Allegiance, page 14
part #3 of River of Souls Series
The tea arrived quickly, hot and fragrant and blessedly strong. She drank the entire carafe. Suppressed her impatience and allowed the girl to brush her hair, which badly needed attention after the previous restless night. At last, her hair was properly braided, herself dressed in a loose gown and jacket, tied with an embroidered sash.
No word had come back from Miro.
I could insist.
The thought died with its birth. She had to trust he had spent the night to better advantage than she. If only, if only …
She mentioned her wish to take a turn about the garden. Her maid returned with walking boots to replace her slippers, a hood to cover her hair, and a cloak. Valara escaped the household at last and hurried through the gates to the garden beyond. There an attendant waited, but he did not follow her into the leafy pathways beyond.
Once she rounded the first corner, she closed her eyes and blew out a breath. Took in the faded scent of dying wildflowers; the stronger scent of pine needles, crushed beneath impatient feet; the far, far fainter scent of damp earth and wood chips. No one observed her here, but this was only a temporary reprieve. If she did not proceed, Skoch’s minions would observe the delay. Skoch alone was nothing in Rastov’s Court, but Miro said the man reported to Duke Markov, a man with influence and power.
The network of paths extended in six directions. The ends of most were obscured by greening foliage, but others opened to the clear blue sky of late summer, early autumn. Valara took the path lined by pine trees left to their natural state. It wound through a sweet-scented glade, along an artificial brook, and to an open field that overlooked Taboresk’s household and its neighboring village.
If only she could escape Károví so easily.
“My lady.”
Miro.
She spun around. It was not Miro. It was the cousin, Ryba Karasek, the one who had briefly served as heir to Taboresk. Their voices were too much alike. Their faces, their manner, had nothing in common. She immediately distrusted him.
“What do you wish?” she asked.
He tilted his head and observed her closely.
“You have an interesting accent,” he said at last.
Damn, damn, damn. Ilse Zhalina had spent weeks drilling Valara in the proper lilt and cadence for Duszranjo. Now, in one unguarded moment, Valara had undone all their secrecy.
“You surprised me,” she said.
“Obviously. As you surprised me.”
No possible answer to that.
“Perhaps you know where his grace, our cousin, is?” she asked.
That provoked an even longer delay, which she had not expected.
“I left him in his office,” Ryba Karasek said at last.
His tone was odd, and when he turned away, Valara saw an unnatural brightness in the man’s eyes. She was saved from having to find a suitable reply by the arrival of a runner in the Karasek livery. “My lady. My duke wishes to speak with you.”
“Then you must not keep him waiting,” Ryba said.
His eyes were still bright, but his mouth had twisted into an angry smile. Valara signaled to the runner that she would return at once. She hurried past Ryba. Instinct stopped her. She laid a hand on his arm. He was trembling. An odd portent. The once heir to Taboresk, displaced with his cousin’s return. Were they friends or enemies? She glanced up to see him studying her with those great dark eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said softly.
“Why do you say that?”
“I do not know.”
She truly didn’t. She only knew that in this moment, this man needed comfort.
He shrugged and waved her toward the household—an easy graceful gesture that was in strange contrast to his obvious distress. Later, she might question his acceptance of her vague answer. Now she had to speak with Miro Karasek and know what he meant by his words the night before.
* * *
A RUNNER WAITED for her inside—a young girl with a blunt nose and capable air. She led Valara into the wing where the duke kept his private offices, a region Valara had not explored during her stay. Miro had not invited her, nor had she asked. She wondered now if they had unconsciously attempted to avoid any conflict between her duties and his.
The wing appeared newer than the main building, but still ancient enough, built in stark spare lines. The floors were tiled with blue marble, the walls of pale gold stone. No tapestries, no other ornamentation relieved the smooth walls. Clearly this was a place for business alone, no matter how finely constructed.
Guards stood at attention at all the doorways. The runner nodded to each one. Valara could not guess if they ordinarily kept a heavy watch. She suspected not. Had it begun with the news of the king’s death, or later, with Skoch’s arrival?
They halted at a higher, broader door. “Lady Ivana Zelenta,” the runner told the guards. “The duke expects her.”
One guard knocked. The other opened the door and bowed.
Valara proceeded within, her heart beating as fast as it had when she last walked the spirit plane with magic.
Miro sat behind his desk. She had expected him to be immersed in papers and other tokens of his duties. Instead, the vast expanse of desk was empty, except for one sheet of paper, half filled with writing. A brush and its inkstone were at hand, but Miro’s attention was on the window. The heavy scent of magic lingered in the air.
Slowly, Valara approached. He made no sign that he noticed. His gaze was fixed on some distant point. From this window, she could see he had a fair view of his domain—the indigo mountain range with its thick pine forest, the silver-bright river, the green fields rolling down to the wilderness and plowed fields beyond.
“I have finished my work for the morning,” he said, still with his gaze on the outer world. “I hoped you might join me for a ride.”
So bland, so controlled.
What did I expect?
No, better if she did not pursue that question.
“I would be pleased to,” she said.
“Thank you. Let us meet in the stables.”
