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On the bed to her left, s
omeone had laid out clean clothes and other necessary items, all of them sized for Ilse. Next to the bed she found her old gear from Tiralien—leather armor, wrist sheaths, even the metal helmet she used for weapons drill on those days when Benedikt Ault pushed her exceptionally hard. I love him, she thought. All over again. He does not come to rescue me. He comes to deliver me weapons.
Ilse changed into a new shirt and trousers, and lay down on her pine mattress. The crushed scent of needles reminded her of magic’s green scent. Magic, that rare and dangerous current, and yet the ordinary world was filled with reminders of its presence. Crushed grass, the tang of forests, the rich perfume of new blossomed wildflowers. Was it, as the old scholars insisted, only a matter of setting your gaze in the right direction? And if that were true, why were so many blind to it?
Rain pattered against the tent ceiling, a rhythmic tap-tapping that emptied her thoughts. Eventually, she slept.
* * *
SHE DREAMED OF rain drumming against canvas, against doors and windowpanes. Gradually the rain faded away and she walked in silence through dreams of a milk-white palace. Narrow windows showed a night sky salted with stars. Snow hushed against the stone walls outside. And everywhere hung the scent of magic.
A prince of Károví sat opposite her, his lean dark face intent upon the book between them. It is a matter of discipline, he said.
His eyes were large and bright, like a bird’s. He wore a ruby in one ear, a sapphire set into his cheek. She touched the smaller emerald in her own cheek. Its presence chafed, but she willed away these thoughts and concentrated on the text, an antique volume that one of the diplomats from the Erythandran Court had brought as a gift to her, in recognition of her position as the affianced bride to the Károvín heir. She had showed it to Leos because she respected his opinion in scholarly matters. As usual, they had begun to argue.
Discipline is but one ingredient, she said. You know that, Leos.
Talent, he said with a dismissive gesture.
Not talent alone, she replied. Honor plays a role. So does heart. No, do not scoff, Leos. There are cases throughout history that support my theory that magic is both act and consequence. Imagine if you were that wizard who discovered Lir’s jewel—except “discovered” is too soft a word for what he did.
It doesn’t matter what he did. He served his king.
No, she said. He captured the magic for himself. He took the gift of magic and entrapped it inside a dead stone for his own glory. He paid a terrible price—
She stopped at his expression. You know nothing about him, he said coldly. He rose, taking up the book as he did so. Thank you for the gift. I will treasure it.
He stalked away, his gait unnaturally awkward. She did not have the courage to remind him the gift had been intended for her. She glanced out the window, to the vista of rooftops and the plains beyond. Clouds passed before the sun, casting the room into shadow. It had begun to snow, in spite of the spring season, the flakes coming down large and wet against the expensive glass panes of the window.
She woke to the trill of running water. The air inside the tent was warm and close. The scent she smelled was crushed grass drenched in rain. Ordinary things from an ordinary world, but still her pulse beat an uncomfortable tattoo as she took in the implications of her dream. She and Dzavek, together, in the days before Károví broke away from the empire. Why had she never dreamed of him before?
Oh. But I have.
She recalled the image of Dzavek’s face as he turned away—an image she had dreamed a hundred times without understanding its import. And another dream, of darkness and torchlight and a blade flashing toward her throat. There was even the moment when she had glimpsed her grandmother’s life dream, to see herself in the same white palace. Fragments only, and yet if she had had the wit to piece them together, she might have understood her part in this spectacle.
But no, I only thought how my life had intersected with Raul’s.
The thought of Raul drove away all dreams.
She sat up. His mattress was empty. His clothes from the day before lay folded at the bottom, and the mattress showed signs he had slept beside her. The blankets themselves held none of his warmth, but a faint trace of Raul’s unmistakable scent lingered in the cloth, the same she had breathed in the night before in the deserted warehouse. It was like finding traces of a ghost.
Then she heard voices not far away—a man’s and a woman’s.
She crawled from the tent into the twilight. The ground was wet through, and more rain dripped from the trees. Clouds mottled the sky. A red smudge ran along the western horizon. She had slept the day through.
Raul sat alone with Valara Baussay by a low-burning fire in the center of the campsite. A kettle of venison stew hung from a metal rod, set between two stakes. There was also a pot of coffee set beside the fire to keep warm. It had a burnt smell, which told Ilse the others had been awake an hour at least. None of the guards were in the camp.
A bucket of water stood by the tent. Ilse rinsed her mouth and splashed more over her face. Then she approached the other two.
“Have you held a conference without me?” she asked.
Raul smiled tightly. “Hardly. You are the linchpin of our discussions, after all.”
His voice was high and edged. And Valara’s face was too deliberately bland.
“I am no linchpin,” she said. “Merely a participant.”
Raul smothered a laugh. Valara shook her head. Interesting.
