Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

She bent close to the waterfall and cupped her hands in the spray of water for a drink. The ordinary gesture broke the mood. When she glanced around, her expression was faintly mocking. “Shall we ride on, my lady? Or have you seen enough?”

I have seen your loyalty to the duke, Ilse thought. Possibly to his son.

To Bela, she only said, “Lead on. I would like to see more.”

* * *

VALARA WOKE TO bright sunlight falling on her face. She bolted upright and grabbed for the bedpost, gulping for breath.

It was the dream all over again—fists pounding on her door. Her father shouting to the guards, Attack! Attack! And the jewel, Daya, at her breast humming its magic speech, a jumble of bright notes and dark despairing chords.

My father is dead. Daya no longer exists in this world.

Valara wiped a hand over her face. Tasted the tears and sweat. It was the stone that affected her so. Stone walls. Stone tunnels. She had sensed it the night before, but only in her dreams had she understood how much Taboresk House reminded her of Morennioù Castle.

Gradually her pulse stopped its hammering. Her vision cleared from dreams and memory to the present. We are safe. Safe enough, she told herself. Karasek had promised his assistance. Proof lay before her, in t

his luxurious room and the attitude of his steward, even that grim Captain Sovic. She had only to act the part of his cousin, and she could overtake all the obstacles between here and Morennioù.

One moment at a time. She could manage that.

She rose and took her robe from its hook. Someone had removed her filthy discarded clothes. In their place, a selection of clean costumes hung over a rack near the fire. Next to the rack stood a stand with its basin and pitcher of water. The water was steaming, as if newly poured from its kettle, and scented with oils and herbs. She could almost taste the magic used to keep it warm. More luxury, more forethought that so precisely guessed her preferences.

“My lady?” said a woman’s voice outside the door.

Valara let the breath trickle from her lips. A maid or runner, of course.

“Come in.”

A young woman opened the door and curtsied. A maid, judging from her plain dark smock and skirt. “Mestr Bassar sent me to serve you,” the young woman said. “Shall I bring you breakfast?”

Her dialect was strong, but the words were comprehensible enough. Valara waved her hand. “Please. Yes.”

Alone again, she released a breath. Soon enough she would have to speak more than a few brief phrases. Until then, she would have to listen closely to Karasek’s accent, and that of the higher servants, to catch the right lilt and cadence for a Károvín. Ilse had learned the language from her Duszranjen grandmother. Valara had learned it from books and tutors, whose knowledge dated from centuries ago, in the days before Morennioù concealed itself behind its magical veil.

She returned to the washbasin and scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. Brushed the tangles from her hair and braided it afresh. Once more she examined her face in the mirror. It felt so strange to see those dark features and know them to be hers. How long would the stain last? Long enough, she hoped, to see her to the ship.

She paced around the outer parlor and came to an uneasy rest by the windows.

Below, a narrow garden ran the length of the wall. She could just make out a gravel path winding between ornamental pines and laurels. Here and there were stone statues. Even from this distance, she recognized the attitude in each. Lir grieving. Lir laughing. Lir the ancient, implacable judge of humanity. And once, Lir with her consort, both of them old and powerful. In Morennioù they called the goddess by other names, but it was all the same.

I should know. I have talked to them.

Her skin rippled at the memory. She had told herself a dozen times since that she had misremembered, but her dreams refused to forget. Toc, with bright suns in place of his eyes. Lir, holding out her hands for the jewels. She had met the gods, and they had allowed her to live. After a fashion.

A tapping recalled her. Valara’s maid entered with a tray and laid out dish after covered dish in an enormous breakfast. Flat cakes, sour cream, smoked fish, a dish of honeyed fruit, and strong tea. As she took her seat before this feast, Valara was not surprised to find an envelope.

“Thank you,” she said to the maid. “You may go.”

“Yes, my lady. I shall be outside the chambers. You have only to call if you need anything.”

Valara waited until the girl closed the door before she took up the letter.

The outer flap bore her new name, Lady Ivana Zelenka, written in strong, precise brushstrokes. No magic, however, not even an ordinary spell to seal the letter. Her breath caught at the possible implications of its absence. Impossible, she told herself. He could not possibly guess her loss.

With greater apprehension, she opened the single sheet to find a brief note in Karasek’s hand.

Lady Ivana Zelenka, Please excuse the disarray of my household. Certain obligations to the kingdom delayed me, so that I could not be here when you first arrived.