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The boys raced each other up the ridge. By the time Maryshka overtook them, she discovered that Priba JanaCek had escaped his mother and was sitting in the grass on the hillside. Maryshka shooed him back under the trees. She slid the knife from her sash and crouched behind a boulder. Her father was stationed by the barn with Martin and Ditka Jasny. Matej and his son Pavel squatted next to the speaker’s house. Others made a loose guard around the village.
She watched as Jannik leaned close to Louka Hasek, who had remained behind. The older man made a rude gesture, but finally he, too, retreated to his post. Jannik glanced over his shoulder—Maryshka had the strongest impression that he could see into the dark green shadows of her hiding place. Only two remained with Jannik—she recognized Vilém’s striped shirt and Ilja’s unruly hair—but even they lingered behind as Jannik crossed that last and lonely stretch to the Solvatni.
* * *
ILSE ZHALINA SLOWED her pace and looped the reins around one hand. “Zp’malí,” she said softly to her mare. “Slow, slow, soft and slow.” Obediently, Duska came to stop and began to crop the grass. On this side of the river, the fields gre
w wild, overrun by thornbushes, patches of clover, and thick stands of coarse grass. A few hundred yards ahead, the land sloped down to a narrow river, where a stony ford broke the water’s dark surface. Beyond, on the opposite shore, planted fields and plowed fields, and higher up, a dozen or so wooden huts with a dirt path looping between them.
She knew from the maps where she was. Ryz. A tiny village at the southwest corner of Duszranjo’s winding length. This narrow river was the upper end of the Solvatni River. From here, the land rose upward toward the mountains dividing Károví from Veraene.
But it was the people in Ryz that concerned her the most.
“They are awake,” she said to her companion.
Bela Sovic laughed softly, though she clung tightly to her mount’s neck. “What else did you expect? They are farmers.”
Farmers who expected trouble and knew they could not depend on Dubro’s garrison to defend them. Ilse had not missed the sudden tumult, as a dozen or more of Ryz’s occupants appeared from their huts, all of them wielding some kind of weapon. Their voices carried across the river, and though she could not hear what they said, the tone was not a happy, welcoming one.
More arguments, more debate, took place. Now the farmers scattered to take up posts around the village. They don’t trust strangers. A sensible attitude, but one that might cause trouble for Ilse and Bela.
Three men circled around the planted fields to approach the river. Ilse laid a hand on Bela’s shoulder. The woman’s jacket was soaked with fever sweat, and her skin was hot to the touch, even through the cloth. A strong residue of magic clung to them both. Magic might erase that same scent, but she suspected it was too late.
“Should we go back?” she said.
Bela’s answer was hardly more than a sigh. “I think we must stop here, if they let us.”
That alone told Ilse how ill her companion had become. She tugged the horse’s reins, and with soft words, urged Duska forward at a walk, until they reached the banks of the river.
On the opposite side, the men paused as well. Two of them were young, only a few years older than she was, she guessed. The third was older, his dark hair threaded with gray. Deep grooves marked his face, some from laughter, but more from grief and hardship. He had the same ruddy brown complexion as her father and grandparents, the same high cheekbones and a face running in swift angles. A touch of anger, which did not surprise her, here in Duszranjo. He wore nothing but a pair of patched brown trousers and a shirt tucked into them, laced halfway up.
The older man, the leader, gestured to his companions. They both halted and fell into a waiting stance, their staffs held ready. Their leader swung his staff around and came forward, until his bare feet broke the current.
“Who are you?” he said.
His voice was mild, but she could tell from the lift of his chin, the way he gripped his staff, that she had not mistaken that anger. Strangely enough, she welcomed it.
“Dobrud’n,” she said. “Hello. We are travelers.”
He tilted his head and regarded her warily. “Most travelers come from the north,” he said, “when they come here at all.”
He senses our magic, she thought. And he doesn’t like it.
She met his gaze steadily. “My companion is injured and sick. I’ve used what magic I know to keep her alive, but it’s not enough. She will die if you turn us away. She might…” Her throat closed against the rest of her words, but she could not stop herself from thinking them. Bela might die, all because these men—these Duszranjen men—were afraid of magic.
Bela stirred. Her hand brushed Ilse’s hair. “I might die anyway,” she whispered.
“I’d rather give up after you do, not before,” Ilse said.
Bela only laughed, a rocking wheezing laugh that held not a drop of humor. Ilse laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and murmured an invocation to the magic current, in spite of the staring men across the river. The current swirled around them, flowing from invisible to invisible, as Tanja Duhr once wrote. Its sharp green scent revived Ilse; its warmth seeped into her bones. Bela, too, breathed more easily.
Still angry, Ilse rounded on the men. She saw with some satisfaction that all three had drawn back several steps. “So,” she called across to them, “do we die here, my friend and I? Or shall you let us pass so we might die in the mountains instead?”
Their leader hesitated. Perhaps he heard the desperation in her voice, because he glanced over his shoulder at his companions. “Ilja, go tell Ana Rudny she might have a patient. Watch for my signal, though, before they come down from above. Vilém, stay where you are.”
“What are you doing?” Vilém demanded. “Jannik, you said before—”
“I know what I said before. Maybe I was wrong. I might be wrong now. Whatever the case, we’ll need Ana and her daughter.”
