Allegiance Page 2

  Miro bent to massage his shin. “I warned you against using magic.”

  Ilse ran her tongue over her swollen lip. “And I do not like games. Why did you attack?”

  “My apologies for the roughness,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  And thought her a brigand—or worse. Her hands shaking, Ilse sheathed her sword. “You have news?”

  He nodded. “Where is her highness, the queen?”

  He did not say whether the news was good or bad, and Ilse did not press him. She gave a short shrill whistle to signal all-safe. Within moments Valara appeared, pushing the low-hanging branches to one side, as if they were curtains in a palace. She spared a glance toward Ilse, but her attention was for Miro Karasek.

  His gaze caught hers, then flicked away. “They are hunting north and east,” he said. He gestured toward the clearing. “I can tell you more after you eat. You will be starving, and I want you able to pay attention.”

  Before long they were seated close to a campfire and shedding their filthiest, dampest outer garments. It was not exactly Ilse’s dream of wishes, but nearly so. She greedily drank the soup Miro Karasek offered, followed by a mug of tea. The tea was strong and black, sweetened with honey. Before she had finished it, she found a second panniken of soup waiting, along with a flat disk of camp bread.

  Valara waved away her second helping of soup. “Tell us what happened at Rastov. No, before that. Start from the day you left us.”

  Her voice was short and sharp. Ilse stiffened. Would Karasek recognize the panic?

  Karasek stirred the coals, betraying nothing of his thoughts. “There is not much to tell. You remember how we worked to mislead any trackers from Duke Markov? I decided that was not sufficient. Markov has a number of mages in his employ, not to mention his ally, Duke Černosek. If they once decided to search beyond Mantharah, they would overtake you within days. So I prepared other clues farther to the east.”

  As he fed the fire with more sticks, he told them of creating the apparent signs of a large camp between Károví’s capital city of Rastov and Mantharah, then a distinct trail leading northeast toward a remote inlet. It had taken him the entire day and half of the next.

  “I returned to Rastov by the following morning—”

  “What did they say about the king?” Valara said.

  He regarded her with a long, impenetrable look. “They say he died. And that someone killed him.”

  Valara subsided. It was a matter of technicalities, who or what had killed Leos Dzavek. Ilse had distracted him. Valara had infuriated him. In the end, Lir’s jewels had unleashed the magic to kill the immortal king, but they could not have done so without each small step and sidestep in between. We are all complicit, including Leos himself.

  “What about those horses?” she said. “You didn’t take those from a garrison.”

  “The horses are for you. I acquired them discreetly, along with these maps…”

  He went to his mount and extracted several scrolls from a pouch. These were maps of the regions, wrapped in oilskin against the uncertain summer rains. Now Ilse could see clearly the reasons behind his instructions from ten days before—the way they had circled around Rastov toward the mountains, how their path would parallel his as they proceeded south into the central plains, and the point where they would turn east into Karasek’s duchy of Taboresk, where he would rejoin them.

  “I have new provisions and more gear,” he continued.

  Obtained from garrison stores, and at the risk of discovery.

  Ilse hesitated to ask. Valara had no qualms. “Does anyone suspect?” she asked.

  This time there was no pause before he answered.

  “Duke Markov might,” he said. “I arrived, almost coincidentally, at the crisis. I took it upon myself to track the assassins. In his eyes, that will appear unusual enough for suspicion. But he cannot afford to offend me, nor I him. What of you?”

  “We survived,” Valara said. “Anything else is superfluous.”

  Karasek’s eyes narrowed and he studied her a long moment. “As you say,” he said slowly.

  * * *

  HE DIVVIED UP the chores and watches with no more consideration than if they were his most junior recruits. Ilse dug a new latrine away from the stream and their camp. Valara took the early watch, which included tending to the horses and washing all the dishes.

  I am a queen of Morennioù, she thought with a rueful smile. I should not have to wash dishes.

