Allegiance, page 4
part #3 of River of Souls Series
Her answer provoked a tight smile. “I am Bela Sovic—captain of this patrol. The steward would notify me of expected visitors.” She glanced from Ilse to Valara, who sat uneasily on her horse, her hands flexing and unflexing around the reins. “Pardon my own caution, but do you have any mark of passage from my duke?”
“A letter.” Ilse gestured at the rain. “I would rather not open it here.”
“I can solve that difficulty.”
Sovic spoke again in Erythandran. The green scent of magic intensified as the silver nimbus expanded to enclose them both. It was like a cousin to the shield of secrecy Ilse had used more than once. Not far away, Valara watched the scene with a strange avid expression.
Sovic held out her hand.
Silently Ilse handed the letter to the woman.
The patrol captain examined the envelope with its neatly written address. Then she unfolded the paper, which Karasek had left unsealed, and read it through slowly. Her expression did not change, but when she glanced up, Ilse sensed a difference.
“My apologies, Lady Matylda. We’ve heard rumors of trouble in the region.”
Ilse nodded slowly. “I quite understand. We have met more than rumors ourselves.”
“Just so, my lady.” She returned the letter to Ilse, who tucked it back into her shirt. “We are not far from the duke’s household. No more than an hour. Can you manage that long, my lady?”
Ilse exchanged a glance with Valara, who nodded. “Better an hour of riding than a night in the wet.”
Bela’s mouth twisted in a smile. “So I’ve often thought. And you, my lady?”
Valara lifted her chin. “I can ride.”
One brief phrase, carefully chosen. Could Bela hear the false intonation?
Bela gave no indication of that, however. She scattered her magic to the air, then delivered a series of commands to her patrol. One rider rode ahead. The rest fell into formation around Valara and Ilse. Another command, and the company set forth.
* * *
ONCE THEY HAD cleared the next ridge, the patrol veered into a thicket of pine. The trail wound through the forest, dripping with rain, the trail muddy and uncertain. Their progress slowed and they rode single file. Only a madman—a Károvín madman—would attempt an assault on Taboresk’s heartland, Ilse thought. It was a telling detail, this attention to patrols in such a wilderness. If she weren’t so cold and wet, she might have attempted to work through the implications. As it was, she huddled inside her soaking cloak and kept her eyes upon the horse and rider in front of her.
Soon they came to the edge of the trees. Here the land dropped away abruptly. Ilse could just make out a trail, a dark ribbon snaking down through the rain-soaked grass.
“Very soon,” Bela said to Ilse.
The trail brought them down to a well-maintained road. The rain had eased, and the dark red of the setting sun broke through the clouds over the western horizon. They made faster progress then, trotting at times. At last they came to a high stone wall, interrupted by a formidable gate. As the patrol approached, two sentries emerged from a shelter, while three more were visible behind the gate. Far beyond, Ilse saw a massive building, its windows illuminated with golden light.
Karasek’s home.
She had expected a mansion, such as Raul Kosenmark’s, or a palace such as Lord Vieth’s in Tiralien. What she saw was more like a mountain, rising abruptly from the ground in turrets and towers all of blue-gray stone, with wings thrusting around the courtyard. She had the sense of entering the household of an ancient prince from the empire times.
An army of servants swarmed from the house. Some helped her and Valara to dismount. Others took possession of their horses. More servants unloaded their few saddlebags. An older man, with several attendants carrying rain screens, approached them. “My ladies. My name is Sergej Bassar, steward to the duke. Welcome, welcome to Taboresk.”
He led them through a set of wide double doors. The relief from wind and rain was painfully exquisite. Ilse had the blurred impression of a vast entry hall, laid with dark blue tiles, and a high-domed ceiling overhead. Around her the hum of servants, the glow of lamps, the corridors stretching out in all directions.
“The captain sent word ahead,” Bassar was saying. “I have rooms prepared for you both.”
