Allegiance, page 5
part #3 of River of Souls Series
“I would like to ride,” Ilse said. “Please send a runner to the stables for a horse and escort. And leave word with my sister for when she awakes.”
That request, at least, did not provoke any surprise. Anezke sent off the requested runner toward the stables, then helped Ilse into a riding costume from the trunk the steward had supplied. These were much like the clothes Miro Karasek had acquired for them during their journey, but of a much finer cloth, and a much more elegant cut. Voluminous trousers of fine wool. A shirt of the same material, soft and embroidered along the collarless neckline. Another jacket that swept over her hips and flared outward like a gown. Someone had stitched up the hems to match her other clothes. The fit was loose, but it would do well enough for today.
A second runner guided Ilse down the staircases and through a broad hallway that led toward the rear of the house. Lamps illuminated all the passageways. Several fireplaces interrupted the smooth walls along the corridors, throwing out a bright welcome glare. Taboresk House was old, built close to the end of the empire, she guessed. She wondered what role the family had played in the wars.
How many of them did I know as a princess of Károví?
Ilse wiped a hand over her face. No time to speculate about past lives. She must press forward into the new.
She arrived at the stables to find Bela Sovic waiting by two dark brown mares, both saddled and ready. Several stable boys and girls, and a young man dressed in riding gear, stood off to one side.
Ilse paused. She took in the young man’s obvious irritation, the curiosity of the stable hands, and Sovic’s own sardonic smile. Her pulse leapt upward in alarm. Whatever she expected, she had not anticipated the patrol captain’s presence.
Sovic nodded. “My lady. I hear you wished to ride.”
Ilse kept her expression as bland as Sovic’s. “That is true. I had hoped my cousin could show me his estates, but I understand he is otherwise occupied. Are you my escort this morning?”
The other rider muttered something Ilse could not decipher. Bela’s lips twitched into an almost smile. “Let us say that I often ride a circuit of the grounds in the morning—call it a private ritual—and I thought you might prefer a guide willing to speak and answer your questions.”
So. Possibly Karasek’s captain of the guard felt particularly protective of her duke. Ilse could test that hypothesis, which might answer other questions of her own.
She smiled. “You thought correctly, Captain. Let us ride.”
They mounted. Sovic led the way through a tunnel and into a paved courtyard, surrounded by a low wall topped with ironwork and lit by the rising sun. The bars curved in patterns that echoed those in the stone, black against the brilliant sunlight, and topped by a deadly row of spikes. Beyond the gates, a pair of guards flanked the opening, and another pair walked the rounds. All the clues pointed to a far more dangerous situation than she had first expected. Ilse slowed her horse and glanced back to the house. Its walls rose up in a straight gray expanse five stories high, crowned by spires. Lesser wings swept out to either side—foothills to the grand central mountain. She thought she could spot the windows of her own rooms.
“Very grand,” Bela said.
“Very,” Ilse agreed. “My cousin is a wealthy man, but everyone knows that.”
“So they do,” Bela said. “Shall we ride, my lady?” She indicated a wide path that circled around the house, then another narrower path leading into the fields. “We have gentle trails and rough ones, or there is the road leading to the nearest village. Whatever you like.”
“You said you made a private survey,” Ilse replied. “I would like to see that.”
“My ride is a long one.”
Her companion smiled. A warning or a challenge?
“If I tire, I will let you know,” Ilse said.
Bela’s answer was a soft laugh. Definitely a challenge.
They set off with Bela in the lead. A grassy expanse spilled out from the courtyard to a wilderness beyond. The path—no more than a narrow ribbon of bare dirt—led them through a break of trees, over a stream, and up a steep incline. Up they climbed, along a winding path that gradually brought them into the foothills on the northern edge of the valley.
Bela dismounted and walked her horse along the ridge. Ilse followed. They came to a crown of boulders. A few feet farther, the trail ended in a ravine cut by a rushing stream.
