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“Tell me this favor,” she said softly.
Miro Karasek chafed one hand inside the other, as though he were seeking the right words, and there were none to be found.
“I have no right to ask this,” he said, “but I will. Ride with the queen to Taboresk. It’s too dangerous for either of you to travel alone—your encounter with that courier proves it—and I must report to the rest of the northern garrisons before I see you and her safely home.”
“And if I do?” she asked. “What then?”
“Then I send you home to Veraene by the safest means I have.”
One risk for another.
“Why would you do such a thing?” she said. “For me, or for her?”
The hands stilled. When he spoke, it was as though he spoke to others watching from beyond an invisible veil. “Because I failed a dozen times before. Each time, I salved my conscience, saying I had proved my loyalty to my king. And yet, by doing so, I had lost my honor and allegiance to the gods. Once, as you might remember, I executed you for treason, but there were other betrayals in other lives. I must do better in this one.”
There could be no possible answer to such a declaration. Miro did not seem to expect one. He lay down next to the campfire, on the opposite side from Valara.
Ilse let her breath trickle out. So and so. We are not yet done with our obligations.
She stood and paced the circuit of their camp. For two weeks, she had told herself she had lost Raul for this lifetime and she could only hope to find him in the next. All that was overturned by two words.
He lives. He lives and I will go to him.
Oh, she would keep her promise to Miro Karasek. Keeping that promise
would forge new alliances between his kingdom and hers, between theirs and Morennioù. But even as she considered the future, she came back to the news that Raul Kosenmark lived.
She found she was weeping for joy.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT DAY, Valara Baussay woke to the sun slanting through the pine trees. Above, the branches were limned in silver, and the air smelled clean and damp, as if rain had passed over them in the night. It was like a spring morning in Morennioù, except for the absence of salt tang in the air.
She let a soundless sigh trickle from her lips. It bothered her, how much she missed her homeland. It had started with sympathy, she thought. A dangerous sentiment, as her father always warned her. That led to regret, which led to any number of self-indulgent emotions. Court did not allow that. Her mother’s and sister’s deaths had only confirmed the lesson.
Nearby, she heard voices—Ilse’s and Miro’s—talking in undertones. Valara turned her head toward them, and saw Ilse crouched by the campfire, stirring the contents of a cook pot. A second pot sat on the coals. Valara sniffed and smelled roasted oats and the rich scent of coffee. Karasek must have brought a fresh sack of the beans, because she and Ilse had drunk nothing but infusions of herbs and bitter bark these past ten days.
Miro stood a few paces farther off, by the horses. One butted its head against his chest. He laughed—the change was so startling, she nearly exclaimed. When had she last heard him laugh? Not for a dozen lifetimes. Not since …
… since their lives together in Morennioù, when she took him into her bedchamber and they made love. The next morning, a ship had arrived with orders from the emperor, demanding his return to the continent.
Valara flung her blanket away and sat up. Ilse immediately glanced toward her. Faint lines creased her face, sharpened to ink-black strokes in the firelight, as though she had not slept well. The laughter vanished from Miro’s face. He turned away and busied himself with the pile of saddlebags.
Ilse poured a mug of steaming coffee and handed it to Valara. “Drink quickly. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Yes, the plans for the next stage of their journey.
Valara gulped down the scalding coffee. The drink tasted like smoke on her tongue; it sent warmth coursing through her bones. If she were to miss anything about these miserable lands, it would be this scent, this flavor, which was like a mouthful of fire. Awake now, she combed her hair and braided it anew.
They ate breakfast quickly—boiled oats mixed with dried fruit and hunks of toasted bread with melted cheese. At last the pot of coffee was empty, the oats and bread devoured. Ilse took their mugs and set them to one side.
“What comes next?” she asked.
“For you,” Karasek said, “shelter in my domain. Once we are there, you shall have privacy and I shall have the means to arrange for a ship. You two are sisters, distant cousins of mine from Duszranjo, who intended to travel to the coast, to visit another, more distant cousin. But bandits attacked your party, late enough that you could not turn back…”
“So we continued to your household,” Valara said. “Yes. A long journey. The attack. The loss of nearly all our possessions. That would account for a great deal. But”—she gestured at the ill-fitting cloak and boots she wore—“perhaps not quite everything.”
He smiled briefly. “No, not quite. I can provide for that, however.”
