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Ilse stood. “I’ll fetch more water so you can wash.”
She picked up a waterskin and headed toward the stream.
Karasek stood and paced around the camp. As she applied more paste to her throat and behind her ears, Valara glanced at him surreptiously. It did not require much insight to note his impatience to be gone. Did he expect his enemies to count the days between his departure at one garrison and his arrival at the next? Or was it simply the habit of a soldier?
She tilted her head to one side, to reach the back of her neck. Drops from the paste trickled into her eyes. She hissed, caught herself before she rubbed her eyes.
Karasek spun around and hurried toward her. “Hold still. Close your eyes.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. All her other senses leapt to awareness. She heard the rustle of pine needles as Karasek knelt down, much louder than expected. The slither of leather. Taking off his gloves? Then a faint brush of air as he lifted his hand toward her face.
He wip
ed the liquid away with his sleeve, then said, “Your eyelids. We forgot those.”
His fingers touched her eyelids. She shivered. Karasek paused, but she could hear his breath, amplified, it seemed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please. Go ahead.”
Karasek daubed the still-warm paste over her eyelids. More paste went on her eyebrows and in the slight creases beside both eyes. With swift light strokes, he worked the paste into her skin.
Her eyes watered. His hand withdrew, then returned to wipe away the tears with a soft cloth. Beneath the stink of the paste, she could breathe in his scent, a blend of horse and leather and the sweat from riding through the wilderness.
There was a pause. She felt fingertips brush over her cheek. No, that had to be her imagination, because when Karasek next spoke, his voice seemed remote.
“Now we let it set,” he said.
Her eyes still closed against the dye, she heard him pace around the camp. Once, twice. His footsteps were slow and deliberate. More than once he stopped, then his boots creaked slightly. She pictured him kneeling to pluck up a nearly invisible clue.
She recited the litany to summon magic. It did her no good, but the words and cadence were familiar enough to calm her nerves.
I did what you asked, she prayed to Lir, to Toc. I made mistakes, but I tried to do right, in the end. Can you understand? Please?
Silence answered her questions, and eventually, her thoughts drifted into the same almost-resignation that plagued her since Mantharah. The gods would do as they wished. She would discover their intentions only in the aftermath.
Ilse returned with the water. Valara waited until Karasek gave the signal, then splashed her face to wash away the excess dye. She scrubbed her skin, dried her face with the corner of her cloak. She repeated the process twice more and ran her fingers through her hair to catch the last bits of herbs and spices. When she looked up, she found Ilse studying her closely.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Like a Károvín.”
Hard to read anything from that bland tone. Even more unsettling was Karasek’s dispassionate gaze. “And you?” she said sharply. “How do I look to you?”
He smiled briefly. “Just as our friend said.”
An unsatisfactory reply. She wanted to demand an honest answer, but Karasek was already mounting his horse. His gaze met hers, just for a moment. “Until Taboresk,” he said.
* * *
ILSE WATCHED HIM ride west and south with an uneasy feeling. She had known this man in a dozen lifetimes, but the memory of each was blurred. Twice he had executed her at Leos Dzavek’s command. Now he meant to make restitution. To her. To Valara Baussay.
And yet he is not easy with his compromise between allegiance and honor, she thought. Not when the two do not coincide.
Nor did Valara Baussay appear easy with trusting a man who had so recently been their enemy. In the days after they parted from Karasek, the other woman rode silently beside Ilse over the sun-baked plains that spread like a varicolored quilt of green and gold toward the west and south. They had little cover, except for the sudden narrow ravines carved out by rainstorms and melting snows, or the occasional stand of trees. It was a relief when Ilse at last sighted the Ostrava Hills. Another day brought them to Karasek’s lake, and the trail heading east toward his domain.
Domain. An interesting term. It could mean simply a region granted by the king to a faithful retainer, but the older definition implied the lands of a prince. Yet Károví itself had been called a princedom in the old empire days.
When Ilse calculated they were a day from the valley and Karasek’s lands, she called for an early halt. They built a generous fire and tended to the horses while the dye brewed. This time Valara stripped and painted herself completely with the mixture. She did not speak, but her movements were dogged, her expression remote. If she noticed Ilse glancing in her direction from time to time, she made no comment. Nor did she object when Ilse checked over her work.
