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There was a pause. Then, that high familiar voice said, “Come in.”
Kosenmark’s appearance shocked Gerek. The man’s face was bruised. His eyes were sunken, as if he’d not slept in days, and the once-faint lines beside them were etched deeper and stronger. It was then that Gerek realized he had seen no sign of Ilse Zhalina or anyone else except the guards from Kosenmark’s own household.
Take care when you speak with him, Ada had said.
Gerek bowed. “My lord.”
Kosenmark studied him with those great golden eyes. “I did not expect you.”
“There were … difficulties, my lord.”
“Ah.” A tiny smile lightened Kosenmark’s expression. It vanished quickly. “Just as well. As you perceive, our agenda has changed somewhat.”
He pointed to a wooden box with symbols burned onto the lid. The box was clearly a makeshift creation, unpolished and rough, but Gerek recognized the signs for a box of the dead. His breath came short. Ilse Zhalina’s?
Kosenmark must have interpreted his thoughts, because his mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “She is not dead. At least, she did not die in battle. No, this was a soldier of the kingdom, who gave her life defending me. I would bring her ashes to her family, except that her family already believes her dead. I shall have to think over what to do.”
His voice died away and his gaze went diffuse. He appeared oblivious—or indifferent—to Gerek’s presence, and it took Gerek several moments before he could bring himself to speak and break that reverie. “What comes next, my lord?”
That distant gaze went blank a moment and then returned to the present. Kosenmark smiled, almost naturally. “We go home. I have a few promises to keep. And we prepare for the future, whatever it holds.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FIRE. MAGIC. CONFLAGRATION.
Ilse gripped her sword, ready to ward off the next blow, but none came. The battle had vanished. No, she had vanished from the battle, translated by magic into Anderswar’s plane. She still heard its echoes in her ears, still saw ghostlike images flickering before her eyes, like memories come to life. You are not true, she told them. You are base illusions, sent to frighten me.
As if Anderswar heard her thoughts, the images faded. She was alone, with flames and fog and the lights from a thousand worlds wheeling beneath her feet. Ilse swallowed, tasting grit and ashes from that faraway campfire on Hallau Island.
Onward, she told herself.
One step, another. The worlds shuddered and spun. She ignored them. Far ahead—if distance mattered here—she had glimpsed movement in the shadows. A third step and the shadow resolved into a tall figure striding along the bright-lit edge. Valara.
“Valara!” she called out.
Valara paid her no heed. She strode faster, sending the current whirling around her. Fox and stars, the signatures were unmistakable. Impossible, Ilse thought. No one had a double signature. And then realization came to her—the woman had a magical device. Something powerful enough that it made its own separate impression.
Ignoring the chasm on either side, Ilse raced forward and seized Valara above her elbow. Valara tried to shake off Ilse’s grip, but Ilse’s fingers tightened around that bone-thin arm. “We must go back,” she said. “Valara, do you hear me? We must go back.”
Her last glimpse of the fight had been of Raul, his face covered with blood, fighting off three attackers. It was impossible for him and his guards to defend themselves against the Károvín for very long. If they were quick enough, if they hadn’t lost hours—or days—they might surprise the Károvín and overcome them with magic.
“No.” Valara’s voice was rough and quick. “You can go back to die if you like. But I won’t. Not this time. Not again—”
She broke off with an exclamation. Her chin jerked up and she had a wild fey look in her eyes. “He came. I should have expected that. He would not let death stop him from pursuing me.” Then in a softer voice, “Only an order from his king could turn him aside.”
Ilse glanced over her shoulder.
Clouds roiled up from an invisible horizon, a vast expanse of silver and white in constant motion. Even as she tried to make out what caught Valara’s attention, a dark shadow appeared against the bright mist, like an ink spot dropped onto snow. The spot grew larger, becoming the figure of a man, holding a sword. A breeze from nowhere ruffled the man’s dark hair, sending a trace of his magical signature toward them. She had met that same signature in lives past …
“He’s one of the soldiers,” she said.
Valara’s lips drew back in a snarl. “Oh yes. His name is Karasek. He led the invasion against my people.” She yanked free of Ilse’s hold. “Come with me or not. But I will not let that man take me prisoner again.”
She dived into the chaos below. Ilse barely hesitated before she dived after her.
… their world tilted upside down. A thrumming filled her ears. She had a vision of islands scattered over wine-dark seas. She knew them, had sailed to their shores in a different life. It was the lost kingdom of Morennioù. Valara Baussay was fleeing homeward …
A voice rang out, a great harsh bell-like voice, so loud her bones vibrated. No and no and no, it cried. You must deliver us all …