They tethered their horses to a nearby tree. Bela crouched by the edge of the ravine itself. Ilse stopped a few steps behind and followed the direction of Bela’s gaze as she surveyed the duke’s lands.
The early mists had burned away. The sun had lifted into the skies, a disk of gold casting shafts of light through the clouds. Far to the east, Ilse could see farmland and open fields where cattle grazed. Closer by were several villages, strung along the stream they had crossed. Directly below them stood Taboresk House, a solid gray anchor amid the greening fields.
“My favorite,” Bela said. “It was how I first came into this valley, as swift and direct as I could, not knowing that sometimes the longer path is quicker.”
Her voice was soft and pensive.
“When did you first come here?” Ilse asked.
“Fifteen years ago. Two years before the duke returned from Duszranjo. Of course he was not the duke then. Not even the heir.”
The air went still, or so it seemed to Ilse. From far off came the faint reverberation of an hour bell.
“But, of course, you knew of that,” Bela went on. “You had to, living in Duszranjo.”
I should. But your duke never schooled me on the necessary details.
But even this glimpse of the man’s past explained his reaction to her earlier questions.
“His grace never told us when you came into the family’s service,” she said.
“He would not,” Bela replied. “It was his father who bought me from the prison. I had tried to fight the pirates on my own after they killed my sister and brother. I— I was less able to distinguish between the enemy and someone merely ignorant, or greedy, and I killed the wrong person. Several wrong persons. The king wished to punish me. I cannot say I disagree, but the old duke believed in mercy. He paid the blood price and took me from the prison. He sent me with a horse, money, and a letter of introduction to the captain of his guards.”
She spoke fervently, as if that long-dead duke stood before them and she was reaffirming her vow of allegiance. Ilse could not think how to reply.
“You loved him?” she said at last.
Bela laughed. “Oh, no. He was a hard man, the duke, at least to his soldiers and his guards. But I respected him, and for what he—and his son—have done for me, I would do anything in return.”
She bent close to the waterfall and cupped her hands in the spray of water for a drink. The ordinary gesture broke the mood. When she glanced around, her expression was faintly mocking. “Shall we ride on, my lady? Or have you seen enough?”
I have seen your loyalty to the duke, Ilse thought. Possibly to his son.
To Bela, she only said, “Lead on. I would like to see more.”
* * *
VALARA WOKE TO bright sunlight falling on her face. She bolted upright and grabbed for the bedpost, gulping for breath.
It was the dream all over again—fists pounding on her door. Her father shouting to the guards, Attack! Attack! And the jewel, Daya, at her breast humming its magic speech, a jumble of bright notes and dark despairing chords.
My father is dead. Daya no longer exists in this world.
Valara wiped a hand over her face. Tasted the tears and sweat. It was the stone that affected her so. Stone walls. Stone tunnels. She had sensed it the night before, but only in her dreams had she understood how much Taboresk House reminded her of Morennioù Castle.
Gradually her pulse stopped its hammering. Her vision cleared from dreams and memory to the present. We are safe. Safe enough, she told herself. Karasek had promised his assistance. Proof lay before her, in this luxurious room and the attitude of his steward, even that grim Captain Sovic. She had only to act the part of his cousin, and she could overtake all the obstacles between here and Morennioù.
One moment at a time. She could manage that.
She rose and took her robe from its hook. Someone had removed her filthy discarded clothes. In their place, a selection of clean costumes hung over a rack near the fire. Next to the rack stood a stand with its basin and pitcher of water. The water was steaming, as if newly poured from its kettle, and scented with oils and herbs. She could almost taste the magic used to keep it warm. More luxury, more forethought that so precisely guessed her preferences.
“My lady?” said a woman’s voice outside the door.
Valara let the breath trickle from her lips. A maid or runner, of course.
“Come in.”
A young woman opened the door and curtsied. A maid, judging from her plain dark smock and skirt. “Mestr Bassar sent me to serve you,” the young woman said. “Shall I bring you breakfast?”
