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Ilse suppressed the urge to say, You can help by going home. She remember herself at fifteen. Remembered her father’s house where they had bartered her to Theodr Galt for better contracts with the shipping guild. Damek’s family was nothing like hers, but she could understand the wish to escape a life she found intolerable.
So it was with sympathy that she said, “Damek. I understand. I truly do. But I must go to Veraene’s king. I cannot take you with me.”
Those were the right words. Damek swiped a hand over his face. “I know. I only wanted— Never mind what I wanted. I’ll go back home tomorrow.”
“Good boy,” Jannik murmured.
Ilse suspected this agreement was only temporary. Tomorrow, Damek might sneak after them to visit the smugglers’ wayhouse. However, that obstacle could wait for the morning. She held out a hand to the boy. “Come with me. We’ll get you settled for the night.”
Damek pushed her hand aside. “I can stand up by myself.”
He had scrambled to his feet when Bela’s head swung up. “Hush.”
Ilse froze. So did Jannik and the boy.
She heard the hiss of pine needles sliding over the ground. Strangers approaching in stealth.
Bela bolted to her feet, staggered, and caught hold of a tree trunk. Ilse had her sword in hand even as the first armed man stepped into the clearing. He shouted at her—a warning, a demand for her surrender? She did not stop to ask. She swung her blade around. Their swords crashed together in a ringing blow. Then she danced backward to catch up a branch from the fire. She threw the brand at her attackers and retreated up the hillside. Bela lunged forward with both knives ready. Jannik had hesitated a long dangerous moment, but when Bela stumbled and one of the attackers seemed about to run her through, he seized his staff and swung it around to drive them back. Bela used the chance to haul herself upright and fling a stone into the banked fire.
A shower of sparks exploded, and the firelight flared, ruddy and hot against the moonlight. Ilse’s mouth went dry at the scene. A half-dozen men and women swarmed into the clearing from all directions. Ilse recognized those uniforms. Not brigands. Soldiers. Guardians of Károví.
No time to think more. She drove her opponent back, caught up the knapsack with her money. She dropped back into the shadows, heart beating fast. Bela had fought off two or three attackers. One lay motionless at her feet. Jannik had not done as well. He had fallen to his knees, blood streaming from a slash over his forehead. Damek was nowhere to be seen.
Ilse’s instincts yammered at her to flee while the confusion lasted, but she could not abandon her companions. Then Bela staggered backward and dropped to the ground a few feet away from Ilse. “Go,” she hissed. “They won’t miss you right away.”
“No,” Ilse said hoarsely. “I can’t—”
“You must. They will take you prisoner otherwise. Besides, my duke commanded me to bring you safely to your homeland. If you go now, that is possible.”
Bela lurched to her feet and charged at the soldiers. Ilse hesitated one moment before she fled into the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IN THE WEEKS since his arrest, Raul Kosenmark had established a daily routine. He woke at dawn, or thereabouts, to a prison guard shouting his name and banging on the door until Raul staggered upright. The guard brought a water jug and empty slop bucket. He did not remove the old bucket. Raul had learned to breathe through his mouth while he drank down the entire jugful of water to ease the hunger cramps that overtook him on waking.
For two more hours he dozed. The guard returned and rattled his baton against Raul’s cell door. He collected the stinking slop bucket, and left what passed for breakfast—a loaf of stale bread, another jug of water. Nothing more. After the first few days, they no longer offered to sell him better rations. Raul used handfuls from this second jug to wash his face and hands. The water was always tepid, the bread stale. He wondered idly if Markus had instructed the prison cooks to add extra foul-tasting ingredients, because the bread tasted faintly off, and even the water left a sour flavor in his mouth.
After the meal came the long and lonely stretch of an empty morning. Raul paced the circuit of his cell to warm his body and loosen his muscles. Pretending he was back in Tiralien with Benedikt Ault, he drilled with an imaginary sword, fighting against the weight of his chains, and the greater weight of despair. If at times he recalled the episode when he had imprisoned Ilse, suspecting her of treason against him, he did so only fleetingly. Thinking about Ilse, about whether she still lived, was too painful. To remember how he had wronged her was worse.
Three weeks had passed since they had locked him in this cell. The guards came twice a day with bread, several more times with water. They never spoke—orders from the king, or Markus Khandarr—but their sidelong glances were eloquent.
I am a dead man. The only question is when I stop breathing.
He had expected Armand to execute him at once. Then a week had passed with no visitors except the silent guards. Five days ago, Markus Khandarr had appeared to question him.
Raul left off his drill and rubbed the bruises on his arms.
Khandarr used magic to bind Raul—thick strands of magic that held him immobile, while Khandarr paced around the cell, thumping his staff against the floor, asking Raul the same questions over and over in that slurred and halting voice.
“When did you betray. The king. You did. No lies.”
“Where is that bitch. That slut. The one from Morennioù.”
“The girl. What happened to her. Not dead. I know.”
And, “Tell me. Tell me. Speak. Do not shut your eyes.”
Each time, Raul gave the same answers. “I never betrayed Armand. I never betrayed Veraene. I do not know where Valara Baussay is. I have done nothing wrong.”
