Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

The blankets and miscellaneous items went into the smaller bag, along with an extra pair of gloves and several pairs of socks, which she had hidden in her pockets. The seamstresses and shoemakers from Duchova had come and gone, leaving behind an astonishing quantity of clothing, shoes, and boots. Ilse wore a new quilted jacket and riding trousers cut loose and tucked into low boots. These would prove useful during her journey.

She buried the saddlebag between the roots of a tree, taking care to smooth out the dirt and scatter pine needles over the spot. A pale stone wedged into the dirt marked the location. She had left three other caches, marked the same way. Each of them contained extra clothing and whatever gear she could purloin from storerooms or the stable. Was it enough? She could not tell. She only knew she had to get away, and soon.

Ilse pressed her cold hands over her face.

Twice more she had asked to speak with Miro Karasek in private. Each time, he had sent back a written note saying he would see her safely across the border. And yet he refused to name the day for their departure. More distressing, he refused to entertain a different plan, one that would allow her to leave earlier.

I must go. I cannot wait any longer. Raul must hear news of the jewels.

She thought she knew the reason for Karasek’s new demands. Ilse’s maid had repeated the latest gossip—how a courier from Rastov brought the terrible news that King Leos was dead, assassinated by his enemies. Everyone was frightened, Anezka said. Everyone wondered who could be the next king or queen. No doubt the duke would return to Rastov to meet with the other chief councillors.

No doubt he will use what little time remains to send Valara Baussay homeward. It’s a choice I would make as well.

At last the coffee smelled done. Ilse filled a tin mug and drank it down. By now the sun was well above the hilltops, and the mists in the bottom of the valley had dissipated. The sharp tang of pine tickled her nose, underneath it the rich rank scent of dead leaves and the decaying remnants of a fallen oak tree.

Ilse unbuttoned her jacket and stuffed it into the now-empty saddlebag. She drank a second mug of coffee, then stamped back and forth along the ridge, to warm her chilled feet.

Over the past week, she had visited the library several times to study its maps. The best route was to cross to the southern edge of the Ostrava Hills, then head west under cover of the forest. If she could believe Karasek, the northwest passes into Veraene were too much of a risk. She had not yet decided whether she ought to attempt a path in the southwest corner of Duszranjo, or seek out one of the passes near Melnek. Both had different advantages, different dangers.

I don’t have to choose until I reach the mountains, but I can’t wait any longer to leave. I’ll finish copying those maps tonight. Tomorrow, I leave at sunset.

She blew out a breath of relief. Odd how a simple decision could ease the tightness that gripped her body.

* * *

ON HER RETURN, the stable master came himself to take the mare’s reins. “Lady Matylda. Do not trouble yourself with those saddlebags. I will tend to them.”

His manner was agitated, and Ilse’s pulse jumped. Was it possible that someone had noted her activities? Impossible, she told herself. But she could not help turning over the past few days in her mind, searching for any sign of suspicion from her maid, the stablehands, or others in the household.

Once inside the house, she encountered more turmoil—chambermaids and runners, darting in all directions on various errands. Anezka herself paused long enough to glance in Ilse’s direction, but then another called to her, and she was away.

Ilse felt a flutter of unease. She turned into a side corridor and proceeded to the seldom-used set of stairs that led to her rooms.

She stopped, sucked in a breath.

Her door stood ajar. Within, someone paced back and forth, their slippers hissing over the stone. Her memory flashed back to Osterling Keep, the day Markus Khandarr had searched her rooms. Truly anxious now, she passed inside.

Valara Baussay paced the floor in long hurried strides. At Ilse’s entrance, she spun around. Her face was drawn into tight lines, making her sharp features seem more foxlike than ever. In the bright sunlight, Ilse could see the tracery of her tattoos beneath the stain, as insubstantial as the stories to explain their presence at Taboresk.

“What is it?” she whispered, even though they were alone.

“Visitors,” Valara replied. “Vistors from Rastov.”

* * *

MUCH LATER THAT evening, Valara Baussay sat alone in her rooms, nex

t to a dying fire. Pale moonlight spilled through the high round windows.

Her father had warned her. Her grandfather, too, through his memoirs and the histories he wrote about his own ascension to the crown. Theirs were battles of politics and not war, but the advice still held true. No plan survives its first contact with the enemy.

So, thought Valara Baussay, I have met the enemy within Károví. And with a single blow, they have destroyed my army.

She had spent the afternoon with Ilse Zhalina. Most of that time they spoke of their mutual cause, as if they were friends aligned against a common enemy. After some fashion, that was true, but Valara understood that Ilse’s goals were those of Veraene, and very different from those of Morennioù or Károví. So the conversation had been a delicate dance of questions and answers, each designed to elicit information from the other.

Shivering, she rubbed her hands over her arms. She could not accustom herself to this strange country. At midday she sweated. By nightfall, she wanted to smother herself in wool blankets. In Morennioù, at least, she could predict the weather by the season. Winter rainstorm, summer thunder and sweltering days. Autumn, her favorite months, when the seas rolled dark and smooth from shore to horizon, and she could perch on the windowsill of her private rooms and watch the stars.

I miss my home.