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A wall of blue fire illuminated the horizon. Two shadows stood before it, tiny dark dots before that glaring light. One shadow turned. He recognized Valara Baussay’s profile and the way she lifted her chin.
Her gaze met his. Miro sheathed his sword and lifted one hand. Hers lifted halfway. She stopped herself, leaned close to her companion. There was a blur of motion which he could not follow. The next instant, both vanished into the fire.
Miro ran forward along the edge between worlds. Stopped himself. The queen might flee through a hundred different paths, he told himself. In the end, however, she would return to her home. If he pursued her, he might—would—lose a month or longer to magic and its realms.
That decided him. He spun away from the void and into the maelstrom below. Károví, Károví, Károví, he chanted.
A muffled chorus of wails and gibbers rose up from the depths. Darkness pressed against him. His flesh turned heavy, heavy, heavier, until he lost his balance and plunged an immeasurable depth, to land on his hands and knees. His stomach lurched against his chest. He swallowed. Gradually took in a few more details. Wet. Mud. (Mud? Such an ordinary thing.) An ache shot up his arms, as though he had fallen a much greater distance than he had first estimated.
It took him even longer to recover his bearings, to focus his eyes. Which world had he landed upon? He might have misjudged, might have plunged into another time or another place far removed from the one he knew.
He drew a deep breath. His sense of smell told him the truth. The fragrance of clover struck him first, of spring mixed with snow, and far away, the newly flowered památka. These and all the other scents he knew from Károví’s northern plains. He rubbed a hand over his eyes to clear them. A m
uddy plain stretched out before him. Above arced the pale blue sky of his homeland. Károví, yes. He almost laughed with delight and relief. And there, not a mile away, the walls of a garrison.
* * *
RAUL SWUNG HIS sword up to meet the next blow. A burst of magic illuminated the plaza. His vision blurred. He saw a mass of shadows against the brilliance. The shadows wavered, separated into three. Two vanished. A moment later, the third and last followed.
Then a bright shape arced upward. He met the blade with his own. For a long moment, he strained to hold his sword against the enemy, while all around, the magic current sparked and buzzed. When his vision cleared, he saw he faced a tall Károvín, a man nearly as tall as he was, but of a wiry build, obvious in spite of the layers of leather armor. The man’s dark face gleamed with sweat; gray stubble along his jaw gleamed in the moonlight.
Everyone—Veraenen and Károvín alike—had frozen in momentary confusion. Kosenmark swiftly scanned the immediate area. There were several down, including Detlef. He could not tell if Ilse were among the dead and wounded. An inner voice whispered she had escaped, chasing after Valara Baussay. He almost laughed, until he remembered the third shadow. A Károvín must have dared the leap to follow them.
If he had possessed the skill, he would have done the same that instant. No. He would not. He could not desert his soldiers on this desolate island.
“Are you stuffed full of battle yet?” he said in Károvín to his opponent. “Or do you want to fight on?”
He caught a passing expression of surprise on the man’s face, followed by a studied blankness. “Not part of my orders,” the other replied.
It was his voice.
I should be used to it by now, Raul thought. And yet I am not.
“So,” he replied gruffly. “What were your orders? To start a war with Veraene?”
That provoked a harsh laugh, broken off. “Oh no.”
Raul took in the man’s military bearing, his reticence, and came to his own conclusions. “You are the king’s soldiers. You came here for a purpose, and she is no longer here. Never mind whether I am right or not. Tell me— No, do not tell me anything except this—did your commander give you further orders?”
The other man hesitated, then said, “No.”
Kosenmark released a breath—the moment of trust had come—and slowly lowered his sword. “A truce then. Agreed?”
The Károvín nodded. “Agreed.”
There was the usual grumbling but soon enough, both sides withdrew, Károvín on one side of the square, Veraenen on the other, the dead and wounded scattered in between. The Károvín leader made a quick inspection of his people, then returned. “My name is Grisha Donlov,” he said. “Captain Donlov. Do you need a mage-healer?”
“Mine is Raul Kosenmark. Yes, we do.”
The aftermath took much longer than the battle itself. The Károvín and Veraenen worked together to sort out the dead and wounded. Katje had died in the first onslaught, as had Johannes and two of the fishermen. Detlef had taken a sword thrust to his belly. He would not survive the night, the Károvín healer told Raul. She was more a soldier than a healer, older than Raul, but only by a few years. For the dead, she called down the magic current to turn each body into ashes. For those who lived and suffered, she stayed by their sides to give such comfort as she could.
Raul visited each of his own wounded. The tally was less than he had feared. Gervas had taken a blow to the head, but other than a temporary deafness, he would be fit for duty the next morning. Others had bruises or cuts, which he or the Károvín healer dealt with. He checked over the dead twice. There was no sign of Ilse Zhalina or Valara Baussay.
Near the end, he came to the body of a young woman, dressed in secondhand clothes from his own stores, with a helmet set askew. The Károvín had carried her into the plaza from down the avenue.
Galena Alighero.
Her face was slick with blood. More blood soaked her clothes. Raul counted a dozen wounds on her body. She had fought on despite them. It was the deep gash across her throat that had bled her dry.
