Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

Her pulse beat light and quick at the memory. Her brief encounter with Anderswar had left her bruised and bitten and terrified—and that was the simplest obstacle she faced. She had never crossed from point to point alone. If she lost her way, she might fall into another world, or another time. Or she might be trapped forever in the void.

She drew a breath and concentrated on the sensation of air filling her lungs. Slow and slow, she told herself. She had made the leap once before on her own, though she had returned to the same point as before. She had made the leap a second time in Valara Baussay’s company. She could do it.

Another breath, another moment contemplating the balance point of magic.

“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane strôm…”

The air went taut. It glittered with an unnatural light.

“Komen mir de vleisch unde sêle. Komen mir de Anderswar.”

The world blinked out of existence. It was a leap of flesh and not spirit alone. She could tell by the weight of her body, the intensity of scent and the vivid green taste of magic on her tongue. Ilse crouched on the edge of nothing, her fingers curled around a rim of darkness. Spheres of worlds and universes whirled below. Her stomach lurched against her ribs. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. No, that was not right. She could not pretend blindness. If she wanted to achieve Tiralien, she had to focus on its bell towers, the governor’s palace rising tall above a sea of crimson rooftops, the intricate paths through Raul Kosenmark’s rooftop garden from which she could see the ocean—anything she could recall from memory.

Without warning, her perception shifted. She huddled in a stark cave, her hand over her mouth to hold back the vomit. A creature paced before her. Its hunched back was covered with feathers, its beaked mouth snapped at the air. She could hear the click and clatter of its nails against the stone floor. The air was thick with magic and the musty scent of feathers and molding leaves.

You wanted the jewels. You found them.

She staggered to her feet. Glared at the beast through slitted eyes. She hated it, hated Miro Karasek, and all the chains that bound her to this life. She had no knife, but her nails grew longer, and she felt her skin ripple beneath its coat of fur and feathers. It’s not enough, she said. The jewels found their way home. Now I must. You know that well enough.

The beast paused in its circuit.

You must?

It laughed then, a harsh braying laugh that was part human and part monster. Ilse thrust past the beast, through an invisible opening in the wall, and leapt toward the void. She was not swift enough. Claws dug into her flesh and dragged her, struggling and howling, back into the nothing of Anderswar. Let me go, she cried.

Her surroundings abruptly shifted. She hung suspended in nothingness. No worlds below. No river of soul

s above. All was white and empty and silent. Ilse lifted a hand, but the whiteness enveloped her so completely, she saw nothing more than a dark blue shadow. She touched her face. The fur and feathers had vanished. Blood trickled from a cut over one eye, its warmth the only sign of life that remained.

I failed. I am lost.

Deep within, a voice answered. You expected it.

She had. And Anderswar had taken those expectations to fashion its nightmares.

Ilse closed her eyes. If only I had a thread to my own world. Like the thread used by heroes in the old tales, when they were trapped within a maze.

She still felt a faint tug from the ordinary world—weak and tenuous. Not enough to pull her to safety.

More blood trickled from the cut over her eye. The beast had marked her with its claws again. Ilse wiped the blood away with one hand. Drops fell from her fingertips to whirl around, like dark pearls against the white nothingness. She felt a stronger tug in her gut, and her pulse leapt. Was it possible?

She wiped more blood from her face, flung her hand outward. The droplets spiraled down and away. With a murmured prayer to Lir and Toc, she followed.

* * *

MIDNIGHT. THERE WAS no moon to infiltrate her bedchamber, no fire to cast its dim glow, but she knew by a thousand infinitesimal clues that she had returned to Taboresk and her own bedchamber. Ilse huddled on her bed. Her throat felt thick, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her neck itched, as though feathers fluttered beneath her skin. There was no sign of Anezka or anyone else having entered the room during her absence, but she could not be certain. She had trusted too easily before.

I cannot stay here. I must find another way back to Veraene.

* * *

SIX MORE DAYS passed since that interview. If Miro Karasek had detected her failed attempt to cross the void, he said nothing, nor did he meet with her again, except in the company of Valara Baussay, and even then only for such unexceptional activities as dining, or to walk through the gardens of Taboresk. Ilse knew a courier had set off to Lenov with Karasek’s instructions to his agent, but word had not yet come back.

She dismounted and tethered the mare to a tree before unloading her saddlebags. One pack contained cooking gear and a bag of oats. Knowing what came next, the horse whuffed and stretched its neck toward the bags. Ilse poured out a heap of oats, then she unpacked the cooking gear and a tin of ground coffee.

Patterns were the key. She knew that from her time with Raul Kosenmark. It was the same in swordplay, politics, and war. So she had established a pattern of regular outings. Mornings she rode alone, always with the same mount, a sturdy and placid mare named Duska. Once or twice, she added a shorter outing before sunset. Once or twice, the stable master inquired if she wished an escort. Ilse had gently refused. After that, no one had questioned her, which meant her plans were as yet undiscovered.

Ilse let Duska drink her fill from the noisy creek, then fetched water for herself. Once the fire was alight and the coffee brewing, she unpacked the second saddlebag. This one contained two blankets, a third empty saddlebag, and a few miscellaneous items, such as a second tinderbox (purloined when the cook was distracted), salt, a paring knife, a packet of yeast, a tin of black tea and another of coffee. She still lacked a suitable knife and sword. If she could not steal these from the practice yard where the sentries drilled, she might try to recover the ones she had buried near the entrance to the valley.