Queen's Hunt (River of Souls 2)

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.