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She extinguished the candle and set it on the floor, then eased the door open.
In the short interval since she left her room, the skies had brightened to pale gray. The stars had vanished. Scraps of clouds raced high overhead. A breeze grazed her face. It was like that moment when she diverted a portion of the magic current from the invisible to the visible world.
Though Ilse had never visited the yard before, she knew what to expect from conversations with the sentries. Several weapons racks stood near the entrance, along with a chest for other supplies. She selected a sword, belt, and scabbard. Next the smallest wrist sheath she could find. She fastened the belt over her jacket and slid the sword into its scabbard. The wrist sheath fit well enough. She turned back to the weapons rack to examine the knives when she heard the faint echo of footsteps outside the wall.
A patrol? Someone arriving early to practice alone?
Ilse snatched up two knives and ran soft-footed and silent to the door. Once through, she caught up the candle and hurried into the nearest side corridor. She slumped against the wall, shaking in panic. It took her two tries before she could slide one knife into its sheath. The other went into her boot. The next moment, she pushed away from the wall and was running through the silent passageways. This turn, then this, across this hall and into the wing that led to the stables.
Her steps slowed. Here was the next danger point.
By well-established habit, she rode every morning, but the hour was markedly earlier than other days. Would the stable master question her? Or would he still be at his breakfast, leaving the boys and girls to do her bidding? They might be curious, but they would not stop her from riding out.
An hour, that is all I ask.
To her relief, a single boy kept watch. While he set to work saddling her regular mount, Duska, Ilse noted the several new horses for Karasek’s visitors. One was an especially tall stallion, long-legged and wide-chested—a horse built to gallop. A second seemed of equally fine pedigree, but it was shorter and broader, suited for a heavier rider. From what Anezka had told her, the visitors had come with a sizable retinue, but the other horses were stabled in the village.
“My lady.”
The boy offered her the reins. Ilse accepted his assistance in mounting. Then she was out the doors and riding through the gates.
* * *
SHE RETRIEVED THE gear from two caches by sunrise. If nothing else, she now had weapons and blankets and tinderbox, plus miscellaneous items for trapping game in the wild. She paused long enough to drink from a mountain stream and fill her waterskin with more. She badly wanted a cup of hot coffee or tea, but she did not dare to stop for so long. She had to be away from the valley within the next hour. By then, her maid would discover Ilse’s absence and alert the household.
It was like running away from Melnek—the sickening terror, the endless calculations of when and where and how long. Karasek had sympathized with her situation, but she understood about the demands of one’s own kingdom. She had to reach Raul Kosenmark and tell him of the jewels. Karasek … He had his own loyalties and his own ambitions.
By the time the sun had lifted above the hills, she had arrived at the third and last cache. As with the other two, she examined the site. No new prints from horse or human. No sign anything had been disturbed.
Ilse dismounted and tethered Duska to a sturdy sapling, then carefully searched for any trace of magic. Karasek was an expert mage—he could erase his signature, and all signs of his magical presence—but Ilse was certain he had not had the opportunity. From all she heard of Skoch from the servants, the man knew nothing of magic, nor did he employ any mages. Even so, she ran her hands over the dirt, listening with all her senses. Nothing. No traps, magical or otherwise.
She had just dragged the last saddlebag free, when she heard the unmistakable creaking of a branch drawn taut. She started to her feet, her hand going by instinct to draw her sword.
Nothing. Only the hiss of leaves against leaves. But Duska’s ears pricked up and her nostrils flared. She swung her head to the left. A wolf? One of Karasek’s patrols taking an unaccustomed route home? No, not the latter. Duska would
know those horses and those guards. Which meant …
A single man on foot appeared on the western trail. Behind him five riders followed. Ilse took in all the essentials in one glance. They were all men in their middle years. Hard-faced. Dressed in dark uniforms of leather and steel, equipped with brightly polished armor and weapons. No brigands, these. These were soldiers. She grabbed a handful of dirt and rocks and shouted to the gods.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter! Ane Lir unde Toc!”
Magic burst into the clearing, bright and blinding. Ilse shielded her eyes and flung the dirt at the closest man. He stumbled backward, little more than a blurred shadow in the haze of magic. Ilse darted forward and slashed at his throat. He went down with a garbled cry. Now a shadow loomed to Ilse’s left. She retreated, swinging her sword to block any attack. Her cheek stung. Her arm throbbed unexpectedly. Now she felt the wet warm rush of blood.
She called out again.
“Komen mir de strôm. Komen mir de viur.”
Fire rained upon the soldiers. Horses and riders fell to the ground, writhing and bubbling. Duska squealed and lunged away from the battle. Another lunge and she broke free, running down the hillside. Ilse fell to her knees, retching. Dimly she heard the thudding of more hoofbeats. Then a single set of footsteps marching toward her.
Ilse fumbled for her sword. Then stared at the unexpected sight of Bela Sovic standing over one of the bodies, frowning in concentration. Bela’s own horse stood still and impassive, as if such a scene were nothing extraordinary.
Bela glanced up and met Ilse’s gaze. “They would have killed you.”
“I know.” Ilse wiped tears from her eyes. When had she started weeping? “Why … why are you here?”
“You grieve. That is good. That means you are not yet beyond redemption.”
Ilse rubbed her hand over her face. Saw the soldiers tumbled about, bloody and broken. The horses, thrashing feebly. A deep abiding cold gripped her, in spite of the late summer day. She huddled over herself, hardly aware as the other woman searched the bodies. After a few moments, she recovered enough to ask, “What are you looking for?”
