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“Has my cousin, the duke, arrived?” she asked.
“Last night, my lady.”
Good. She smiled at her maid. “Then I would like breakfast. Hot tea and bread, or whatever the cook has ready. And please send word to his grace that I would like an interview with him as soon as possible.”
Anezka’s eyes widened, but she merely replied she would do as her mistress required.
Once the girl left, Ilse closed her eyes and cursed Miro Karasek. He had planned for every circumstance with Leos Dzavek’s court, but beyond an introductory letter, nothing for his own household. She wished she had questioned him more closely during their last rendezvous in the wilderness. She wanted more clues to their supposed situation, what quarrels or loves or history lay between his mother and their fictitious family. Were his mother’s people nobles or landowners? Did they correspond regularly? So many tiny clues that could betray them all.
She brushed out her hair and wound it in a loose plait as she passed from night-cold bedroom to the parlor, where a generous fire burned. Too restless to sit, she continued to pace, working through how to address her concerns to Karasek. Now that she had delivered Valara Baussay to Taboresk, she could return to Veraene at once. Only how? And what of her own uncertain status? Alesso Valturri had arranged to disguise her disappearance as murder, but she could not be certain if Markus Khandarr had penetrated that ruse. She would have to arrive secretly and swiftly.
Her other difficulty lay within herself. She had promised Valara Baussay to accompany her back to Morennioù. Now all the reasons for that promise had vanished, but she knew Valara would insist she keep the vow.
She wants an ally, a witness to these past six months.
From what Ilse knew of Morennioù’s Court,
she could understand.
But I must go to Tiralien. I must tell Raul about the jewels.
A conflict of allegiances, to self, to kingdom.
Before she had made a dozen circuits, the girl returned with a tray laden with an enormous silver teapot and several covered plates, which she suspected contained more than just bread. Apparently the cook wished to provide a proper breakfast for the duke’s visitors. “Breakfast, my lady.”
“And the duke?” Ilse asked.
“He rides with his steward, my lady. On inspection.” Anezka laid the tray on the table and poured steaming tea into a round glass cup. “But he left messages for you and the Lady Ivana.”
She indicated an envelope, tucked beneath a plate.
The moment Anezka curtsied and withdrew, Ilse plucked up the letter. No magic or wax, she noted in passing. The letter itself was short, written in strong sure brushstrokes.
Lady Matylda Zelenka, My regrets for the misunderstanding with my sentries, and especially for my delayed arrival. I have begun arrangements for you and your sister to continue your journey to our cousins in the east. I hope to have more news by this afternoon. Until we meet again, you might find my library of interest. My stables are at your service as well. You have merely to send word to my steward or the stable master, so they can arrange for a horse and a proper escort.
—Miro Karasek
A public message, judging by the lack of protections, but she could read the private interpretation easily enough. He means to reassure us. He does not wish to speak with me alone. Not yet.
So. Which to choose? Ilse’s first inclination was to visit the library—to discover the enemy within his own domain. But then she remembered that Duke Karasek was riding on inspection. Perhaps she could arrange to encounter him.
First she applied herself to breakfast. Her appetite had awakened at the sight of the sumptuous meal the cook had provided: hot cakes spread with bittersweet jam, and tiny balls of egg yolk and grated cheese—the kind of breakfast Ilse’s grandmother had loved because the dishes reminded her of Duszranjo. Ilse ate to her fill, drank the tea, brewed hot and strong in the northern fashion, then called for her maid.
“I would like to ride,” Ilse said. “Please send a runner to the stables for a horse and escort. And leave word with my sister for when she awakes.”
That request, at least, did not provoke any surprise. Anezke sent off the requested runner toward the stables, then helped Ilse into a riding costume from the trunk the steward had supplied. These were much like the clothes Miro Karasek had acquired for them during their journey, but of a much finer cloth, and a much more elegant cut. Voluminous trousers of fine wool. A shirt of the same material, soft and embroidered along the collarless neckline. Another jacket that swept over her hips and flared outward like a gown. Someone had stitched up the hems to match her other clothes. The fit was loose, but it would do well enough for today.
A second runner guided Ilse down the staircases and through a broad hallway that led toward the rear of the house. Lamps illuminated all the passageways. Several fireplaces interrupted the smooth walls along the corridors, throwing out a bright welcome glare. Taboresk House was old, built close to the end of the empire, she guessed. She wondered what role the family had played in the wars.
How many of them did I know as a princess of Károví?
Ilse wiped a hand over her face. No time to speculate about past lives. She must press forward into the new.
She arrived at the stables to find Bela Sovic waiting by two dark brown mares, both saddled and ready. Several stable boys and girls, and a young man dressed in riding gear, stood off to one side.
Ilse paused. She took in the young man’s obvious irritation, the curiosity of the stable hands, and Sovic’s own sardonic smile. Her pulse leapt upward in alarm. Whatever she expected, she had not anticipated the patrol captain’s presence.
Sovic nodded. “My lady. I hear you wished to ride.”
