Queen's Hunt (40 page)

He coughed noisily. Ilse tried to lay her hands upon him, but her spirit sank through his body. Cold, cold, cold. He was dying in truth this time.

Dzavek jerked upright, in spite of the pedestal’s weight. His eyes were blank, unseeing. But then he sniffed the air, like a dog scenting a fox, and he swiveled around to Valara Baussay. “Andrej. You…” He coughed. “You will not—”

He crumpled over. Ilse wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Her touch meant nothing, and yet he stopped and gazed into her face with his blind eyes. They were almost white now, like a winter snowfall.

“You never loved me,” he said.

Truth at last.

“No,” she said softly. “Because you loved Károví too dearly. You were a king, Leos, even before they set the crown upon your head. And yet, I would have been proud to be your wife and your queen.” Memories of those early days came back to her, of the time before Leos Dzavek and his brother traveled to Duenne and the imperial court, when she and he had been companions, if not lovers. He had returned entirely changed. The jewels. The break with his brother.

“But you doubted me,” she said softly. “You believed I wished to betray you. I never did. I left because I loved Károví, too, and I did not wish to watch our people die in war.”

“You loved that man.”

“I did,” she admitted. “Then and now, Leos. But I also love both our kingdoms, as much as you love Károví. I would see them live in peace. Can you understand?”

His lips moved soundlessly. Ilse bent close and kissed her once betrothed, spirit to flesh. Leos must have felt that insubstantial gesture, because he shuddered and laid a hand over his heart. There was blood behind the clouded eyes, and his lips were chilled. “It is time to die?” he said.

“Time and long past, my love.”

He closed his eyes. Breathed out a long slow breath, so easily that she did not realize at first what was happening, until his body went limp and fell through her arms to the floor. She reached toward him, as if she could recall him from death. Stopped herself and touched his brow. She felt the difference at once, a stillness that went beyond sleep. “He’s gone,” she whispered.

The magic current stirred. The air in the study turned thick. It was a tide of magic, greater than any she had ever dared to summon. For one moment, Ilse felt its burning brilliance course through her veins. It was like the first time she crossed into Anderswar, when colors sang and the air tasted of light. She heard the echo of a familiar voice. It spoke in a fluid Erythandran, with an accent of years ago—Leos. A triplet of voices overlaid it—Daya’s and Rana’s and Asha’s. She had the sense of a conversation among elders, one not hers to share. Then the current shuddered, ebbed away.

Before her lay a thin film of ashes. Leos Dzavek’s body had vanished.

And so we give the flesh to the earth. The spirit itself lives on.

Abruptly, voices sounded outside the room. The door banged open, and a stocky man appeared in the opening. Ilse froze, then realized he did not see her. She felt a hand on her wrist. Valara. Together they drew back against one wall, taking care not to disturb anything.

More guards appeared behind the first. They looked stunned. Finally, one stepped over the threshold and stared around the room. He called back an order, giving someone’s name—Duke Markov.

Ilse held her breath, grateful for the shadows. She waited until the guards withdrew, then glanced toward Valara. The other woman seemed to guess her question. She held up her right hand with Asha still clenched in her fist. So the emerald and sapphire were still theirs. Rana, however … Valara shook her head, echoing Ilse’s thoughts. There was no time to search. When the crowd dispersed, except for two sentries, they slipped out the door and fled toward the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TWILIGHT WAS FALLING
by the time Miro Karasek came within view of Rastov. Unconsciously he reined his horse to a stop. The horse blew a rattling breath, as if to argue against further delay, but it offered no other protest. The plains themselves were a blank, black expanse below the sliver of a new moon, but Rastov was a collection of stars, its walls and towers illuminated by thousands of lamps.

He had ridden almost without pause since falling from the magical plane onto the open fields outside Laszny’s garrison. A week spent with only a few hours’ sleep snatched while the next posting station saddled his new mount. Even before that, he had lost half a month for those few moments in the magical plane. He could only pray to Lir and Toc that he was not too late.

