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Ilse lives. I know it. She and Baussay both.
He had last seen them on Hallau Island, when Karasek and his soldiers attacked at night. Karasek had seized Valara Baussay. The woman had fought free and leapt into Anderswar and the magical plane. Ilse had followed at once. A moment later, Karasek pursued them.
So what happened next?
He tapped his fingers together and closed his eyes. Baussay wanted to return home. She was desperate to take her throne and deal with the Károvín invaders. So, home to Morennioù. Except why hadn’t she done so long before? Why bargain with Raul at all?
I don’t know. I only know she must have been present in Zalinenka. She and Ilse.
He could picture a confrontation between the Morennioùen queen and Leos Dzavek. Baussay had tried to steal Lir’s ruby. He had prevented her. And Ilse …
I can’t think about that now. I have to trust that she and Baussay escaped. Otherwise, Benik would have heard that rumor, and there would be no question of who killed King Leos.
He turned to a more palatable mystery—that of Duke Miro Karasek. Why hadn’t he remained in Rastov with the other members of the council? Benik spoke of turmoil at court, rumors of assassins, and violent unrest throughout the capital city. Was it possible that Karasek still hunted for Ilse and the Morennioùen queen? Again, Raul needed more information.
Which brought him to the main point: Veraene itself. Armand of Angersee would soon have the same news from his own spies. With Leos Dzavek dead and Károví bereft of Lir’s ruby, Armand could make the case that now was the time to reclaim Károví for Veraene, for the empire. Raul knew Armand’s reasoning. Once—if—Veraene conquered Károví, Armand could declare war against other former provinces—Hanídos, Andelizien, or even those that had never completely submitted, such as Ysterien. From there he could expand northward to the old territories once ruled by the Erythandran tribes, abandoned when they rode south into the plains.
Except Károví would not submit so easily. It would be a costly, bloody war with no clear victory. His own father had used that argument with Baerne. Raul had attempted the same with Armand with less success. In the past few years, there were fewer and fewer in Duenne’s Council to speak against him or the King’s Mage. After Dedrick’s death, no one dared.
It is time and past to act.
He took out a sheet of paper and wrote swiftly.
Beloved Father, I wrote to you before, urg
ing you to attend court. I told you it was all the old reasons—the king’s senseless desire for war, the duplicity and ambition of his advisers. I could not say more, because I did not know more for certain myself. I advised you to watch, to listen, to use only the gentlest persuasion with the king because his unpredictable temper might harden his resolve instead of turning him aside.
I was wrong. We must, all of us, speak openly and urge the king to peace. If you can support me in this matter, I promise …
He paused, wondering what great promise his father would accept. What promise Raul knew he could keep. He crossed out the last few words and continued.
I will explain more once I see you at court. I have some matters to arrange in Tiralien first, but I shall arrive in Duenne within the next month.
He signed his name, then sealed the letter with wax and three layers of magic.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOR EMMA IANI, the summer season was her least favorite. Incipient thunderstorms hung above the city, and the air felt heavy and charged, as if wrapped in an excess of magic. This year was the worst that she could remember, stifling and hot, with a constant threat of storms that reflected her own anxious mood. If she were to write a poem about these days, the storm clouds would make a suitable metaphor for the kingdom and its politics.
But she had given over writing poems since Benno’s return from Duenne’s Court. Metaphors were too simple, too soft, and words mere lines of ink upon the page. Once she had believed the opposite, that words were sharp and dangerous weapons, but she had spent countless nights watching over Benno, waiting for the inevitable nightmares, ready to hold him in her arms, or remain quietly nearby, whichever he required. Words had not injured him, weapons of magic had. It had taken weeks before he could bear any mention of Duenne or the King’s Mage without weeping.
And so I give myself over to a life of nothing, Emma thought. To the elegant frivolity of musical evenings and conversations about inconsequentials.
Such as this gathering at the regional governor’s palace.
She surveyed the assembly hall where a dozen guests stood about in twos or threes, while a trio of musicians played a lilting recursive melody on water flutes. A very exclusive gathering, to be sure. Tall windows overlooked the city below and the moonlit seas beyond. Within, Lady Vieth had kept to the simplest furnishing so that nothing would distract from the guests themselves, all of them dressed in patterned silks cut in the highest fashion. Watching them, Emma had the impression of a costly jewel box and its gems.
Benno leaned close to her. “You are scowling.”
Emma consciously smoothed out her expression to one pleasantly bland. “It was a momentary discomfort, my love. If I might be so vulgar as to mention it, my feet ache.”
“Liar,” he murmured. “What is wrong?”
She glanced toward the other guests. All came from noble families of impeccable lineage, patrons of the arts, with fine sensibilities toward music. And—a point she had not missed—they were all famously apolitical. Emma had briefly wondered if Lady Vieth wished to mend Emma’s and Benno’s reputation after the events of the previous autumn, but it was far more likely the royal governor and his wife simply wanted an evening of exquisite music.
“I fear my jewels are not bright enough for this company,” she said quietly.
His mouth twisted in silent agreement. “We might go.”