He took Ilse and Valara up the main stairs, along a stone passageway to a wide corridor that extended as far as Ilse could see. The air felt cool and stale, as though few people frequented this wing.
Bassar stopped by a low square door, constructed of thick golden wood, and carved with leopards and other wild creatures. A young man in livery stood at attention, while from within came the murmured conversation of servants at work.
“My lady,” he said to Ilse. “Your rooms. I’ve taken the liberty of providing you with clothing from our stores, until we can supply you with better.”
Ilse paused before she entered. “And our cousin, the duke?”
“He has not yet arrived. I will send him word as soon as he does.”
An incomplete answer to all the questions she had, but Ilse did not insist. The man had told her all he knew, or that he thought appropriate to relay. She called up a smile, one appropriate for the trusted servant of her distant cousin, and passed through the doors.
* * *
VALARA ENTERED HER new rooms cautiously, taking in all the details.
A fire blazed in the enormous brick-lined hearth. Several maids had already arrived with hot bathwater, which they were pouring into a tub in the dressing room. Others brought trays of refreshments: hot soup, wine, steaming bread. Beyond, a low, arched passageway led into the bedroom.
She had not known what to expect of Miro Karasek and his home. Home. Her lips puffed in silent laughter. What an inadequate word. Her first glimpse had reminded her of the ancient fortresses of Morennioù, all bare stone, carved from mountains. There were no true mountains here, only pine-forested hills rolling away in all directions, but she could tell this building had stood through centuries, its floors and stairs polished by the passage of many, many servants and nobles. And this room … Only the multicolored woolen rugs and a series of round windows relieved the impression she had stepped into a cave, however bright and warm.
She disliked this separation from Ilse. She disliked more Karasek’s unexpected absence. Her thoughts ran through all the possibilities, none of them good. Karasek delayed. Karasek arrested on suspicion. Karasek betraying her to Markov and the council.
And yet, the steward had not questioned their poverty. He had not even asked to see the letter of introduction. Apparently Sovic’s judgment was enough.
“My lady,” the steward said.
His name was Bassar, she recalled. Valara nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak yet.
“I have sent word for a seamstress,” Bassar said. “My lord duke will make good your losses. Until then”—he gestured toward a trunk by one wall—“we can provide you with suitable attire from our stores.”
He paused, expectant.
I must get alone. I must think.
“Thank you,” she said, taking care to speak as Ilse Zhalina taught her. “I … I am tired. I need to eat and rest. Alone, please.”
She bowed her head, as if weary.
(Not a lie. She was weary—weary of pursuit, of dissembling every moment, even to her companions. Court had never demanded quite so much.)
“Of course.” Bassar motioned for the servants to withdraw. “If you should discover anything lacking, please send a runner. I shall have one waiting outside your door.”
The moment she was alone, Valara threw off her sodden clothing and sank into her bath. The maids had left an astonishing array of soaps and brushes and cloths. She used them all, reveling in a luxury she had not known since Morennioù.
Since Karasek had brought a thousand soldiers to her kingdom.
She shivered in the cooling water. Six months had passed since that day. She could not guess how many more until she regained her homeland.
From far off a bell rang, rendered faint and dim by the stone walls. Valara rose from the bath and dried herself. The maids had hung a selection of clothes by the fireplace. She dressed in a loose gown and drew a robe over that. Her chambers were warm, but she needed the familiar weight of layers upon layers. It was the closest she could come to feeling at home.
Eventually, she remembered her dinner. She ate with little attention to the food, wondering what other plans Karasek had laid, what other schemes he had not revealed to her. Her thoughts drifted from Karasek to Morennioù and then to Jhen Aubévil, once her best friend in childhood, in a court where friendship was little valued. Later, because his father held great influence at court, and because her father valued that influence, they had arranged a marriage between their houses. Her sister’s death and her own ascension to heir had changed the balance but not the substance of their relationship—
Oh, but that was too painful a thought. She had last seen Jhen in the company of his father, riding toward the castle gates. Had they broken through the line of Károvín invaders? Or were they among the many dead she had passed on the way to the ships?
