Queen's Hunt (30 page)

Was it possible that Valara’s people had sailed west to the continent, centuries ago?

Then Raul stirred and Ilse thrust aside any speculation to listen to what he would say.

“I agree to nearly all your terms,” he said. “However, I have several of my own. First, as Ilse stipulated, you will render all assistance to her so that she might recover Lir’s third jewel. Do not,” he said harshly, as Valara started to speak, “refuse this condition. And do not pretend you can do nothing to help. You spent years searching for the jewels. You recovered one. Even if you could recover the third on your own, your knowledge would aid Veraene to do so. That would ensure a balance between the three kingdoms.”

He paused. Valara’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright with fury. “Go on,” she said roughly.

“You agree?” he asked.

“I say nothing. What are your other conditions?”

“Just two more. In return for your assistance, and to guarantee my part, Ilse Zhalina remains your hostage for one year—”

“That is not long enough,” Valara said sharply.

Raul’s mouth curled into a smile. “It is more than enough. Agree, or I leave you to wander Veraene alone. Unless you think you can find another ally, Leos Dzavek or Markus Khandarr will eventually recapture you. The consequences you can picture.”

“Is that all?”

“No. We require a hostage in return. Once the ship reaches Morennioù, you will choose someone from your court. Ilse Zhalina must approve the choice, of course. That person will sail back with my ship and my crew. It is the only means I have,” he added, “of ensuring your cooperation.”

As expected, Valara Baussay argued every point. Each time, Raul Kosenmark repeated his willingness to set her free in Veraene to find her own way home. In the end, she conceded the time limit and the need for an exchange of hostages. More argument followed on the logistics for exchanging those hostages. Valara wanted Ilse to come ashore on Enzeloc first. Raul insisted the man or woman from Morennioù’s Court board the ship. They bickered over guards and weapons and how to ensure that one side did not gain undue advantage over the other. In the end, Valara agreed that Ilse might remain on the ship until her own candidate boarded. After all, she said, Morennioù’s navy could overtake them if his people reneged on Lord Kosenmark’s promises.

But the limit of one year she refused to allow.

“You want me to promise my kingdom’s neutrality,” she said.

It was an hour after they had set aside their plates and coffee mugs. An hour of wrangling and bickering. Of accusations wrapped in polite tones and oblique terms. Eventually, Valara agreed to a limit of three years. After that, depending on the state of her kingdom, she would release Ilse Zhalina to return home, but she would make no promise beyond that about her kingdom’s role. At Raul’s insistence, she pledged never to release Ilse to Lord Markus Khandarr.

The compromise was imperfect, but it would do.

Raul and Ilse retired to their tent, where Raul would write the detailed instructions to his secretary for securing a ship.

“Do you believe her?” Ilse asked, as she watched him unlock his portable desk and lay out his writing materials.

“No,” Raul said. “But she has conceded enough that I do not mind.”

He did mind, she thought, observing the tense line of his jaw, the overbrightness of his eyes. She minded, too, if you could use so mild a word, but she also noted that neither of them mentioned breaking the agreement, or proposing a different plan. They had little choice, if they wanted to prevent war between the three kingdoms.

Kingdom. Empire. Shatter.
The next word link hovered just beyond her grasp.

She gave that over and watched as Raul wrote his orders to his secretary. “What are your plans, then? Your next plans?”

He answered without a pause in writing. “Gerek will find a ship. He thinks he cannot, but he will. He underestimates himself constantly. Once he does, he will send it to the Kranjě Islands. We, however, will march in double time to the coast. There we will hire or steal a boat and sail to Hallau.”

The Kranjě Islands were part of Károví, but isolated from the mainland by a storm-ridden strait. Hallau was the largest of the Jelyndak Islands, which lay a hundred miles south, off the coast of Veraene proper.

“You don’t trust him?” she asked. “Your secretary, I mean.”

“I trust him. I do not trust Markus Khandarr.”

He was remembering Dedrick’s death at Khandarr’s hands. She could tell by the way his gaze turned inward. Deception would not save Gerek if Khandarr questioned him and disliked his answers, but it might deceive the man long enough for Valara Baussay to escape home. Raul knew that, too.

