Queen's Hunt (23 page)

The crackle of thunder brought her back. She started, found herself gripped by both arms. Galena on one side. Ilse Zhalina on the other. They were dragging her back down the hillside, which was awash in heavy rains. Valara twisted away to break their hold, but Galena smacked her across the face. “You filthy lying bitch.”

“No more, Galena,” Ilse said, but she didn’t protest when Galena struck Valara again.

When they regained the camp, Galena flung Valara onto her mattress. Ilse stepped between them. She leaned over Valara. “You lied to us,” she said in a low angry voice. “You said you needed our help to escape Osterling. Now we find you can walk between worlds. At least, you tried to. What happened?”

She could not admit what happened. That meant explaining about Daya and the other jewels. Valara pressed her lips together and met Ilse’s gaze with stubborn silence. Galena laid a hand on Ilse’s arm, but Ilse shrugged her away. She stood and stared down at Valara, her face a blank mask in the night.

“Never mind. She will speak or not as she wishes. If she does not, we leave her behind.”

A bluff,
Valara thought.
Or not,
as Ilse turned.

“I—” She stopped and licked her lips. Ilse did not turn around, but she was clearly listening.

“I did try to escape,” Valara said. “I tried before and couldn’t. I don’t know why.”

It was the truth. Even so, she didn’t expect Ilse to believe her. She waited, not certain what the others would say. In the end, Ilse shrugged and told Galena that she would keep the next watch. The two of them would take turns after that.

Valara released a shaky breath. No reproach. No ultimatum. Just a choice.

*   *   *

UNACCUSTOMED SUNLIGHT WOKE
her early the next morning. She rolled over and groaned. Her body was stiff from the previous day’s march. Her clothes were still damp, and clung to her in patches. She levered herself to standing, biting her tongue against the painful blisters that rubbed against her borrowed boots.

The previous day came back to her in sharp, uncomfortable detail—the escape, the long trek through the tunnel, her failed leap into Autrevelye.

I shall have no chance like that again. Not soon.

Galena and Ilse were eating a breakfast of raw fish and more turtle eggs. They said nothing as Valara approached, nor did they acknowledge her beyond a glance. She noticed, however, that they had left her a mug of water and a share of the eggs and boned fish. She should have taken satisfaction, but she was too hungry.

Breaking camp took more time than expected. Ilse scattered the pine branches. Galena covered the latrine with dirt, then leaves. She had snared two rabbits, which she skinned and gutted before hanging the bodies from her belt. The two of them repacked their belongings in the blankets. Then they set off with Galena in the lead.

Valara waited a few moments before she followed.

They climbed the hillside to the next ridge, circled around the clearing where Valara had attempted her escape, then followed a narrow track between the trees, which led them over the ridge and into a low range of hills. A hush lay over the forest, and already the air felt thick with summerlike heat. As they climbed higher, they left behind the dense patch of trees for another clearing, where sunlight filtered through a web of shadows. A breeze drifted between the trees, carrying the rich scent of pine.
Relief,
Valara thought, as she tilted her face to meet it.

A movement to one side caught her attention. She went still, her heart beating faster. Was that a soldier, an animal? As she stared through the dust-speckled sunlight, the patterns of light and shadow slowly resolved into human features.

A woman stood underneath the pine trees. She was of ordinary height, her coloring a pale brown, much like Galena’s. Oh but this was no ordinary human. With a shudder, Valara realized she could see the blurred outlines of the trees through the woman’s body, lines that fluctuated and eddied, then hovered still.

Daya. Watching her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MIRO KARASEK BRUSHED
the snow from the ground with one gloved hand. More snow dusted the mountainside, in spite of the advancing season, and his breath blew in white clouds. Light was fading from the sky. He needed a fire or he would not survive the night.

In spite of the gloves, his hands were stiff from the cold, and he felt light-headed in the thin air. It took him several tries before he could arrange the layer of bark and twigs properly. If only he hadn’t lost his tinderbox in that gravel slide. But he had, along with half his gear. He still had magic, of course, but the cold made it difficult to concentrate.

