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Tears caught in her throat. She choked them down. Grief was another luxury that had no place in her life until she regained her kingdom.
She turned away from the useless fire and took a robe from its hook. One of dozens now, sewed with impossible haste by the troupe of seamstresses Karasek had hired. She wrapped the robe tight around her waist and tied it with its sash.
Barefoot, she stole from her rooms and glided through the maze of corridors to a balcony overlooking Taboresk House’s grandest hall. Her movements were slow and silent, as subtle as twilight in the north. She doubted anyone heard her. Even so, her breath came short as she sank to her knees to observe the scene below.
Three men sat in the hall by the enormous fireplace, in great carved chairs that offered more splendor than comfort. The winecups in their hands glittered in the fire and lamplight, like a cascade of stars amid the ordinary world. Two were strangers to her—an older man swathed in robes, his thin white hair cropped short, so that his dark skull showed through. The second, younger man, held forth in animated tones and gestures. The third sat motionless, his back toward her, but Valara recognized Miro Karasek easily. Faint strains of music echoed from a nearby chamber.
No one looked up. No one seemed the least aware that anyone watched them. Valara thought back to her own days in Morennioù Castle, even before she had become heir, to nights such as these, with music from invisible players and the illusion of privacy.
She shivered again, and the letter tucked inside her gown rustled. Valara did not need to examine it a second time. She already knew its contents: Grave news from Rastov. I will come to you as soon as possible.
Karasek had sent the message privately, shortly after the flood of rumors about these new visitors. At his request, she had not mentioned it to Ilse Zhalina, but the implications of that request sent another shiver through her body. The susurration of paper against paper reminded her of another night, another letter, from almost two years ago, when Jhen Aubévil wrote to proclaim his love. Poor Jhen. A captive of his father and the politics of Morennioù’s Court.
I loved him once. But that was long ago.
And yet he was her best friend.
From there her thoughts winged back to other evenings in Morennioù, when Giselle, her own senior maid, might have waited on the steps for Valara, listening to what took place below. Had Giselle survived the attack? Oh, but that was too painful to think about.
She stood slowly, her knees aching as if she were an old woman, and retreated to her rooms. There she rebuilt the fire in her parlor and lit a branch of candles. Silvered light overlaid the marble floor by the window. The rest of the room lay in shadows; the furniture merely darker shapes that she recognized more from memory than from sight. From far away came the tolling of an hour bell, plain and strong. Another hour at least until Karasek’s visit. She took a seat by the window and prepared to wait.
To distract herself, she forced herself to read a book of Károví’s early history, comparing this historical record with her own, admittedly fragmented memories of her past lives. The text held her attention better than she expected, so that when a soft tapping sounded at the door, she started up in surprise.
Karasek. She had almost forgotten him. However, it would not do to make any assumptions. Valara extinguished the candle and crossed to the door. “Who is it?”
“Miro. Let me in.”
She unlatched the door. He glided into the room, noiseless, like a wolf on the trail, and closed the door. “Come with me,” he whispered.
He touched her wrist—once, no more—indicating the couch opposite them. She followed him there, thinking that even in Taboresk he did not risk a whispered conversation so close to where someone might overhear.
“What is the news?” she asked. “Who are those men?”
“My cousin Ryba and Baron Gregor Skoch.”
The second name meant nothing to her. The first …
“He was your father’s heir once.”
A mistake. Karasek’s face went blank. A stranger might think him angry, but over the past week, she had learned to read his array of masks. Her words had called up some painful, private memory, and that unnerved her even more. “Yes, he was,” he said quietly. “For a time. Until I came back from Duszranjo.”
Another uncomfortable pause before he continued, “All that took place years ago. It’s not important, at least not for you. The news he and Skoch bring is, however. They have a formal letter from the council, signed by all its members, requiring my immediate presence in Rastov.”
He went on to explain Károvín politics. Skoch was a minor noble who had aligned himself with Duke Markov, an influential member of King Leos’s privy council. The most likely reason for a summons was that Markov, possibly others, suspected Karasek of treason. It was inevitable. Karasek had had so little time to prepare the grounds, to fabricate a convincing story about his movements the night Dzavek died. Markov remained in Rastov to secure his own position, but he had ordered Baron Skoch to escort Karasek back for a trial. Karasek did not call it that, but the implications were clear.
“Then you must go to Rastov and prove your innocence,” Valara said. “Ilse and I will ride to Lenov—”
“Not possible. Markov will have spies and guards on all the ports. He would not send a message before he did so. I know him.”
She drew a sharp breath at his bitter tone. “Then what? We cannot remain here.”
“Nor can you remain anywhere in Károví. You must risk the magical plane.”
“I told you before, I cannot—”
She broke off and shut her eyes, frightened at how close she had come to confessing. I cannot. Not unless I wish to place myself in his power entirely.
At last, Miro sighed and rose to his feet. “I must go in case someone sends for me.” But once at the door, he stopped with his hand on the latch and glanced back. “I will talk with my secretary tomorrow. Meanwhile, I will make a pretense of arranging to return with Skoch to Rastov. He is a clever man. He will have messengers ready to report if I refuse. I do not have a counterplan yet, but I will see what I can do. If anything … if anything goes wrong, I will come to you again. May I?”