  She remembered what her father said once, years ago, when Valara and her sister had rebelled against tending to their own horses. She was a princess, Franseza had declared. She would not care for such dirty creatures. Certainly she would not muck out their stalls.

  “Then you can never be queen,” Mikaël of Morennioù told his daughter. “This horse is your servant. You owe her this service in return for her service to you. If you refuse this small task, then you refuse the throne and the crown. Else how can I trust you with the greater duty of ruling the kingdom when I die?”

  Shocked, Franseza never again protested such chores. Nor had Valara, even though she was the younger daughter, and therefore not called to the throne. Of course, that was before Franseza and their mother died at sea.

  I want to earn that throne, Valara thought. I want to be queen, the way my father was king.

  So she bent herself to scrubbing out pots.

  She soon needed more water to rinse the dishes. Valara took up the largest waterskin and set off to find the stream. Miro had pointed out the direction before he went to sleep, but he had not mentioned how thickly the trees grew. She had to pick her way between and around the saplings and underbrush, pausing now and then to free her sleeve from a prickly vine. By the time she reached the lip of the ravine, the camp was no longer visible. There was not even a glimmer of firelight.

  I will not shout for help.

  As if in answer, one of the horses snorted. Valara laughed softly. She fixed the direction of that helpful snort in her memory and turned back to her task. The ravine’s bank was steep. She had to scramble down from outcropping to outcropping, sometimes on her hands and knees, and barely missed falling into the stream itself. Cursing to herself, she filled the waterskin and dried her hands on her shirt.

  The last of the sunlight had bled from the sky during her climb down the bank. The skies had turned violet, with wisps of dark clouds obscuring the stars. A breeze from the east carried with it the scents of summer from the open plains. Farther and fainter came the cold scent of the coming winter.

  Home seemed so very distant.

  She blew out a breath. Let us eradicate one obstacle after another. She slung the waterskin’s strap over her shoulder and clambered up the bank. She had almost attained the summit when a shadow loomed over her. Valara started back. Miro Karasek caught her by the arm before she tumbled down the bank.

  “You were gone longer than I expected,” he said.

  “You were watching?”

  “No. But the horses woke me.”

  He helped her up the last few yards of the bank. To her relief, he remained silent as they threaded through the bushes and back to the camp. Even so, she remained preternaturally aware of his presence at her side, and later as he settled easily onto his bed of blankets, his gaze resting on her. Valara knelt by the fire and took up the next pot, adding hot water and soap before scrubbing it clean. “It’s not time for your watch,” she said. “You should sleep.”

  “I will later. I had a question or two.”

  When he did not continue, she swiped the rag inside the pot. She rinsed it clean of suds and set the pot upside down on the stones next to the fire where it could dry. The next was a metal pan, suited for baking flatbread. She dipped the pan into hot water and tilted it so the suds swirled around.

  Once, as Leos Dzavek’s brother, she had wanted to murder the man who later became Miro Karasek. Once, as Morennioù’s queen, she had wanted to make him her consort. Now? Now she was no longer cert
ain. He had vowed to give her aid, to ensure she could return home. And yet she found it difficult to trust.

  Debts are like wounds, her father once said.

  “You intend to hold her to her promise?” Miro said.

  Valara twisted the rag between her fingers to recover her self-control. No need to ask whom he meant by her, or what promise he referred to. In the weeks before she and Ilse Zhalina had escaped to Mantharah, Ilse had offered to accompany Valara to her homeland. In return, Valara had promised to help Ilse recover the last of Lir’s jewels.

  Since then, the jewels had rejoined into one and returned to the magical plane. With Raul most likely dead, there was no reason for Ilse to keep her promise. It was Valara who needed Ilse to confirm Valara’s account of what transpired during her long absence. The council might have named another ruler in these intervening months. It was even possible that certain factions would accuse her of collaborating with the enemy. Ilse Zhalina could testify against that.

