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To die for one’s kingdom demands courage, his father had said. But to live for one’s kingdom … that requires endurance.
Miro closed his fingers around the emerald. He had sworn allegiance to his kingdom. He would not break those vows. With a sigh, he tucked the emerald back into its pouch and set off once more. By midafternoon, he sighted a notch in the mountains—just a hazy golden smudge against the endless gray rock—but as he mounted higher, a thin ribbon of green showed beyond. Duszranjo. Károví. Home.
He marched faster. Had the captains written his name in the dead lists, or had they waited for infallible proof? He’d surprised the scouts more than once, returning from the impossible assignments his father had awarded him. His father would not witness this homecoming, but still Miro bent himself to the trail.
An hour before sunset, he gained the notch and a clear view of Duszranjo Valley. He dropped to his knees and sucked in a shuddering breath.
Duszranjo, the pearl within a granite sea. The Solvatni River wandered through the valley’s golden fields and dark green stands of pines, a thin silver ribbon far across the valley floor. A town had settled on its banks—a neat square of gray stone and muddy red bricks. That would be Dubro, judging by the nearby garrison. Closer by stood a shepherd’s hut. Herds of sheep moved across the slopes toward their enclosures, little more than blurred white shapes in the falling twilight.
He had lived here once, against his
will, from eight to thirteen, after his mother fled his father’s household. At thirteen, he had made his own escape, taking the wilderness roads east to rejoin his father at Taboresk. But somewhere in Duszranjo, Pavla Karasek still lived—an anonymous woman of means, her identity kept secret by unspoken agreement between his parents, now between him and his mother. Was she happier, he wondered. Did it matter?
On impulse, he lifted his hand to capture whatever magic would answer his summons.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm de zoubernisse.”
The darkening air glinted with magic, and its thick scent overpowered the pine resin, the fresh scent of new hay. Was it his imagination, or did magic shine more brightly here, along Duszranjo’s border? The touch comforted him, warmed him, but could not fill the clefts and voids within his contrary mind.
He released the current and it sighed into nothing. Still troubled, he made his way cautiously through the gloom toward the shepherd’s hut. Within a short while, he came to a low square building with light seeping around its shuttered windows. A dog barked loudly. Beyond, hidden in the darkness, bleating sheep milled around on the edge of panic.
Miro stopped. He heard voices whispering within the hut. They must think him a robber.
“I’ve lost my way,” he announced loudly. “I would ask the favor of your fire.”
The dog whined, then fell silent. The door opened. By the lamplight streaming through, Miro saw a young man, square-built and dark, one hand nervously gripping a long knife.
“Who are you?” said the man. “You’ll get nothing but a fight from us.”
Miro held his hands out to show they were empty. “My name is Duke Miro Karasek of Taboresk.”
A second man pushed to the front and held up a lantern. He was older, with a high forehead and iron-gray hair. The old man took in Miro’s appearance with a searching glance. His frown smoothed into surprise—and recognition. “Your grace. Welcome.” He beckoned Miro inside. “Fedor, stand aside for the duke.”
Miro stumbled. Someone caught hold of his arms—Fedor, most likely. The young man helped him into the cottage and onto a stool. Miro found a mug of hot tea in his hands. The tea was bitter and keen and hot. He drank deeply, grateful for its warmth, and for the presence of others.
“I need a message taken to Dubro,” he said. “I must let them know I’ve returned.”
“At once, your grace.”
There was a murmured conversation between the old man and his grandson, then Fedor was gone, taking the lantern with him. The old man refilled Miro’s mug. With more tea, he felt the cold melt away from his bones; his muscles relaxed. He was in danger of falling asleep, when he remembered the shepherd’s curious expression of recognition.
“You know me,” he said.
The old man hesitated, and his glance slid to one side. “I recognized your father, my lord. Thirty years ago, it was. I was a soldier from the conscripts. Matus is my name. Your father ran the garrison tight, he did. Kept the smugglers and bandits tame. He left a good name for himself here.”
Yes and no. There had been a minor scandal, when this king’s officer and nobleman had married a Duszranjen woman. Did the shepherd know the ending to that story?
The old man Matus looked nervous, as if he feared he had angered the nobleman’s son. Miro roused himself from memories to ask about Matus’s family, and about life in this remote province. He drank cup after cup of bitter hot tea and listened to tales of marauding wolves, mountain panthers (Miro’s father had died, hunting one), and the illicit trade between the northern kingdoms. The old man mentioned rumors about war. News about troop maneuvers had filtered to the populace, obviously, and so they worried, imagining more and less than what actually happened.
They were still talking about those rumors when hoofbeats sounded outside. The garrison must have sent an escort back with Fedor. Matus opened the door to a lean gray-haired man, who ducked under the doorframe. Not just any escort, this man wore a captain’s insignia stitched over his heart.
“Donlov.”
Grisha Donlov crossed the room and knelt at Miro’s feet. “Your grace.”
There was profound relief in Donlov’s tone. So others had expected, or hoped for, Karasek’s death. Those speculations could wait. Miro stood and gestured for the man to rise, saying, “No formalities, Grisha. We’re not at court.”
Donlov grinned, a wolfish grin that creased his weathered face. “Not yet, your grace.” He nodded to old Matus. “Grandsir, I left your son with a full plate and a full mouth. One of my men will ride him back when he’s done. He eats like a soldier, that one.”