Her dialect was strong, but the words were comprehensible enough. Valara waved her hand. “Please. Yes.”
Alone again, she released a breath. Soon enough she would have to speak more than a few brief phrases. Until then, she would have to listen closely to Karasek’s accent, and that of the higher servants, to catch the right lilt and cadence for a Károvín. Ilse had learned the language from her Duszranjen grandmother. Valara had learned it from books and tutors, whose knowledge dated from centuries ago, in the days before Morennioù concealed itself behind its magical veil.
She returned to the washbasin and scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. Brushed the tangles from her hair and braided it afresh. Once more she examined her face in the mirror. It felt so strange to see those dark features and know them to be hers. How long would the stain last? Long enough, she hoped, to see her to the ship.
She paced around the outer parlor and came to an uneasy rest by the windows.
Below, a narrow garden ran the length of the wall. She could just make out a gravel path winding between ornamental pines and laurels. Here and there were stone statues. Even from this distance, she recognized the attitude in each. Lir grieving. Lir laughing. Lir the ancient, implacable judge of humanity. And once, Lir with her consort, both of them old and powerful. In Morennioù they called the goddess by other names, but it was all the same.
I should know. I have talked to them.
Her skin rippled at the memory. She had told herself a dozen times since that she had misremembered, but her dreams refused to forget. Toc, with bright suns in place of his eyes. Lir, holding out her hands for the jewels. She had met the gods, and they had allowed her to live. After a fashion.
A tapping recalled her. Valara’s maid entered with a tray and laid out dish after covered dish in an enormous breakfast. Flat cakes, sour cream, smoked fish, a dish of honeyed fruit, and strong tea. As she took her seat before this feast, Valara was not surprised to find an envelope.
“Thank you,” she said to the maid. “You may go.”
“Yes, my lady. I shall be outside the chambers. You have only to call if you need anything.”
Valara waited until the girl closed the door before she took up the letter.
The outer flap bore her new name, Lady Ivana Zelenka, written in strong, precise brushstrokes. No magic, however, not even an ordinary spell to seal the letter. Her breath caught at the possible implications of its absence. Impossible, she told herself. He could not possibly guess her loss.
With greater apprehension, she opened the single sheet to find a brief note in Karasek’s hand.
Lady Ivana Zelenka, Please excuse the disarray of my household. Certain obligations to the kingdom delayed me, so that I could not be here when you first arrived.
No disarray, she thought with a return of bitter humor. Even that initial confrontation with Bela Sovic took only moments to resolve. She read on.
Duties of house and kingdom require my attention at this moment. Later, if you would grant me the favor, I would like to escort you and your sister around the grounds, when we can discuss your journey to the east. Should the hours grow long or weary, send word to the stable master if you wish to ride. Or may I direct your attention to the library, where you might find books to entertain or enlighten you.
—Miro Karasek
She set the letter aside. She no longer found the absence of magic sinister. Undoubtedly he did not want to provoke curiosity among his servants. A man of details, he must be thinking of the weeks and months ahead, in case of visitors from Rastov. She would be far away in Morennioù, but he would remain behind.
At the thought of Morennioù, her appetite awakened. She ate quickly as she considered what to do for the morning. A ride might allow her the freedom of exploration. And yet she had spent too many days riding a difficult horse. The library, on the other hand, would contain books on Károví’s history. It might even include books that referenced Taboresk. She could hardly hope for a map to Miro Karasek himself, but his possessions might yield more clues to his character. One unguarded moment, her father had always said, could draw a finer picture than any public declaration.
She summoned her maid. “Do you have word of my sister?” she asked. “The Lady Matylda?”
“She went riding, my lady. She has not yet returned.”
Interesting. And so as she chose to ride, I shall visit the library.
