Queen's Hunt (River of Souls 2)

“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 t

hat 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?