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“Let us say I dared to hope.”
She felt the weight against her heart lighten. Yes, he would make a good companion indeed.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us go at once.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT TOOK ILSE very little time to prepare.
She had kept almost nothing of her possessions throughout this long, long journey to Duenne—abandoning what little she had accumulated in Melnek, then Tiralien, and later in Osterling Keep. Her only weapons were those gifted by Baron Mann. The only item she had safeguarded from Taboresk was the letter from Duke Miro Karasek, now limp and imbued with the scent of her body. Once she had dressed in fresh plain clothing, she tucked the letter between her skin and her shirt.
Iani and Mann waited for her in Mann’s private sitting room. Iani had curled into a padded armchair, much like a cat, and was reading a small thick book. Mann had barricaded himself behind his desk. Papers covered its surface, and he was busily writing. At her entrance, both men glanced up. Iani slid his book into a pocket. Mann scribbled a last hasty signature, then laid a blotting sheet over the page.
“Are we done here?” she asked.
Mann nodded. “My people understand that I need to break my journey in Tiralien.”
“Do they? Are you certain?”
Mann lifted his gaze to the ceiling and muttered something under his breath. “Yes, I am certain. So that you know, my lady, I have a servant gifted in mimicry. He takes my place on the ship, in case the port officials show any curiosity about my doings. And while it is possible someone might miss your presence, my guards have made a point of riding between here and the ship to confuse matters further. In short, all is arranged, except your nerves. Once we have settled those, we are done.”
Later, she would laugh at his speech. And about her own difficult manner. This moment was too soon.
“My apologies. I should not question you.”
“You should question me,” he said. “But I forgive you nevertheless.”
He, too, seemed on the verge of laughter, but underneath she detected the same seriousness that had so surprised her back in Melnek. She cast her mind and memory back through the centuries, trying to remember another such soul who had offered such allegiance. She could not. Such a thing was possible, of course, but not easily explained.
“Very well,” she said. “Benno, what comes next?”
“We go,” he said. “Emma remains in hiding in Tiralien. If all goes wrong…” He drew a deep breath, the first mark of anxiety he had revealed this day. “If all goes wrong, she takes refuge with Lord Vieth. He has promised to send her and the rest of Lord Kosenmark’s associates to Valentain by ship or whatever means is possible.”
“And you?” Mann said. “Are you ready?”
For all her impatience, she wished she could give a reason for delay. She wanted to see the pleasure house once more, to touch its walls, to wander the rooftop gardens. Too late for that. Raul had shed this life as a snake might shed its skin. She would have to hunt him down in his new lair.
“I am,” she said. “Let us go.”
Mann called a runner and handed over his stack of papers. Once the door closed again, Iani collected them around a small table under the window. Outside, night was falling, and a salt breeze filtered into the room. As Iani explained, and Ilse knew, it was necessary for them to take hold of each other, to never relax their grip, or they would lose one another in the void between worlds.
“You have the skill to cross alone,” he said to Ilse, “but the danger is time.”
She knew. Time within the magical plane skipped and jumped and altered itself. She might lose days or months without an experienced guide such as Iani.
“And I would be lost forever,” Mann said. “I know. I am not entirely ignorant.”
He spoke with some asperity. Ilse wanted to smile. So he had not entirely misplaced his vanity. It was comforting, in a strange way. She took hold of her companions’ hands. Iani’s was lean, almost bare of flesh. Mann’s palm was roughened by calluses, another
unexpected detail, since she clearly recalled his smooth skin from three years before, while dancing in Melnek.
Her thoughts returned to the present as Benno Iani began the invocation to the gods and magic. He spoke in a low, urgent voice, the syllables of the ancient language rising in a lilt and cadence so familiar and yet made alien through the passage of centuries.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter, ane Lir unde Toc. Komen uns de strôm. Versigelen uns. Niht ougen. Niht hœren…”
This, Ilse thought, was the work of a master mage. For one moment, the scent of magic overwhelmed her senses, drowning out the salt tang, the beeswax and incense, and all the other familiar clues that told her they sat in an expensive private room, in the coastal city of Tiralien. The next moment, the air turned dark, the breeze vanished, leaving them wrapped in a cocoon of nothingness before the strong scent of magic blossomed once more.
“En name Lir unde Toc, komen uns de zoubernisse. Lâzen uns diese wërlt…”