She dressed with her maid’s help in the unfamiliar clothing. Tunic, skirt, sash. The layers themselves reminded her of home, but little else did. The ties instead of buttons or loops. The fine wool stitched with intricate designs along the sleeves and neck. Soon enough, however, she was striding through the corridors after a runner, who took her along a direct route from this half-deserted wing to the ground floor, then through a series of wide halls, one of them large enough for dancing. They were leaving one wing and entering another, before the runner paused outside a large set of doors and bowed. “The library, my lady.”
Valara paused on the threshold, caught by amazement.
She knew and loved the royal library in Morennioù Castle, but it was nothing compared to this vast chamber, which extended the length of an entire wing and rose two stories into the air. Tall windows alternated with broad walls of rose-colored marble, lined with bookshelves.
She drifted forward a few steps, her gaze taking in the lofty shelves that stretched from floor to airy ceiling. Books and more books and even more. She was so amazed by the unexpected sight, she hardly noticed the door shutting behind her.
Her progress soon brought her to a stand, with a large, delicately painted map underneath a glass frame. The parchment looked ancient, its edges yellowed and crinkled, but the map’s crisp inkwork seemed unchanged by time.
Taboresk, read the inscription.
A breathy laugh escaped her. She had wanted a map, though not so obvious a one as this. Well, it was a start. She bent over the glass frame to study her first clue.
The map showed the entire region, stretching from the mountains she and Ilse had skirted on their trip south, to the hills that divided Károví’s plains. Taboresk was a rambling wilderness, dotted with villages and small towns. It was much larger than she had first anticipated, almost a miniature kingdom. The man who ruled here had wealth and influence enough to make good his promises. Valara felt her anxiety ease a fraction.
But there was more to discover.
Leaving the map, she approached the nearest shelves, which held rows of bound volumes. She extracted one, which turned out to be written reports from the Károvín Council. She skimmed the text, reading of land grants and taxes and laws enacted by some elder generation. More reports told her these must date from two centuries past.
Then she came to Leos Dzavek’s name.
Valara snapped the book shut and leaned against the bookcases, trembling. It was the suddenness, coming across the name so unexpectedly. Not cowardice. Or guilt. Her brother was dead, dead by his own magic. She had paid her own price, as well.
You will never pay the full price. You cannot, unless you undo time itself.
The truth according to her father’s mage councillor, when she once dared to ask him about retribution for past crimes. Her pulse beating too fast for comfort, she returned the book to its shelf and stared at the others.
I cannot change yesterday, she thought. I can only look for tomorrow.
Nevertheless, her hands continued to shake as she plucked out a second book, several rows past those council reports. This one carried no title except the name Karasek.
It was a family history. The first page described how Fedor Karasek, a trusted retainer of Leos Dzavek’s father, received his grant of lands. Two decades later, Dzavek himself elevated the man to nobility during the Liberty Wars and awarded him these holdings.
Four hundred years ago.
Valara paused. She had found her treasure of clues, yet the thought intruded that she had no right to trespass thus. She shook away this odd, new delicacy on her part.
We cannot trust until we know each other better.
She replaced the book and searched through the volumes until she found the most recent one. Quickly, she leafed through its pages until she reached the end.
Miro Konstantin Anton Karasek. Seventeenth duke of Taboresk. Only child of Alexje Ivanic Teodor Karasek. He had assumed the title on his father’s death in his nineteenth year. A list of military titles, honors, and medals followed, including his appointment to Leos Dzavek’s Privy Council.
Nineteen. Younger than I am now.
Orphaned young and trained to rule. They were alike in that.
She skipped back to Alexje Karasek’s entry. Miro’s father had served in the Privy Council for thirty years, including an interval in Duszranjo as a general overseeing the garrisons. She found details about his speeches to the council and laws he proposed. A paragraph spoke of Miro’s birth, but nothing about the man’s wife except her name: Pavla Maria. And then, in the year Miro turned eight, a cryptic notation said that Alexje Karasek had named his nephew Ryba Karasek as his new heir.
