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“We are patrols for my Duke Karasek of Taboresk,” the woman said, “charged with keeping his domain secure. I ask again. Who are you?”
It was all wrong. This confrontation. The anger and suspicion, even before they had a chance to give the story Karasek had manufactured for them. Drawing a breath to steady her nerves, Ilse met the woman’s gaze.
“We come from Duszranjo at Duke Karasek’s invitation,” she said. “Ask him, if you doubt my word.”
The patrol members were whispering among themselves, but the woman herself did not change expression. “His grace is not here,” she said. “He last wrote to us from the capital, and he gave no news of visitors.”
“The duke wrote his steward, not his sentries,” Ilse replied.
Her answer provoked a tight smile. “I am Bela Sovic—captain of this patrol. The steward would notify me of expected visitors.” She glanced from Ilse to Valara, who sat uneasily on her horse, her hands flexing and unflexing around the reins. “Pardon my own caution, but do you have any mark of passage from my duke?”
“A letter.” Ilse gestured at the rain. “I would rather not open it here.”
“I can solve that difficulty.”
Sovic spoke again in Erythandran. The green scent of magic intensified as the silver nimbus expanded to enclose them both. It was like a cousin to the shield of secrecy Ilse had used more than once. Not far away, Valara watched the scene with a strange avid expression.
Sovic held out her hand.
Silently Ilse handed the letter to the woman.
The patrol captain examined the envelope with its neatly written address. Then she unfolded the paper, which Karasek had left unsealed, and read it through slowly. Her expression did not change, but when she glanced up, Ilse sensed a difference.
“My apologies, Lady Matylda. We’ve heard rumors of trouble in the region.”
Ilse nodded slowly. “I quite understand. We have met more than rumors ourselves.”
“Just so, my lady.” She returned the letter to Ilse, who tucked it back into her shirt. “We are not far from the duke’s household. No more than an hour. Can you manage that long, my lady?”
Ilse exchanged a glance with Valara, who nodded. “Better an hour of riding than a night in the wet.”
Bela’s mouth twisted in a smile. “So I’ve often thought. And you, my lady?”
Valara lifted her chin. “I can ride.”
One brief phrase, carefully chosen. Could Bela hear the false intonation?
Bela gave no indication of that, however. She scattered her magic to the air, then delivered a series of commands to her patrol. One rider rode ahead. The rest fell into formation around Valara and Ilse. Another command, and the company set forth.
* * *
ONCE THEY HAD cleared the next ridge, the patrol veered into a thicket of pine. The trail wound through the forest, dripping with rain, the trail muddy and uncertain. Their progress slowed and they rode single file. Only a madman—a Károvín madman—would attempt an assault on Taboresk’s heartland, Ilse thought. It was a telling detail, this attention to patrols in such a wilderness. If she weren’t so cold and wet, she might have attempted to work through the implications. As it was, she huddled inside her soaking cloak and kept her eyes upon the horse and rider in front of her.
Soon they came to the edge of the trees. Here the land dropped away abruptly. Ilse could just make out a trail, a dark ribbon snaking down through the rain-soaked grass.
“Very soon,” Bela said to Ilse.
The trail brought them down to a well-maintained road. The rain had eased, and the dark red of the setting sun broke through the clouds over the western horizon. They made faster progress then, trotting at times. At last they came to a high stone wall, interrupted by a formidable gate. As the patrol approached, two sentries emerged from a shelter, while three more were visible behind the gate. Far beyond, Ilse saw a massive building, its windows illuminated with golden light.
Karasek’s home.
She had expected a mansion, such as Raul Kosenmark’s, or a palace such as Lord Vieth’s in Tiralien. What she saw was more like a mountain, rising abruptly from the ground in turrets and towers all of blue-gray stone, with wings thrusting around the courtyard. She had the sense of entering the household of an ancient prince from the empire times.
An army of servants swarmed from the house. Some helped her and Valara to dismount. Others took possession of their horses. More servants unloaded their few saddlebags. An older man, with several attendants carrying rain screens, approached them. “My ladies. My name is Sergej Bassar, steward to the duke. Welcome, welcome to Taboresk.”
He led them through a set of wide double doors. The relief from wind and rain was painfully exquisite. Ilse had the blurred impression of a vast entry hall, laid with dark blue tiles, and a high-domed ceiling overhead. Around her the hum of servants, the glow of lamps, the corridors stretching out in all directions.
“The captain sent word ahead,” Bassar was saying. “I have rooms prepared for you both.”