Though for what, he could not yet tell. He had no reason to believe the Morennioùen queen had crossed into Károví. If she had returned to Morennioù, Dzavek would find the second invasion much harder. More men and women would die. It would be another bloody conflict like the first one. But if she chose to come here …

If. Maybe. Second doubts could choke a man into inaction.

He gave his horse the signal to walk, then called up a magical beacon to light their path. He wanted to gallop the final distance, but he knew the dangers of headlong riding over the plains at night. And so it took him almost two more hours before he reached the city gates.

There, the sentries called out the expected challenge.

“Duke Miro Karasek,” he called back. “On the king’s business.”

A torch flared, and the gates swung open to admit him. Miro returned the sentries’ salute, but his thoughts were on Valara Baussay and his king. The sense of unease had increased, and he spurred his horse to a fast trot, for once using his status as general and noble to force his way through the streets.

He took the most direct route across town, the wide boulevards that the architects for Károví’s first kings had laid out a thousand years before. Soon he came to the slopes leading toward the Solvatni River and negotiated his horse down the winding streets toward the bridge to the castle. A breeze grazed his face, carrying a trace of green. He drew rein and concentrated on its signature, but the breeze died away before he could identify it.

Apprehensive, he rode faster, telling himself that he worried for nothing, but the sight in the courtyard only confirmed his fears. Soldiers swarmed in all directions. Officers shouted orders. A runner darted in front of Miro, nearly letting the horse trample him.

“Duke Karasek. You’ve returned.”

A captain appeared breathlessly beside Miro’s horse.

“What happened?” Miro said.

“An attack on the king. The last hour. Magic, I heard.”

Miro vaulted from the saddle and tossed the reins to the man. “See to my horse.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he pushed through the mass of soldiers and into the castle.

Turmoil had taken possession of Zalinenka’s halls. Pages and guards ran in all directions. Černosek’s personal secretary hurried past muttering to himself. The strong scent of magic permeated the entire hall.

Hers.

He recognized Valara Baussay’s signature at once. Others, too. A chaos of magical fingerprints. Miro caught hold of a passing runner and learned the attack had taken place in the king’s private chambers. He let the boy go and elbowed his way to the main stairs, mounted them two at a time to the next floor. The scent of magic increased with every step, and he raced down the corridor to Dzavek’s suite of rooms.

A knot of guards and councillors stood outside. In their midst were the Scholar and Brigand—Černosek and Markov—along with the castle guard’s senior commander. “Magic,” Šimon Černosek was saying. “It woke me, even before your messenger arrived.”

He broke off at Miro’s entrance, and his lips thinned. Feliks Markov jerked around. For one moment, his eyes widened, then his face smoothed into an unreadable mask. “Duke Karasek. You show exquisite timing. Coincidence? Or perhaps your well-known forethought.”

“Neither. I came with … with news concerning my mission.”

“Have you found the Morennioùen queen?” Černosek said. “Your Captain Donlov returned with the ship a few days ago, but his report was … incomplete.”

Miro glanced at the crowd of guards. The senior commander took his hint and withdrew; the others followed.

“Yes and no,” Miro said quietly. “We intercepted her where we expected, but she escaped by crossing into Vnejšek in the flesh.”

Černosek’s pale lips parted. “And?”

Miro was aware of Markov watching him closely. The man had no magic abilities, but he could read a human face with unnerving skill. He frowned, as if angry and embarrassed. “She crossed the Gulf before I could stop her. I had no wish to lose weeks or months with a chase through Vnejšek. I decided to return at once and warn the king—”

“Did you expect her to come here then?”

Markov spoke mildly, but Miro did not mistake that tone for indifference. “No. I expect she’s fled directly to Morennioù. Which means we must prepare for a second invasion. Or rather, that would have been the king’s wishes before…” He broke off, too shaken by the sudden reversal of everything he expected to keep up his inventions. He ran a hand over his face and managed to recover himself. “Tell me what happened here.”

“An attack,” Markov said drily. “Magical in nature. The king has vanished.”

He continued to speak, something about how the entire castle had reverberated with magic, so that even the most oblivious had noticed, but Miro found it difficult to attend. He could only think that he had made the wrong choice and failed his king.