He glanced at her, offered the barest of smiles. That unnerved her more than his absent tone, or the way his attention veered back to the window. With a curtsy and a polite reply to his order—because it was an order, however gently phrased—she exited the office and returned to her rooms. Her maids had already laid out the new riding costume, delivered by the seamstresses the day before.
He expected me to submit. How dare he?
He dared because he held the advantage. So her father and grandfather would have instructed her. With a shudder, Valara gave herself over to her maids’ attentions. They must have read her mood from her face, because they gave silence for silence and worked even more quickly than usual.
Dressed anew, she exited her rooms to find a runner waiting—an older man, with the marks of knives hidden beneath his livery. She followed him in double-time to the stables, where Miro already waited. He, too, had changed his clothing, from the elegant blue silks of his morning costume to plain black trousers and shirt, armed with swords and knives and leather guards reinforced with steel. The duke had vanished, replaced by the soldier.
A stable boy assisted her to mount. They had given her a sweet-tempered mare with slim black legs and a coat of burnished bronze. Karasek mounted a gray stallion, evidently fresh and in a troublesome mood. Karasek even smiled as he brought the horse under control. He exchanged a laughing comment with the stable boy. Valara took the hint and smiled down at her own attendant.
It was just like Morennioù, she thought. We play our parts for the audience. We reserve the truth for our private moments, and that only seldom.
She wondered if today would be such a moment.
“Cousin,” Miro said.
His voice was cool and contained. She matched her reply.
“My lord duke.”
They crossed the stable courtyard and passed through the gates to the outer grounds. From there, Miro chose a path into the rising hills to the north. By now the sun shone almost directly overhead, and the air was bright and heavy with its warmth. Once they entered the forest, however, Valara felt a chill. She drew a deep breath of cool air, laden with damp and the sharp scent of pines.
At last they gained the ridge overlooking the valley. Miro reined his horse to a walk. Here the path widened, and Valara brought her mount next to his.
“You have news,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “Skoch received two messengers last night after we spoke. My own patrols reported the presence of strangers camped in the hills. Don’t worry,” he said, when she exclaimed. “They were spotted in the southern range, not here. They attempted to stop your companion from leaving, but they were not successful.”
It took her a moment to parse what he said.
“Then Ilse—”
“Has gone, yes. I sent Bela to guard her.”
She pressed a hand against her forehead. Too much, too fast. She was not used to so much information given so freely. “Tell me again what happened. Please.”
It was a short account. Lord Raul Kosenmark had survived the attack on Hallau Island. With Lir’s jewels returned to the magical plane, Ilse wished to return home. He had intended to send Ilse home by ship from Lenov, but Skoch’s arrival had overturned those plans. Ilse herself had not depended on Miro and had set off alone.
“I suspected she might. I sent Bela Sovic with money and gear. We have no guarantee they will make the border, but I wanted to give her every chance.”
For a moment, she heard nothing beyond the echo of her blood within her ears. He had betrayed her. He had let this woman go, in spite of knowing Valara’s need to have a witness, a companion, when she returned to Morennioù.
“You lied to me,” she said softly. “You betrayed your kingdom. She will tell her king of the jewels, that Károví has no defense. You cannot pretend—”
“I pretend nothing.” His voice was sharp and short. “Veraene—” He released an audible breath, and when he continued, it was in a softer voice. “I cannot tell if there will be war between us. I do know that long ago, I captured a princess of Károví and executed her at Leos Dzavek’s command. She was bound for Veraene with an emissary from the emperor. He and she hoped to negotiate a peace. This time, for my honor and for Károví’s, I must not stand in her way.”
His face was averted, as though he spoke to a larger audience than just her. Or perhaps to the gods. She shivered. She wanted nothing more to do with the gods.
“What of me?” she said. “What of Morennioù?”
“That is a simpler question,” he said. “Morennioù needs its queen. You need a witness to your court and council. We cannot take any ship—Markov and the army watch the ports—and you admit you cannot traverse the magic planes. That leaves only one choice. I will be your witness. I will carry you home.”
He dismounted and held up a hand to Valara. “Come with me.”
Valara accepted his hand, which was warm and dry. Comforting. They had misspent so many of their lives together. She wanted to think that in this life, the gods offered another chance, but she remembered his words about bearing witness to her council. They would not forgive him for leading the invasion.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know what I do.”
He helped her to dismount. She needed his arm to steady herself.
Miro spoke in an unknown language—not Károvín, but a dialect of the north. Magic sparkled in the air. Both horses snorted. He repeated the command, more insistently. The stallion bolted first, followed by the mare, the two galloping away from the strange scent and texture of the current. Miro watched them a moment before he turned back to Valara.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
They had no gear, nothing beyond the weapons Miro carried. If they did reach Morennioù, they would need none of that. Except she knew the magical plane. It never cooperated fully. It liked surprises.
She swallowed. “Very much.”
He folded her into an embrace, but loosely. She could free herself at any time. Her mother’s admonition echoed in her mind. Never show weakness. But was it weakness to accept another’s gift?
“What of your home?” she asked. “What of Taboresk?”
