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It was only the pulse, beating swift and light at her throat, that told Ilse how much her companion’s mood resembled hers.
We are both afraid. In one more day, we come to the true test of our disguise.
After dinner, they dressed in the finest of their new clothing. By agreement, because she spoke the truest Károvín, Ilse took possession of the letter. They buried their borrowed cloaks, their clothing from Veraene, and anything else that might not fit their new roles as Duke Karasek’s distant cousins from Duszranjo. The last two objects they cast into the trench were Valara’s box of dyes and Ilse’s sword.
The sword was the most difficult to give up. She had this blade from Raul, a gift from their days together in Tiralien. He had brought the sword to her, after she and Valara had fled from Osterling Keep.
“You might keep it,” Valara said, in a rare display of understanding.
“I might,” Ilse said, “except that such a sword was made for a woman of my height and strength. It would draw too much suspicion.”
She laid the sword in the pit and covered it with dirt.
The following day they woke to a mass of iron-gray clouds on the horizon. By midafternoon the wind blew raw and cold. They drew rein at the bottom of a dry streambed. Ahead the land climbed through scattered pine forests to a high exposed ridge at least two miles away. Ilse wrapped her new coat tight around her throat and checked the presence of their letter once more.
“Do we stop,” Valara said, “or ride forward?”
Ilse gazed upward to the bare ridge. No cover there, but the streambed would hardly shelter them once the rain started, and she could smell its approach. “We keep going. I suspect we will find better shelter on the other side of that ridge.”
They started off at a fast trot, but once they entered the pine forest, the ground turned rough underfoot and their progress slowed. The storm hit before they covered a mile. The sky turned black, and rain swept down, rattling through the branches. She thought it might come to hail soon. Once they cleared the last band of trees, Ilse pulled her hood low over her forehead and urged her horse into a trot. The ridge was much closer, the ground rising steeply ahead. She glanced over her shoulder to see how Valara did, when she caught the flicker of movement off to one side. Had she imagined that?
Lightning crackled, illuminating a horse and its rider galloping toward them.
Bandits, Ilse thought. Karasek’s lies had become truth. “Ride!” she shouted.
She bent over her horse’s neck and dug her heels into its sides. The horse surged forward. Above the growl of thunder, Ilse heard Valara’s cries to her own mount, encouraging it to run, to gallop, to race the storm. Their pursuer veered toward the ridge, on a path to cut them off, but they still had a chance. Then, to her dismay, a second shadow burst from the gloom. Ilse cursed Miro Karasek and his orders not to use magic. She called out the invocation to gods. Cold fire sprang up from the ground, cutting off the rider. It was enough to let her gain the ridge first, with Valara close behind. Over they went, down the treacherous hillside, into a twisting gorge …
Three more riders blocked her path. Ilse tried to veer to one side, but one of their pursuers had overtaken her and was riding in parallel. “Stop!” he shouted.
She drove her horse into his. The two of them slithered halfway down the slope; she thought she could break free, but then he grabbed the reins from her and dragged her and her horse to a halt. The horse squealed its distress. Ilse reached at once for her sword. Gone. Buried with the rest of her old belongings the day before.
She struck out at the man, then grabbed the reins away. The man only grinned, his teeth a flash of dull white in the murky light. “No fighting. You couldn’t best the lot of us.”
Six or more shadows were milling about. Was one of them Valara? Yes. There she was, tall and bone-thin, her manner that of a queen.
Three more riders approached. Far, far too many for her to overcome with magic. One of them signaled the others with an uplifted
hand. The leader?
Whoever it was walked their horse toward Ilse. It was impossible to tell much about the person. They wore a dark cloak, streaming with water, and a hood pulled low over their forehead. A sword hung from the person’s hip, and no doubt they had more weapons hidden from view.
“Who are you?”
It was a woman who spoke.
“We are travelers,” Ilse said carefully.
“That was not my question. Who are you?”
Ilse wet her mouth. “We’re travelers bound for Duke Miro Karasek’s holdings. He expects us. But if you think to rob us, you’re too late. Bandits attacked our party five days ago.”
A brief silence followed. “Is that true?”
“That we have no possessions, or that you aren’t robbers? The first is true. As for the second, I cannot tell. Not from your manner.”
At that, the woman laughed. “No, we are not robbers.”
She raised a hand and spoke a few words in Erythandran. For a moment the wind seemed to hold its breath. Then came the strong invigorating scent of magic, like summer wrapped into a single moment. Light bloomed in the air. It cast a nimbus of silver in the steady rain, and by its glow, Ilse could see the woman’s face. Square-built, a dusky brown so dark, she might have come from Veraene’s southern coast, except for the folds at her eyes, and the slant of her cheeks that said Károví.