Raul finished his letter, sealed it with wax and magic. He used a complicated spell that Ilse did not recognize. Then he wrote a second letter, which he sealed with ordinary magic. He summoned Katje and Theo, and handed them the two envelopes. “Give these into Gerek’s hands directly. No one else’s. He will have further orders for you both.”

Ilse waited until they had gone, and Raul had packed away his pens and ink into his writing desk. “I have one more concern,” she said.

“Your brother?” he asked.

She had not expected that. It took her a moment to quell the old memories of Melnek. “No, it’s about Galena Alighero. She risked everything to help us. I would like to know what happens to her after I’m gone.”

He locked the desk and laid a hand over its latch. His movements were so slow and deliberate, she decided he was avoiding the question. “Well?” she asked.

Raul shrugged. “Tell me about the mark on her cheek. The word says
Honor.
”

“You are ruthless,” she murmured.

“Of course. Tell me.”

With a sigh, she recounted Galena’s story. She told Raul about the girl’s infatuation, her quarrels with Ranier Massow, the moment of cowardice during the battle, and how she wanted Ilse to lie for her. After briefly describing Galena’s punishment, including the mark, she went on to the night when Valara escaped. How Alesso meant to kill Galena, and the moment in Osterling’s streets when Galena realized it. She offered more detail about the journey, and how they would not have reached Emmetz without Galena’s experience in tracking and hunting.

“She is foolish, impetuous, and far too willing to avoid responsibility,” Ilse said. “And yet…”

“And yet you think you ought to help her.” Raul blew out a breath. “Very well. Let her travel with us. Detlef can give her regular duties. After we accomplish our meeting with the ship, I’ll write her a letter of recommendation to a mercenary company. You say our friend the queen has promised to remove this mark?”

“Yes. Or at least she claims she can. We didn’t dare use magic before, in case they tracked us with mages.”

He nodded. “A good decision. My guess would be that removing it requires extraordinary magic—it would be a glaring signal to Khandarr and any other mage. I’ll have Detlef tell the girl we can’t do anything for her until the ship.”

The ship. Always the ship.

“How long do you think we have?” she asked.

Raul gathered her hands within his. “Ten days. Possibly two weeks. We’ll hire a boat and sail to Hallau. The rest depends on how long Gerek requires for his part.”

Of course. So much depended on these arcane transactions. She had the important details, however. Ten more nights, possibly a handful more, until she began a longer and more distant exile.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE MIDDAY SUN
streamed through the windows of Duke Miro Karasek’s apartments in Zalinenka castle. Karasek sat at his desk, writing letters. It was quiet, the servants momentarily busy elsewhere, and the scrape of his ink stick against the inkstone sounded unnaturally loud. He had packed his gear and weapons the night before, and between the silence and emptiness, the rooms had a deserted air.

… the king’s runner had knocked on his door at midnight. Come. No delay. He had paused long enough to scrub the sleep from his eyes, then followed the messenger at a run. It was not fast enough. Dzavek paced the length of his study, his shadow flickering in the light of a dozen candles. The moment Karasek crossed the threshold, the king swung around to face him …

Karasek added water to the ground ink and mixed it thoroughly. A few more lines, rapidly brushed, finished off the letter to his secretary. He dusted the paper and laid it aside to dry, then wrote a second letter to his steward. He trusted both men to know their duties, but it gave him a small measure of comfort to send these last instructions.

The orders had come late the night before.

… You sail tomorrow, the king said. Karasek bowed his head. What else could he answer? But his acquiescence was not enough, apparently. You don’t ask why, Dzavek said. Look at me, Miro.

Miro lifted his gaze to the king’s. They were of a height—both tall and lean, both with dark deep-set eyes, black with a hint of indigo, like the storm clouds in summer. Karasek had seen portraits of the king through the centuries, before the deep lines marked his face, before his eyes turned cloudy with age. The resemblance was strong between them. More than once, he had wondered if they shared an ancestor. Or was the king himself Miro’s ancestor?

I have found my brother, Dzavek said. The Morennioùen queen. She rides with companions to the coast where she hopes to take a ship home. You must stop her.

Simple orders. Why had they bothered him so?

Because you once loved her. Because you betrayed her once before, in the king’s name, the emperor’s honor. At the cost of your own.

