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“Let us start with names,” he said. “Mine is Jannik Maier. I am speaker for the village.”
So much she knew already. “Mine is Ilse.”
“And your companion is Bela. Not a friend, but a companion. You and she are warriors. You wear swords, and I counted several other weapons in your gear. You were also cautious enough to keep your money and other belongings secured by magic. What else? Where did you come from? Where are you bound? What more do you expect from us?”
So hard to know which words might help, which might lead to disaster. “My companion worked as a guard,” she said slowly. “We carry weapons because we travel alone. Surely you can understand that.”
Jannik nodded. “But you came here for a reason. What is it?”
“To cross the border into Veraene.”
“For what purpose?”
She was tired of answering questions. Valara Baussay, Miro Karasek, and Bela herself had insisted on testing her loyalty to Veraene, not to mention what she could promise to Károví. With a touch of aspersion, she said, “I must find smugglers so that I can cross the border. For what purpose? For peace, if you must know. Mine, in particular, in this life and those to come.”
She reached inside her jacket. Jannik tensed. With a bitter smile, Ilse withdrew a leather purse. One by one, she laid down ten golden koruný on the ground between them.
A long silence followed. Around them, birdsong faded away, to be replaced by the shrill chorus of frogs and the rill of water over the ford. Ilse had long enough to consider six ways she might kill this man. She did not want to. He might not be as innocent as he pretended, but he was surely innocent when it came to the affairs of kings and queens.
Just when she thought she might have to act, Jannik stirred.
“I can do that for you,” he said.
* * *
LATER, MUCH LATER, hours close to midnight, she sat alone in the barn. Moonlight and starlight poured through the half-open door.
All around her, the night settled to quiet. Ryz’s cows and horses and human occupants slept. Even Jannik Maier, who struck Ilse Zhalina as someone who spent many extra hours in the service of his village, had banked his fire hours ago.
Ilse extracted a letter from her shirt. From a distance came the bleating of a goat, but she ignored it. In spite of having read the letter’s contents a dozen times or more, she had to reassure herself that nothing had changed, that she had not mistaken the writer’s intent.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.”
Magic rippled over her skin, it burned within her veins. She lowered her hands and unfolded the letter Duke Miro Karasek had entrusted to his faithful captain, Bela Sovic, who had given it to Ilse that first night away from Taboresk.
To Lord Raul Kosenmark:
Ten months ago, you wrote to me concerning matters between our kingdoms. You wished, you said, to end the centuries of mistrust and to forge an alliance of peace. I said then that my duties required me elsewhere. An unsatisfactory reply, for which I apologize, but I was not then free to speak the truth. You will have learned a part of it by now through your spies and other allies. My king ordered me to Morennioù to recapture one of Lir’s three jewels, and to take the royal heir prisoner. Lir’s jewels are no more. The royal heir has returned to her kingdom to take the throne. And I, I have signed over my titles and lands to my cousin, in order to fulfill other obligations, long neglected but no less important.
But though I no longer have any influence in Károví’s Court, I am not the only man or woman who wished an end to conflict between our kingdoms. Tell your king that the days of the empire are past. We are no longer a subject people, if ever we were. But if he comes to us with an offer of true friendship, he will find he has allies within Károví. For peace, for prosperity, and that cause alone, I give you the names of those you can trust …
It was not precisely the same letter she had carried from Rastov to Duenne’s representative, four hundred years before, but the semblance was close enough to leave her shaken, no matter how many times she read this.
She recalled when she last spoke with him in Taboresk. He wore a plain uniform of rich black cloth, decorated with embroidery, his hair drawn back into a tight queue. A soldier, a general, a noble with influence. She could remember his face, laughing and confident and yet reticent in matters of the heart, in a lifetime long ago. She had gone off to marry Andreas Koszenmarc. He had led the expedition to Morennioù. In a later life still, he had executed Ilse at his king’s command.
We were both servants of our ill-thought plans.
But now, now all was different. With this letter, Miro Karasek had abandoned his title and property. He had betrayed, if one might use so strong a word, the names of his like-minded compatriots. He had undone the deed of centuries before.
She could do no less.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ILSE WOKE TO whispering voices nearby. The habit of weeks took hold even before she was truly awake, and she reached for her knife. Her fingers had closed around its hilt before she identified the voices as those of children, and the language they spoke as Duszranjen. She blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes. It was early morning, judging by the pale sunlight that filtered through the half-open doors.
Of course. The children had to be curious about their two strangers.
Smothered laughter gave way to a barely suppressed argument. Then came the unmistakable rustle of straw. Ilse eased herself onto her side. Through the slats of the stall’s gate, she could make out five or six shadows creeping along the corridor. Duska nickered, but the intruders were too intent on their mission to notice.