I cannot, cannot think of that yet.
She set her plates aside and paced the room. Her circuit took her past the doorway leading to her bedchamber. She flinched away from the memory of other stone passageways, other lives, where she felt imprisoned by walls and unhappy decisions. She paused by a tall mirror on its stand and examined her appearance.
The stain had darkened her skin from golden to the copper brown of Károví. Her flat, full cheeks, her otherwise sharp features, all of them so common in Morennioù, now looked startlingly different. She stared harder at this new picture of herself, trying to see her face as Bassar the steward might. As Bela Sovic might.
I will pass. I have to.
A knock sounded at the suite’s outer door. Valara spun around, startled. With an effort, she recalled herself. The visitor would be Ilse Zhalina, most likely, come to discuss their situation. Even so, her nerves buzzed with suppressed alarm as she crossed to the door and opened it.
Miro Karasek stood outside, a shadow against the dim light of the corridor. He had changed his clothes. Gone was the plain dark uniform of the soldier, the hair bound in its utilitarian braid. Now he wore a neat linen costume—loose trousers, a shirt with banded collar, and a voluminous jacket gathered by a cloth belt—the whole a subtle shading of blue upon darker blue.
“Lady Ivana,” he said quietly. “My apologies for the delay. I understand you and your sister had a confrontation with my sentries.”
“A fortunate encounter,” Valara murmured. “At the last.”
His smile was brief but genuine. In a softer voice, he said, “Did you think our script had turned into reality?”
“Yes. No. But it worked to our advantage.”
To her eye, he was like a friend strangely altered, clothed in elegant linen and his hair, still damp from the rain, gathered loosely in a ribbon. He even wore scent, one as subtle as the shading of his cloth. Then she realized she had only ever seen him as a soldier, and not a lord, even in lives past. She wondered, for the first time, how he viewed her.
“Have you dined?” he asked. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I have everything,” she said. “For today. I thank you.”
His glance shifted down the corridor and back. “I told the servants your nerves were badly shaken by your ordeal with the bandits and that you wished for privacy. It seemed reasonable.”
He spoke in a great hurry. She could not read his expression. It seemed a mixture of distress and indecision. Just when she expected him to say more—about their plans, about what she might expect the next day—he turned away. “I must go. We can talk tomorrow. I will send word to you.”
Before she could answer, he was pacing down the corridor.
Valara leaned against the door and pressed both hands and her cheek against it. She heard a ringing of boots over stone fading in the distance.
She drew a breath. How to decipher that brief exchange? Experience said he regretted his decision to give them aid and shelter. Her instincts—but her instincts had proved so very wrong these past six months—but if she believed them …
Abruptly she walked to the nearest window. The storm had passed, leaving the silvery skies clear, except for a cascade of stars. The stars reminded her of Lir’s jewels. Her palm ached from where the three jewels had merged into one.
Death erases us, she thought, recalling the poet René Chartain’s essay. But she remembered the essay’s next line: Death reminds us.
From that she took what comfort she could.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS THE quiet that woke Ilse the next morning.
The quiet had infiltrated her dreams—an unfamiliar silence more absolute than any woodland, or even the hush throughout Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house, in the hours when courtesans and clients both slept.
As quiet as death.
Her eyes blinked open. There was a long moment of taking in the bare details—the sense of being dipped in blue shadows, how every movement caused her to sink further into a soft and all-encompassing sea of blankets and down-filled quilts. She tensed, still caught between dreams and waking. Then came recollection—the confrontation with Karasek’s sentries, the long ride through the soaking rain, and late arrival at Karasek’s household.
She sat up and pushed aside the curtains around her bed. The hour was barely past dawn. Light spilled through the windows, a pale silvery tide, pouring down the walls and reaching high toward the ceiling of stone. The fire in her grate had died to ashes; the air felt chill and damp. Ilse fumbled into the woolen robe she had abandoned last night and padded over to the stand with its basin and pitcher.