Bells from the palace towers rang noon. Two more hours until they sailed. There was little else to accomplish, to distract himself from worrying. He and Grisha Donlov had already reviewed the final preparations. A ship waited for them at the city docks—a swift-sailing craft with room enough for her crew and a single squad, twenty of Dzavek’s best soldiers, men and women whom Karasek could trust on this mission.

Miro rubbed his forehead. After he had left the king, he had slept uneasily, dreaming he had returned to Taboresk. He was riding through the forests, in the hills near his estate. No purpose. No guards. He was alone with the endless pine forests, with the sky like a clear blue mirror overhead. It was a strangely unsettling dream for all its tranquillity. Like a final visit with a friend before they died.

He blew out a breath. He knew better than to give into nerves before a battle.

One last letter, then. He took a new sheet, dipped his brush in the well of his inkstone, and wrote.

“From Zalinenka castle, Rastov, to the Baron Ryba Karasek of Vysokná. My dear Cousin Ryba. I write to you with a fresh burden to offer. My duties require my continued absence from Taboresk, and I find myself uneasy about my estates…”

Miro reread the first lines. He disliked them. They implied a lack of trust in his secretary and steward. And yet he knew no other way to express his unsettled state, not without making its cause too plain.

I want your eyes there. I want you looking over the portraits and statues, the stables and fields. Capek is shrewd and Sergej Bassar is capable, but I need a friend and brother to oversee my home, once our home together.

Stilted. Awkward. Not at all how they spoke in private, but this letter was a public one, so he continued in the same formal style: “If your own duties and obligations permit, I have a very great favor to ask of you. Vasche Capek himself can run Taboresk with little direction—and I have already sent him instructions for the next month—but my heart would rest easier if you could arrange a visit…”

His brush moved easily through the glib phrases. In his thoughts, however, he wrote a different letter, worded as though he were alone with Ryba in Taboresk.
I am afraid,
he wrote in that invisible letter.
For myself, and for the king. I fear the threat to our honor—his and mine. I am a soldier, as he reminded me. I deal in spilled blood and battle cries, in the broken bodies of our enemies, those who face death bravely, and those who weep in panic, even with a new life awaiting them across the rift.

He paused and looked out the window. The sky had turned a luminous blue, vivid against the pale stonework of the castle. It reminded him strongly of his dream. Not a life dream, he told himself. Nevertheless, the image of those empty silent forests troubled him. It was like a sending from the gods, reminding him that he faced death on this mission.

He stared down at the half-written letter, seeing instead Dzavek’s face etched with lines. He remembered the king’s soft voice, explaining that he could not leave the kingdom unprotected against Veraene’s growing desire for war and a return to the empire. He would sacrifice his honor to protect it. He would willingly sacrifice his brother’s kingdom. This was no new turn in his character, Miro thought. The clues had been obvious for centuries, if one examined the records. His father had done so, but no one else, it seemed. Why?

It is because we died and thus forgot. Our king, however, lives on.

He had lived on, gaining strength and youth from Lir’s jewels. Later, the jewels gone, Leos Dzavek had continued to extend his life, using the magical knowledge acquired during that first century. He drew the years with a sure hand, like a smith would draw a thread of forge-heated gold, long past all expectation.

But no man can live forever. Not even Toc could deny death. And he knows it, Ryba. I see the terror in his face, when he holds Lir’s ruby in his hands. He knows that even with the jewels, he will die someday.

A thought he could not share, even with his cousin, even in a letter never written.

A shadow fell across Miro’s desk. The sun had risen higher in the sky. He would need to go soon before the next bell rang. Taking up his brush, Miro continued his dual letter. As he wrote of Taboresk’s ordinary concerns, his second letter continued his thoughts about Dzavek’s intentions.

We forget, you and I, that Leos Dzavek, for all his achievements, is a man with faults and flaws like any other. He nurtures a bitter hatred toward Morennioù’s queen—the woman who was once a man, once his brother. They trusted each other. They betrayed each other—several times over, if the histories are true. And because they did, Leos Dzavek would fashion me into a blunt tool, just as he did with Anastazia Vaček. He would bloody me, wipe me clean with a rag, and cast me to one side. I fear I will never be able to eradicate the stain.