  “I cannot release her from her promise,” she said shortly. “Not only do I value her advice, I will need a second voice in my own council. Surely you can understand.”

  Her palm ached. She rubbed it absentmindedly.

  … Lir folded her hands around Valara’s. Toc clasped both of theirs within his. The gods’ lips did not move, but their voices filled the air with rippling tones, like raindrops on a canopy of summer leaves. With a flicker of memory, she saw her two hands plunged into the Agnau’s silvery depths. Three jewels rejoined into one called Ishya, who stepped from Valara’s palm and with every step grew in height, until he, she reached the center of the lake and vanished from sight …

  If Valara were still able to work magic, she could transport herself to Morennioù with a breath and a thought. But Lir or Toc had excised her ability for magic, as cleanly as a plain-surgeon’s knife. She no longer possessed any, not even the ability to work the simplest of spells, such as lighting a candle—a clear warning that the gods watched her.

  Her council would prefer it. The kings and queens of Morennioù were forbidden to use magic, after all. She might even work the loss into a sign of favor. But in the larger world of kingdoms and politics and negotiations, such a loss would be seen as a weakness.

  “It is necessary,” she repeated.

  Karasek nodded, but said nothing. For a terrible moment, she wished she could read his thoughts. For an equally terrible moment, she hoped he could not read hers.

  * * *

  MIRO KARASEK WOKE Ilse a few hours past midnight for her turn at watch. The skies had cleared, true dark had fallen, and the stars were bright pinpoints against the black expanse. Ilse dragged herself from the depths of much-needed sleep and rolled over to one side. Karasek offered her a mug of hot, spiced tea. Ilse downed a swallow, coughed, and drank the rest. Her mind cleared at once. “What is that?”

  “A special brew, concocted for soldiers in the garrison. Are you awake now?”

  “Awake enough.”

  She staggered to her feet. At some point, she had reassumed the coat and cap she had stolen from the dead courier. She fastened the buttons with clumsy fingers.

  Miro crouched next to the low-burning fire, his hands splayed as if to capture its warmth. “You had some trouble in the past few weeks,” he said quietly.

  Ilse shuddered. “Once. We … I had to kill him.”

  “Was he a soldier?”

  “A courier, we think.”

  She went on to describe their encounter with the solitary man who thought two women alone were defenseless. Ilse had proved him wrong. She had blinded him with magic, then run him through with her sword. Together she and Valara had removed every bit of identification from his body, and examined his saddlebags for further clues. They had found one packet wrapped in oilskin, with a message that contained a report of the king’s death.

  “Do you have the packet, or did you burn it?” Miro asked.

  Wordlessly, Ilse handed the letter over to Miro, who scanned its contents, then set it aside. For a long interval, he said nothing, but studied the star-speckled skies. He seemed lost in contemplation of some faraway puzzle.

  “How do they take the news in the garrisons?” she said at last.

  “Badly,” he said. “They are afraid. I am afraid. We’ve grown so accustomed to this one king that his sudden disappearance has loosened our customary restraints. I expected maneuvers from Markov, but not the others. That was a mistake…”

  He shook his head. A dismissal of one problem, before he addressed another.

  “I have been thinking about how to introduce you into my household,” he said. “Let us say that you are two sisters, cousins from my mother’s family. You are seeking a place with a distant relative along the coast. I invited you to visit me first at Taboresk, but bandits attacked your entourage. Only you and your sister escaped.”

  Ilse nodded. “That … could work. What about your servants, however? Do they know your mother’s family very well?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

  Ah, that question about his mother had scraped against some deeply buried grief. “But two strangers arriving just weeks after Dzavek’s death. Will the coincidence be too strong?”

  His glance dropped to the ground. He wasn’t certain either, she could tell, but he only said, “It will serve for now. The current rumors speak of one young woman from foreign parts, not two. The queen’s appearance is nothing like a Károvín, but I have a plan for that as well. We can discuss all that tomorrow. There is one last thing I must tell you, however.” A long pause followed. Ilse thought he had lost the thread of their conversation when he said, almost unwillingly, “He lives.”