It could be worse,
he thought, beating his hands together.
I could be starving. Or dead.

He wasn’t. Not yet.

Wind sang through the peaks high above. The keening made him think of souls crying for release. Ghosts, the Veraenen called them. It was possible. Dzavek’s first armies had fought in these passes. According to legend, some chose to remain here as guardians instead of passing to their next lives. The Erythandran armies had called those rebel soldiers goats—stubborn and crude. Károvín poets had turned those insults into praise. But even goats could not survive without warmth.

He tucked his hands underneath his arms and closed his eyes.
“En nam Lir unde Toc. Ei rûf ane gôtter.”

Magic washed over his face, and his skin stung with returning sensation. Miro continued his summons until the current enveloped his entire body. Then he removed his gloves and bent close to his pile of tinder.
“Komen mir de viur,”
he commanded.

He cupped his hand around the spark to shield it from the wind. It brightened as he continued to speak magic, and smoke coiled up from the bark. At last, the flame caught, and a thin sliver of fire crawled along the tinder’s edge.

Magic. Lir’s gift of breath. Precious beyond telling.

He fed the flame with more bark and twigs, then added branches one by one until he had built a sizeable pile. Once the fire burned steadily, he took up the two marmots he’d snared that day. With swift sure strokes, he skinned the carcasses and cut the meat into strips, which he laid on stones beside the flames. Leaving those to cook, he filled his one cooking pan with snow, to which he added a treasured handful of late haws, and set that to boil.

As he worked, the sky had faded from indigo to black. The nearest mountains had become dark silhouettes, and he could no longer see any trace of sunlight on their upper peaks. For all he knew, the world had vanished, leaving only his firelit hollow.

More than a month had passed since his landing on Veraene’s shores. He’d stolen an old shirt and a mule from a small farm on the peninsula. The shirt covered his Károvín uniform, and the mule carried him as far as the Gallenz Valley. When the beast went lame, he abandoned it near another farm and took to his feet.

North and north he marched, keeping well away from town and village. When he sighted the mountains on the horizon, he doubled inland to avoid the border armies, and made a great sweep west and around until he came to the plains just south of Ournes Province. There he had turned east toward the Železny Mountains and a little known pass into Károví.

Miro scooped up a handful of snow and scrubbed the blood from his hands. He rubbed another handful over his face, shuddering at the cold like a dog. Another week—maybe less—would see him through these mountains and into the province of Duszranjo. Once he located a garrison, he could command supplies and a fresh mount. He could reach Rastov and the king before the season turned.

To report my success. And my failures.

The greasy smell from roasting marmots filled the air. He stabbed the chunks of meat with his knife and ate them quickly, washing them down with gulps of hot tea. The meat was rank, the tea weak, but he didn’t care. He ate until only bones and guts and sinews remained, then sucked the bones dry of their marrow.

Once there was nothing left, he buried the entrails, cleaned his knife and cook pot with more snow, banked his fire for the night. Once more the solitude pressed against him. He bundled himself in his blankets and stared at the night sky, where stars glittered like flecks of ice. Each one could be a soul in flight. How many were those of his soldiers, lost in Morennioù, or the ocean storm, or on Veraene’s shores? How many had died because of his mistakes, his miscalculations and assumptions?

A breath of magic stirred. Once more he felt the touch of Dzavek’s fingers against his lips, willing him to silence.

I am the king’s chosen weapon. I execute his will.

The day’s fatigue overtook him at last, and he fell asleep to that thought.

*   *   *

HE ROSE AT
sunrise and drank the cold dregs of his tea. It took only a few moments to break camp—tamping dirt over the campfire, brushing away the more obvious signs of his presence. Wind and rain would take care of the rest. He worked more by habit than from any sense that others still pursued him. Then, his few possessions wrapped in a bundle, he marked out his next goal and started on the day’s journey.

