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“Bring her inside,” she repeated, “and I’ll pay you back in whatever favors you like. Talk to Lord Joannis. Beg him to commute your sentence. Convince him to transfer you to another garrison. Anything.”
Lies. She had no influence. Tomorrow she might be dead or witless. From Galena’s long silence, Ilse suspected the young woman had guessed the truth. If persuasion didn’t work, she would have to use violence. She was about to whisper the magic words to summon the current, when Galena jerked her chin to one side. “You promise? You’ll speak to Lord Joannis?”
“I promise.”
Galena met Ilse’s gaze fleetingly. “Then … I’ll do it. But only for a few moments, Ilse. After that I must send word to the garrison. Where do we take her?”
“My rooms. Quick. One of the house guards might pass by.”
Between them, they dragged the woman into the pleasure house. The stairs—narrow and steep—almost undid them. Their captive was limp and unresisting, and her legs thumped loudly over the steps. Finally Galena slung the body over her shoulder and hauled herself and her burden up the stairs in spite of her injured leg. Ilse ran ahead to make certain no one was about.
At last Galena staggered through the doors into Ilse’s rooms. She slid the woman onto the rug, while Ilse fastened the door with lock and magic, then lit a branch of candles with a whispered word of magic. She turned to find Galena tight-lipped with pain. “It’s nothing,” Galena told Ilse. “Just, I slipped when she took me by surprise. We better search her for weapons. I know she took my knives. She might have more surprises.”
They examined their captive, working methodically from the obvious to the hidden. The wrist sheaths came off first. “Thief,” Galena muttered. She extracted two more knives from inside the woman’s tunic, which she restored to her belt and boot.
Ilse made a cursory search with magic, but detected no traps or set spells. Nor did she uncover any more weapons. To her surprise, she found a handful of coins tied into the tunic’s bottom hem. She deposited the money to one side and examined the body a second time, this time searching for clues to the stranger’s identity. With a touch, she turned the woman’s face toward the candlelight. Their captive was young—far younger than Ilse had expected, given her powerful magic. Only a few years older than Ilse herself. Her complexion a clear golden brown, much like Raul’s. But with those flattened cheeks and nose, hers was clearly not a Veraenen face. Nor was it Károvín. It belonged to no province or kingdom she could think of.
She’s no soldier. She’s the foreigner. The prisoner from Morennioù.
Except for the weapons and money, the woman had nothing out of the ordinary except a polished wooden ring on one finger. Odd that the guards had not removed it before. Ilse tugged the ring off and turned it over in her hands. Very plain. Carved from a dark wood, which felt silk-soft to her touch, the ring felt strangely heavy for such a small object. And there were clear traces of magic.
The woman’s eyes blinked open. With
a strangled cry, she lunged toward the ring. Galena grabbed the woman’s wrists and shoved her back to the floor, her elbow pressed against the woman’s throat. Ilse threw the ring aside and snatched up one of the knives. She pressed its point under the woman’s ear. “Do not attempt any magic,” she said. “You would be dead before you spoke a syllable.”
The woman opened her mouth. Galena immediately leaned closer, cutting off her words.
“Don’t kill her,” Ilse murmured.
“Why not? She’d kill us.”
Possibly. The woman glared at them both. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth, and she breathed in quick, noisy breaths, like a ferocious animal brought to bay. Terror and desperation. A dangerous combination.
Ilse bent over the woman, until her face was inches away. She noted a tattoo on the woman’s cheek, on the outside corner of her eye, drawn in a reddish-brown ink. Another under her bottom lip had faded into near invisibility. She wished she knew what they signified.
“I have questions for you,” she said slowly in Veraenen. “You will give me answers. But first, let me tell you what I already know.”
She waited. The woman’s eyes narrowed in obvious suspicion. Interesting that she could be so self-possessed, in spite of the situation. But she was listening. Good.
“You came with Károvín soldiers,” Ilse went on. “But you are not Károvín. You are Morennioùen. A mage, obviously. Someone very important. A member of their court, I would say. Leos Dzavek sent his ships to your kingdom to recover a particular item of great value to you both.”
Guesses, all of them. But she had the satisfaction of seeing confirmation in the woman’s reaction. The signs were few—just a flicker of her eyelids, a sudden still remoteness. It was enough to tell Ilse she had guessed correctly.
She smiled at their captive, keeping her satisfaction deeply buried. “You do not need to speak. I know my information is correct. Now for my questions. You were a prisoner. Did a man named Lord Markus Khandarr question you? He is tall and thin, his hair is gray. He is a mage. Don’t lie. If he spoke with the other prisoners, he would not neglect you. Tell me what happened. Let her speak,” she said to Galena.
As Galena relaxed her hold, the woman swallowed audibly. Her irises, wide in the dim light, contracted as she turned toward Ilse and the candlelight. “Who are you?”
Her voice was low, rough. She spoke Veraenen with a lilting intonation.
“My name isn’t important,” Ilse said. “Answer my question.”
Silence.
“Do you wish me to send for Lord Khandarr? Galena—”
“No!” The woman made a convulsive movement. “No. Please.”
“Speak, then. Your name?”
