Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

Including Raul himself.

We are creatures of nothing, she thought. Caught between lives and obligations. We have no certain ending, nor any sign of what comes next.

Or perhaps she had not understood the true import of her previous lives.

It was an uncomfortable idea.

* * *

WITHIN THE HOUR, they broke their fast with hot tea and smoked beef, saving the apples for midday. Their stomachs were full, at least temporarily. With the sun glancing over the fields, and the frost melting under the summer sun, Ilse and Valara cleared away all signs of their camp, refilled their waterskins, and set off on foot over the Károvín plains.

Progress was slow. Foraging proved less productive than they liked.

Even so, by late afternoon, they were within sight of their destination. A midday hailstorm had ended, leaving intermittent rain showers in its wake. Clouds still veiled the skies and the air shimmered wet and gray.

They took cover in a thicket of scrub and sapling pines, while Ilse scanned the open ground ahead. A grassy slope dipped toward a shallow ravine and creek swollen by rain. A stand of trees on the farther ridge marked a more substantial streambed beyond. According to all her calculations, every landmark, and instructions from the man himself, those trees and that streambed marked where Duke Karasek had appointed to meet them.

An empty landscape met her eye. She saw no sign of movement, other than needles trembling under raindrops, but she had been deceived once before. She wore the memory of that encounter.

… a startled man dressed in military garb. His grin as he saw two women alone, on foot. Ilse drawing her sword, speaking words of magic to blind him. Moments later, the sun slanting through leaves spattered with blood …

The nearest garrison lay almost fifty miles away, she told herself. Patrols were not likely. Nor should they encounter any trappers or chance travelers in this wild region. She leaned toward Valara and whispered, “I’ll scout ahead. Wait for my signal.”

She rose slowly to her feet, checked her sword and knives, then crept forward into the ravine, down, step by cautious step, across the bare ground, to the meltwater stream at the bottom and up the farther side.

At the top of the bank, she peered over the edge. More thornbushes covered the ground here. The stand of pines lay directly ahead. From a distance came the rill of running water. A bird, a tiny brown wren, flitted from one branch to another, but otherwise, all was still.

She whistled, a brief warbling cry, to signal all clear. Valara scrambled down the bank and across the open expanse to join her. No sooner had she done so than Ilse heard the distinct whicker of a horse.

Valara froze. “More patrols?” she whispered.

“Or our friend.” Then Ilse broached the subject she had not dared to, five days before, after their encounter with the courier. “We might need to use magic—”

“I cannot. I— Never mind why. I cannot.”

You were ready that other time, in Osterling Keep. You killed a dozen men with words alone. And on Hallau Island, too.

But not once since their confrontation with Leos Dzavek.

Yet another subject for later.

“Wait here,” she whispered. “I’ll scout ahead. I

f that horse belongs to Karasek, I’ll give our other safe signal. Otherwise, make your escape, and I’ll do whatever I need to.”

Valara nodded. She understood. They could not risk discovery. If Ilse were attacked, she would kill their enemies with sword and magic.

Ilse crawled forward, wriggling through the mud until the thornbushes gave way to the pine trees. Cautiously she rose to a crouch and continued farther into the trees. Saplings grew thickly among the older pines and the air was ripe with their tang. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she could make out a clearing ahead, and three horses on the far side. Two of them were plain, hairy beasts, as short as ponies. The third was a long-legged creature, a mount fit for a royal courier—or a duke.

The hiss of a branch was her only warning. She sprang to her feet and reached for her sword. Before she could slide the blade free, an arm crashed into her face. Ilse staggered back, tucked into a ball to roll free, but a hand grabbed her shoulder and swung her around. She slammed against the stranger’s chest, breathless and stunned.

But now the hours of drill with Benedikt Ault took control. Ilse kicked back, driving her heel against her attacker’s shin. The moment his grip loosened, she spun around and drew her sword.

“Ei rûf ane gôtter …

“… ane Lir unde Toc…”

Two summonses to the magic current. Two invocations to the gods, delivered in old Erythandran. The air split, as though divided by a knife, an infinitesimal void running between Ilse and her attacker. Bright magic rushed through. It filled the clearing with a sharp green scent, overpowering the pine tang. Like a wind diverted from a larger storm, it blew hard against Ilse’s face. Ilse gripped her sword, trying to peer through the brilliant haze of magic. Her own signature was strong and unmistakable, starlight glancing through clouds. His came fainter, sunlight reflected from snow-crested mountains.