A tapping sounded at the bedroom door. “My lady?”
One of the servants. “Enter,” she said.
A young woman dressed in a dark smock and skirt opened the door, and immediately sank into a curtsy. “My lady. I am your maid Anezka. The steward assigned me to attend you. Is there anything you wish?”
I wish I could open a door from one city to another.
That was a request for Miro Karasek, however.
“Has my cousin, the duke, arrived?” she asked.
“Last night, my lady.”
Good. She smiled at her maid. “Then I would like breakfast. Hot tea and bread, or whatever the cook has ready. And please send word to his grace that I would like an interview with him as soon as possible.”
Anezka’s eyes widened, but she merely replied she would do as her mistress required.
Once the girl left, Ilse closed her eyes and cursed Miro Karasek. He had planned for every circumstance with Leos Dzavek’s court, but beyond an introductory letter, nothing for his own household. She wished she had questioned him more closely during their last rendezvous in the wilderness. She wanted more clues to their supposed situation, what quarrels or loves or history lay between his mother and their fictitious family. Were his mother’s people nobles or landowners? Did they correspond regularly? So many tiny clues that could betray them all.
She brushed out her hair and wound it in a loose plait as she passed from night-cold bedroom to the parlor, where a generous fire burned. Too restless to sit, she continued to pace, working through how to address her concerns to Karasek. Now that she had delivered Valara Baussay to Taboresk, she could return to Veraene at once. Only how? And what of her own uncertain status? Alesso Valturri had arranged to disguise her disappearance as murder, but she could not be certain if Markus Khandarr had penetrated that ruse. She would have to arrive secretly and swiftly.
Her other difficulty lay within herself. She had promised Valara Baussay to accompany her back to Morennioù. Now all the reasons for that promise had vanished, but she knew Valara would insist she keep the vow.
She wants an ally, a witness to these past six months.
From what Ilse knew of Morennioù’s Court, she could understand.
But I must go to Tiralien. I must tell Raul about the jewels.
A conflict of allegiances, to self, to kingdom.
Before she had made a dozen circuits, the girl returned with a tray laden with an enormous silver teapot and several covered plates, which she suspected contained more than just bread. Apparently the cook wished to provide a proper breakfast for the duke’s visitors. “Breakfast, my lady.”
“And the duke?” Ilse asked.
“He rides with his steward, my lady. On inspection.” Anezka laid the tray on the table and poured steaming tea into a round glass cup. “But he left messages for you and the Lady Ivana.”
She indicated an envelope, tucked beneath a plate.
The moment Anezka curtsied and withdrew, Ilse plucked up the letter. No magic or wax, she noted in passing. The letter itself was short, written in strong sure brushstrokes.
Lady Matylda Zelenka, My regrets for the misunderstanding with my sentries, and especially for my delayed arrival. I have begun arrangements for you and your sister to continue your journey to our cousins in the east. I hope to have more news by this afternoon. Until we meet again, you might find my library of interest. My stables are at your service as well. You have merely to send word to my steward or the stable master, so they can arrange for a horse and a proper escort.
—Miro Karasek
A public message, judging by the lack of protections, but she could read the private interpretation easily enough. He means to reassure us. He does not wish to speak with me alone. Not yet.
So. Which to choose? Ilse’s first inclination was to visit the library—to discover the enemy within his own domain. But then she remembered that Duke Karasek was riding on inspection. Perhaps she could arrange to encounter him.
First she applied herself to breakfast. Her appetite had awakened at the sight of the sumptuous meal the cook had provided: hot cakes spread with bittersweet jam, and tiny balls of egg yolk and grated cheese—the kind of breakfast Ilse’s grandmother had loved because the dishes reminded her of Duszranjo. Ilse ate to her fill, drank the tea, brewed hot and strong in the northern fashion, then called for her maid.