  Ilse’s head swam. She dropped into a crouch and stared at Karasek. “What do you mean?”

  “He lives,” Miro Karasek repeated. “My captain reported the news to me in Rastov. Your Lord Kosenmark lives.”

  Though he continued to speak, Ilse could not take in the rest of his words. He lives, she thought. Raul lived. He had survived that impossible battle on Hallau Island.

  “I can go home,” she said.

  “No. Not yet.”

  Her gaze swung up to meet his. “Why not?”

  “I need … a very great favor.”

  More promises. More expectations.

  “Tell me this favor,” she said softly.

  Miro Karasek chafed one hand inside the other, as though he were seeking the right words, and there were none to be found.

  “I have no right to ask this,” he said, “but I will. Ride with the queen to Taboresk. It’s too dangerous for either of you to travel alone—your encounter with that courier proves it—and I must report to the rest of the northern garrisons before I see you and her safely home.”

  “And if I do?” she asked. “What then?”

  “Then I send you home to Veraene by the safest means I have.”

  One risk for another.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” she said. “For me, or for her?”

  The hands stilled. When he spoke, it was as though he spoke to others watching from beyond an invisible veil. “Because I failed a dozen times before. Each time, I salved my conscience, saying I had proved my loyalty to my king. And yet, by doing so, I had lost my honor and allegiance to the gods. Once, as you might remember, I executed you for treason, but there were other betrayals in other lives. I must do better in this one.”

  There could be no possible answer to such a declaration. Miro did not seem to expect one. He lay down next to the campfire, on the opposite side from Valara.

  Ilse let her breath trickle out. So and so. We are not yet done with our obligations.

  She stood and paced the circuit of their camp. For two weeks, she had told herself she had lost Raul for this lifetime and she could only hope to find him in the next. All that was overturned by two words.

  He lives. He lives and I will go to him.

  Oh, she would keep her promise to Miro Karasek. Keeping that promise
would forge new alliances between his kingdom and hers, between theirs and Morennioù. But even as she considered the future, she came back to the news that Raul Kosenmark lived.

  She found she was weeping for joy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE NEXT DAY, Valara Baussay woke to the sun slanting through the pine trees. Above, the branches were limned in silver, and the air smelled clean and damp, as if rain had passed over them in the night. It was like a spring morning in Morennioù, except for the absence of salt tang in the air.

  She let a soundless sigh trickle from her lips. It bothered her, how much she missed her homeland. It had started with sympathy, she thought. A dangerous sentiment, as her father always warned her. That led to regret, which led to any number of self-indulgent emotions. Court did not allow that. Her mother’s and sister’s deaths had only confirmed the lesson.

  Nearby, she heard voices—Ilse’s and Miro’s—talking in undertones. Valara turned her head toward them, and saw Ilse crouched by the campfire, stirring the contents of a cook pot. A second pot sat on the coals. Valara sniffed and smelled roasted oats and the rich scent of coffee. Karasek must have brought a fresh sack of the beans, because she and Ilse had drunk nothing but infusions of herbs and bitter bark these past ten days.

  Miro stood a few paces farther off, by the horses. One butted its head against his chest. He laughed—the change was so startling, she nearly exclaimed. When had she last heard him laugh? Not for a dozen lifetimes. Not since …

  … since their lives together in Morennioù, when she took him into her bedchamber and they made love. The next morning, a ship had arrived with orders from the emperor, demanding his return to the continent.

  Valara flung her blanket away and sat up. Ilse immediately glanced toward her. Faint lines creased her face, sharpened to ink-black strokes in the firelight, as though she had not slept well. The laughter vanished from Miro’s face. He turned away and busied himself with the pile of saddlebags.