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Miro.
She spun around. It was not Miro. It was the cousin, Ryba Karasek, the one who had briefly served as heir to Taboresk. Their voices were too much alike. Their faces, their manner, had nothing in common. She immediately distrusted him.
“What do you wish?” she asked.
He tilted his head and observed her closely.
“You have an interesting accent,” he said at last.
Damn, damn, damn. Ilse Zhalina had spent weeks drilling Valara in the proper lilt and cadence for Duszranjo. Now, in one unguarded moment, Valara had undone all their secrecy.
“You surprised me,” she said.
“Obviously. As you surprised me.”
No possible answer to that.
“Perhaps you know where his grace, our cousin, is?” she asked.
That provoked an even longer delay, which she had not expected.
“I left him in his office,” Ryba Karasek said at last.
His tone was odd, and when he turned away, Valara saw an unnatural brightness in the man’s eyes. She was saved from having to find a suitable reply by the arrival of a runner in the Karasek livery. “My lady. My duke wishes to speak with you.”
“Then you must not keep him waiting,” Ryba said.
His eyes were still bright, but his mouth had twisted into an angry smile. Valara signaled to the runner that she would return at once. She hurried past Ryba. Instinct stopped her. She laid a hand on his arm. He was trembling. An odd portent. The once heir to Taboresk, displaced with his cousin’s return. Were they friends or enemies? She glanced up to see him studying her with those great dark eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said softly.
“Why do you say that?”
“I do not know.”
She truly didn’t. She only knew that in this moment, this man needed comfort.
He shrugged and waved her toward the household—an easy graceful gesture that was in strange contrast to his obvious distress. Later, she might question his acceptance of her vague answer. Now she had to speak with Miro Karasek and know what he meant by his words the night before.
* * *
A RUNNER WAITED for her inside—a young girl with a blunt nose and capable air. She led Valara into the wing where the duke kept his private offices, a region Valara had not explored during her stay. Miro had not invited her, nor had she asked. She wondered now if they had unconsciously attempted to avoid any conflict between her duties and his.
The wing appeared newer than the main building, but still ancient enough, built in stark spare lines. The floors were tiled with blue marble, the walls of pale gold stone. No tapestries, no other ornamentation relieved the smooth walls. Clearly this was a place for business alone, no matter how finely constructed.
Guards stood at attention at all the doorways. The runner nodded to each one. Valara could not guess if they ordinarily kept a heavy watch. She suspected not. Had it begun with the news of the king’s death, or later, with Skoch’s arrival?
They halted at a higher, broader door. “Lady Ivana Zelenta,” the runner told the guards. “The duke expects her.”
One guard knocked. The other opened the door and bowed.
Valara proceeded within, her heart beating as fast as it had when she last walked the spirit plane with magic.
Miro sat behind his desk. She had expected him to be immersed in papers and other tokens of his duties. Instead, the vast expanse of desk was empty, except for one sheet of paper, half filled with writing. A brush and its inkstone were at hand, but Miro’s attention was on the window. The heavy scent of magic lingered in the air.
Slowly, Valara approached. He made no sign that he noticed. His gaze was fixed on some distant point. From this window, she could see he had a fair view of his domain—the indigo mountain range with its thick pine forest, the silver-bright river, the green fields rolling down to the wilderness and plowed fields beyond.
“I have finished my work for the morning,” he said, still with his gaze on the outer world. “I hoped you might join me for a ride.”