He pressed his face into her hair. He was taller than she, lean and strong. He wore a scent that reminded her of ocean winds. His heart beat quick and light against her cheek. He, too, was afraid.
“I give Taboresk to my cousin,” Miro said. “He loves it as much as I do. He will do what is right with Veraene and Morennioù. Are you ready?”
“No. Yes. Please, let us go.”
He kissed her once—a brief ghost of a kiss, as though he would not trespass further—then spoke the words to summon Lir’s magical current. Her palm itched. Magic prickled against her skin. She clenched her fists, felt the pang of the scar on her palm where she’d held Lir’s jewels tight as the Mantharah worked its impossible magic. Miro bent down and whispered, “I love you. I’m sorry I failed you before.”
An apology from now, from centuries ago.
“I’m sorry I did not understand,” she said.
The current roared past with the strength of a hurricane. She had one last glimpse of Károví and Taboresk before the world vanished into darkness.
Blackness. Pinpoints of light. Worlds upon worlds wheeling beneath their feet.
We are lost, she whispered. We cannot make it.
We can, he said. Think of home. Think of what you most desire.
She stared at the maelstrom around them. She searched. She saw … the waves breaking upon Enzeloc’s shore. The sun rising behind her father’s castle. For a moment, her heart faltered. Her father had died. Her mother and sister a year before that. She would come home to a land devastated by Leos Dzavek’s invasion, one still occupied by his soldiers.
I want it. I want it still. I always shall.
With that thought still echoing in her mind, she and Miro Karasek plunged downward to Morennioù’s islands.
CHAPTER TEN
TEN DAYS BROUGHT Raul Kosenmark and his guards to the western edge of the Gallenz Valley. Unlike the eastern quadrant of the hills, these parts had no regular roads, and for the past day, they had ridden single file along a narrow trail that wormed upward through the trees, stopping from time to time to cut through brush so the horses could pass.
As the forest trail rounded the shoulder of a hill, the trees opened up to bare sky, the land dropped away into folds to the great central plains of Veraene stretching outward and forever to the west.
Raul drew rein and gave the signal to halt. The company took up new positions around him with a minimum of fuss and discussion. They were all veterans in his service, handpicked by Benedikt Ault and himself for this mission. They hardly needed any direction from him, for which he was grateful.
It had proved a difficult journey. The ever-steeper hills. The wild oak and pine forests, interrupted by expanses of bare rock, which they had to circle around. Over six hundred years ago, in the early days of the empire, the soldiers from the Gallenz kingdom had staged their attacks against the encroaching imperial army from these heights. Eventually they surrendered. A century later, the empire had absorbed the larger princedom of Károví.
Károví had reclaimed its independence. Gallenz had never tried.
Nor had Valentain, an even older and stronger kingdom.
Raul rubbed a hand over his face. Strange how the past continued to haunt this region, or perhaps it was his mood. He returned his attention to the present and the remaining segment of their journey. The trail, now just a worn track, looped down the foothills to Veraene’s central plains, which burned a brilliant gold in the late-afternoon hour. Even as he watched, the sun dipped below the horizon. Light flared upward, a surge of crimson, as if a sword had pierced the sun and a gout of blood splashed the darkening sky. An unsettling omen, he thought.
He shaded his eyes against the glare. He could just make out what had to be the dark mass of Duenne along the horizon, its towers rising up from the plains in a low irregular silhouette. A pinprick of silver winked in the dying sunlight—the Gallenz River as it flowed out from the city to the highway.
Six years since he had traveled that road. Six years since the king dismissed him from court. Instead of returning to his father’s domain in Valentain, he had fled to Tiralien and established himself there.
I was a coward, he thought. I sent others to speak my words, to perform my deeds.
Because of that cowardice, Dedrick had died. Also Lothar Faulk, Faulk’s brother Simon, Rusza Selig, and others in Raul’s network of spies.
Raul’s guards remained silent. Only the jangle of reins from a restless horse betrayed their anxiety with this latest, abrupt halt. Raul rubbed his face again and scowled. Self-pity was such an ugly thing.
“Benedikt, how many days before we reach the city gates, do you think?”
His weapons master, now second in command for this company, squinted and made a silent calculation. “Five more days, my lord. Four if we push the horses. Shall we make camp?”
“We will,” Raul said. “But that means an early start tomorrow.”
No one complained. No one had the entire journey from Tiralian, though Raul and Ault had driven them hard. Raul had insisted on long days, with watches set throughout the night, and each halt had proved an exercise in military precision.
Within an hour, they had unloaded their gear, tended to the horses, and set up a camp. One pair gathered firewood. Another dug the latrine, while the rest laid out the bedrolls. Once Ault gave the watch orders for the night, he followed Raul to the ridge overlooking the plains.
“Thinking, my lord?” he asked.
An oblique way of asking if Raul regretted this sudden upset of the past six years.
“I would like to believe I always think,” Raul said. “In spite of frequent evidence to the contrary. But yes, I am thinking. About the implications and the consequences of this journey. And you?”
Ault shrugged. “I dislike the journey, but I told you so before. My lord, you are a fool to trust Armand of Angersee and his pet cur.”