He marched until midmorning, then stopped for a brief rest. He refilled his water flask and gathered what provender he could find—handfuls of pine nuts, lichen scraped from stones, and puckered cranberries that were dusty and bitter with age. When he finished his meal, such as it was, he brewed a pan of tea and drank deeply. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the leather packet from his shirt and unwrapped the long-guarded treasure he had carried from Morennioù.

Dzavek’s prize.

The emerald lay dark and inert in his palm. For weeks, the jewel had tormented him with possibilities—sparking at his touch, inundating him with magic’s powerful green scent. Gradually, that powerful response had faded, and its pulse turned elusive.

Do not call its magic,
Dzavek had said.
Do not yield to its temptations. And be warned, I will know if you have tampered with my treasure.

He wants to wield the jewel in war. Another war. Possibly our last.

Miro held the emerald up to the clear morning light, reconsidering the host of choices that faced him. He could defy Leos Dzavek and take its power for his own. He could bury it in the wilderness and hope no one rediscovered its presence. He could take flight, just as Dzavek’s trusted adviser had done, three hundred years before.

To die for one’s kingdom demands courage,
his father had said.
But to live for one’s kingdom … that requires endurance.

Miro closed his fingers around the emerald. He had sworn allegiance to his kingdom. He would not break those vows. With a sigh, he tucked the emerald back into its pouch and set off once more. By midafternoon, he sighted a notch in the mountains—just a hazy golden smudge against the endless gray rock—but as he mounted higher, a thin ribbon of green showed beyond. Duszranjo. Károví. Home.

He marched faster. Had the captains written his name in the dead lists, or had they waited for infallible proof? He’d surprised the scouts more than once, returning from the impossible assignments his father had awarded him. His father would not witness this homecoming, but still Miro bent himself to the trail.

An hour before sunset, he gained the notch and a clear view of Duszranjo Valley. He dropped to his knees and sucked in a shuddering breath.

Duszranjo, the pearl within a granite sea. The Solvatni River wandered through the valley’s golden fields and dark green stands of pines, a thin silver ribbon far across the valley floor. A town had settled on its banks—a neat square of gray stone and muddy red bricks. That would be Dubro, judging by the nearby garrison. Closer by stood a shepherd’s hut. Herds of sheep moved across the slopes toward their enclosures, little more than blurred white shapes in the falling twilight.

He had lived here once, against his will, from eight to thirteen, after his mother fled his father’s household. At thirteen, he had made his own escape, taking the wilderness roads east to rejoin his father at Taboresk. But somewhere in Duszranjo, Pavla Karasek still lived—an anonymous woman of means, her identity kept secret by unspoken agreement between his parents, now between him and his mother.
Was she happier,
he wondered.
Did it matter?

On impulse, he lifted his hand to capture whatever magic would answer his summons.

“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm de zoubernisse.”

The darkening air glinted with magic, and its thick scent overpowered the pine resin, the fresh scent of new hay. Was it his imagination, or did magic shine more brightly here, along Duszranjo’s border? The touch comforted him, warmed him, but could not fill the clefts and voids within his contrary mind.

He released the current and it sighed into nothing. Still troubled, he made his way cautiously through the gloom toward the shepherd’s hut. Within a short while, he came to a low square building with light seeping around its shuttered windows. A dog barked loudly. Beyond, hidden in the darkness, bleating sheep milled around on the edge of panic.

Miro stopped. He heard voices whispering within the hut. They must think him a robber.

“I’ve lost my way,” he announced loudly. “I would ask the favor of your fire.”

The dog whined, then fell silent. The door opened. By the lamplight streaming through, Miro saw a young man, square-built and dark, one hand nervously gripping a long knife.

“Who are you?” said the man. “You’ll get nothing but a fight from us.”

Miro held his hands out to show they were empty. “My name is Duke Miro Karasek of Taboresk.”

A second man pushed to the front and held up a lantern. He was older, with a high forehead and iron-gray hair. The old man took in Miro’s appearance with a searching glance. His frown smoothed into surprise—and recognition. “Your grace. Welcome.” He beckoned Miro inside. “Fedor, stand aside for the duke.”