Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

HE DIVVIED UP the chores and watches with no more consideration than if they were his most junior recruits. Ilse dug a new latrine away from the stream and their camp. Valara took the early watch, which included tending to the horses and washing all the dishes.

I am a queen of Morennioù, she thought with a rueful smile. I should not have to wash dishes.

She remembered what her father said once, years ago, when Valara and her sister had rebelled against tending to their own horses. She was a princess, Franseza had declared. She would not care for such dirty creatures. Certainly she would not muck out their stalls.

“Then you can never be queen,” Mikaël of Morennioù told his daughter. “This horse is your servant. You owe her this service in return for her service to you. If you refuse this small task, then you refuse the throne and the crown. Else how can I trust you with the greater duty of ruling the kingdom when I die?”

Shocked, Franseza never again protested such chores. Nor had Valara, even though she was the younger daughter, and therefore not called to the throne. Of course, that was before Franseza and their mother died at sea.

I want to earn that throne, Valara thought. I want to be queen, the way my father was king.

So she bent herself to scrubbing out pots.

She soon needed more water to rinse the dishes. Valara took up the largest waterskin and set off to find the stream. Miro had pointed out the direction before he went to sleep, but he had not mentioned how thickly the trees grew. She had to pick her way between and around the saplings and underbrush, pausing now and then to free her sleeve from a prickly vine. By the time she reached the lip of the ravine, the camp was no longer visible. There was not even a glimmer of firelight.

I will not shout for help.

As if in answer, one of the horses snorted. Valara laughed softly. She fixed the direction of that helpful snort in her memory and turned back to her task. The ravine’s bank was steep. She had to scramble down from outcropping to outcropping, sometimes on her hands and knees, and barely missed falling into the stream itself. Cursing to herself, she filled the waterskin and dried her hands on her shirt.

The last of the sunlight had bled from the sky during her climb down the bank. The skies had turned violet, with wisps of dark clouds obscuring the stars. A breeze from the east carried with it the scents of summer from the open plains. Farther and fainter came the cold scent of the coming winter.

Home seemed so very distant.

She blew out a breath. Let us eradicate one obstacle after another. She slung the waterskin’s strap over her shoulder and clambered up the bank. She had almost attained the summit when a shadow loomed over her. Valara started back. Miro Karasek caught her by the arm before she tumbled down the bank.

“You were gone longer than I expected,” he said.

“You were watching?”

“No. But the horses woke me.”

He helped her up the last few yards of the bank. To her relief, he remained silent as they threaded through the bushes and back to the camp. Even so, she remained preternaturally aware of his presence at her side, and later as he settled easily onto his bed of blankets, his gaze resting on her. Valara knelt by the fire and took up the next pot, adding hot water and soap before scrubbing it clean. “It’s not time for your watch,” she said. “You should sleep.”

“I will later. I had a question or two.”

When he did not continue, she swiped the rag inside the pot. She rinsed it clean of suds and set the pot upside down on the stones next to the fire where it could dry. The next was a metal pan, suited for baking flatbread. She dipped the pan into hot water and tilted it so the suds swirled around.

Once, as Leos Dzavek’s brother, she had wanted to murder the man who later became Miro Karasek. Once, as Morennioù’s queen, she had wanted to make him her consort. Now? Now she was no longer cert

ain. He had vowed to give her aid, to ensure she could return home. And yet she found it difficult to trust.

Debts are like wounds, her father once said.

“You intend to hold her to her promise?” Miro said.

Valara twisted the rag between her fingers to recover her self-control. No need to ask whom he meant by her, or what promise he referred to. In the weeks before she and Ilse Zhalina had escaped to Mantharah, Ilse had offered to accompany Valara to her homeland. In return, Valara had promised to help Ilse recover the last of Lir’s jewels.

Since then, the jewels had rejoined into one and returned to the magical plane. With Raul most likely dead, there was no reason for Ilse to keep her promise. It was Valara who needed Ilse to confirm Valara’s account of what transpired during her long absence. The council might have named another ruler in these intervening months. It was even possible that certain factions would accuse her of collaborating with the enemy. Ilse Zhalina could testify against that.

“I cannot release her from her promise,” she said shortly. “Not only do I value her advice, I will need a second voice in my own council. Surely you can understand.”

Her palm ached. She rubbed it absentmindedly.

… Lir folded her hands around Valara’s. Toc clasped both of theirs within his. The gods’ lips did not move, but their voices filled the air with rippling tones, like raindrops on a canopy of summer leaves. With a flicker of memory, she saw her two hands plunged into the Agnau’s silvery depths. Three jewels rejoined into one called Ishya, who stepped from Valara’s palm and with every step grew in height, until he, she reached the center of the lake and vanished from sight …

If Valara were still able to work magic, she could transport herself to Morennioù with a breath and a thought. But Lir or Toc had excised her ability for magic, as cleanly as a plain-surgeon’s knife. She no longer possessed any, not even the ability to work the simplest of spells, such as lighting a candle—a clear warning that the gods watched her.

Her council would prefer it. The kings and queens of Morennioù were forbidden to use magic, after all. She might even work the loss into a sign of favor. But in the larger world of kingdoms and politics and negotiations, such a loss would be seen as a weakness.