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“Why? And why aren’t you at the harbor?”
“Not time yet. Please, Ilse. It’s important.”
“Then come inside. We can talk—”
Galena shook her head. “No. Out here.”
A trap, Ilse thought.
She considered notifying the guards. Her instincts warned against that. It might be nothing more than Galena wanting reassurance.
“Go to the side door,” she said. “The one directly below. I’ll meet you there.”
She pulled on a robe and took up the candle from her desk. Its dish was deep enough to keep the wax from spilling over her hand, but she could only walk swiftly, not run as she wished, down the stairs. Luckily, no house guards or runners were about.
She opened the door. Galena stood a few feet away.
“Come outside.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“Nothing!”
A lie. Ilse was about to shut the door, when she sensed a change in the night air. A whiff of green. An impression of a furtive wild animal.
She threw the candle onto the stones and flung up both hands. “Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.”
Magic sparked against magic, an explosion of bright cold fire. Ilse staggered backward. A double signature washed over her. A hunting fox. A silver blaze far brighter than the cold fire she had summoned to protect herself. She whispered Erythandran through numb lips. Her tongue unlocked and she could speak the words to release the magic flooding her veins.
The fire faded, the current ebbed away. Ilse rubbed a hand over her eyes. The door into the courtyard swung on its hinges. It was silent in the pleasure house. No one had raised the alarm. Cautiously she approached the open door.
Outside, moonlight spilled over the paving stones. The heavy scent of magic hung in the air. Shards of broken pottery littered the ground, and a coil of smoke still rose from the candle wick drowning in a pool of wax. Off to one side, Galena crouched on hands and knees. Farther away, a figure lay at full length.
Ilse hurried past Galena and knelt by the body. The throat felt warm to her touch. The pulse beat steadily. And yes, here was the source of that first magical signature, the one that reminded her of a wild dog or a fox. Long loose hair covered the face. Ilse brushed the hair aside and drew a swift breath. A woman. Not anyone that Ilse recognized. The stranger wore a thin cotton shirt and trousers beneath a much-too-large tunic.
“Who is she?” she said.
“One of the prisoners,” Galena answered. “I caught her in the streets.”
She said it so casually—too casually. Along with realization came another.
“One of those from Károví?” Ilse said. “Why did you bring her to me?”
Galena seemed oblivious to what she had revealed. She answered in a disgusted tone, “It was that damned magic. She caught me by surprise and knocked me out. Took my knives and sword. Wanted me to smuggle her past the soldiers on watch. You know magic. I thought you could help. And you did.”
One of Dzavek’s soldiers who knew magic. Ilse took the woman’s hand and ran her fingers over the palm. Smooth. No sign of calluses. Hands fine-boned. Wrists like reeds. This woman had never wielded a sword. She wore leather wrist sheaths with knives, but the sheaths were far too large, loose and clumsily tied so they wouldn’t fall off. Was she some kind of adjutant, a mage assigned to the army?
Galena lurched to her feet and grunted in pain. “Damn. Ilse, we need to send a runner to the garrison. I can walk, but I can’t carry her back myself.”
“Wait,” Ilse said. “Don’t call anyone yet.”
Galena stared down at her. “What?”
“Bring her inside. I want to talk to her.”
“Are you mad?”
She was mad to ask such a thing. But instinct said if she could question this mysterious prisoner, she might discover the reason behind Dzavek’s mission to the east. She could send word to Raul Kosenmark.