Weariness from the past week swept over him. He put a hand out to steady himself. Černosek caught his arm. “You are ill.”

“No.” Miro drew back from Černosek, mistrusting the man’s motives. “Not ill. Tired and saddle-sore. I can sleep later. You say the king vanished. What else? Have you examined these rooms yet?”

“A cursory look,” Markov said. “Enough to ascertain there was an attack. I wanted Černosek to inspect the magical traces himself.”

He took the risk. “Let me do that. I know the Morennioùen queen’s signature. I can confirm if she was present, or someone else.” He added, “It would not do to assume anything about the identity of those who attacked our king and our kingdom. We do have other enemies.”

The Scholar and Brigand exchanged intent looks.

“He’s right,” Černosek said at last.

Markov appeared less convinced, but he merely shrugged. “We do not have time to argue. Examine the room. Meet with us directly after at my private chambers, so we might discuss how to proceed.”

Miro waited until the two had rounded the corner before he pushed the door open.

Light from the corridor showed a chaos of papers and books strewn over the floor nearest to him. Windows at the far end admitted faint illumination from the stars. By their light, he could make out more destruction. Several shelves had collapsed, and the writing desk lay in splintered pieces. He drew an unsteady breath at the sight. The flux and whirl of magic were dying off, but the strong scent nearly overpowered him.

He took a torch from its bracket and walked inside the study, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Destruction. That was his first reaction. A chaos left by unrestrained magic. He closed his eyes and let his senses spiral outward. Definitely her signature. He picked it out from the confusion—the scent and image of a fox, swift and secret, gliding through the rooms. With a shift of focus, he turned to the magical plane to sift through the traces left by other visitors. Dzavek, of course. Several guards. A strange alien presence that had to be the ruby. Valara Baussay and another woman whom he could not identify. That gave him pause. One of the Veraenen company?

From a distance, he heard the guards’ voices through the door. They had resumed their conversation about the night’s events. Miro listened a moment, heard nothing that he had not already guessed, then turned back to examine the room in more detail.

“Ei rûf ane gôtter,”
he said softly.
“Komen mir de strôm. Widerkêren mir de zeît. Ougen mir.”

His vision darkened. Now he saw the room from the past. All the lamps had guttered, the fire burned low in its grate, casting a reddish hue over the tiled floor. On a tall marble pedestal, Miro saw the box where Dzavek kept Rana.

Servants appeared to rebuild the fire. Others took away a tray with its wine cups and flask. A brief interlude of waiting came next, while Miro wondered if he had misjudged his timing. Then, the door swung open. A shadowy figure stood framed in the lamplight from the corridor.

His breath went still. This was not Valara Baussay, but a stranger. A Károvín. No, he saw traces of Veraenen blood in her features, which were translucent in the vision, like the faded ink drawings of centuries past.

I know her. She was there, when we attacked.

Her signature intensified. It was like sunlight glancing through the clouds. He watched as she hurried into the room, making directly for the marble pedestal with its open box. She had just touched the ruby when Dzavek appeared, also in the spirit. He spoke. The woman turned and answered. Their mouths moved in a silent conversation that Miro wished he could hear. He watched the turns in her expression—fearful, controlled, a brief inward look that might be grief or shame.

Events moved more quickly. Dzavek rejoined his body. Unexpectedly Valara Baussay appeared. King and queen spoke at once. Or was it brother to brother? He could not tell. The air shimmered with magic’s current, waiting only for a word …

A blinding explosion lit the room with fire. The sight was so vivid, so real, that Miro imagined he could feel a hot wind blow through his hair. Before he could react, the bright light vanished, and smoke blanketed the room, making it impossible to see.

No movement. No sign of any presence, flesh or spirit. Miro waited, unable to breathe.

At last a shadow emerged from the haze. A thin arm swept upward, its motion echoed by a trail of gray and black. Gradually the smoke dissipated, revealing the destruction wrought by that explosion.

Valara Baussay crouched at the far end of the room.

Miro released his breath.
She lives. She survived.