Live and you will eat and drink, he told his body. One by one, he gathered up his possessions. The pouch he tied around his neck. He covered the sword and its sheath with his jacket, but kept his knives handy. First to check for patrols.
“Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc,” he said. “Ei rûf ane gôtter.”
The dusty air stirred into life, brushing against his cheek like a lover’s breath. A wisp of current, its scent like pine trees in winter, revived him, and for one exquisite moment, he could forget his weariness and a thirst so profound that his throat felt like sand. It was a risk, using magic, but less of a risk than stumbling into a pack of Veraenen soldiers. He would make a brief reconnaissance and then be gone.
“Komen mir de strôm unde kreft. Komen mir de zoubernisse.”
The magic current flickered stronger then weaker as his concentration wavered. Magic was like the ocean’s currents. Like the inexorable rhythm of life and death. Magic was Lir’s sweet exhalation, as she lay with Toc. Magic was completion.
“Lâzen mir de sûle. Vliugen himelûf. Ougen mir.”
The magic current spun through the narrow opening. A thread of perception connected magic with its wielder, and as the current rose toward the sky, Karasek saw the black expanse of night, a brilliant spangle of stars, a raptor floating high overhead. Higher yet, and he could pick out the buildings and walls of the garrison city, now washed in moonlight. Within, the souls of the inhabitants glowed. A few bright points, like suns among the stars, caught his attention. He recognized Valara Baussay’s magical signature.
I knew her before, in lives past.
The knowledge had come to him like a shock when his soldiers first brought the Morennioùen queen before him as a prisoner. She had been queen in that previous life, and he, he had been a representative of the empire.
The memories served no purpose, he told himself. He turned away from Osterling and commanded the magic to lift him away.
The current whirled him back toward the hills where his body lay. A blink, a shudder, and spirit rejoined flesh. Karasek drew a last breath of the magic current and savored its taste and smell. Then he spoke the words to wipe the surrounding area clean of his signature.
So. There were no patrols yet. Would there ever be? He had killed the only witness to his escape. Or so he had thought. He remembered throwing the girl to the ground, her head striking a stone. She lay so still, he thought she must be dead. But he had killed so many in the past few days, he might have misremembered. A careful soldier would have run her through with a sword. He used to be careful, before this mission.
Karasek rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. A month of dangerous travel stood between him and the border. From there, it would take him another ten days of hard riding to reach Rastov. Was that fast enough to satisfy the king?
