Queen's Hunt (River of Souls 2)

“I remember the day you came here,” Galena went on. “Marelda saw you at your window. You waved back to her.”

Ilse nodded. That had happened her first hour in Osterling, while she stood poised between her old life and the new. “You were walking through the courtyard with Marelda and Piero and Aris,” she said. “I met all of you a week later, when the garrison commander allowed me to drill with the others.”

“We thought you were a rich woman, playing at soldier. At least, that’s what Aris said at first. He said later he’d been wrong.”

Exactly the words Aris had used, when he later came to Ilse seeking her advice about the northeast borders, where Ilse spent her childhood. Ilse had told Aris what she knew about the garrisons and patrols. A week later, Aris had secretly applied for a transfer and vanished from Osterling Keep.

“I’m sorry he’s gone,” she said.

“So am I. I thought— I thought at first he left because of you.”

Ilse shook her head. She knew why Aris had left, both the reasons he gave, and the one he kept secret. But she doubted Galena wanted to know about her brother’s relationship with Ranier Mazzo. In Galena’s uncomplicated mind, love and desire were the same. It would be too difficult to explain that Aris had desired Ranier, but could not love him, even though Ranier desired him in return. Not because a man should not love a man, but because Ranier himself made trust, and therefore love, difficult.

“My turn,” she said. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“To talk.”

“We did talk. About everything except what bothers you. Was it something you saw today in the battle?”

Galena’s breath caught in a laugh. “You could say that.”

One beat, two, and three. There were no bells to count the passing moments, but Ilse heard them in the pulsing at her temples, in Galena’s shivering as she fought to bring herself under control. Oh, there were secrets unfolding here. She wished she didn’t need to listen to them. They would do Galena no good. Nor her. It was for Veraene and the peace that she kept still and waited for the other young woman to speak.

“It was after the fighting started,” Galena said at last. “One of the Károvín— We fought hard. He drove me back, away from the others. Then he knocked me down. I hit my head against a rock.”

“But he didn’t kill you.”

“No, and I don’t know why. Or maybe he thought he had. Killed me, I mean.”

“What happened to him, Galena?”

“He got away.” That in a whisper.

So. A Károvín soldier had escaped into Veraene. He’d head directly for his homeland, no doubt, but the patrols would intercept him long before he reached any border. Strange that Falco hadn’t mentioned this particular detail. Had Joannis required them to keep the news a secret? Then her breath deserted her when she realized where Galena’s confession headed. “Galena, did you tell your father? Or the commander?”

A heartbeat of silence followed. “No.”

Ilse closed her eyes, silently cursing Galena’s folly. “Why tell me?”

“Because you know Commander Adler and Captain Spenglar. You could—”

“Lie to them?”

“No! But you could tell them you heard a rumor.”

Ilse thought briefly of striking Galena with a very hard object. That would do no one any good. No, she had to tell one of the garrison commanders—or better, Nicol Joannis, so they could send out patrols and track the man down.

Galena had begun to weep silently, tears pouring over her face. Ilse put her arms around the girl and held her close, stroking her hair. When Galena relaxed against her with a sigh, Ilse stiffened. No, she told herself, the girl was too distressed to mistake kindness for desire. She continued to stroke Galena’s hair, which was a springy mass of brown threaded with silver, barely contained by the many cords she wore.

“Why are you so kind to me?” Galena murmured.

I am not kind, Ilse thought. But it’s best you believe that I am.

* * *

VALARA BAUSSAY WOKE in a suffocating darkness that reminded her of Autrevelye, of the void between worlds and lives. Panicked, she tried to fight her way clear, only to roll over heaving and retching. Through the roaring in her head, she heard shouts and the clang of metal against metal. It was a battle. Károvín soldiers swarming up the stairwells and through the halls, cutting down her guards as she tried to escape from Morennioù castle.

Gradually the thundering in her skull subsided. There was no battle, only the memory of one. She spat out the bile and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Filthy. Stained with muck from the bottom of the ship, with dirt and salt and sand. Her wrists were bruised from the manacles they’d used, even after they had subdued her with magic.