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After some argument, Miro persuaded the old man to accept a handful of coins for his hospitality. Then he and Donlov went outside to where Donlov had left two horses tied to a post. Donlov relit the lantern he’d brought along. By its light, they picked their way between the sheep pens into the fields leading toward the river.
“You made good speed,” Miro commented.
“I’d’ve made better in daylight, your grace.”
“Next time, I’ll wait until morning. What brought you to Dubro?”
“Orders. Duke Markov wanted a firsthand account of our garrisons in Duszranjo. The king agreed.”
Markov, Dzavek’s other general. Interesting. “Any news then?”
“None. Unless you bring us some, your grace.”
Miro glanced at his companion. Grisha Donlov’s attention seemed wholly on their path, but Miro could tell by the tilt of his head the man listened intently for his reply. Rumors about his mission must have percolated downward.
“Whatever news I have belongs to the king, Captain.”
“Of course, your grace.” Donlov’s tone betrayed no disappointment. He was a good soldier, and a loyal one. “So you go directly back to Rastov?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll need a fast horse, provisions, and an escort.”
Donlov saluted. “That you will have, your grace.”
* * *
THEY REACHED THE garrison without incident. The commander, an old friend of Miro’s father, provided Miro with a generous supply of new clothes and weapons. He had also arranged for an escort, mounted and fully provisioned, with Grisha Donlov at their head.
The following afternoon, they set off.
The company rode hard for eight days. Miro felt a peculiar haste driving him onward, through the narrow mountain roads, to the highways leading to Rastov and Zalinenka. Once they reached the open plains, they could gallop from garrison to garrison, taking fresh mounts at each stop. Overhead, the pale blue sky stretched into a dizzying arc, and at night its black expanse glittered with stars brighter and colder than Miro remembered. With every mile north, he had the impression he rode just ahead of the greening spring.
Soon the highway rejoined the Solvatni River. Cities replaced the farms and outpost villages, and within another week, Miro sighted Rastov’s dark red domes on the horizon. They gained its outer gates that same evening. Guards saluted Miro as he rode past. He returned the gesture absently, his thoughts now fixed on Leos Dzavek and his own report.
He touched a hand to his breast. Success. And failure.
Streetlamps dotted the avenues, and in the larger squares, the buildings were bright with candles and more lamplight. Despite the approach of dusk, Rastov’s streets were crowded with merchant caravans and cargo wagons. The wine shops, taverns, and inns also looked busy with customers, whose faces might appear angry or sullen or carefree, but none was anxious. The rumors of war might be unique to the borderlands.
Solvatni Square was empty, and its many government buildings were dark. The previous year, lamps had illuminated every window past midnight. That was before the invasion.
Miro and his company crossed the bridge to the king’s castle. Word must have preceded them, because the guards were already at attention, and attendants waited inside the courtyard. Miro gave his horse over to a stable hand. With a brief farewell to Donlov, he crossed the final distance to enter
the castle.
More guards saluted, and servants approached to take his cloak and gloves. Across the marbled entrance hall, Miro saw Duke Šimon Cernosek and Duke Feliks Markov walking together toward the audience halls.
The Scholar and the Brigand. He paused, disconcerted by the unexpected encounter. Cernosek happened to glance in his direction. He leaned toward Markov and spoke. Markov shrugged, as if indifferent to the news, but Miro noted how the man’s mouth tensed briefly. Subtle signs from a subtle man.
We shall have to speak honestly, one of these days.
Not today, however. A runner in the royal livery appeared at Miro’s side. “Your grace. The king awaits you in his private offices.”
“At once,” Miro said, with a last glance toward the pair.
He hurried after the runner, up the several winding staircases, and through the broad public halls, until they reached the king’s private wing. There the runner withdrew. The guards outside the king’s chamber announced his arrival.
In spite of the late hour, the king was immersed in the business of his kingdom, and surrounded by a host of servants, retainers, and members of his court. A scribe knelt at his feet, taking notes. Others hovered nearby, and several courtiers stood at the edge of the room, which blazed with light from the enormous fireplace. A chandelier hung from the ceiling; its dozens of candles, each enclosed in glass globes, poured more light over the room. The glass divided the light into a pale rainbow, scattering a suggestion of color over the white marbled floor.
At Miro’s entrance, Dzavek waved a hand. The courtiers and servants withdrew, and the guards shut the door, leaving Miro alone with his king.
